by Brian Drake
The chairwoman snapped, “Enough!”
Fisher’s eyes settled on the senator from California. He took a deep breath. Apart from his dislike for her over the chauffeur fiasco, she usually supported the intelligence community 100%. For all her faults, she was at least a defense hawk, but not the type hip deep in the military industrial complex. She didn’t vote for war to make money.
Unlike some of her colleagues.
“It’s thin, Mr. Fisher,” the senator said.
“We’ve confirmed as much as possible with the amount of information we have, ma’am,” he told her. Believe me, I wish we had more too. “As I’ve said, all we’ve ever lacked is a picture of Sloan. And her name.”
“You never knew she was British until now.”
“No, we didn’t.”
The senator from California examined the pages in a folder in front of her. They all had received a copy of Francesca Sloan’s picture, and a summary of Fisher and Rogers’ testimony.
“All right. We can go in circles all day, but we have what we need. If our informant tells us there’s an operation underway, we need to stop it. I’m not going to sit through more news coverage of another attack. All in favor?”
All but the jowly senator from Colorado voted to put Francesca Sloan on the kill list. Termination protocol approved. The document with a list of terrorist targets would now go to the president for the final decision. One more meeting. But Fisher knew the president well. He’d rubber-stamp the mission.
Too much mother-may-I, Fisher thought. If we don’t move fast, she’ll get away.
But those were the rules, and he had to work within them.
He wasn’t Sam Raven.
The meeting adjourned, Fisher and Rogers left the chamber room.
“When can we see the president?” Fisher said.
He and Rogers sat in the back of a black limousine. The rear cabin was sealed so the driver heard nothing of their conversation.
“Let’s talk to the DCI when we get back,” Rogers said. “He can call POTUS direct. Sometime today, I’d suspect. The president has a light schedule.”
“You checked?”
Rogers laughed. “For this case? You bet your ass I checked.”
“The Sukkariyeh situation still bothers me.”
“We need another solution than a drone strike, Chris.”
“Tac team? Full crew, hit the building hard, grab intelligence and maybe a prisoner.”
“Can your people pull it off?”
“Of course.”
Rogers nodded. “Then we will propose it to the president as well.”
“Good.”
The vehicle moved through the stop-and-go traffic. Fisher stared through the tinted window beside him. He felt no sense of accomplishment. The grilling had been intense. But they’d met their objective. The White Widow would soon be no more. She wouldn’t leave Syria alive.
Tanya Jafari said, “Are you going to stare at me or hand me a piece of paper?”
As if on cue, the conference room door opened. A younger man in a suit, holding his tie in place, entered. He stayed long enough to pass Wilson a folder. Wilson thanked the man, who quickly departed. The door clicked shut once again.
Wilson slid the folder across the table to Tanya.
“There’s your deal.”
She opened the folder. A small stack of stapled sheets lay inside. Short block paragraphs filled each page.
“It’s like a contract,” Wilson explained. “It’s a take it or leave it proposition. We already have what we need from you, so personally, I don’t care what you do. If you want resettlement in the United States, I suggest you sign on the last page.”
Tanya glared at him, then returned to the pages. She intended to read every word. If he wanted to play bad cop and pressure her, she could make him wait.
“I’ll sum it up for you,” Wilson said. “You stay here until we determine your usefulness is at an end. You get to pick where you go after. We’ll give you money and set you up with a job. New name, new identity. After that, you’re on your own. There will be periodic check-ins and an emergency number to call if you think you’re in danger.”
Tanya shook her head as she read each page. She grew more frustrated with every word Wilson spoke. With a scoff, she finally turned to the last, scribbled her signature, and passed the folder to Wilson.
“Fine.”
Wilson moved the folder away from him.
“Now,” he said, “first question. Tell us your background. Where you were born, all that.”
Tanya folded her arms.
14
Raven leaned against the wall and listened.
“I was born Tanya Distel in Berlin.” She gave the year. “My father is Michael Distel. He’s runs a janitorial company.”
“Your mother?” Wilson said.
“She’s dead.”
“How?”
“Car accident when I was young.”
“I’m sorry. Siblings?”
“None.”
Raven drank down the last of his water bottle as she went into her education background. Kindergarten to high school to university. She met her late boyfriend through a friend while working for her father’s company.
Raven crossed the room to a waste basket and set the empty water bottle inside.
The table phone rang, interrupting the conversation.
Wilson picked up. “Yes?”
He listened.
“Great news. Do you need me back at Langley?”
He listened some more.
“All right. No, we just started. See you in a few hours.”
Wilson hung up.
Raven said, “Who called?”
“Fisher. They had a few challenges with the intelligence committee, but the panel voted in their favor. A termination protocol has officially been issued for Francesca Sloan. He’ll meet with the president in two hours to get the final authorization.”
“Excellent news,” Raven said.
“Take good pictures,” Tanya added. “I’ll be able to identify the body.”
“I bet this pleases you,” Wilson said.
“You’ll be taking a target off my back.”
“Are you sure?” Wilson said. “Your former comrades will make the connection. We may have put a bigger target on your back.”
