Danny could only smile. “Don’t worry, Miss Jones. I’ll personally attend to your safety on the trip back.” He then lowered his voice. “I need to personally tell Hilly what a fucked-up op this is so we can get the rest of the team out. And you obviously can’t be seen walking around Damascus anymore.”
Maggie sighed. “I’m the damsel in distress.”
“You’re the damsel,” he replied.
“The damsel who kicked nearly everyone’s ass in here.”
“Yep.”
“It’s not goddamn fair,” she muttered.
March 15, 1949
Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send every single last one of you back to the States on a leaky freighter,” Jim Keeley seethed as he threw a manila folder down on his desk. “You got a woman shot, Miles! A woman! What if that was your wife? Or your little boy?!”
Frank watched Copeland’s face fall slightly, while Meade just looked ahead stoically. The fact that the two OPC men had waited days to report the “break-in” at Copeland’s house to Keeley, the envoy and their ostensible boss, hadn’t been a good idea. Frank had told them as much. Not that it mattered at this point.
“The woman was part of a team sent by Foggy Bottom,” Copeland replied. Frank knew that neighborhood housed both the CIA and State Department headquarters, so at least there was some wiggle room for the truth in his statement.
“A team for what, Miles?” Keeley demanded. “Or am I not cleared for that? Again?”
Copeland looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re not.”
Keeley stared hard at Copeland, as if his gaze could burrow through the other man’s skull and find the truth inside his brains. He finally looked over at Frank instead. “And I suppose you can’t tell me anything either, Mr. Lodge?”
Frank considered this a moment. Copeland was potentially the worst goddamn spy he’d seen in a while. Half the town knew he wasn’t just a diplomatic attaché, and his own boss knew damn well he was reporting to someone higher up the ladder. Copeland should’ve been recalled months before. Maggie getting herself shot was the only reason his harebrained op had actually worked.
“Miss Jones is fine, Mr. Keeley, sir,” Frank said tentatively. “It wasn’t as bad as the Syrian doctor made it out to be, but we sent her on home just in case. As for her being here, well, she’s a civilian dependent and it didn’t work out. No harm done.”
Keeley softened a bit. “Look, I’m glad the girl’s OK. I’m also glad you got her on a plane out of here with Commander Wallace. But you’re still here officially, and Mr. Hooks and God-knows-who-else are still here unofficially. And I got my phone ringing off the hook for a week straight, alternating between investigators, reporters, Syrian Army officers promising ‘support’—whatever that means—and government officials apologizing every hour on the hour.” He turned his attention back to Copeland. “I’m not an idiot, Miles. You want al-Quwatli out and al-Za’im in, and you think you can do it with charm and a slush fund. You might even be right. But you came this close to killing someone. This is not a goddamn game, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Copeland replied, still looking at his hands.
Keeley regarded him for several long moments, opening his mouth to speak once or twice but failing to find the right words. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” the envoy finally said. “I’m filing an official complaint with CIA and State about your activities, Miles. I know they’re in all likelihood the ones who sent Mr. Lodge and his people here in the first place, but I got a feeling you’re blowing smoke up their asses back in Washington. And I swear, one more public screwup like this and I’m personally revoking your diplomatic passports and sending you all home, and to hell with what Foggy Bottom wants.
“Now get the hell out.”
Copeland opened his mouth to say something, but Meade was already on his feet and had a hand on his colleague’s shoulder to keep him quiet. They all quickly filed out, leaving Keeley staring out the window, looking extremely tired.
“He doesn’t understand,” Copeland muttered as they walked through the office’s small secretarial pool. “Everything went perfectly. It just—”
Frank turned on his heel and got in Copeland’s face. “First off, shut the fuck up about operational matters in the middle of the goddamn office, you fucking amateur,” he whispered. “Second, one of my people got shot in your little op, so everything did not go perfectly. Third, I figure you have about two weeks to go before the folks in D.C. match up Keeley’s report and mine and decide to send you the hell home, so if you have any interest in staying here and playing kingmaker, you better fix this shit fast—and quietly.”
