The director was obviously somewhat surprised to see Pope sitting before Webb’s desk, but that didn’t deter him. “What the hell happened at the ransom drop, Cletus? And why the hell am I having to come find you again? The old man just reamed my ass over the phone because I didn’t have a goddamn answer. I looked like a fucking idiot! If Sandra Brux is dead, the president needs to get out in front of this.” Webb maintained a placid demeanor. Men like Shroyer and the president were not interested in the complicated logistics of collating reliable intelligence over thousands of miles and multiple time zones. They wanted the information instantaneously. He glanced at Pope. “Bob?” Pope looked startled to have been passed the ball. “Oh, well . . . Sandra isn’t dead, George. The body wasn’t hers. That’s what I came over to tell Cletus. The girl was the married daughter of the president of the Central Bank of Afghanistan.” He turned in the chair to face Shroyer more directly, straightening his corduroy jacket and pushing his glasses up onto his nose.
