A Spy Came Home (Mac Ambrose Book 1)

by HN Wake

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Throwing the clipboard and scanner into his courier bag, he pushed down on a bike pedal, and wove back into the traffic.

  A single, cold rain drop landed on her hand.

  Langley, VA

  Odom stepped into the large office of the Director of National Clandestine Service. “Sir, we have been unable to locate her.”

  Hawkinson asked, “So you’ve lost your operative?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Off the ranch.”

  Odom nodded.

  “No hints of this in her personnel files?”

  Odom had prepared an answer. “She’s been top of her class in terms of testing. She’s consistently received top marks in terms of risk appetite. Her tactical instincts are almost flawless. She has strong conceptual thinking. She thinks in big pictures. She does, however, push boundaries and has been off the ranch before, but accounted for after.”

  “What are her weaknesses?”

  “That’s the thing. I have read and re-read her personnel file and frankly, nothing stands out.”

  “And no romance?”

  “She’s been loosely involved with various men. They are all listed there. But none of them were serious. On the polygraph every year we ask her. Not a blip.”

  “Everybody has a weak point.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Sir. I’m sure there’s something. But she’s done an exceptional job of concealing it. We don’t have a clue.”

  Hawkinson asked, “And no residual resentment from the Beijing affair?”

  “Not that we know of, no.”

  Hawkinson pointed to a New York News folded in the far corner of his large desk. “Did you see the New York News? Scimitar has been indicted.”

  Odom nodded.

  “You need to stop her.”

  “Understood.”

  “What have we got to hold over her? What can we use against her?”

  Odom saw this coming. He felt neither shame nor guilt. This came with the territory. He wondered if Mac had seen this coming. He answered, “Her parents have passed. She has a sole sister living out in Northern California with a kid and a husband.”

  “Use them.”

  41

  New York, NY

  That afternoon, Stacia sliced open a white Tyvek envelope that appeared to be empty. She felt something loose in the bottom and poured out a single USB thumb drive. She inserted the USB into her port. She opened the first file and read the email between Neil Koen and Charles Osbourne.

  “Holy, holy, holy shit.”

  She read it again.

  “Holy crap!”

  She rapidly clicked back to the USB drive menu and opened up the second file. Three photos appeared on the screen. They were photos of Neil Koen having lunch at a restaurant with an older man who looked vaguely familiar.

  She closed this and clicked on the third file. It opened as an audio and she fumbled in her purse for her earphones, plugged them in, and hit play.

  As the conversation between Neil Koen and the Congressman played out she clicked back over to the photos. She held her breath through to the end of the conversation.

  She sat up, looked around the bull pen at the other journalists. All of them were hunched over keyboards. No one had seen what had been on her screen.

  She sunk back into her chair and mumbled, “Holy, holy, holy s..h…i…t.”

  Ten minutes later Freda, Jack Diamonte and three New York News lawyers were crowded around Freda’s desk, heads down, listening to the final seconds of the taped conversation. The photos were splashed across Freda’s screen.

  From a perch on the windowsill Stacia broke the stunned silence. “Can we publish it?”

  Freda peeked over Jack’s shoulder and winked at her, grinning widely.

  Jack said, “Yes. We can. Bartnicki v. Vopper protects media for publishing information on public issues when they know it was obtained unlawfully but they did not encourage it.”

  All three lawyers nodded.

  Stacia snapped both hands shut in victory punches. “Yes!”

  “But whoever sent you this could go straight to jail. Private electronic recording of conversations and electronic surveillance of emails is illegal and prosecutable. Look at Bradley Manning and Snowden.”

  The most senior lawyer looked at Stacia. “Let me confirm: you don’t know who sent this to you? This was an anonymous tip.”

  “Absolutely. Yes. A blank white courier envelope.”

  The second lawyer asked, “You don’t know the source.”

  “No. I have no idea who the source is.”

  Freda looked to Jack. “I think we run two stories out of this. The first on Koen and Congressmen Peter defrauding a donor. The second on the SFG's fear-mongering strategy. Two in quick succession. Tomorrow the first. The second 24 hours later.”

  Jack was thoughtful for a moment, staring absently past Stacia. Finally he said, “Yes, agreed.”

  The lead lawyer said, “When we drop the first story tomorrow, the Attorney General may come after us.”

  “Won’t be the first time.” Jack looked to Freda. “You sure you want to give this to a junior reporter?”

  Stacia sat up, ready to intervene, but Freda held up her hand. “The source clearly intended it for Stacia. The source wants her to write it, given her last article. I’ll shepherd it.”

  Jack spoke to Stacia, “Ok kid. You’ve got a huge scoop. Make this paper proud. Get started.”

  Stacia jumped off the sill, grabbed the USB from Freda, and rushed back to her cubicle. The lawyers followed her out.

  Alone with Freda, Jack said quietly, “It’s all a little too clean.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It makes me nervous.”

  “There are absolutely zero fingerprints on any of this.”

  “There better not be.”

  From the bull pen, Stacia watched Jack and Freda whispering.

  She fished out her cell phone and texted Charlotte. “Holy Crap! Another huge bomb just dropped. I’m going to be mega. But my conspiracy theory builds.”