Frank stalked off without waiting for a reply, leaving the office—a small suite of rooms above a Persian carpet merchant—and heading downstairs to the busy, dusty street. It was only when he started walking toward the center of town that he realized Meade was following him.
“He’s not so bad, you know,” he said, catching up to Frank and settling in beside him. “I mean, yeah, he’s lucky he’s lived this long, but he’s smart. He takes chances. I think he can do this.”
Meade carried himself with the economy of movement belonging to an experienced soldier. “You know as well as I do that this op was messed up,” Frank said. “Shouldn’t have happened.”
Meade shrugged. “It was the best of a number of bad options, Lodge. We needed a way to quickly cast doubt on al-Quwatli, both at home and abroad. And it worked.”
Frank frowned but had to concede the point. The raid had made all the papers back home and was the talk of the town in Damascus. Embassy and consulate security had doubled since the attacks, and more than a few ambassadors had called on al-Quwatli to explicitly guarantee their safety. Meanwhile, Parliament was up in arms trying to get to the bottom of it all, and Za’im was busy stoking the fires further. Just that morning, Frank had caught him on the radio talking about an “assassination list” compiled by the al-Quwatli administration and consisting of opposition leaders, army officers, and a few foreign diplomats.
“What’s your status, then?” Frank asked.
“Our friend is working to build support,” Meade said, referring to Za’im. “Figure he’ll have the whole thing lined up soon. The goal is to do it without shots fired, and I genuinely think he can do it.”
“There were already shots fired, Steve,” Frank reminded him. “Maggie took one in the leg.”
“And she looked pissed about it,” Meade said with a small smile. “She’s a tiger, that one. I admit, I’ll miss her.”
This actually prompted Frank to crack a smile. “You got no chance, pal. Never seen her give a guy the time of day. She’ll kick you much as look at you.”
Meade shrugged. “My kind of girl. I imagine she’s got some interesting skills to get her attached to your team.”
“You have no idea. But because of her injury, she and Wallace are out. And I’m supposed to keep an eye on you now.”
“Why did Wallace leave?”
Frank thought back to a short cable the Navy man had received just after the “successful” op at Copeland’s house. He’d gone pale, then quickly set it on fire in an ashtray. He and Maggie were then on the next flight out of Damascus. All Danny had told them was that there was something up at Area 51 that needed his attention.
“Probably to go speak to the Director about the crap you got going on around here,” Frank replied. “Like I said, I figure you got two weeks to seal the deal and get your guy in the big chair. You think you can manage that?”
Meade stopped at a street corner and checked his watch, just as a nondescript Mercedes-Benz pulled up. “Right on time. You want to find out for yourself?”
Frank peeked in and saw three men in ill-fitting suits in the car. Military bearing, all with shoulder harnesses, all of local extraction. Mid-forties and up. Senior officers. They were all at the reception.
“What’s this?” Frank asked casually.
“A little cit
y tour. Making a to-do list for later with a little friendly advice from yours truly. Could use your ideas, Frank.”
“Five’s a crowd,” Frank replied. “There’s just some stuff I don’t want to know.”
Meade shrugged. “I’ll keep you posted. Two weeks seems good.”
The OPC man got in the car, which sped off down the street, leaving Frank to wonder whether Meade could make this whole thing happen despite Copeland, or if he’d have to get Cal and Zippy over the border fast.
Turning back toward Copeland’s house, Frank made a mental note to look into buying a car and getting a good map of Syria and Lebanon. Just in case.
March 25, 1949
Danny Wallace hated his dress uniform—he invariably spilled something on the spotless whites within five minutes of putting them on—but figured that if he was going to take on the Secretary of Defense at the White House, he’d better look his best.
Plus, Danny really didn’t own a top-flight civilian suit. The only one he had was a couple years old, and frankly, he knew Truman was a bit of a clotheshorse.
