The Ghost Agent

by Alex Berenson

  ‘Lenny! You moron! Come here.’

  The dog stared stupidly at him, then trotted back, his leash trailing on the muddy ground. The man could only shake his head. For months Janice had told him to get that dog-training video with the Mexican guy. He would have bought it already if she hadn’t nagged him so much. Even when she was right, she was wrong.

  ‘Lenny. You dope.’

  He patted the dog’s flank. Lenny licked his hand by way of apology before flopping onto the ground. Rain had fallen all night, leaving the earth soaked. The dog rolled from side to side on his back, ecstatic at the chance to cover himself in dirt.

  No wonder this stupid animal was his favorite creature in the world, the man thought. This simple sense of joy that he had lost long ago. If he’d ever had it. Certainly he preferred Lenny to his wife. If their house were burning and he could save only one, he’d probably grab the dog.

  ‘Enough. You’re making a mess.’

  He took Lenny’s leash and stood, trying not to lean too hard on his knee. The rain had let up before dawn, but a drizzle continued, spotting his forehead. He breathed in deeply, hoping the cool damp air would soothe his lungs.

  The man looked around the leafy woods to be sure he was alone. Wakefield Park lay in suburban Virginia, just west of the Beltway. But it seemed to belong somewhere more rural. Sparrows darted through beech trees, and foxes regularly made their way to the creek in the center of the park. In the early mornings, the place was deserted aside from a few mountain bikers – and the man in the green windbreaker.

  It was the perfect spot for dead drops.

  The man checked the gold Rolex he wore only outside the office: 6:07. Time to move, before the bikers showed up. He tugged on Lenny’s leash and off they went, Lenny’s head twisting from side to side as the idiot dog looked for more squirrels to chase.

  Ten minutes later the man stopped near a granite outcropping beside a burned-out tree stump. He was alone, though he could hear the morning’s first biker yodeling gleefully over a rise to the east.

  From his jeans the man pulled a little black plastic case that looked like the control for a car alarm. The case had two buttons, one black, one red. He pushed the black button.

  To the west, up a slight hill, he heard two chirps. Maybe 150 feet away. He walked up the hill and pushed the black button again. This time the beeps were closer, thirty feet. He paced closer, one careful step at a time. He looked around, making sure he was still alone. He was. Once more he pushed the button. The beeps came again –

  There. It lay by a tree, a broken oak branch like any other. Only it wasn’t. It was the dead drop to end all dead drops. The branch was genuine, and originally from this park. But at a lab outside Beijing it had been hollowed out, its center replaced with a waterproof plastic compartment big enough to hold two thin sheets of paper – or a flash memory drive. Big enough to betray the CIA’s most important secrets.

  The Chinese had installed a receiver in the branch that responded to a signal in the plastic case the man held. The technology was simple, basically a car alarm with better encryption, but foolproof. He and his handlers could make drops just about anywhere. For the last three years, they had used Wakefield, a perfect spot, a fifteen-minute walk from his house.

  He reached down for the branch –

  And a squirrel ran by and Lenny tugged on his leash. Stupid dog.

  ‘Go. You deserve each other.’ He dropped the leash. The retriever took off.

  ‘Alone at last,’ the man said. He picked up the branch, rubbing his fingers over its bark, feeling for the hidden pressure points at each end. If they were pressed simultaneously – and only if they were pressed simultaneously – they would release an electromagnetic lock and pop open the center compartment.

  There. He found the first pressure point. Now where was the other? He probed the bark. There. No, there –

  ‘Hey! Buddy!’

  Dammit. He turned to see a mountain biker pedaling toward him. The guy was wearing the ridiculous gear they loved, a neon-yellow reflective jacket and tight Lycra shorts.

  ‘This your dog?’ Lenny trailed after the bike.

  The man in the green windbreaker felt his heart thump crazily. ‘Yeah. His name’s Lenny. He thinks one day he’s gonna catch himself a squirrel. Thanks for bringing him back –’ Stop talking, he thought. You’re just a guy out walking your dog.

  He snapped his mouth closed. He dropped the branch and reached for Lenny. ‘You dummy,’ he said to the retriever. ‘You’re gonna get lost.’

  ‘Ought to keep an eye on him. I almost hit him.’

