Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  “Today. Right now.”

  Calibrisi nodded. He was calm, quiet, and deep in thought.

  “I have a few things to pack up downstairs,” said Dewey, referring to the large subterranean training facility several floors belowground that housed the Directorate of Operations, which included Special Operations Group.

  “I’ll have Lindsay process the release,” said Calibrisi. “Give her a few minutes. I’ll be in a briefing in one of the theaters. Bring it in and I’ll sign it. Bill will want to say good-bye, too.”

  Dewey nodded. He stood up and walked to the door.

  “Oh, by the way, that’s yours,” said Calibrisi, pointing at a package on his desk that was wrapped in red paper. “It’s from the president.”

  Dewey walked to Calibrisi’s desk. He removed the wrapping paper. Inside was a shiny, polished wooden box. A brass plaque on the top was engraved with the words:

  To Dewey, my friend. Thank you for your bravery.

  The president’s signature was also engraved beneath.

  “He’s already given you the Medal of Freedom,” said Calibrisi. “I think he wanted to give you something special.”

  Dewey opened the box. Inside was a pistol. It had an ivory handle and a patina of wear, though it was beautiful. It was an old 1911.

  Suddenly, there was a knock at Calibrisi’s door. Dewey turned. It was Lindsay.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Hector, the briefing is on hold until you get there. They’re waiting for you to start.”

  “Tell them I’ll be right down,” said Calibrisi.

  Dewey ran a finger over the gun. In small block letters on the side, it read:

  COL. D MACARTHUR 1917

  “It was MacArthur’s second service pistol,” said Calibrisi. “He carried it until he died. It was at the Smithsonian. The president needed to, ah, pull a few strings to get it.”

  Dewey picked it up and held it, admiring it. He put it back in the box and shut it, then picked up the box. He looked at Calibrisi.

  “Thank him for me, will you?”

  A knock came at the office door. Calibrisi stepped to the door and opened it. It was Jenna.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” she said. “It’s important.”

  “Come in.”

  Jenna stepped inside the office. Calibrisi shut the door behind her. She looked at Dewey for a silent moment, but said nothing.

  “Jenna, this is Dewey Andreas,” said Calibrisi.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Dewey nodded, but said nothing.

  “What is it?” said Calibrisi.

  Jenna glanced at Dewey.

  “We’ve completed the design of the operation,” said Jenna. “As I said earlier, the asset in Pyongyang is a River House play. The request needs to come from you. We dispatched the antidote a little while ago so it gets there’s in time.”

  “Why me?”

  “Derek will say no to me,” said Jenna.

  “What do we need specifically?”

  “He’s a reporter,” said Jenna. “His name is Talmadge.”

  “Will he be exposed?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jenna. “He’s the intermediary. We need him to plant the antidote. I selected a busy place, a public place, a museum that sees thousands of visitors, but it’s no secret Pyongyang has cameras everywhere. He might get burned.”

  “Over here, ‘burned’ means the asset doesn’t survive,” said Calibrisi.

  “It means the same thing in London,” said Jenna. “There’s no other way.”

  Calibrisi stared at her for several moments.

  “Fine. Is the briefing ready?”

  “Yes. Josh Brubaker is already there.”

  “I’ll call Derek right now.”

  Jenna reached for the door. She turned and looked at Dewey, whose back was turned. He was looking out the window. “Nice to meet you, Dewey.”

  Dewey turned his head.

  “You, too.”

  After Jenna left, Dewey looked at Calibrisi.

  “Who is she?”

  “Jenna Hartford. She’s an architect, on loan from England. Six months ago, her husband was killed by a car bomb intended for her. Derek asked if we’d bring her in.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “North Korea?” Dewey said.

  Calibrisi looked at Dewey but remained quiet.

  “What’s the operation?”

  “What does it matter?” he said. “You’re leaving.”

  Dewey grinned.

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “The mission briefing is about to start,” said Calibrisi. “After you pack up, feel free to come and listen. I’ll sign your release in there.”

