Page 23 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“What’s his current status?”
“Technically, Mr. Overholt is retired from active service, but he has an ‘emeritus’ role with the Agency. He consults regularly with POTUS,committee chairmen, and even allied foreign governments. He still maintains his portfolio and has been given a great deal of latitude.”
“Is that why he runs his own black budget?”
“I had no idea. Is there a problem?”
Das darkened. “The old fart is stepping on my toes.”
“How do you mean?”
“That dinosaur is running a black op into Afghanistan even as we speak. He’s tracking illegal arms shipments. That’smyturf.”
That’s interesting, Banfield thought. “Mr. Overholt has an impeccable service record. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
“I’m sure he does, which is why he also knows he’s crowding into my lane. Arms trafficking is my portfolio. He didn’t so much as drop me a courtesy note, let alone consult with me on this.”
“He must have his reasons.”
“Yeah. He’s an old fossil who does things his way. I don’t like it.”
“I understand.”
Only, she didn’t. Overholt was trading shots with Stasi killers in the backstreets of East Berlin before this kid was a seed in his father’s pod. Banfield thought Das should have more respect for his elders—especially one as accomplished as Langston Overholt.
Das read the expression on her face. “You really admire the old T. rex, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Fossils belong to the past. They’re museum pieces. The world is evolving, progressing.”
“I’m not sure it’s evolving for the better, are you?”
Das straightened his back. “ ‘Survival of the fittest’ is the name of the game and ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan died a long time ago. There are more progressive ways of doing the job. Until guys like Overholt finally step aside, we won’t be seeing any serious advances in the way things get done around here.” His eyes briefly darted to the stacks of paper printouts on her desk.
“I’m sure you know what’s best,” Banfield said.
“If he messes things up, there will be a price to pay.”
“For him or for you?”
Das’s dark eyes narrowed for a second, then he flashed a smile, brilliant as a sunrise parting a storm cloud.
Banfield felt its warmth wash over her. A ladies’ man, indeed.
“Well, thanks again for your time. Sorry to bother you.” He winked. “Keep up the good work.” Das turned on his polished Italian loafers and sped away for his meeting.
Banfield sighed. Twenty years earlier she would have given him a run for his money—and maybe even put another notch in her bedpost. But Das was right. Time marches on.
She fished around on her desk for a mechanical pencil and pad, scratched out the lettersL.O., and slipped it into her purse.
Overholt was a bit of a dinosaur. The thing was, she loved fossils.
11
Afghanistan
The surly Afghan teenager driving the white Land Rover Defender couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old judging by the scraggly beard he was trying to grow. Unfortunately for the boy, most of his hair growth was spurting between his eyes. He had a unibrow that would have made Frida Kahlo blush with envy. A traditional Afghanipakolsat on top of his narrow head like a mushroom cap.