  ‘You’re right. My mistake.’

  The biker rolled closer. The man felt oddly light-headed. He knows. I’m not sure how, but he knows. Why had he left his Smith & Wesson in his basement?

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you put him back on the leash?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ He reattached the leash. ‘Thanks for bringing him back.’

  ‘No prob, man.’ The biker nodded victoriously and turned down the hill. The man in the windbreaker sat down and waited for his pulse to return to normal. After all his years of tradecraft, he couldn’t believe that a jackass on a souped-up twelve-speed had almost busted him.

  ‘Lenny. You almost caused me big trouble.’

  Instead of answering, the dog squatted to relieve himself. Or maybe that was his answer, the man in the green windbreaker thought. He let Lenny take his time, waiting until he could no longer see the biker, until he could no longer feel his heart thumping sideways in his chest. When he was sure he was alone, he turned back to retrieve the branch – and the instructions inside.

  NINE

  WELLS WALKED DOWN a white sand beach, dipping his feet into the waves lapping along the shore. The water was the clearest blue imaginable, so bright it almost seemed neon. Exley lay on the beach under an umbrella, wearing a modest bikini that changed color as he looked at it, now red, now yellow, now green with camouflage stripes. That’s wrong, he told her. War isn’t sex. But she didn’t hear.

  He turned back to the ocean. Instead of sand, the water covered a bank of fluorescent lights. Off, he said to Exley. Turn them off. She ignored him, and when he looked for her, she was gone. He tried to run for her, but the waves ripped him away from the beach, away from her –

  ‘Mr. Brown.’

  Wells woke, muzzy-headed, to a hand shaking his shoulder. Instead of a beach, he was on a C-17. The cabin stank of sweat and stale unwashed bodies. They’d been airborne for twenty hours.

  ‘You okay, sir? Look a little green.’

  ‘Fine, Lieutenant.’ Wells rolled his head, futilely trying to unlock the scar tissue in his back. Instead of standard seats, the military plane had plastic benches screwed to its walls. They seemed designed to torture the spine.

  ‘Lieutenant, how long was I out for?’

  ‘Five hours, give or take,’ the lieutenant said. ‘We’ll be down in forty-five. Pilot just turned on the lights.’

  The lights. That accounted for his dream, Wells thought. All around him, men in fatigues were slapping themselves awake, swigging mouthwash, stretching, anything to shake off the boredom of an 11,000-mile journey. Wells had hitched a ride to Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan with the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne, which was being sent overseas for the third time in five years. Macho chatter filled the cabin, soldiers psyching themselves up for the grueling days to come:

  ‘Ready to land?’

  ‘Heck no, Sergeant. Let’s spend another day in this tin can.’

  ‘Ramirez, is that my toothbrush?’

  ‘Nuh-uh, moron. Check your ass – it’s probably stuck there.’

  ‘Think this is what it’s like to be an astronaut? When I was a kid, I always wanted to be an astronaut.’

  ‘You can’t even find Uranus, Roberts – get it? Uranus. Like –’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘All right, who farted
?’

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  Then, from the back of the cabin, the all-purpose Army cheer: ‘Hoo-ah!’

  ‘Hoo-ah!’

  ‘Those Talibs ain’t gonna know what hit ’em! They going down like Chinatown!’

  ‘Hoo-ah!’

  ‘Like your sister on prom night!’

  ‘Hoo-ah!’

  ‘We’re sending Osama straight to hell!’

  ‘Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah!’ At first out of sync, but then melding into one giant ‘HOO-AH!’ so loud the cabin rattled.

  Hoo-ah: short for ‘Heard, Understood, Acknowledged.’ ‘I get it,’ ‘yes sir,’ and ‘rock on,’ all in one. Not just following an order but being proud to follow it. Nothing like hoo-ah, the word or the spirit, existed in civilian life. Wells couldn’t help but smile. He felt privileged to be with these guys. After all these years of war in the desert and the mountains, the United States Army was still the world’s finest fighting force. Though the Marines might disagree.

  Now, the men in charge, they were another story. They – their kids, at least – ought to do some time over here, and not on the guided two-day tours the Army gave them so they could tell the talk shows how they’d been to the front lines. Let them spend months dodging mortars and roadside bombs, feel for themselves how a base could turn into a prison after a while.

