by Dana Haynes
Stanley Cohen chewed his gum and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. He seemed to be studying an oil stain on the floor. “The work sometimes takes lives.”
“Advising a senior senator and a lion of Congress doesn’t. I don’t think it will, anyway.” John stepped away from the director’s Lexus and held out his hand. Stanley Cohen paused for a moment, then shook it.
“John? That gift card going around for you? I didn’t contribute a goddamn dime.”
* * *
After saying good-bye to John Broom, Stanley Cohen retrieved his attaché case and took the secure elevator up to his office. Inside, he popped open the case and began deciding which highest-priority files he needed to read that night, which he wanted to read, and which he would leave for morning. He was still sorting when his telephone buzzed.
It was the night-duty watch desk. By answering his phone, Stanley Cohen became the first brass at Langley to hear about the top-secret communiqué from Israeli intelligence. He scrounged a pen and jotted down several names.
One was Daria Gibron.
Another was the President of the United States of America.
Three
Tuesday’s emergency briefing at CIA headquarters started at 6:00 A.M. sharp. Special Agent Owen Cain Thorson had the podium. Associate Director Stanley Cohen was there, along with four senior administrators from his shop. Five top leaders from Operations were present, as well as three senior chiefs from Analysis. The Secret Service had been invited to sit in, and four senior officials joined the meeting.
Among the crowd was John Broom. Since tendering his resignation, John assumed he’d be sidelined with softball assignments. Looking at all the brass in the room, that appeared not to be the case.
The presence of Owen Thorson, the fair-haired boy of the Ops Division, meant this operation had political legs. Thorson’s father had served as U.S. Secretary of State and his mother was a former vice president at the World Bank. His uncle had been L.B.J.’s closest civilian adviser, first in his kitchen cabinet and later as director of Central Intelligence. Thorson had worked hard to overcome the stigma of being the Crown Prince of the CIA, becoming known for his work ethic and the hours that he put in. He could have opted for analysis and a clear shot at administration, but instead he chose not only ops, but fieldwork. Thorson tried like hell to look like one of the guys; black suits and generic ties, white shirts. And yet his blue blood was immediately obvious to everyone he met.
The lights dimmed and a screen flashed white. Thorson held the clicker for the ceiling-mounted projector.
“Thank you everyone,” Thorson began. “As some of you have heard by now, Tel Aviv has alerted us to a possible attempt on the life of the president of the United States of America.”
An image flashed onto the screen. It was a tough-looking man, early to mid-forties perhaps, with Mediterranean looks, hard eyes, a tight-lipped scowl, longish black hair cut badly, and a rough, thin beard that looked like a few missed chances to shave rather than a fashion statement.
“Major Khalid Belhadj. Fifteen-year veteran of the Mukhabarat, or Syrian Military Intelligence Directorate.”
Someone snorted derisively. “Which Syria.”
“All of them.”
In the past decade, Syrian intelligence adventures had fallen into three categories: Operations that were loyal to Assad, the senior; operations that were loyal to Assad, the junior; and a random and almost unpredictable array of operations that had followed the Arab Spring and the breakup of any identifiable lines of authority in Damascus.
“Belhadj was part of the old guard,” Thorson said. “But he served Kid Assad just like the old man. He’s Tehran’s guy, too.”
John Broom almost spoke up to disagree. It would be difficult to overstate the importance of Iranian influence on Syrian operations, but certain sectors of the Mukhabarat, some of the older, more experienced Syrian solders, were the ones least likely to take orders from Tehran.
“Belhadj is black ops,” Thorson continued, “an assassin as much as a spy. Our Israeli friends informed us last night that Belhadj flew into Frankfurt under the ID of an Egyptian doctor. From there, he flew to Shannon, Ireland. He is feet-wet over the North Atlantic, right now, heading for Montreal.”
Stanley Cohen said, “Final stop?”
“It appears he’s coming to New York to meet a gunrunner.”
Another member of the brass said, “Is this info good?”
“The intelligence is considered pristine, and only a couple of hours old.”
