Donchez had once remarked that Cogster would not be a good man to have as an enemy, but having him as an ally did not seem particularly beneficial either. The Blowtorch was just that, best to stay out of the flame path. In the end chair, near the fireplace, the director of the CIA sat with his legs crossed, his pale hairy flesh exposed over sagging socks. Boswell Famesworth Leach III was bald, his face was red, his teeth either capped or false, his manner earnest. But Donchez had once characterized him as a snake. There were too many backs in Washington bearing Leach’s knives, Donchez had said. Leach seemed to be the one person in government that Donchez loved to hate. Leach never signed his name, only used his initials, “BFL.” Donchez had indicated to Pacino that Leach’s intelligence estimates were usually inaccurate — not because of the failings of the CIA itself, since the information and analyses coming into Leach’s office were sound, but because Leach was so arrogant that any intelligence assessment that didn’t fit his predetermined notions would be rewritten to fall into line with his world views.
Nonetheless, his intel assessments had been oddly correct in recent months, which had prompted Donchez to tell Pacino that “BFL” stood for “Blind Fucking Luck.” Noticeably absent was the Secretary of Defense, the elder statesman of the group. Bob Katoss, the pipe-smoking sixty-five-year-old who refused to wear suits, only cardigan sweaters and open-necked shirts. The political cartoons regularly depicted him wearing bunny slippers with the outfit. Katoss was from the old school, refusing to suffer fools, refusing to smile at those he did not respect.
In short, refusing to be a politician. Donchez considered him a breath of fresh air; Pacino wasn’t so sure; he wondered if the man’s pugnacious exterior perhaps fronted for an inadequate intellect and a cold heart.
