Instigator

by Fiona Quinn

  “And the second line of your creed says that you are a tested volunteer,” the commander said. “The only thing you seek is to safeguard the honor and prestige of our country. You do this by serving the elite special operators of the United States.”

  “Exactly, sir, and Lula isn’t in special ops, and I seriously doubt that Ms. Red is, or she would have introduced herself with her proper military title.” Christen stalled. “Unless of course she’s in their special activities division of the CIA.” Christen focused on Johnna. “Shit. You are, aren’t you?” Christen turned her head abruptly to her commander. “Excuse my language, sir.”

  “Very well, then. We’re all on the same page. On this mission,” Johnna said, “you will not be piloting, though there is a flight involved.”

  Christen shook her head. Nope. She wasn’t going. Her fellow Night Stalkers needed her here. Their customers needed her skills here. She was going to be single-minded until she’d completed the mission she was already on. Then she’d consider branching out.

  “Davidson,” the colonel barked, pulling Christen’s attention to him. “Before you say no again, you will go talk to these women.”

  Christen felt like she was being bulldozed.

  “While it is still your decision, Lieutenant Davidson,” the colonel said. “The Pentagon anticipates that you will accept this mission.”

  Christen rose and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.” She offered a stiff-armed salute, turned on her heels, and exited the office, Lula and Johnna right behind her.

  John Grey was walking down the corridor. He stuck a hand out. “Thank you, Lieutenant Davidson that was some miraculous flying. Kudos.”

  “Yes, sir,” Christen responded, shaking his hand.

  His eyes slid to Johnna. “Red.” Then he nodded at Lula. “White.” He cocked his head to the side and let his gaze sweep over the three women. His face didn’t change expressions, but his eyes lit with curiosity. He gave them a tired smile then moved past them to the colonel’s door.

  “John Grey, Johnna Red,” Christen turned, “and let me guess, you’re Johnna White. Does the CIA color code all of its agents? Do you get to choose? I thought Periwinkle was your favorite color, Lu.”

  “You can stop now. This is inappropriate for the halls.” Johnna Red pushed open a door on the right and gestured them in with a tilt of her head. She flicked on the lights.

  Christen and Lula moved into the room, and Lula shut the door.

  Christen turned on her friend, fury blazing in her eyes. “Lu, what’s this got to do with?”

  Lula took Christen by the elbow, came up on her toes, and whispered in her ear, “Your dad.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Christen

  Tuesday, Forward Operating Base Bara, Iraq

  “Tomorrow, in Sri Lanka, the highs will be eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit,” the pilot said, as he taxied down the runway and lifted the nose into the air. “With a seventy-two percent chance of precipitation. Humidity is eighty-one percent, and winds are coming out of the north at two miles per hour. Our expected flight time is a hair over six hours. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your flight.”

  “Sri Lanka?” Christen whipped her head around and caught Lula’s gaze.

  “Surprise!”

  “Do CIA missions always include private jets?” Christen clapped a hand over her mouth and sent a look of dismay toward Johnna. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m usually tight-lipped about missions. I am, obviously, adjusting to this. Whatever this is.”

  “This is simply the first step. We need you to call your father and for our next step Sri Lanka is the most convenient place from which to do it. So we’re off to Sri Lanka for our phone call and a day at the spa, then on to Singapore. Really, there are some lovely perks to our job.”

  “Spa.” Christen dead panned.

  Lula leaned forward with a mock look of revulsion. “You’ve been at the forward operating base for a while now. You don’t exactly look like the socialite we need on display. I bet you haven’t shaved your legs in weeks.”

  “There’s very little water at the FOB,” Christen didn’t feel like she should have defend her looks. It was her skillsets that mattered.

  “See?” Lula said with that smile.

  That smile was beginning to chaff at Christen. These weren’t smiling times.

