Barbara Price had rarely seen her boss so angry.
No, the mission controller for Stony Man Farm thought as she shifted in her leather chair at the long conference table, she’d never seen him this angry.
To be fair, however, the Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, part of the clandestine organization known as Stony Man, based at Stony Man Farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, was doing an admirable job of restraining his temper. With his pouched, slightly bloodshot eyes and sometimes dour demeanor, the big Fed resembled a bulldog someone had dressed in a rumpled suit.
Price had worked with him for so long that she could read every physical tic, from his blunt fingers tightly intertwined on table in front of him, to the jut of his jaw as he clamped down on the unlit cigar sticking defiantly out of his mouth. He was furious, to put it bluntly.
At the moment, however, she couldn’t tell what he was more upset with, although she had a pretty good idea.
The first possibility was playing out on a TV monitor on the wall in front of them.
“—these attacks on sovereign Australian industries are an offense against the good, hardworking men and women of this country and they have to stop immediately!”
Angus Martin—the man’s name was plastered across the bottom of the screen—was florid-faced and paunchy, with a shock of unruly, light red hair and the beginnings of jowls starting to cover what was otherwise a strong jawline. He shook a finger at his interviewer as she tried to follow up with a question.
“This most recent one resulted in the deaths of two fine Mobile Patrol officers!” he continued. “It’s the latest in a long string of outrages that have been inflicted on my company and its personnel by these cretins, and we’re not going to take it anymore! I’ve asked the local and national government time after time to step in and stop these terrorists, the so-called AFN—”
“Yes, the nonviolent political group known as Aboriginal Freedom Now—” the interviewer tried to interject.
“Nonviolent my arse!” Martin nearly shouted. “Why don’t you ask what my two employees think about their ‘nonviolent’ methods? Oh, that’s right, you can’t—because they’re dead! Nevertheless, the governing politicians seem content to sit on their bloody hands and let these...these people continue to run amok and destroy the livelihoods of hundreds—no, thousands—of decent Australian citizens just trying to earn a living! It’s absolutely disgraceful, I’m telling you, and I’ll keep repeating that until people start listening!”
Martin, dressed in what would have been an impressive three-piece suit if it had been tailored for his chunky frame, continued his monologue over the vain efforts of the interviewer to get a word in edgewise. “Mark my words—I will not stand for another assault on my own country’s infrastructure, and the Australian people won’t stand for it, either! If these bastards think they’re gonna stop me from mining the interior—which I have the absolute right to do, by the way—they’ve got another think coming!”
Brognola snatched the unlit cigar from his mouth and waved it at the loudmouth on the monitor. “All right, turn it off. I’ve heard enough.”
Price was sure he had. However she would have bet her next paycheck the real target of Brognola’s ire was sitting in the third occupied seat in the room.
“As you can see, Mr. Martin is quite upset at what is happening to his family’s company, in his own country,” Christian Payne, the pallid, bloodless man dressed in a spotless, navy Brooks Brothers’ three-piece suit, said as he steepled his fingers. “While the US government has more pressing matters on its plate in other parts of the world, word of this particular...issue has reached the Oval Office and the President has tasked me with coming up with a solution.” The man spread his hands to indicate Brognola and Price. “Which is why I’m here speaking with both of you today. And I have to say, I did not appreciate having to wear a blindfold during the flight here. It’s ridiculous.”
Brognola leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Payne, the security of this facility is a top priority. I’m sure the President holds you in high regard, but to be blunt, advisers come and go. I know you can appreciate that the whereabouts of Stony Man must be safeguarded.
“And so to the matter at hand... Maybe you can fill me in on exactly what we’re supposed to do?” he asked. “Babysitting a spoiled billionaire isn’t in our scope of operations and, last time I checked, Stony Man doesn’t have any surveyors on staff to scope out potential locations for another gaudy hotel.”
The corner of Payne’s mouth twitched but he managed to restrain himself. He was about to reply when there was a knock at the door, making all three of them look up.
Price’s mouth started to fall open when she saw Stony Man’s resident hacker, Akira Tokaido, standing behind a rolling cart containing cups, a creamer and sugar dish, and a large, insulated carafe. She quickly snapped it closed as he nodded to everyone. “Just brought some coffee for you all.”
“Um, thank you.” Payne seemed a bit thrown off by his arrival, but recovered quickly as Tokaido wheeled the cart in.
Price exchanged a puzzled glance with Brognola—neither of them had ordered coffee. What’s more, Tokaido was the last person they expected to see pouring it. What was he up to?
“Coffee, Ms. Price?” the young computer hacker asked.
“Um, yes, thank you...Akira.” She watched him carefully as he poured, but the young man gave nothing away as he placed her cup and saucer in front of her. It was only when she leaned forward to get a whiff of the brew that she realized what he—or more likely Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, his boss, and he—had done.
Oh, no—
Unable to say anything, she watched as Payne added sugar and cream to his cup and blew on it as he continued talking. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Brognola, Australia contains vast mineral and rare earth resources that are necessary for industrial manufacturing here in the United States. Purchasing them from a friendly nation precludes the issue of trying to purchase them from other, possibly not-so-friendly sources.”
“Oh, come now, I’m sure your buddies in the Kremlin will spot you some of that rare earth you all seem to suddenly like so much,” Brognola replied as Tokaido set a cup of black coffee in front of him. The movement distracted Payne from seeing Price possibly wince. “Just get on your private line to the president—the Russian one, of course—and I bet he’d set you right up.”
Payne fixed Brognola over the rim of his cup with what he no doubt thought was a steely glare of his watery brown eyes. It was like watching a goldfish try to stare down a grizzly bear. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Price would have laughed.
“Mr. Brognola, I don’t know what you think you know, but I can assure you that neither I nor the President appreciate your insinuations.” With that, he raised the cup to his lips and sipped.
The expression that appeared his face would have been priceless under any other circumstances. Kurtzman’s brew was legendary for its ability to resemble something that looked and somewhat smelled like coffee, but that was where the resemblance ended. No one knew what he used to make it, or how he brewed it, but it was safe to say it was some of the vilest liquid on the planet.
For the first time Payne’s face twisted in what could demonstrably be seen as an actual human reaction. His lips pursed and his nose, eyes and forehead scrunched into an unmistakable grimace at the acrid, bitter taste.
“Well, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks state secrets like a duck...” While speaking, Brognola picked up his cup, as well, and took a tentative sip. “But, overall, I wouldn’t know, Mr. Payne,” he said after swallowing, “since the President only saw fit to grace us with his presence for about five minutes since his inauguration. Instead,