“Do your part, and I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Wilson smiled. “You can trust us. Now, let’s get back on track. Did you know Francesca Sloan prior to joining the Islamic Union?”
“No. But we bonded at the training camp. Similar recruitment, motivation. They kept us separated from the men, so we didn’t get to see our boyfriends much.”
“Your boyfriend, her husband?”
“Right. They were already married when she arrived.”
“What did she tell you about her history?”
“We didn’t dwell on the past,” Tanya said. “The only thing we thought about was the future.”
“Uh-huh.”
The probing carried on for another hour. Raven eventually sat away from the trio at the end of the table to continue observing.
He checked his Rolex, and realized he’d forgotten to adjust for US time. Six hours vanished from the clock. He didn’t feel tired, but instead mentally fogged. Flying “back in time” caused the confusion. In a few hours, he expected it to pass.
Harmony Moyer, typing into her laptop as the conversation carried on, remained focused on her screen. She showed no reaction or emotion to the words said. Raven bet she’d heard a few doozies in her time.
Another hour ticked by, and they broke for lunch. Wilson led them into the break room, a sterile affair with Formica tables and hard plastic chairs. Wilson had ordered fast food burgers, fries, Cokes, nothing fancy, but hot and good.
They finished eating. Wilson called for a uniformed female officer and gave her instructions to show Tanya to her quarters. The women departed.
“It’s not the Ritz,” Wilson explained t
o Raven, “but the accommodations aren’t terrible. She’ll have a private bathroom too.”
Wilson filled two cups at the coffee machine. One cup of black coffee for him, hot water to Raven. Raven tore open a bag of Bigelow Green Tea and dipped into the water.
“What do you think so far?” Raven said.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Wilson said, adjusting his chair closer to the table. “What matters is how her story checks out. We’ll check her history backwards and forwards.”
“Wasn’t the deal a little premature?” Raven said.
“She didn’t read the last page.” Wilson grinned.
“What’s on the last page?”
“The fine print. We can nullify the deal if she lies to us.”
Raven nodded. “I think she’ll check out fine.”
“You would know.”
Raven raised an eyebrow.
“She snuck into your room at the embassy, right?”
“I wouldn’t say she snuck in.”
“You let her in.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Same old Raven.” Wilson sipped his coffee.
“Nothing happened, Clark.”
“Sure.”
“She only wanted reassurance I wasn’t going to skip out.”
Wilson laughed. “Sure.”
Raven gave up and changed the subject. “How’s your family?”
Wilson blinked. He seemed surprised by the question, and Raven understood the reaction. He didn’t normally ask. He had his reasons.
“They’re good. Brenda is checking out colleges.”
“Does she have her eye on any in particular?”
“California.”
“Ouch.”
“My wife isn’t pleased.”
“I have another question,” Raven said.
“Sure.”
“Tomorrow, next day, I’d like to take Tanya out. Show her the area, help her get settled. It might help to see what her new life might be like.”
“We can arrange something. But not for long.”
“Won’t need long. Couple hours.”
“It’ll help for sure,” Wilson said. “We’re going to have her here a while. Cabin fever isn’t something we want to deal with.”
“Does the crew here rotate?”
“Two weeks in, two weeks out. Yeah.”
Raven sipped his tea. The female officer and Tanya returned. Wilson and Raven stood.
“Shall we continue?” Wilson said.
Tanya didn’t look enthusiastic. But she agreed.
15
Hayden hated being stuck in the basement.
He paced the floor behind Lymann’s chair. The extra personnel Wilson had redirected to Damascus had come in handy. They’d had White Widow’s apartment building under surveillance in shifts.
The extra men, with their various shades of skin tone, helped with security. The locals didn’t always see the same three people hanging around the produce souk. Hayden, Lymann, and Colleen had exposed themselves too much over the last 24-hours.
But now the tactical team had point. And Hayden was stuck in the basement.
“Eyes on target,” a voice crackled over the radio. “Two Toyota vans.”
“I see the woman,” said another. “Tiger-striped hijab. Face uncovered.”
“Copy.”
“Moving now.”
“Alpha Team, stay ahead of her. Bravo, pick up the rear and look casual.”
Hayden stopped and shook his head. He wanted to be there. But he couldn’t risk ruining his cover as a humanitarian aid worker. He was too important to the CIA’s needs to play cowboy.
He hadn’t always been a behind-the-scenes chess master. Iraqi rebels fighting against the Hussein regime had given him the “Tiger” nickname during a battle. A special ops soldier lay wounded in need of rescue. Running into the middle of the battlefield, ignoring salvos of heavy fire, Hayden scooped up a fallen enemy’s Kalashnikov. He fired bursts of covering fire as he dragged the wounded man to safety. The Iraqis exclaimed, “He fights like a tiger!” and the name stuck.
Now he paced a basement. A tiger in a cage.
Lymann said, “We got pictures.”
The middle monitor showed overhead drone footage of the Toyota vehicles leaving Damascus. Another screen displayed Bravo Team’s in-dash camera and their point-of-view progress.
