The Leviathan Effect Read Online Free Page B

tray on the table outside. The White House chief of staff typed in a code on the cipher lock pad, then pressed a release and the door clicked open. Blaine held the knob, waiting. But Herring was not coming in with her.
    “No eavesdropping,” she said, as the door began to close. It shut with a surprisingly loud thud.
    The narrow rectangular room was lit by a single lamp on a mahogany table. A sparse, functional space. Metal walls, four padded leather chairs. SCIFs came in all sizes and configurations, and were used for many purposes. This one was for conversations among a small group of people.
    In this case, three.
    Blaine looked at the two men sitting catty-cornered at the end of the table who now stood to greet her.
    “Hello,” she said, a little startled.
    The larger of the two men nodded for her to sit.
    “Secretary Blaine.”
    The man at the end of the table was Clark Easton, the Secretary of Defense. The other was Harold DeVries, Director of National Intelligence, whom she had spoken with fifty-three minutes earlier.
    Easton was something of a political force of nature in Washington, a veteran of five administrations. A former major general who had served as special presidential adviser, as CIA assistant director, assistant Secretary of State, national security adviser and now as top man at the Pentagon. In his mid-sixties, he was large and thick-chested, with hard blue eyes and a lopsided grin, a giant bald head rimmed with white hair. Easton was surprisingly soft-spoken, but enormously influential in the administration—too much so, some thought.
    DeVries was in some ways his opposite. Thin and rangy, he had a sly, knowing smile that seemed to hint at things others couldn’t imagine. He spoke six or seven languages and understood the complexities and nuances of world affairs better than anyone Blaine knew. He was also the first African American to head up the United States’ intelligence community. The Director of National Intelligence, known as the DNI, was in effect the CEO of all seventeen American intelligence branches. It was a position, like hers, that hadn’t existed fifteen years ago.
    Blaine felt a kinship with DeVries, a man who seemed at times frustrated, as she was, by the layers of bureaucracy and the duplication of efforts within the intelligence community.
    The men’s dress was casual—DeVries wore a dark blazer and an open royal blue shirt, Easton a short-sleeved white shirt—but their manner wasn’t.
    Easton seemed to be studying her, which caused Blaine to look away. That was when she noticed the folder on the table in front of him, marked T OP S ECRET . Beside it was a small, single sheet of notepaper, the top third covered with tiny, neatly scrawled writing.
    “Welcome.”
    Blaine nodded hello.
    Easton made a face, something akin to a grimace, which was, in fact, how he greeted people. The Secretary of Defense inhaled dramatically. “Secretary Blaine. We need to bring you up to speed on a national security threat. I will provide a summary review and then outline the protocol and the directives that have beenestablished by the president. He’ll be meeting with you later this evening.”
    “All right.”
    “Because of the extraordinary nature of this threat, it has to be dealt with in a very deliberate and prescribed manner.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Naturally, this is information that cannot be shared on any level.”
    Blaine nodded once, feeling suddenly ill at ease, weighed down by the gravitas in his tone.
    “It is essential that those who are directly affected—and that now includes you”—he raised his eyebrows slightly, held her gaze—“understand the significance of these directives. There are some very specific parameters, in other words, that we must stay within.”
    “Go ahead.”
Can’t we do this in English?
she thought.
    “The message you received this afternoon on your mobile SME-PED is part of an ongoing pattern, which began ten days ago. We are