Someone said, “The gunrunner?”
“According to the Israelis, Belhadj is coming to New York to meet this person.”
Another image flashed onto the screen. It was a woman, dark-skinned, black-haired, prominent cheekbones, and almond eyes. Lovely and athletic. The photo showed her browsing the outdoor bin of a bookstore, left hand brushing straight hair away from her eyes. From her clothes, it appeared to be spring or early fall.
John Broom recognized her but Thorson beat him to it. “Daria Gibron. Adopted by a Lebanese father and an Israeli mother. Raised in Tel Aviv. Did her required service in the Israeli Army but reupped, did two tours before being recruited by Shin Bet.”
One of the senior analysts squinted up. “Sorry?”
John spoke up. “It’s Hebrew. The Unseen Shield.”
Thorson nodded, not surprised. “Yes. Israeli intelligence. They’re usually domestic only but Gibron’s unit was an exception. She served for almost three years as an undercover agent in Beirut, Jordan, Syria, infiltrating Fatah and, later, Hamas.”
Thorson hit the remote control and a new image appeared. It was an Israeli street, the photo taken from a newspaper clipping, distorted by being blown up so large. The street was filled with police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. Some of the blobby figures wore blue windbreakers with block letters scrawled across their backs: FBI.
“Four years ago, Gibron caught rumors of a project by a Mossad splinter cell to kill a liberal member of the Israeli parliament, or Knesset. The plan was to blame it on Lebanese extremists, and use it as an excuse for an all-out attack on Fatah forces. Operatives of both Shin Bet and the Mossad were involved. Gibron didn’t know who to trust. An FBI resource team was in Tel Aviv at the time, doing advisory work. She turned to them, told them the story. They intervened and stopped the assassination. During the melee, Gibron got herself gut-shot. The lead FBI adviser, a … ah…”
Thorson checked his notes.
“Ray Calabrese, took the initiative to have her airlifted to Ramstein Air Base. According to Calabrese’s file, there were two attempts on her life while she was at the base. Both failed. Gibron asked for and was given safe haven in the States. Calabrese was officially posted in the L.A. field office, so Gibron was set up there.”
“That,” said the assistant director for antiterrorism, unwrapping an antacid tablet, “would be one hell of a good cover if you wanted to get into the U.S. to do Bad Things.”
The others could almost hear the capital letters. Bad Things was a CIA colloquialism for terrorism.
“Yes, sir,” Thorson said. “She gets seriously high marks from the FBI. They say she was influential in two separate investigations regarding airline crashes: one involving international espionage, one involving domestic, corporate malfeasance. The first was the Vermeer crash in Oregon two years ago. I imagine everyone remembers that one.”
Heads nodded.
“However, her record isn’t unblemished. Calabrese himself—and by the way, he’s a Boy Scout; record beyond reproach—Calabrese refers to her as an ‘adrenaline junkie’ and ‘addictive personality.’ She runs marathons. She kickboxes at an international competitive level. She’s an archer and fencer. She’s”—Thorson cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable—“ah, sexually active. Sorry. That’s probably apropos of nothing. It’s just in the file.”
Cohen hid his smile at Thorson’s blush. “Gender of partners?” Cohen didn’t really care; he was just pushin
g Thorson’s buttons.
“Ah, both, sir. Although primarily men. After her surgery at Ramstein, Gibron developed an unhealthy need for Vicodin. I’m not sure we can call it an addiction, in that she beat it pretty quickly. But again: it goes to the notion of an addictive personality. For the last two years, she was working for ATF. First, setting up criminals in the L.A. area. Later, actually doing undercover work in Mexico. She was hooked up with an ATF unit that came close to being indicted for gross violations of both U.S. laws and international treaties. After the unit was broken up, Gibron returned to L.A. She still consults for the FBI and the Drug Enforcement Administration.”
John Broom hadn’t stopped listening but was using his tablet computer to look up the official CIA report on Daria Gibron.
It wasn’t hard to find. John had written the report.