  “You’re scheduled for an all-hands-on-deck makeover. You will be buffed and polished until you shine.” Lula prattled on while Christen stewed. “Waxed and dyed. Anything they can possibly do to make you into daddy’s little princess.”

  Christen wrinkled her nose. “Ewww.”

  “You are going to be stunning. And Johnna and I will be along for the ride – we have to fit the socialite expectations, too. Poor us.” Her laughter filled the cabin.

  Christen was having trouble shifting gears. “I left without a duffel. What you see is what you get.” She had unzipped her flight suit and tied the arms around her waist, revealing an Army-issued t-shirt.

  “We’ll take care of that in Sri Lanka. Johnna and I did some shopping for you before we came out to pick you up.” Lula said. “We used to wear the same size even if I’m a little shorter. Though, I think the military rations are making you a little bloaty.” She reached out to pinch Christen’s side, and Christen swatted at her.

  Nobody at the base gave a rat’s ass what she looked like. They cared about her abilities and her character. Was she an asset or a deficit to the team? Period. Christen wasn’t in the mood for a girls’ pamper party. Her mind was back in the hills with Prominator and Smitty. She wished this could have waited forty-eight hours. She could have helped finish the mission. Her mind could be on the next one. This one. “Is this an agency plane, can we speak freely?” Christen asked.

  “It is. And now that we’re off base, we can.”

  Christen blinked. Who on base would care about this? Who would listen in on them, and how would word ever get out? “Is my dad in trouble? Did he do something wrong?”

  Lula reached out and took her hand. A signature Lula gesture. It was her maternal side. Everyone on their gymnastics team had called her “little mama.” Lula hadn’t much liked it until Christen had pointed out that it was better than be called a mother f’r.

  Lula gave her a reassuring smile. “This isn’t really about your dad as much as us getting access to some of the people he knows. He’s going to have a party on his island this weekend. Everyone is gathering in Singapore. The next day he’s scheduled a sight-seeing excursion for his guests on Sumatra, then they’ll head over to his island. What happens on that island is of paramount importance. Red and I need access to put our intelligence gathering tools in place.”

  “You mean so you can bug the place,” Christen said with a frown.

  “Among other things,” Red nodded.

  “We need to be included in all that goes on,” Lula continued. “The best way we could figure to do that was to have you call your dad and tell him that you’re in Sri Lanka on a stopover on your way with us girls to Singapore. I have some business there for my firm, and we’re using that as an excuse for a mini-vacation. We thought we’d like to do some surfing so we’re heading to his island as our jumping off spot. You’re calling because you wanted to let him know about our plans. Ask him if you should call and warn the staff that your coming.”

  “That’s going to sound fishy,” Christen said. “I’ve never called him like that before. I’ve only been over to Davidson Realm once and that was when he was marrying number four – no five, his newest wife, London.”

  “He doesn’t know what you know. He won’t have a reason to be suspicious.” Lula said. “What you’re going to tell him is that we want to stop by his island house and use his boat to go over to the Mentawai Islands for surfing. Tell him you’ve already arranged to fly into Singapore. Then ask if he could send his helicopter to take us over to his private island, or shall you hire one to take us over?” Lula squeezed Christen’s shoulder. “It’s goin
g to be easy. We’ll practice before you call. You’ll be relaxed and confident. It will be fine.”

  “You don’t think that would seem too…I don’t know, obvious? I mean it’s quite the coincidence me wanting to go to the island the week he’s having a big party over there.”

  “And why would he think anything nefarious about you using his island?”

  “I’ve never done. it. before.”

  “But he knows that you and I go on vacations from time to time,” Lula cajoled. “He’s known me since we were kids. You and your two besties having some fun would fit right into your father’s paradigms of our lives.”

  “Johnna and I are now besties?” Christen quirked an eyebrow.

  “Okay, Johnna’s my bestie, and we all get along. Does that work better for you?”