  “Keep your head down. Just do your job for now.”

  Across town, Cliff sat across from Penny in a small conference room. Stacks of folders were piled at the bottom of one long wall. She was reading from notes out loud, prepping for the next day’s presentation. “We can’t let them establish conspiracy in violation of Section 1. There is no present direct or circumstantial evidence they can use to prove our side had a conscious commitment to a common scheme. I think we make a preemptive move and ask the judge to move past this and immediately on to the price fixing.”

  “That’s ballsy,” Cliff said.

  “No reason not to take the risk.”

  “I agree. It’s just a bit of a bold move for you, that’s all. Unusual. I like it.”

  “To be fair, their side’s evidence on the price fixing is a lot stronger. I’d rather head right into that. They’ve presented a lot in discovery.” She looked up when she realized he had gone still and silent. “You want me to back up here?”

  His tone was unusually personal, soft. “No. I was just thinking.”

  She tilted her head. “Which part threw you off?”

  “The risk.”

  “Really? But it’s the right move. We need to pincer around them on the price fixing, get that sewn up --”

  “I was wondering how things were at home for you.”

  The question jarred her. “What?”

  “How are things at home? Kenneth still writing scripts?”

  She responded very slowly. “Yes.”

  “Any selling?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. His latest just got turned down yesterday.”

  “It can’t be easy.”

  She hesitated. “It’s not.”

  “Must be hard on a marriage.”

  She was silent, stunned.

  He looked past her and out the window at the city’s skyline. He spoke to th
e glass. “Do you ever think about changing your circumstances?”

  It took her a moment to respond. “Not anything I would discuss with a colleague.”

  He turned back to her. “What if I wasn’t just your colleague?”

  Her heart clanged. Her brain jumped into hyperdrive, suddenly noticing details in colorful magnification. Cliff’s eyes were hooded, hazel. His lips were crooked. The stubble on his upper lip was just starting to shadow his skin. His hair was full and without any grey. How could he not have any grey?

  Her mind blew up an image in mega pixel of them naked, spent from sex, lying on 1000 thread count sheets at the Four Seasons at lunch time. She was pulling up the sheet to cover her boobs in the harsh light of the day. He was leaning back against the pillows, smiling at her. She was running her hand up and down his large, erect penis.

  In an instant, she was back in the conference room. She made a decision and looked at him. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about it.”

  He was surprised by her frankness. “What did you conclude?”

  “I’ve concluded that I haven’t concluded yet.”

  “Of course. Take your time,” he said, taking it in stride. “I’ll wait.” His intention was clear.

  She laid her hands on the table, blinked three times. When she finally spoke, her voice was once again neutral, professional. “So you agree on stepping into the price fixing issue early? I’m sure they’ll be coming at us hard on the ‘horizontal agreements among competitors’ angle’.”

  Those hazel eyes. “Of course. Anything you need.” His cadence was intentionally slow, the statement was full of nuance. A tiny thrill raced up her spine. She couldn’t contain the small grin so she quickly looked down, back to her notes.

  Later in her office, Penny pulled out the burner phone and texted Mac. "My colleague just hit on me."

  "Is this good or bad?"

  "I don’t know. I feel like I’m in high school."

  "What did you say?"

  "I told him I hadn’t made up my mind."

  Washington, DC

  Cal’s phone vibrated. Sheriff Soloman was calling. “Hi Sheriff.”

  “Cal. We got lucky.” The sheriff’s voice was as slow as molasses. “There was a stranger chatting up Boare at the bar before and after that exact time.”

  Maar baked breadcrumbs.

  “Get this, it was a woman with Boare. They got her on the video.”

  Cal paused. “Hold on. Did you say a woman?”

  “Yup. I suspect that’s not what you expected?”

  “Uh, no. I’ll be damned.” Cal was astounded. “But this is really solid stuff. Thanks Sheriff.”

  “She’s not very big.”

  “Pardon?

  “She’s quite lean. She looks to be about 5’8”, blond, fit - from what I can tell. She did some flirting with Boare, went to the ladies, then headed out. Wasn’t in there very long.”

  “Hmmm”

  “I’m sending you the best photo we got of her.”

  “Sheriff, I really appreciate your help on this.”

  “Ain’t no thang. We aim to please round here.”

  “Would you mind doing one more thing for me?”

  “Shoot. No pun intended.” The sheriff chuckled.

  “Could you have someone take that same photo round to Scimitar’s receptionist and ask her if she recognizes her?”

  “Of course. And Cal, I don’t mean to put my nose in your all business, but if this gal did indeed break open the biggest gun running case in years, are you sure you want to chase her for it?”

  As he hung up, the sheriff’s email popped in on his phone. Cal pulled up the black-and-white photo. She was partially turned from the camera but he could make out an angular chin, a trim nose, and a razor sharp blond bob. She was indeed on the slender side.

  She had also kept her face turned away from the camera.

  Clever, clever Maar.

  42

  Manayunk, PA

  Through the open windows, Mac heard the ‘twenty-somethings’ milling around the bars on Main Street. It must be happy hour.

