Interagency meetings. Hunley supposed they served a vital purpose, but sometimes – all right, most of the time, it just served as a spot for each agency to preen its feathers.
Hunley had been in the game for thirty years, and he could practically mouth along with every meeting. On paper, the top representatives of every intelligence branch gathered together to brief each other on missions, intelligence, security. In reality, the director, secretary, and chief of every agency used the time to smugly boast of their acronym's superiority.
On occasion, though, the leaders could be counted upon to put their rivalries aside for the common good.
Not so with the 2ICs. The seconds, those were the ones that bogged down the meetings. Each underling that came to a briefing, be they an analyst, field agent, or tech whiz, they were all equally determined to show off – and if that meant a continuous round of scoffing and one-upmanship that got in the way of any productive work, then so be it.
It tired Hunley, even though he had to acknowledge that when he was a rising star in the CIA, he had done the exact same thing. But now with the full weight of responsibility on his shoulders, he'd rather these get-togethers actually help find a way to keep their country and the world safe. But that was just him.
He'd spoken to his own second, but Taylor couldn't seem to help but join in the alpha posturing. But then again, Hunley supposed it was too big of a temptation for any subordinate to resist.
IMF's newest, though, he hadn't been joining in. An analyst. Chief Analyst, Hunley remembered. And he guessed the Secretary must have introduced the man by name, but that had been weeks ago and it had never been said again.
The analyst hadn't said a word in that first meeting. He kept his head down, his eyes fixed firmly on the notepad in front of him. It had been quite an unimpressive introduction.
Pitiful, almost. The hunkered-down, taciturn man was supposed to represent the Impossible Mission Force- the most arrogant, dangerous, and reckless branch in the intelligence community. Hunley wondered what the Secretary was thinking.
The second meeting, he didn't say anything again. Didn't small talk with the others, didn't share a word with his boss. Just found his seat and took his notes. Prolific notes. Long hand, even though there was a computer in front of him. The computer he used only when IMF was called to give their reports – but it was the Secretary and the Secretary alone who spoke to the group. This analyst really was a glorified secretary.
By the third meeting, the analyst was completely disregarded and forgotten by the others. Hunley didn't know why he kept watching him. Maybe it was just the silence. Meeting after meeting passed, and the Secretary's lap dog made no move to join the jostling for status. It was a refreshing change for Hunley and he wondered why the Secretary had decided to go that route. Every other person that the Secretary had ever brought had fit the IMF mold perfectly – irritating, moronic, flashy. Maybe it was the oddity that intrigued him. Or perhaps it was just the lifetime of not trusting the IMF, so that he wouldn't let even a timid analyst pass under his radar. But whatever it was, it meant that Hunley was the only one to notice.
It was during an FBI rundown of upcoming and ongoing operations. Typical, routine information given by every agency at every meeting, and the FBI's Agent Burke droned on and on. But right in the midst of dutifully taking notes, the analyst's head snapped up.
Hunley could tell the man had something to interject, and for the first time, Hunley was actually interested to hear another agent scoff at a rival. If only because Hunley had never heard the man's voice.
But instead of challenging directly, the analyst turned to his boss. Seeking permission. And was denied. With a quick, minute shake of the head, the Secretary had the analyst obediently returning to his notetaking. Impressive in one way, Hunley had to admit, but pushovers weren't exactly desired in the spook business, even at the desk jobs.
The analyst stayed quiet, but he was twitching now: a tap of his pen, a shift in his seat.
And then he was once more leaning toward the Secretary. This time, the Secretary held up his hand, and the analyst slunk back, chastened.
He didn't attempt to speak again.
Hunley was tempted, but in the end, he let it pass without comment.
In the course of the next few weeks, the news of the FBI's failed raid swept through the intelligence community, and at the next briefing, every other agency was more than happy to rub the feds' noses in it.
The IMF analyst just took his notes and never glanced up.
When the meeting drew to an end, Hunley bulldozed his way over. Gritting his teeth, he chitchatted away with the Secretary as the room cleared out. The analyst was slowly gathering up his stuff, obediently waiting for his boss to finish his small talk.
"You knew, didn't you?"
It took a few moments before the analyst realized Hunley was addressing him. "Sir?" Polite and servile.
"You knew the FBI's raid would be a bust."
"No, sir."
"Don't give me that, I saw your reaction when they were discussing it last time." There was a flicker of something in the man's eyes then, but it was the Secretary who intervened, and as soon as the Secretary began speaking, the analyst's gaze was once again meek and polite.
"Brandt merely had a question; he had no knowledge that the FBI was chasing its own tail," the Secretary said.
"And if he'd had, would he have shared it?" Hunley challenged.
The Secretary was not impressed. "And if it had been your operation, would you have cared about his concerns?"
Any other person in this room, definitely not. This analyst – yes. But that was something Hunley wasn't about to share with IMF. "That is the point of these meetings, after all," he said instead.
The Secretary stared at him for a cool minute. Then abruptly, and without breaking eye contact with Hunley, he addressed his analyst. "Brandt, what was your question?"
The analyst – Brandt – glanced up in surprise. "Sir?"
"What concerned you about the FBI's raid?"
Brandt's eyes darted between them, obviously not enjoying being put in the middle of this fight, his hand nervously clicking his pen.
Finally he obeyed his Secretary's demand. "He pronounced the address correctly," Brandt mumbled.
That. That was…
"Excuse me?" Hunley asked.
Brandt's eyes dropped back to the tabletop. "The pronunciation differs from the spelling, but Agent Burke got it right."
"And…that worried you?"
The pen stopped clicking. "The man's a native New Yorker, and he can rattle off any address in the city with ease, but put him anywhere else in the US, and Burke always defaults to the pure spelling. Which means he should have butchered that address, but he didn't. He said it just like the locals do."
Hunley frowned. "And with that, you knew the intel was bad?"
"No." Brandt shrugged. "It was just an anomaly."
The Secretary was studying Hunley in amusement. And yeah, he could see why the Secretary hadn't wanted Brandt to blurt that out; even Hunley would have been hard pressed to take that seriously. He remembered one of the many CIA nicknames for IMF: it's mostly freaks.
His thoughts must have shown, because in the next moment the amusement was gone. "Brandt," the Secretary ordered.
And Brandt obeyed. "In all his reports, Burke has consistently failed at the odd pronunciations. Which suggests that the intelligence being acquired is visual: text messages, e-mails, surveillance photos. Now, either this is the one street in the world Burke knows how to pronounce, or he received this information outside the normal pattern. A voicemail, a bugged conversation, maybe even an informant."
"In no way does that make it bad intel," Hunley protested.
But Brandt was meeting his eyes now. "No, but anything outside an established pattern should be stringently verified before being acted upon."
Hunley had to concede that, but he couldn't help the small smile as he regarded the analyst.
"I'll meet you outside, Brandt," the Secretary said quietly.
A blink and then Brandt was withdrawing back into himself. "Yes, sir." Head down, the analyst slipped away.
"Pronunciation?" Hunley repeated, amusement winning out over the incredulity. "He wanted to halt an FBI raid over phonetics?"
"Like he told you, it was just an anomaly he noticed," the Secretary said, unruffled.
Right. Although the pattern had been there, Hunley had to admit. Hunley remembered holding back a smile occasionally himself when Agent Burke had mispronounced a street name. There had even been a report about an operation in rural Louisiana that had had the whole table biting back grins.
And Brandt had filed that information away and registered when the man had gone off script. Not a single other member of the intelligence community bigwigs had processed that. It might not have meant anything, but…
Hunley made a mental note to poach Brandt off of the IMF one day.