  11

  CIA

  Calibrisi caught Lindsay’s attention after Dewey left.

  “I need Derek Chalmers,” he said.

  Lindsay nodded and put her headset on as Calibrisi glanced at his watch.

  Dewey’s decision didn’t surprise him. Nothing involving Dewey surprised him anymore. He couldn’t exactly blame him.

  A month ago, Calibrisi had dispatched Dewey to Paris in order to accompany the secretary of state on a secret diplomatic trip. Calibrisi had sent him because he thought it would be a peaceful, straightforward three-day trip to Paris. At the time, Dewey was recovering from a knife wound to his chest, inflicted by an ISIS terrorist during a vicious fight on the top floor of a dormitory at Columbia University. Dewey and his team had stopped a cell of terrorists that bloody day at Columbia and the trip to Paris was meant to reward him. But Paris had gone haywire. The secretary of state was shot in cold blood in his hotel suite and French authorities put the blame on Dewey, locking him up in a Paris terror intake unit and interrogating him. It was Dewey who tracked down the real culprit. It was Dewey who exposed a plot to assassinate the president and take over the government.

  A few weeks after almost dying from a knife wound, Dewey had yet again very nearly died escaping from the French prison and hunting down the cabal behind the plot to overthrow the American government.

  The feeling Calibrisi had as he waited for Lindsay to find Derek Chalmers was a mixture of guilt and deep anxiety. He felt guilty for nearly getting Dewey killed, and yet he felt an even more powerful sense of dread at the thought that the best operator he’d ever seen was about to hang it all up and ride off into the sunset.

  America needed Dewey—but Dewey needed to find something he’d lost a long time ago. Dewey needed to find a sense of peace and normalcy. Family, perhaps even love. Above all, Dewey was tired of being shot at, having knives thrown at him, and running. He was tired of killing. To the outside world, Dewey seemed invincible. His actions had earned him the country’s highest military and intelligence awards and his after-action reports were taught to all Tier 1 operators inside U.S. intelligence as well as Special Forces. But Calibrisi knew Dewey wasn’t invincible, far from it. His first wife had been murdered, and the woman who would’ve been his second wife had been shot with a bullet intended for him. Jessica had died in Dewey’s arms, and the truth is, Dewey had never been the same since. He seemed older and sadder, a tragic figure whose unique skills as a paramilitary operator masked an individual who only wanted to be left alone.

  Calibrisi looked at a photo on his desk of Dewey and Jessica. He probably should’ve put it away by now but he couldn’t bring himself to. Jessica was on Dewey’s shoulders, a big smile on her beautiful Irish face. Dewey was also smiling. They were so happy that day.

  Let him go, Calibrisi thought to himself.

  He reached to the photo and with a trembling hand picked it up. He opened a desk drawer and put the frame inside, then shut the drawer, steeling himself for that terrible moment when time has passed, when events have overtaken memories and the only way to keep going is to move on and close off what was.

  A moment later, the phone on his desk buzzed and the intercom came alive.

  “Derek Chalmers on three,” said Lindsay.

  Calibrisi picked up the
phone.

  “Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” said Chalmers in a clipped but warm British accent.

  “Can’t a guy call and say hello to an old friend?” said Calibrisi.

  “I learned a long time ago that when you call it usually means trouble,” said Chalmers, laughing.

  “I prefer to think of it as adventure.”

  “Ha. By the way, how is Jenna?”

  “She’s doing well,” said Calibrisi. “I think. Have you spoken to her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Chalmers was quiet for a moment.

  “You have to set them free, Hector,” said Chalmers.

  Hector, thinking about the photograph of Dewey and Jessica, grinned.

  “She’s very talented,” said Calibrisi. “It’s why I’m calling.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’re making a move on North Korea. We intercepted the itinerary of their top military commander.”

  “Yong-sik?”

  “He’s traveling to Macau, staying overnight in order to gamble,” said Calibrisi.

  “What’s the play?” asked Chalmers.