  She remembered being in her twenties in crowded bars. It had been nothing for her to lean on the bar, give the bartender a smile, order a Cosmo, and scope out the crowd as she sipped her pink drink. She had done exactly that in bars across the world, what, a 100 times? Possibly more.

  Tonight she sat crossed legged on the architect’s desk, staring out across Pretzel Park, waiting.

  At 7:15 p.m. he entered the far northwest corner. His dog led the way.

  Her stomach tightened. She raised the binoculars, rolled her finger over the knob and Joe emerged in focus. She steadied her breathing and tracked him as he crossed to the dog run and let the mutt off the leash. He sat on a bench, crossed one leg over his knee and started a book: Tolkien’s The Twin Towers.

  There was movement in the left of her field of vision. Mac sighted on a blonde woman walking a pug who was just reaching the dog park. The blonde waved at Joe with a big smile as she let herself and the pug into the dog-run.

  On the desk, Mac’s back straightened.

  The blonde walked over and sat down next to Joe, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

  The binoculars were riveted on the pair.

  Joe gave the blonde a small but genuine smile.

  Mac was paralyzed. Butterflies swarmed her stomach.

  The blonde began chatting with Joe, her hands flapping about in the air. Joe watched her but every few moments he eyed his mutt.

  Mac noticed the pug was crazed, bounding from dog to dog, deliriously barking, shoving his flat face into dog butts. She gripped the binoculars tighter.

  The blonde started laughing at a joke Joe made.

  Mac held her breath.

  The blonde reached out and placed her hand on Joe’s forearm, laughing so hard she needed support, strength to keep from falling over.

  Mac bolted to her feet. The binoculars trained on the park bench.

  Joe tilted his head shyly, grinning at the blonde.

  Invisible hands twisted Mac’s intestines.

  The blonde’s laughing subsided. Joe reached for the leash, unconsciously moving his arm out from under her hand. The blonde pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Joe whistled for his mutt.

  The pug barked maniacally.

  Mac’s eyes began to water from lack of blinking.

  The mutt ambled over. Joe hooked the leash on its collar and stood, nodding to the blonde.

  Mac fumbled with the focus, following Joe to the gate.

  Joe looked back once and nodded goodbye to the blond. She waved goodbye with a huge white grin, calling out something.

  Joe walked through the park and exited the northwest entrance.

  Standing on the architect’s desk, Mac dropped her head from side to side, working out the stiffness.

  She jumped down from the desk, walked over to the sink, leaned down on both hands, and hung her head.

  An hour later, she sat at the desk with a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She swatted away a fly, noticing for the first time that the windows had no screens, then opened up a chat room.

  Odom had left a message. “We know you’re off the ranch. We know about Scimitar.”

  She typed back. “Ok?”

  He responded instantly. “Cease and desist. Or Northern California will be used.”

  She shook her head at the Agency’s predictability. She pulled up Skype and called Andorra, who picked up on the second ring. “Hallo?”

  “Señora Bovary si us plau.”

  “Who is calling?”

  “Tamara de Lempicka”

  Señora Bovary came on the line. “Hello my darling, Tamara. What can we do for you today?”

  “Señora, please forward the first package to FOdom@cia.gov.”

  “My pleasure, my darling.” They disconnected.

  Mac watched the clock on her computer for 15 minutes then left another message in the chat room.
“That’s the first of 20 CYA packages of my operations and targets, including your stand down orders to save your own hides.” Her fingers were flying on the keyboard. “Those stand down orders, in particular, make great reading. Odom, we could have saved hundreds of thousands - even millions - of Americans if some of those operations had been approved by Langley. I will make these packages public if you go anywhere near my sister.”

  She leaned back to take a sip of her wine but changed her mind and added one more line, just to screw with them. “The Agency has made mistakes. Wikileaks proved that. Those mistakes are coming home to roost.”

  She looked out over the darkening park.

  Ten minutes later a ping announced a new message in the chat room. “Let me take this higher.”

  She responded, “You do that.”

  43

  Washington, DC

  The next morning, Cal walked into his living room in his grey robe, drinking his coffee, leisurely pulled out his desk chair, and sat down. He clicked on his inbox and scanned his new emails. Nothing was urgent.

  He clicked open the New York News website. The first article on the front page grabbed his attention. He set down his coffee and read the first few paragraphs quickly.

  SFG Defrauds Donor: Caught on Tape

  By STACIA DeVRIES

  New York News

  Only three days before a Senate vote to nationally ban assault weapons, The New York News is releasing evidence that Mr. Neil Koen, the SFG's Chief of Strategy, and Congressman Ron Peter (R-KY) colluded to misappropriate donations.

  In a recorded conversation, Neil Koen, who controls tens of millions in SFG lobbying funds, and Congressman Peter are heard intentionally agreeing to siphon funds from a wealthy donor. Mr. Koen handily convinces Congressman Peter that SFG financial support of his opponent in the Republican primary is good for the gun cause in that “crisis and controversy…(are)…the name of the game” and that “no one will be the wiser.” Koen sweetens the deal with the offer of a campaign contribution.