Of course, this didn’t stop Hillenkoetter from wearing a slightly rumpled, ill-fitting suit over his large, gangly frame, but the Director wasn’t the kind of man to care about such things. Between the Dulles report, the Iron Curtain tightening up, and Asia heading south fast, Hilly had more to worry about than his attire.
“The President will see you now,” the secretary said, and Danny followed his boss into the Oval Office, where a grim-faced Truman stood to meet them, extending his hand to Hillenkoetter first.
“Damn shame about this, Hilly. Damn shame indeed,” Truman said, shaking hands before turning to Danny, who smartly saluted before getting his own handshake. “Really appreciate you being on top of all this, Commander. I know you got a lot on your plate.”
“It’s my command, Mr. President. Buck stops with me,” Danny replied, earning a little smirk from his commander in chief.
Truman waved them to a couch. “We got a few minutes yet before he arrives. Tell me about Syria, son.”
Danny cleared his throat. “You read up on the operation, no doubt. Honestly, Mr. President, it was very poorly planned and relied far too much on the unpredictable actions of the Syrian nationals in order to succeed. It was only because of Miss Dubinsky’s Enhancement and Lieutenant Lodge’s extensive skills that we got out of it as well as we did. If we had been normal agents, we might’ve been captured or killed.”
Truman nodded. “Where’s Miss Dubinsky now, Commander?”
“Back here in D.C., Mr. President. She’ll be placed back at Area 51 for retraining in a few weeks.”
“Very good. We dodged a bullet. You think that Syria thing will work? Seems like the government there’s getting more unstable every day.”
Danny thought about the last cable he’d received from Frank. Both Copeland and Meade were working feverishly, meeting with coup plotters day and night and digging deep into new plans with newfound seriousness. Even Frank and Cal had been involved, and Zippy was busy working the press angle, writing about how al-Quwatli’s administration was unfit to lead the country anymore. “I’m not as worried about the government falling as I am about whether Copeland and Meade have the capability to guide the government that comes after,” Danny said.
“That’s why I want to keep Lodge, Hooks, and Silverman there a little longer,” Hillenkoetter said. “Honestly, they’re better trained for contingencies than the OPC guys there.”
“Approved,” Truman said before Danny could protest. “Good to ride herd on them, better to get their bacon out of the fire in case things go bad. And between you and me, Hilly, I’m getting a little tired of Frank Wisner’s OPC messes. I’m thinking of putting the office back under CIA control, soon as it’s politically feasible.”
“I’d appreciate that, Mr. President,” Hillenkoetter said, a quick look of relief crossing his face. “They’re far too permissive about what they’re allowed to do.”
“And you’re too conservative, Hilly,” the President said, with just enough of an edge beneath his toothy smile. “Find a way where you and Wisner can meet in the middle.”
There was a rap on the door, and one of the Secret Service men stuck his head in. “He’s here, Mr. President.”
“Show him right in, Tommy, thank you.”
The three men waited in silence for several long, awkward moments until the secretary opened the door once more and James Forrestal walked in.
“Oh! Didn’t know we were having that kind of meeting,” Forrestal said as the door closed behind him. “Good to see you again, Wallace.”
Wallace saluted Forrestal—he was still the Secretary of Defense, after all—and shook his hand, but didn’t otherwise reply. The President’s secretary had already ordered coffee, which now sat on the table between the men. Forrestal waited for someone to speak, then shrugged and poured a cup, offering it to Truman. “Mr. President?”
The Missourian waved it away. “We have a problem, Jim. More than one.”
Forrestal put down the cup. “What happened?”
Truman looked over to Danny, who nodded and passed a folder Forrestal’s way. “We’ve had a major security breach at Area 51, Mr. Secretary.”
Forrestal took the folder and opened it, scanning the cover page. His brow furrowed as he read. “I fail to see how this is a breach, Commander.”
“Course you do, Jim. Because you ordered it,” Hillenkoetter said. “You ordered a full security review—and pulled all the audio recorders on all the Variants for ‘testing’—just as Wallace here was out of town. And we have the call logs from your phone to Area 51 just two hours before Dr. Schreiber went down to visit POSEIDON, even though we’d agreed that those two bastards should never meet.”
