by HN Wake
“It’s Odom. I need anything you can pull on DOC license number 88088. I need everything that’s in the State or Agency system.”
Two hours later, Beam called him back. “There were three cables in the system on license number 88088 for Scimitar Defense Ltd. All classified Confidential. I’m sending them in an email.”
Odom looked down at the Top Secret folder Hawkinson had given him. There are actually four. But the Agency intends to keep this fourth one hidden forever. “Ok.”
“Uhm, I’m not the only one looking into this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last week somebody down in intel ran a search on the Blue Lantern Op cables on license 88088.”
Odom’s voice lowered. “Who ran the search?”
“We’re not sure, Sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, we’re not sure.”
“I heard what you said, Beam. Are you telling me you can’t find out who is running a search on our own systems?”
“Apparently not, Sir. The tech guys told me that whoever ran the search hid his identity.”
Odom glanced around his office. Spies in the spy house. “Ok, Beam, next I need you to track down someone. I need the name and details of an ATF agent who was lead on the initial investigation into Scimitar. When you find him I want you to tail him.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, I thought I just heard you say you wanted me to start surveillance on an ATF agent. Here. Domestically.”
Odom spoke slowly. “Beam, are we going to have a problem?”
Beam hesitated. “No. Sir. We’re not.”
“Ok, do it quietly. I’m your only report.”
“Yes, Sir.”
An hour later, in his dark basement office, Odom picked up his cell phone at the chime of an incoming text. It was a note from Beam. “ATF agent is named Cal Bertrand. Handed over Scimitar investigation to a task force last week. Is assigned to ‘close-out’ for Fast & Frenzied. I’ll pick him up at his residence tmrw morning.”
Odom looked up Cal Bertrand’s address.
34
18 years ago - San Francisco, CA
The hangover was excruciating. Her head throbbed. Acid sloshed in her empty stomach. She squinted at the blank wall, then out over the bay where the morning fog was rolling in. Her thinking was slow, confused.
His body was curled around her back, his arm snaked under her armpit and around her chest. She stared at their two arms lying across the crisp, white sheet. They appeared to be the arms of strangers, of lovers entwined. She looked at the way they slept, these two lovers, these strangers; their bodies were interlocked in a cocoon of serenity. She blinked to capture the image. This is what intimacy and vulnerability will look like one day, she thought.
The fog had rolled in. It must have been hours later. His arm clenched, pulling her back tighter against his chest.
She asked, “Should we talk about it?”
His voice cracked from the sleep. “Nope.”
“I should change the subject?”
“Yup.”
A moment later she grinned. “So in high school I heard you were Mensa.”
Silence.
She wiggled against him. “Go on. Admit it.”
His arm tightened. “Ok. Yes.”
“What’s it like?”
“What?”
“To be that much smarter than everyone else in the room?”
His forehead pushed into her neck. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“Remember in middle school we went to the Franklin Institute?”
“Yeah.”
“It was really boring for me.”
“Really? You mean you knew everything that was there?”
“I could have built the exhibits.”
“As a middle schooler?”
“Yup”
“Huh.”
“I thought most of our high school teachers were not so smart. Now go back to sleep.”
Over coffee she told him the rest of her story.
From Jakarta they had sent her home for training. For the first three months, as part of the recruitment class at the Farm, she had been involved in indoor and field classes in paramilitary operations, getting trained in handguns, machine guns, evasive driving techniques, and explosives. They had also taught them hand-to-hand combat. She had jumped out of a plane and navigated wilderness for days.
It turned out she was a pretty good shot with a handgun.
Then they had learned tradecraft. Classes in clandestine communications included dead drops, one time pads, audio devices, transmitters, and photography. They had practiced techniques to detect and lose surveillance. They had examined personality types, how to convince certain types to divulge intelligence and how to turn them.
Most importantly for Mac, she had learned to trust her intuition.
She sipped her second coffee. “Turns out I’m ok at the interrogation bit. It requires a certain ability to distance yourself from the prisoner. They call it ‘going cold’. Nice, right? Yeah, it turns out I’m adept at that.”
He shook his head and started cooking scrambled eggs and sausages.
In long tedious classes, they had learned about the Agency. The National Clandestine Services was home to all the spies; the Directorate of Intelligence was where analysts mined the incoming information; and the Directorate of Science and Technology housed all the techies. Out in the field, the Case Officers where part of Clandestine Services, cultivating human assets.
She looked up at him. “Agents are actually the foreigners, the assets. I’m an Operations Officer.”
In each station, there was the Station Chief and the Deputy Station Chief, along with the other Officers.
At home, in Langley, the Headquarters Based Officers (HBO) of the Clandestine Services collected and managed intel and staff. On top of this huge bureaucracy were the executives in the Senior Intelligence Service, the Mandarins.
She opened the cabinet and took down plates, then pulled open a drawer and took out utensils. “The Mandarins get away with whatever they want to. It’s a secret agency. There is no real oversight. God knows what they get up to on that Top Floor - the secrets they must keep.”
“- or manufacture.”