  “Honestly, none of this is working that great for me. Am I setting my dad up? I mean, if he’s breaking the law, that needs to stop. But if I’m acting in a way that might land him in jail, that puts me in a really awkward position. I’m very uncomfortable.”

  “A crash course in spy work,” Johnna said.

  Christen’s eyebrows raised to her hairline. “Because now I’m a spy?”

  “You’re an asset,” Johnna smiled. “A wonderful, perfectly placed asset. But a little terminology might help you to understand that what you’re doing is, in the end, both good for your country and good for your father.” Johnna got up, walked to the galley, and started popping open cabinet doors and rustling about as she spoke. “Again, your dad is not the target. We are following the interactions of some foreign players and an odd number of them happen to be heading to your father’s island.”

  “The perfect storm,” Lula smiled, but as she said that something dark and deadly wracked through Christen’s body. It was the feeling she’d gotten on more than one occasion when she thought her helicopter was about to become a fireball.

  Lula leaned forward, “Are you okay? You look airsick.”

  “I’m good, keep going.”

  Johnna turned with a tray in her hands. “What we need are cocktails.” She put the food and drinks on the table between the seats and poured Christen a crystal glass. “A Singapore sling to put you in the right frame of mind.” She grinned.

  Christen accepted the drink and took a sip. “The perfect storm?” She reminded Johnna.

  “We’re trying to make the connections between these players. We’d think these people would be at cross-purposes. There must be a reason why they’re all gathering together in such a private place. We want to know what that reason is, and we want to see if we can’t encourage your father to cooperate with our efforts.”

  “Your efforts being…”

  “I can’t put too sharp of a point on that, as you well know. Some things are compartmentalized and all of it is need-to-know. I’m giving you as much as I can, because I want you to feel comfortable with what you’re doing. And I need to be comfortable that your loyalty is to the United States over all else, even familial ties. Lula assures me that that’s true, that we can trust you. Is she right, Christen? Can I trust you?”

  “I took an oath that I will uphold. My oath to the constitution and my creed as a Night Stalker are my guides in my conduct and decision making.” Her voice was sharp and militarily precise. “It’s actually me that might very well not trust you. I think you got Lula in on this gig to manipulate her to manipulate me.”

  “Well of course I did,” Johnna laughed. “Good, so we’re all on the same page. Trust but verify. Do you want to know more about the spy game or are you pulling the plug?”

  “Listening,” Christen said.

  “We have a group convening. We want to use you to get in with this group to pick up what we can pick up. And while we’re there, we’re hoping to gather some intelligence that would help us persuade your dad that he should become an asset, too.”

  “A cut out actually,” Lula said.

  “You want to find dirt to blackmail him? Isn’t that a Russian tactic? Kompromat?” Christen set her cocktail down. She wasn’t a big drinker, and it felt like she needed a clear head right now.

  “It doesn’t have to be compromising information, it could be that we learn he’s patriotic and wants to help the US. It could be that we have something he wants, and he’d be willing to trade. There are lots of ways to encourage him on board without him having to be compromised.”

  “Cut out. I’ve heard the term but I’m not sure I understand what it means. Could I do that instead of getting my dad involved?”

  “A cut out is a term for someone who’s a conduit for something—that could be a communication or a physical thing,” Lula said. “Let’s say that the Person A wants to get some information to Person C. But it would be a bad idea for Person A to speak or interact directly with Person C. It might be used against them at some point, court of law, what have you. What you do, in such a case, is find a Person B. Person B knows A and knows C.”

  “Dear god,” Christen breathed out.

  “Hang on it’ll get clearer,” Lula said. “A has the information sends it to B. B sends it to C. C has to go to court, ‘did you ever talk about this with A?’ ‘No, ma’am.’ ‘Did you ever meet with A?’ ‘No, ma’am. We never had any discussion of any kind about this information. I have no idea what A knows or doesn’t know about this information. I can tell you for certain, I never interacted with A about this.’”