“I never agreed to that,” Forrestal said, his face animated. “I still think it’s a mistake. Schreiber’s doing fine work on that vortex, and keeping him out of Variant research is dangerous.”
“More dangerous than allowing a former Nazi access to humans with superpowers?” Danny snapped before he realized what he’d said.
“Former Nazi, and a brilliant mind,” Forrestal replied quickly. “We still don’t know what these … these people are capable of. And that Bronk guy, he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere on their origins or the extent of their powers or even why they have these powers. So, yes, I want the best man for the job, and I think that’s Schreiber. So I gave him a chance to check things out. And as Secretary of Defense, I outrank both of you.”
“You don’t outrank me, Jim,” Truman said quietly. “And need I remind you, when it comes to MAJESTIC-12, you and Hilly are on equal footing, and Commander Wallace needs approvals from you both to make substantive changes to anything at Area 51.” Truman stood up and began to pace, his face reddening. “And I personally told you, Jim, that I didn’t want the PAPERCLIP man near our Variants. My order. Mine! And as of last November, the people of the United States upheld the notion that I should be the one to give the orders; is that not correct?”
“Well, yes, Mr. President, but—”
Truman cut Forrestal off. “No buts, Jim. You’re the security breach here. You’ve shown far too much willingness to go off on your own with regard to MAJESTIC-12. You know what I gotta do now, Jim? I gotta launch a full-on security investigation on you, because you went ahead and violated one of my direct orders.”
“I don’t think that’s strictly necesse—”
“Necessary?” Truman thundered. “It’s absolutely necessary. You violate my orders on the single most sensitive, top-secret project in United States history, and you don’t think you should be held accountable for that? And I know, Jim; I know about Dewey,” the President added, waggling a finger at him. “You told me back in November that it was just the press gunning for me, but I had some of my people look into it. You met Governor Dewey last fall and offered to stay on as Defense Secretary for him. What’d you tell him about all this, Jim?”
“Nothing,
Mr. President! I swear it!”
Truman stood up straight and visibly tamped down on his anger. “I’ll expect your resignation on my desk Monday. After that, I expect you to cooperate fully with the subsequent investigation into your activities around MAJESTIC-12.” The President stiffly and formally extended his hand toward the Defense Secretary. “Your country thanks you for your service.”
Stunned, Forrestal shook Truman’s hand, then turned to look at Hillenkoetter and Danny like a deer in the headlights. “If you’ll excuse me, then,” he said quietly, then walked to the door of the Oval Office, which opened to let him out.
“Shit,” Truman said once he was gone, flopping back down onto the couch. “I hate doing stuff like that.”
“Needed to be done, Mr. President,” Hillenkoetter said succinctly. “We’re gonna have to keep an eye on him. And we can’t have Hoover running the investigation, either. Or even the Defense guys.”
“I’ve already figured that out, I think,” Truman said. “Secret Service is run through Treasury, so neither Defense nor Justice have any say or any knowledge of what they can do. So, we’ll make this a special Secret Service investigation. Just need the right investigators.”
“Anybody in mind?” Hillenkoetter asked.
Truman turned to Danny and smiled. “In fact, I do.”
March 28, 1949
Danny exited the door of the cargo plane and let the hot desert air hit his face, prompting a smile. He’d never thought he would’ve been much for deserts, but having spent time at Area 51 for years now, he’d found himself missing its sun and warmth. Less so, however, the headaches.
Major Hamilton was waiting for him and Maggie at the bottom of the stairs. “Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon, Maggie,” he said.
“Neither did I,” Maggie said. “How you doing, Major?”
Danny shot Hamilton a glance. She’s not cleared. “Keeping busy,” the major said cheerily. “Let’s get you back to base. We’ve set up a room for you near the administrative center, where some of the scientists stay.”
MJ-12 Page 10