  Enough, Wells thought. No more thinking. He’d volunteered to come back here. He had a job to do. ‘Hoo-ah!’ he said to himself. He chugged half a bottle of water in one gulp, soothing his raspy throat, then poured the rest over his head, smiling in satisfaction as the lukewarm liquid ran down his face. He pulled a towel from the pack under his feet and wiped himself dry.

  ‘Love those whores’ showers,’ Lieutenant Gower said with a smirk. He was a sturdily built black man, twenty-six or so. Wells liked him, mainly because Gower, despite his obvious curiosity, hadn’t asked Wells anything about who he was. For twenty hours they’d talked about sports, played chess – Gower had beaten him handily – and otherwise ignored the question of how Wells had found his way onto this particular plane.

  ‘Got that right,’ Wells said. He decided to pull Gower’s chain. ‘Reminds me of ’Nam.’

  Gower’s eyes widened. ‘You served in Vietnam? For real?’

  ‘Tet, Khe Sanh, all of it. I got a wall full of ears at home. Now, that was a war.’

  ‘Serious?’ Gower looked at Wells. ‘You’re messing with me.’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Do I really look that old? I’d be sixty.’

  ‘We all look sixty right about now. Tell you what, though. You got some juice. Not just anyone can get on a fully loaded C-17 on two hours’ notice.’

  ‘I thought this was a Hooters charter to Bangkok.’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ Gower said. ‘Figured I’d give it a shot.’

  The cabin’s speakers clicked on. ‘From the cockpit. We know you love it up here, but it’s my duty to inform you we’ll be on the ground in Bagram in about thirty minutes.’

  The inevitable ‘Hoo-ah!’ passed through the cabin. ‘Those of you who have visited fabulous Afghanistan before know that we like you to saddle up at this point in your trip. This is not optional.’

  Throughout the cabin, soldiers pulled on their body armor and helmets. Wells reached down for his bulletproof vest, standard police-issue protective gear, far thinner than the flak jackets everyone else wore.

  ‘That all you got?’ Gower said, looking at the vest. ‘It’ll hardly stop a nine.’ A pistol-fired, low-velocity 9-millimeter round. The plates in the Army’s flak jackets were designed to handle high-velocity 5.56-millimeter AK-47 rounds, which would shred Wells’s vest.

  ‘I like to travel light.’ Wells pulled on his helmet.

  The intercom clicked on again: ‘For your safety, this will also be a red-light landing. We know you Army boys get friendly in the dark, but please try to keep your hands to yourself.’

  The overhead lights flicked off, replaced by the eerie glow of red lights mounted in the cabin walls. ‘We will be coming in tactically, so strap in tight and enjoy the ride.’

  Around the cabin, men buckled themselves into the harnesses attached to the walls of the C-17. ‘Anyway, we hope you’ve enjoyed your trip,’ the pilot said. ‘Thanks for flying this Globemaster III. We know you have a choice of airlines, and we appreciate – Oh, no you don’t. Forget it.’

  ‘Funny man,’ Gower said.

  ‘Wishes he was flying an F-16.’ Wells tightened his harness around his shoulders. The C-17 swung hard right and tipped forward into a dive.

  ‘He best not go all JFK Jr. on us,’ Gower said. He laughed, but Wells could hear the tension in his voice.

  ‘Don’t like flying, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. Why’d I sign up for the Airborne? Wife says the same thing.’

  ‘And you tell her a man’s got to face his fears.’

  ‘That’s right. So what are you afraid of, Mr. Brown?’

  The question stopped Wells. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Gotta be something. Everybody’s afraid of something.’

  ‘Failure, maybe.’

  ‘Good answer. Gives nothing away.’ Gower sounded disappointed.

  But Wells knew there was another answer, one he would never share with Gower: Myself. I’m afraid of myself.

  Pop! Pop! Chaff flares exploded off the C-17’s stubby wings. Then the jet swung into a corkscrew. Gower’s fists were clenched in his lap. The plane leveled out suddenly. Seconds later it touched the ground, bounced, then touched down again, rocketing along the 10,000-foot runway.