She nodded, as she set the dishes on the counter. “At the end of the day, the Agency is a huge bureaucracy with one purpose: gather information. All the levels, the reporting lines, the skills, the Directorates - it’s all about feeding and crunching information up the chain till it’s cleaned and presented to the president.
“What I’m worried about is how political it all is, at every level. It’s like a living organism with thousands of people who all have their own political interests. Lots of maneuvering, covering your ass, lots of turf battles. They spend more time doing that, than actually focusing on the intel.”
He placed two full plates on the counter. “So I’m assuming you’re one of these Clandestine people? Overseas?”
She scooped scrambled eggs on a slice of toast. “Actually, I’m going be a NOC - Non Official Cover. I won’t be associated with the Embassy. I’ll be out on my own. If a NOC is caught, the US doesn’t admit we’re Agency officers. They won’t come help us.”
He threw her a questioning look.
“It’s the role that gets the best intel. That’s the most effective. Most impactful. No question - it’s the most dangerous.”
He set down his fork. “So, let me get this straight, if you get arrested, in like, I don’t know, Libya, will they come get you out?”
“No.”
“So you’re on your fucking own. God, why would you do that - work for an organization that doesn’t give a shit about you?”
She paused to consider the answer. “I knew that going in. I can’t whine about it now. I’m well past naive.”
Later that night, she stood by the window, her silhouette illuminated against the thin drapes by a street lamp.
His voice was gravelly, scratch
ed. “You’re leaving.”
“They’re sending me out soon. On my first assignment. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
He lit a cigarette.
“It could be years.”
“Yeah, I figured you would say that.”
“They asked me on polygraph tests about boyfriends.”
“And?”
“I’ve always said no. They never asked me if I am in love with someone. I’m glad they didn’t. Because I would have had to admit it. Now, they know nothing about you. They can’t use you against me.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“I know.”
She lit a cigarette, blew out the window. “I’ve chosen this. Eyes wide open. I have to see it through.” After a moment, she said, “I just can’t sit around and be a lawyer or an architect.”
“Or an engineer.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I’m not cut out for normal. Indonesia proved that. This looks like a viable solution.” She inhaled deeply. “And it makes me feel worthy.”
“Mac, I can’t stop you. I wouldn’t want to try.”
“Joe --“
He interrupted her, “But I want to stop you. I don’t agree with this.” He shook his head. “But that’s not how you and I operate.”
“Just promise me --”
“Mac, I don’t wait for you.” He took a moment to compose his thoughts. “It’s like when an object shows up in a totally random, inappropriate situation. A snowflake in the desert. Or when the continuity in a movie is off. You are a dislocated item, a discordant note, in certain scenes of my life. I feel way more than I should, but otherwise my life goes on.”
From the window she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
She looked over at him through the darkness. “I do love you.”
“I know.”
“I just feel compelled…to do something. This path makes sense.”
“I’ve always supported you. You know that.” He smiled sadly, lifted up the sheet. “Enough talking. Come back to bed. I’ve got some new moves I want to scorch into your memory.”
Hours later, wired with too much nicotine and caffeine and too little sleep, she trembled in the seat as the plane climbed over the leaden San Francisco shoreline. Her fingertips quivered, the blood cells spinning like cups in a tea-pot ride, whipping through her veins.
35
New York, NY
Late in the evening, Freda sat at her desk scrolling through the comments section under Stacia’s latest article on the New York News website. Of over 500 comments, most were vitriolic rants from the gun rights side:
“U.N. is inches away from wiping out our Second Amendment freedoms. They will take away our national sovereignty and our American rule of law.”
“Nowhere in the bible does it say we can’t defend ourselves. God gave us this freedom. Long live Jesus Christ and the SFG!”
“The communist liberal media spinning tales again. Don’t be fooled! SFG represents gun owners across America!”
There were only a few pro-gun control comments:
“We need sensible gun control to keep our children safe. The SFG is the biggest obstacle to common sense in America.”
“Background checks protect everyone. It doesn’t make sense for the SFG to oppose them.”
She was surprised how few of the comments actually took on the substance of the article. By her count, through weary eyes, only ten comments questioned the SFG’s affiliation to gun manufacturers.
“It should come as no surprise to anyone that the SFG is a gun for hire.”
“I commend the New York News for this investigative reporting. But it should be SFG members who dig into where the organization gets its funds and who it represents.”
She pressed her fingers into her eyelids, then looked out over the bull pen and saw Stacia at her desk. She dialed her extension. “It’s me. I’m taking you out.”
Not far from the New York News building was a modern bar awash in pale wood and chrome frequented by midtown professionals catching a quick drink with friends. The mid-week Happy Hour special was over and the crowd had thinned.
Freda raised a glass of champagne to Stacia. “Really, well done. You’ve landed a second front page!”
Stacia clinked her glass and grinned smugly, soaking up the praise.
Freda laughed. “No, no, don’t thank me.”
“Thanks, Freda.”
Freda looked around the bar, already bored with this intense, remote young woman’s poor social skills. “So how’s your personal life?