Someone piped up, “What’s she doing now?”
“Gibron has a bureau-created business as an international translator. She’s a polyglot. It’s L.A. There’s plenty of work in that line.”
John raised his hand. Thorson nodded. “Broom?”
“I did the analysis of Daria Gibron, after the Oregon disaster and again after the incident in Montana. I have to say, flat out, she does not present as a danger to the U.S. This woman is on the side of the angels.”
“I know you wrote the report. It’s why you’re in the room. But I need to point out that Gibron lived undercover in Beirut, the West Bank, and other Arabic countries for several years while she was in her twenties. Who did she have contact with during that time? Who knows whether she was radicalized there? She wouldn’t be the first.”
John didn’t look inclined to back down. “Daria Gibron saved lives in both of the reported incidents. That includes civilians and federal personnel. I’ve interviewed her handler, Calabrese. I’m telling you, this smells wrong.”
Thorson hit the back button and the image of Khalid Belhadj, the scowling Syrian intelligence officer, reappeared.
“I know what your gut says. But a high-ranking official in Israeli intelligence says this intel is one hundred percent. And when I say high ranking, I mean Cabinet-level or better. What we have here is a Syrian assassin very high up on the terrorist watch list coming to New York City to meet a woman whose cover is as a weapons provider. A woman who has successfully woven her way into the inner circles of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Drug Enforcement Administration, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”
Someone in the room breathed out, “Goddamn.”
“Exactly,” Thorson agreed.
Cohen chewed his antacid. “They’re meeting in New York?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cohen turned to the senior representative of the Secret Service. He didn’t have to ask the question. The senior agent said, “The president is speaking tomorrow at Emory University in Atlanta. The topic is a new arms deal with Israel. We just moved the threat rating into the Red category and have tripled-up on his security. We’ll stay there until you bring in those two.”
He nodded at the flat screens.
Cohen turned back to Thorson. “Okay. You have a full code. But we need to take them together. Questions?”
John’s eyebrows rose. Full code meant that the security protocols were maxed-out. Lethal response on domestic soil was authorized. For all parties involved.
Owen Thorson nodded. “I want to put a full quarantine on the FBI. Especially the L.A. field office. We—”
“No,” Stanley Cohen cut in.
“Sir, this woman has them enthralled. Whatever we tell them, she’ll know within minutes.”
Cohen winced and stretched his back. “Gibron has been an asset for the FBI, the ATF, and the DEA. You recommend we freeze them all out of a domestic op in midtown Manhattan and just hope they don’t notice? Besides, if this manhunt leaves New York, who do we turn to for help? The Rotary Club? Forget it. The political fallout would last months.”
Thorson said, “I understand, sir, but—”
“Do we know when the Gibron woman and the Syrian are meeting?” The debate was over.
“Yes, sir.”
The assistant director picked up his leather portfolio and moved toward the door. “All right, then. They leave the rendezvous either in your custody or in body bags.”
Denver, Colorado
Before dawn on Tuesday, Secret Service Agent Boyd Renfro pulled into the parking lot of the Federal Building. He had to guess where the parking stripes were, due to the snow on the ground. He turned off his engine, listened to the cooling metal click for a few seconds, then stepped out, the snow crunching under his Wolverine boots.
He checked the time on his watch. It was too freaking early for this kind of milk run.
A Ford F-250 with chrome rims pulled into the parking lot, rooster tails of snow arcing behind it, and fishtailing just a bit before pulling into a slot. The dome light popped on, revealing a blond head and a megawatt smile.
Agent Will Halliday hopped down. He wore a quilted, hooded parka and waterproof snow pants tucked into boots.
Boyd Renfro pulled up his coat to draw out his phone. He checked the pdf he’d received, frowning.
“Halliday?”
The big man looked like the all-conference fullback he had been in college. He swaggered over to Renfro.
The senior agent glared. “You’re not on this detail.”
“You heard about Stacy?”
“Who?”
“Phil Mendoza’s wife. Stacy. She’s in the hospital.”
