CHAPTER 17
THE MEETING ROOM was half the size of Clayton’s car showroom, dominated by a long table with thirteen seats around it, one at the head, six on each side. A video screen faced the open end, but it was turned off.
A single man sat on one of the long sides, dressed in a military uniform, and he rose to his feet as I walked in.
“Are you in the wrong room, Miss?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. I’m looking for the bi-weekly Middle Eastern briefing.”
“That’s us, but if you don’t mind my asking, who are you?”
“Dr. Fielding asked me to come. His wife had a heart attack yesterday, and I agreed to stand in.”
“I heard about Marjorie. Such a shame—she and my wife get along very well. But old Wilfred didn’t say he’d be sending such a pretty little thing in his place.”
I wasn’t sure whether to