“Huh?”
“I dunno, how is it for you young women today? Dating I mean.”
Stacia hesitated. “I date. Pretty low key about it.”
“Yeah? You are young. You can be nonchalant.”
“I’m definitely not looking for husband material at my age.”
“Huh.” Freda took a sip.
“I know it was different ten years ago. We saw Sex and the City. You all took dating so seriously.”
“Well, god knows if there’s one thing I’d tell you it would be to wait, wait, wait. Nonchalance is going to work for you.” She settled into the topic, drinking faster. “You know, I bought the line they sold us that we could be anything we wanted. In the 8th grade, I thought I was going be the President, I was going be a mom, and I was going be happily married for the rest of my life to Prince Charming.” She hailed over the waitress and ordered another champagne. “Out of college I moved to LA and got a great gig with the LA Times. Then I met Gino. I truly, truly loved him. So we got married. Then Gino and I had M.” Her demeanor turned sad. “Then Gino doesn’t grow up. I’m growing up. I’m evolving. I’ve got new priorities. There was a career, a kid, a house, finances. So we’re fighting all the time. He wants out. What am I going to say? I can’t stop him. So he leaves.” Her eyes have become glassy. “All of the sudden, I’m a single mom at 35.”
Stacia watched her.
“That story we got fed. About having it all? Reality didn’t quite live up to the hype.”
Stacia was at a loss. “It’s kinda not like that for us.”
Shaking her head, Freda talked to herself. “I don’t know a single woman over 35 who is happy with who she is dating.”
“I’m just not sure you should be telling me all this.”
Tipsy, Freda was adamant. “Listen, I’m trying to give you a heads up.”
“About what?”
“I’m just telling you like it is for women my age. On Match.com you get a few pings. You go on these shitty dates. You realize all the guys your age are picking younger girls, girls 20 years younger.” Freda scanned the room, satisfied she hadn’t missed the entrance of an eligible men then held up her empty glass to the waitress. “So you drop off Match. You sign up for the book clubs. You tell all your married friends that they need to set you up. You go out with your other single, age-appropriate friends. You put on make-up, show off your assets.”
She tilted the last drops out of her glass. “You go and go and go. You sign up for power yoga. Then they bring out Tinder.”
She looked again around the bar. The waitress showed up with the new champagne. Freda took a long sip then continued her saga. “It’s all really hard. You lose energy. You start dating younger guys. You know they only like you because you’re a cougar.” She shook her bangs across her forehead to liven herself up, but her voice had slurred. “You have flings with your ex-boyfriend from college who’s married but who flies into NY for work.”
“You do?”
“Yup. He’s dumb as rocks but can get me off and we have fun. His wife is a total gold digger so he’s afraid to divorce her cause she’ll take him to the cleaners.”
Stacia’s discomfort rose. “Uh. Freda…”
“It’s what life is like - I’m telling you.” Her voice began to calm. “Maybe I should have waited longer.”
; Stacia was hopeful the rant had ended. “To get married?”
“Yeah. Maybe I would have waited for a man. Not a boy. Maybe at 37, I would have been able to detect boy better. But then, of course, at that age you’re starting to get screwed on the kid front.”
“I’m telling you, I hear you. Girls today have our eyes wide open. There is no ‘having it all.’”
Freda sipped her champagne. Her head swayed. “God it’s been fucking years since I’ve been emotionally intimate with someone --” Suddenly, she latched onto a new subject. “Listen, it was good. The article was good. Jack liked it.”
“He did?”
“Let’s hope the SFG members read it. They are the ones who should care the most. Yeah. And it’s going to mean something.”
“What do you mean?”
Freda had difficulty setting down her now empty glass. “Just that it’s bigger than us, lots of moving parts.”
Stacia moved forward, gently prodded. “Huh? What?”
In response, Freda leaned in but slipped on the stool and had to right herself. “Fuck, I gotta go home.” She grabbed her bag, threw down some cash, and stumbled off the stool.
Stacia watched her weave through the crowd, reach the bar’s glass door, pull it open and walk to the curb, arm outstretched for a cab.
She pulled out her cell phone and texted Charlotte. “Shiz just got weird up in here with boss lady. The conspiracy theory grows. Must debrief.”
“Grab a bottle of red. LOL”
36
Dupont Circle, DC
At the Dupont Circle townhouse, Cal looked up Neha Malhotra on the internet. There were over 50 articles.
The Washington Post described her as having been a young diplomat posted to Kabul to manage community development projects. A year into her posting, she attended the opening of a clinic in Khandahar Province. She and her entourage had exited their armored vehicles to walk the last few yards, surrounded by a large crowd of excited children. Up ahead, the community had come out in full force; the clinic staff, the parents, and the village elders stood waiting to greet her. Just as the entourage came within sight of the clinic, a lone gunman had emerged from behind a ramshackle house. He had discharged five shots before US military personnel jumped him. Three Americans had been wounded and rushed back to Kabul for medical treatment. Neha Malhotra had died within minutes of reaching the US Army base in Kabul.