Boyd Renfro winced. Stacy Knight-Mendoza was something like seven or eight months pregnant. “The hell happened? She’s not due.”
“Don’t know, man. I got the call, hour ago. Said Phil’s with his wife in the emergency room. Said she’d miscarried and she’s really sick.” Will Halliday’s white parka bobbed in the harsh parking lot lights as he shrugged.
Renfro slapped his forehead. “Jesus! That’s terrible.”
Halliday’s blue eyes didn’t reflect much emotion.
“All right. Guess you are up.” Renfro turned and began clomping toward the Federal Building. Halliday, a full head taller, fell in beside him.
“What are we transporting?”
Renfro snorted a nonlaugh. “They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Supposed to be a cakewalk, though. Let’s just hope we get no more surprises.”
* * *
That hope lasted all of ninety seconds.
Boyd Renfro and Will Halliday stomped snow off their boots at the entry to the rally room, adjacent to the underground parking garage in the Denver Federal Building. Two identical black Escalades, parked perpendicular to the parking stripes, awaited them, along with four other Secret Service agents. The senior-most agent, a wiry veteran with a thick gray mustache, was on his cell phone. His steely eyes found Renfro as he spoke into the phone. “Yes, sir … understood. Yes, sir.”
The veteran hung up. “Morning, fellas. Where’s Mendoza?”
Renfro told them what he’d just learned about Mendoza’s wife. “Halliday here is up next in the rotation. He’s joining us.”
“He’s not joining us. He’s joining you.” The veteran motioned toward his cell phone. “CIA just called an audible from the huddle. They’ve got a clear-and-present for POTUS.”
Renfro whistled, high-low. The Secret Service has many missions but all of them—without fail—fall behind the primary mission of protecting the president. Most domestic ops around the country would begin shedding personnel to provide bench-strength for the D.C.-based teams. This one was no different.
“You getting rerouted to Atlanta?”
“Yup.” The veteran pulled car keys out of his pocket and arced them casually to Renfro, who caught them one-handed. “This detail just went from a six-man rotation to three-man. You got point.”
Renfro nodded. “Understood. Go make us proud.”
The veteran and two other men peeled back into the Federal Building.
That left Renfr
o, Will Halliday, and one more agent. They wouldn’t need the second Escalade after all.
Techies were loading a titanium steel canister, the size of a footlocker, into the back of the remaining SUV. Attached to the canister was a device holding two small tanks of liquid nitrogen.
Halliday’s blue eyes watched the process, missing nothing. “So no one knows what the package is?”
Boyd Renfro shrugged. “No. And we don’t care. You got the walk-around?”
Halliday said, “Yes, sir,” and began doing the requisite visual analysis of the vehicle. First thing he did was pop the hood to check out the engine.
The others didn’t bother watching him.
* * *
The sun was rising off the Southern Rocky Mountains as the Goldfish goosed the Escalade up to seventy-five miles per hour.
From the shotgun position, Boyd Renfro kept a watch on the sparse traffic and light dusting of snow. Will Halliday sat in back, hands jammed into the deep pockets of his parka.
The Goldfish had drawn first shift behind the wheel. By tradition, rookie members of the Colorado-based Secret Service field office were known as “Goldfish” because of the high dropout rate during the difficult, first year. Nobody fooled themselves that Secret Service duty was easy. The saying was: “Don’t bother memorizing the new guys’ names. They’re goldfish. If need be, you flush ’em and forget ’em.”
Interstate 70 flattened out about thirty minutes later and began running parallel with the Genevieve River, which was kept at bay by a hundred-year-old levy that ran for thirty miles along the rich farmland.
The Goldfish glanced at Renfro, who methodically shucked pistachios, one by one, ate each nut, and then deposited the shells in a 7-Eleven coffee cup. He worked blindly, eyes slowly scanning the traffic and the hillsides.
“So,” the Goldfish said. It was the first word anyone had spoken in fifteen miles. “That’s weird about Mendoza’s wife. I saw her at church on Sunday. She was being so careful about her health.”