  “Honestly, initially we were simply going to put some lead in him.”

  “Let me guess. Jenna rewrote the operation.”

  “Bingo.”

  “And what is the operation?”

  “The basic setup is poison him in Macau with a slow-acting toxin, then give him the antidote after he delivers us information,” said Calibrisi. “I’m late for the briefing. But we need to avail ourselves of your sleeper.”

  Again, a long pause took over the call.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told her,” said Chalmers, laughing. “A moment of weakness. Did Jenna provide you with insight as to his chances of survival?”

  “Yes. She thinks he’ll be exposed. Not definitely, but likely.”

  “Talmadge,” said Chalmers. “Classmate of one of my sons. I recruited him myself.”

  “With all due respect, Derek, what did you recruit him for if not this?”

  “I want to know details of the operation,” said Chalmers, “along with any intel you get out of it. Talmadge will need to be exfiltrated.”

  “Of course. It goes without saying.”

  “Who are you sending to do it?”

  “I don’t know—that’s Bill’s call.”

  Chalmers paused again.

  “Fine, if he’s necessary, use him,” said Chalmers, “but I’m not happy about it. Make sure you get him out of there afterwards.”

  “Thank you, Derek.”

  12

  CIA

  Two floors belowground, on the far side of the building, Dewey found his locker. An empty duffel bag was inside. He filled it with those few belongings he kept at Langley. Several changes of clothing, shoes, a small bag filled with toiletries, several knives, and two pistols, both Colt 1911s.

  He went back to the seventh floor. Lindsay was sitting at her desk. She looked at Dewey with a sad look.

  “I wish you weren’t going,” said Lindsay. She extended a single piece of paper. It was on CIA letterhead and stamped TOP SECRET.

  PART 1A

  I, Hector Calibrisi, DCIA, hereby approve all legal discharge requirements and Agency responsibilities, obligations, and legal protections therewith as defined in US NAT SEC ACT SX4 [889.09A] for:

  ANDREAS, DEWEY

  NOC 2249-A

  Your service is hereby ended and is done so with the Agency’s appreciation. By signature below, this document is protected under extra federal protection Presidential Order A8 and your service cannot be used in any way or in any legal proceeding against you.

  Sincerely,

  * * *

  Hector Calibrisi

  PART 1B

  I, ANDREAS, DEWEY, NOC 2249-A, do hereby accept all legal, security, confidentiality, and statutory requirements and obligations as defined in US NAT SEC ACT SX4 [889.09A] as regards former employees.

  * * *

  ANDREAS, DEWEY

  Dewey read it over several times. He looked up at Lindsay.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Do you have a pen?”

  She paused a few seconds and reluctantly handed him a pen. Dewey signed his name and dated it. He stared for an extra moment at the sheet of paper.

  “You don’t have to do this, Dewey,” said Lindsay. “I know it’s none of my business, but why don’t you just take some time off?”

  Dewey said nothing. He picked up the sheet of paper. He gave Lindsay a kind smile.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “I never was very good at convincing people of things,” said Lindsay. “He’s in OPS three. Want me to walk with you?”

  “Sure.”

  13

  DIRECTORATE OF OPERATIONS

  OPS C3

  CIA

  The CIA operations theater—one of six—was windowless, small, and highly secure. In some ways, the room resembled a home theater. An enormous plasma screen covered the wall at the front of the amphitheater. Four rows of comfortable chairs were arrayed before the screen on risers, each with a small table for taking notes. But that’s where the comparison ended. On both sides of the large screen were workstations, all filled with analysts, who wore headsets and stared into smaller screens. The wall to the left—across from the entrance—was also arrayed in screens, smaller than the one in front, but important nevertheless. The operations theaters were where Langley—and specifically the Directorate of Operations—managed clandestine activities. Once an operation was green-lighted, it was assigned to one of the theaters. Here, all activities were managed and monitored, from the time before an action began through the operation itself. The screens, the analysts, the room, were all meshed into a wide variety of intelligence inputs, including satellite feeds, on-the-ground surveillance, and any other set of data deemed relevant, such as conjoint NSA, FBI, and JSOC activities relating to the covert action.

