Lieutenant General Maxwell’s assistant met Gary Lawlor and Stan Caldwell at the helipad and steered them inside to the director’s office. It had been said that the letters NSA actually stood for No Such Agency, or if you were an employee, Never Say Anything. So far, the National Security Agency’s well-known penchant for obfuscation was holding up quite well. What would be interesting to see was how candid Dick Maxwell was actually prepared to be.
They were shown into a modestly furnished office hung with photos of Maxwell in a variety of desolate, far-flung locations around the world. It was the first time Lawlor had met the man, and when the lieutenant general stood up and walked around his desk to welcome his guests, Lawlor was immediately struck by how much he resembled George Patton-his facial features, his bearing, almost everything about him. The only things missing were the ivory-handled Colt.45s and a bull terrier trotting alongside. If he wasn’t sure that it had been remarked upon a thousand times already, Lawlor might have said something, but it wouldn’t have been professional, and it had nothing to do with why they were here. Lawlor was here for answers, not to become buddy-buddy with the enigmatic head of the Puzzle Palace.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” Maxwell said as he showed Caldwell and Lawlor to a seating area at the far end of his office. “Can I get anybody anything? Coffee? Tea? Something a bit stronger, maybe?”
“No thanks, Dick,” replied the FBI’s deputy director.
“Nothing for me either,” said Lawlor.
“Okay, then, let’s get right to it. Based on information we have received, we now believe that all four of our program facilities in New York City have been hit.”
“What sort of information?” asked Gary.
“The facilities are not responding correctly to specific computer-generated requests from this end. Someone apparently wanted it to appear as if it was business as usual, but we’ve been able to figure out that it’s not.”
Now they were getting to the heart of what Gary wanted to know. “And what exactly is business as usual for this program?”
“That’s classified,” replied Maxwell.
“You mean it was classified.”
“No,” said the NSA director. “Even though the operation has apparently been compromised, it’s still classified.”
“As is the reason one of your senior operatives believed it was worth killing for?”
Maxwell shook his head. “Unfortunately, there’s not much I can tell you there either, but not because I don’t want to. Joe Stanton went off the deep end.”
Be that as it may, Lawlor needed more information, and he knew Maxwell had it. “Exactly what type of information was being processed at the New York facilities?”
“I’m sorry, but as I said, that’s classified.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Deputy Director Caldwell is here to conduct an interrogation. I agreed to allow you to be present out of professional courtesy.”
Not only was Lawlor a fairly good judge of people, he was also better than average at reading between the lines. But Maxwell was very difficult to figure out. In fact, so was Stan Caldwell. They both, in their own fashions, were helping him out, but why? To a certain degree, he could understand Maxwell’s motivations. The man knew that Lawlor had the only team on the ground that was hot on the trail of the group responsible for killing his NSA employees, as well as their marine security details. Caldwell ’s motivations, though, were much less clear.
Lawlor had no choice but to go along for the ride. His only hope was that if any leads were to come of this that they came soon-real soon.