“How long till they reach the desert?” Colleen said. She sipped yet another mug of cardamom coffee.
“They’re on Route 90,” Lymann said. “About a half hour if traffic isn’t too bad.”
“And then a seven-hour ride to Sukkariyeh,” Hayden said. “Going to be a long wait.”
“Too bad she’s not going to get there,” Lymann said.
The CIA wanted the drone strike to occur before the Route 53 connection. A long stretch of straight roadway between a cement mixing plant and a gas station made the perfect spot. After the gas station, they’d change to Route 53. They had a “53 Backup” in case of a miss, but Hayden didn’t think it would be necessary.
He scoffed.
“You okay?” Colleen said.
“I wish I was there.”
“Hey,” Lymann said, “you and me both. I got this—” he smacked his fake leg. “What’s your excuse?”
“I gotta babysit you two.”
“You change diapers too?” Colleen said.
“You want to wear that coffee?”
She laughed.
Hayden went to another workstation. A tap of the keys pulled up secondary drone footage of the Sukkariyeh IU base. It was an L-shaped building near a stream outside the crowded city. The stream was part of the Euphrates. It was ridiculous the CIA lawyers refused a drone strike on the building. It was isolated enough for the missiles not to hurt civilians. It was also isolated enough for the tac team in the area to strike and get out before Syrian authorities arrived. A raid would better serve their purposes if there was information to be had within the building, but Hayden’s frustration didn’t subside. They were being micromanaged, as always, by old men who didn’t know what it was like at ground zero and, worse, didn’t care. They cared about optics and rules.
There could be no rules in war if you were going to win.
Which begged the question, were they supposed to win, or maintain a status quo to give the military industrial complex an excuse to build bombs and send young soldiers to fight? If victory wasn’t the goal, why bother?
He didn’t want to think about power brokers stoking war for the sake of profit, but also couldn’t deny it seemed like it was the only reason he was sent around the world to do his job.
Hayden put the internal argument out of his mind. He examined the building further. Trees surrounded the structure. The trees looked tall, and more spread out on the empty lot adjacent to the building. A good shield to prevent helicopters from landing too close to the building. They’d created obstacles on the single roadway leading to the building. Wrecked cars sat on either side and in the center in a random pattern.
The footage rotated as the drone drifted overhead.
Hayden stared at the picture. A chill crawled up his back.
No sentries.
No sign of a welcoming committee for the Islamic Union commander.
No activity whatsoever.
The building appeared empty.
Hayden spotted Lymann in the chair while the latter took a break. He ignored the dashcam footage of Bravo Team and instead watched the drone footage. The drone’s camera kept the two Toyotas dead-center.
Radio chatter filled the basement.
“Target approaching kill zone.”
“Alpha Team breaking off.”
“Copy, break. Bravo still behind.”
A new voice, this one from the drone pilot somewhere outside Syria. “Missile lock. One away. Two away. Ten seconds to impact.”
The “drone’s eye view” didn’t change. The two Toyotas continued traveling Route 90. They were long past the cement pl
ant. Another three miles to the gas station and the Route 53 junction. No other traffic in the way. No last-minute abort order.
Ten seconds...
Five...
Three...
The first missile tore into the pavement in front of the lead Toyota. The black-and-white footage registered the explosion. The bright plume filled the scope despite the drone’s high altitude.
The follow-up missile struck directly on the second Toyota’s roof. The explosion grew, flaring once more, before settling into a growing plume of smoke and fire.
“Targets destroyed,” the drone pilot radioed. “Have a nice day.”
The drone footage swung away as the pilot steered the Predator for home.
Hayden switched to the dashcam of Bravo Team.
“Get the firefighting rigs and get in there! We need bodies or teeth!”
“I don’t think we’ll get bodies, Chief.”
“We need something to identify this woman. Move!”
The Bravo vehicle stopped. The camera showed the wreckage ahead. The Alpha crew radioed their arrival and readiness to extinguish the flames.
They didn’t have much time. The CIA crew had to confirm the dead, and get out, before Syrian authorities responded. The desolate area worked in their favor, but the employees at the cement plant would see the smoke. An emergency phone call would be all it took to ruin the party.
Hayden wiped his eyes. The glare from the monitors always gave him a headache.
Lymann returned. He dropped into the seat beside Hayden. “Did I miss the touchdown?”
“Touchdown and the extra point,” Hayden said. “Both Toyotas obliterated.”
“I feel bad for the cars,” Lymann said. “They never hurt anybody.”
A telephone on the table rang. Hayden pressed the speaker button.
“Go, boss,” he said.
Clark Wilson’s voice came over the line. “You watching?”
“Yup. Good shooting.”
“Tell the team in Sukkariyeh to hit the building.”
“Building’s empty,” Hayden said.
“What?”
“Look at the pictures, boss. Ain’t nobody there.”
“Wait one.”
The line clicked. Hayden and Lymann watched the Alpha and Bravo teams attack the blaze with fire suppression tanks. The white foam covered the destroyed vehicles. The smoke was lessening by the minute.