  And then they were done. The brakes and thrust reversers kicked in, and the C-17 stopped in one long, smooth motion. ‘Welcome to Bagram Air Force Base, thirty miles north of beautiful Kabul, Afghanistan. Local time is 0200 hours,’ the pilot said. No cheer this time. The abrupt landing had reminded the soldiers of the danger they were about to face, Wells thought. He scanned the tense faces around him. Many of the men in this cabin had never seen combat. Their commanders would have to help them channel their adrenaline, turning it from fear into the vigilance that might save their lives.

  The Pentagon liked to think of training soldiers as a science. It was really alchemy, an unquantifiable process. Some of these men would freeze under pressure, make bad decisions, get themselves or their buddies killed. Others would find calm in the heat of battle, out-think the enemy, save themselves in seemingly impossible situations. And no test could tell them apart. Only live ammunition could.

  Of course, even the best-equipped, most able soldiers didn’t always survive. Sometimes every choice was wrong. Wells had never seen Ted Beck in action, but he knew Beck’s skills. If I’d been on that boat, would I have survived? Would I have seen something he missed? Wells couldn’t say for sure, but the odds were against it.

  ‘Ever been in combat, Lieutenant?’ he said to Gower.

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ Gower said. ‘Anything I should know?’

  ‘Just stay calm. You’ll be good. I can tell.’ Wells hoped he was right.

  The overhead lights flicked on, replacing the spectral red glow of the landing lights. Wells blinked against the white glare, remembering his dream.

  ‘Good luck, Lieutenant.’ He offered Gower his hand.

  ‘Luck, Mr. Brown. If the 504th can be of service, lemme know.’

  Wells looked at the portable chess set in Gower’s pack. ‘Next time, you have to teach me some openings so I can give you a game.’ He felt oddly disappointed as he turned away from Gower. Another good soldier he would never see again.

  But when he stepped onto the tarmac, a pleasant surprise awaited him. Glen Holmes stood outside the C-17, a bit thicker than he’d been when Wells had met him in 2001, but otherwise instantly recognizable.

  ‘Mr. Wells. It’s been a long time. The Special Forces welcomes you to Bagram.’

  Wells looked at the eagle on Brown’s shoulder-boards. ‘Colonel Holmes. You’ve moved up in the world.’


  ‘Yeah, I’m a real trailer queen these days. Hardly leave the base.’

  ‘Trailer queen?’ Wells had to smile. ‘Never heard that before.’

  ‘You’ve done all right yourself since we last met, John.’ Holmes grinned. ‘That might be the biggest understatement of my life. You need a nap, or can I interest you in a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Coffee sounds great.’

  A few minutes later they sat in Holmes’s B-hut as a lieutenant carried in two oversized plastic tankards. ‘Starbucks,’ Holmes said. ‘My wife sends it every month.’ The lieutenant lingered by the door. ‘Thank you, Carlo,’ Holmes said. ‘Dismissed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He saluted smartly and was gone.

  ‘Funny,’ Holmes said. ‘He never hangs around when it’s just me.’

  ‘Everybody here know who I am?’

  ‘Not the regular units. But SF is too small to keep secrets. Only a few hundred of us in the whole country. Anyway, you must be used to it by now.’ Holmes grinned at Wells.

  ‘Langley seems to wish I would disappear.’

  ‘Well, you’re among friends here.’

  ‘You sure? Vinny Duto never shot me. More than I can say for you.’ Wells tugged up his sleeve to show Holmes the scar on his biceps, left over from the night in 2001 when he’d first met Holmes.

  ‘If I recall, you asked me to. The most surreal night of my life,’ Holmes said. ‘I sure didn’t expect to see you again.’

  ‘All these years –’

  ‘And look how far we’ve come.’

  Wells smiled. ‘Yeah, about thirty miles. So how is it these days?’

  ‘Had to spoil the trip down memory lane,’ Holmes said. ‘Still mostly okay. Afghanistan isn’t Iraq. Not yet, anyway. But the Talibs are getting tougher. They’ve got new tactics this year. Their snipers are more accurate. And there are these rumors they’ve got professional help.’

  ‘Why I’m here.’ Plus I’m driving the woman I love crazy, Wells didn’t say.

  ‘If we had another division, even a couple brigades, things would be different.’