  “Yup. Got it. Cover your ass communications.” Christen said.

  “And if we wanted to give someone some information that we thought they would act on—in a predictable and helpful-to-us kind of way— “

  “It needs to come from a reliable source,” Christen said. “And that would be a cut out you sent disinformation through?” Christen pulled her brow together. “My dad works in highly politically charged matters. Would sending false information on to someone then put him in a compromising position? Could there be retaliation? Setting him up for a cup of plutonium tea isn’t something I’m willing to do.”

  “We never said this had anything to do with Russia.” Johnna reached for a canape.

  “True. Still. Since he has business dealings with Russia, I’d like an answer. You have leverage, don’t you? You waited to get me on this plane to Sri Lanka to tell me, so I wouldn’t just walk out the door.”

  “You wouldn’t walk out the door. You’re a Night Stalker. You would lay down your life for your country,” Lula said.

  “My life. But you’re asking me to compromise my dad. He may be an asshole, believe me, I have no rose-colored glasses where he’s concerned. But he’s still my dad. I know things are a little grey in some of his associations and business dealings, but this is more; isn’t it?”

  “Right now, we’re not focused on him.”

  “Right now. Later, maybe? Especially after his daughter hands you his head on a plate?”

  “He put his own head on a plate. International communications were intercepted.”

  “And he was unmasked? Does that mean you have a FISA warrant?” Christen waited for Lula to nod an affirmation. “FISA court lawyers are meticulous with their attention to detail. Being at the surveillance stage would mean that they had crazy solid footing.” Christen huffed out the stale air in her lungs.

  “What? Tell me what you’re thinking,” Lula said.

  “Just this morning, before I went to bed, I read a tweet from Senator Lindsay Graham, ‘We are a nation of laws, not men.’ I thought about that as I lie there trying to fall asleep, how insignificant the individual is in the scope of history. A grain of sand on a beach. But laws? They are what has staying power — no matter the storm that beats at those shores. The power to make me fly half-way around the world to fight and risk everything.” Christen focused on Johnna. “My dad’s already got his head on the block. Is he going to jail?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility, unless he becomes helpful in which case, he’s working for us instead of against us,” Johnna said evenly.

  “
As a cut out,” Christen frowned. “An asset. A spy. And I’m the one who has to deliver him to you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gator

  Wednesday, Dar es Salaam, Tansania

  “Here we go, this looks promising.” Blaze spun the wheel, squeezing their car into the tiny space between two scooters, leaving mere inches past either of their bumpers on a crowded road in Dar es Salaam’s up-scale shopping district. “Looks like we’ve got a front row seat. Are we laying bets? Restaurant or jewelry shop?”

  “Restaurant if we’re lucky,” Gator said, scanning the other store fronts. Yeah, those looked like the only two choices Davidson would make.

  Davidson’s limo had stopped in the middle of the road, the front door opened, and a man stepped out, adjusting his suit coat.

  “It’s hard to figure out where to put your tie when you haven’t got a neck, just ears and shoulders.” Blaze said. “Kind of makes him look like a giant penis.”

  “Steroid track marks and a micro-dick is more like it.” Gator said.

  “You’re sounding a little jealous, princess.”

  They powered their seats back, so they were less visible from the front window. The side windows were heavily tinted, adequately concealing their interior. It wasn’t likely this guy would make them.

  “Roid rage ain’t no joke.” Gator released his seatbelt and put a hand on the door handle, ready for action. “We need that on our radar.”

  “Roger that.”

  With his head on a swivel, the bodyguard opened the back door to the limousine and used his bulk to hide Davidson.

  “Davidson isn’t what I was expecting from looking at his photo in the newspaper.” Gator said.

  Blaze scrolled his phone and held it up to take a picture and forwarded it to Nutsbe their support professional at Iniquus. “Up close, he doesn’t look like a titan on the world stage. Let’s just send a photo to be doubly sure we haven’t fucked up.”