Pamela Landy had nothing left to lose. Relieved of her caseload, grounded to her desk at Langley, her whistleblower status protecting her from discharge but not the distrust and disdain of her colleagues, she decided to go for broke. What was the worst that could happen? Marshall would ridicule her, she could take early retirement. Live out the rest of her days always looking over her shoulder, as outcast and alone as Jason Bourne. David Webb, she reminded herself.
"Pam?" Tom Cronin stuck his head in her office door, interrupting her negative thoughts. Poor Tom, short-roped to her; in the middle of her fight and paying for it with his career, too. But he never complained. If he had rebukes, she never heard them. "Marshall's ready for you."
Two hours later, she thought he was on the verge of agreeing.
"It's risky, Pam," he said, sucking his teeth in that bloodcurdling way that he had.
"It's riskier to leave those operatives deployed, Marty," she said persuasively. "The world knows we have black ops now; the world wants to know what we are doing to take responsibility. The underworld will use the existence of those agents to extort us; rogue states will use the knowledge to cover their own black ops. We can't let that happen. We have to bring them in, rehabilitate them."
"All right," said Marshall, looking like he'd just sucked on a very sour lemon. "Have your budget for this program on my desk by end of day tomorrow. We'll talk more then."
"Sir," Pam stood up and headed for the door. With her back to Marshall, she felt free to allow a small smile to visit her face.