  This was the final planning and presentation of a covert action. There was still time to alter the operation. Indeed, this was one of the main purposes of the presentation: to garner feedback and critical advice.

  On the front wall, the screen showed several photographs of General Pak Yong-sik, the highest-ranking officer in the Korean People’s Army. He had a gaunt, drawn face, with a sharp jaw; a long nose; thick, neatly combed black hair; and glasses. Several of the photos showed Yong-sik standing next to Kim Jong-un, North Korea’s leader.

  The screen also displayed a live news feed from CNN. Across the bottom of the screen, a red news ticker read: Special Report: North Korea Nuclear Showdown. A video showed Kim Jong-un, standing on a dais overlooking a military parade, with thousands of soldiers marching on a main boulevard in Pyongyang. Sprinkled among the perfectly orchestrated soldiers were missiles being towed by slow-moving trucks, as well as tanks and other military equipment.

  There were a dozen people in the amphitheater, including Bill Polk, Mack Perry, and several other CIA analysts and case officers. Josh Brubaker, the president’s national security advisor, was also present, seated in the front row. The deputy secretary of defense, Pete Brainard, was sitting in the second row, to the side.

  Jenna Hartford stood leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, staring up at the CNN news report. Perry was next to her. The meeting was scheduled to start at ten A.M. It was now 10:25.

  Polk, who was in the first row of seats, looked impatiently at his watch, then made eye contact with Brubaker.

  “Where the hell is Hector?” said Brubaker.

  “I don’t know,” said Polk.

  “I have a briefing,” said Brubaker.

  “Is it more important than North Korea?” said Polk, pointing at the plasma screen.

  “It’s about North Korea,” said Brubaker, annoyance rising in his voice. “The whole region is bracing for war. South Korea, Japan, China—the entire theater is in a state of crisis. We’ve got Japan and Sout
h Korea demanding the U.S. take preemptive military action before Kim strikes one of them, or they will. In the meantime, Beijing is telling the president that if we take preemptive military action they’ll step in and defend Pyongyang. Add Russia to the mix. They’ve moved half the Pacific Fleet into the Sea of China. Does that answer your question, Bill?”

  Polk glanced at Jenna, who looked up. Her eyes met Polk’s then went to Brubaker.

  “Yes, Josh, it does. Thank you.”

  “I’m sure this mission means a lot to you all,” continued Brubaker, “but it is an asterisk compared to the larger chess match that’s going on over there. I’ll be very honest: the reason I’m here is to listen. If there is any chance Langley is going to make matters worse, I was sent here by the president to kill it. It is simply too delicate a situation to be messing around with North Korea right now, especially Yong-sik, who by all accounts is the one rational man in Pyongyang. We assume he’s the one thing holding Kim back from catapulting the entire region into war.”

  It was the first time Jenna had met Brubaker. He hadn’t even shaken her hand when Perry introduced her, instead simply nodding. Jenna didn’t care. She wasn’t thinking about such things as who does what, and who calls the shots—probably why she always got into political trouble. Jenna saw everything through the framework of a maze she was building, a maze that was the operation, its individual parts obvious in retrospect, its gridwork very evidentiary looking back, but her job was to create the maze in the first place, thereby enabling her side to move one step ahead of the enemy, who would inevitably discover the maze.

  She was an architect of the highest caliber. Every one of her missions had gone flawlessly. During her time at MI6, Jenna had designed seventeen clandestine operations, each theatrical and bold, often obtuse, refined, athletic, and above all clever. She scanned the room with cold dispatch. She liked Polk, but thought Brubaker an ass. Mack was nice and she was trying to teach him how to do it—how to properly design operations—but could she teach him? Could she really teach anyone?

  Today was her first test. She knew it.

  The door to the room opened and Calibrisi walked in.