by Bentley, Don
“How?”
“My network of assets is still in place. If there’s a terrorist splinter cell developing a chemical weapon in Syria, my people will know.”
Peter shook his head. “Things didn’t go quite so smoothly three months ago.”
“That’s because of that DIA hothead Drake. Without him, my operation would have succeeded. Pulling my team out after the chem attack was a mistake. Our work was just starting to bear dividends.”
Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead, considering Charles’s proposition.
As the Syrian Chief of Base, Charles had been tasked with coordinating all American intelligence operations in the country. In reality, Peter had given his friend a far more pressing task—finding a way to end the conflict without additional U.S. troops. A war-weary American public had little patience for a third Middle East adventure, especially at the hands of a President who’d run on a platform of ending America’s involvement in Iraq. The Republican-controlled Congress had been thundering against the President’s ill-defined Syrian strategy, and the politicians’ arguments had started to resonate. Peter had seen peace in Syria as a way to defuse those criticisms, and he had given Charles the directive to bring it about.
Charles’s solution had been Operation Shogun, a clandestine effort aimed at secretly recruiting and arming a network of Syrian rebels dedicated to just one thing—instituting regime change by killing Bashar al-Assad, the homicidal Syrian dictator.
To support the operation, Peter had ensured that the small contingent of rebels be equipped with what, before, had been forbidden resources: Javelin fire-and-forget anti-tank missiles, Remington Modular Sniper Rifles, next-generation night-vision goggles, secure communications, and priority tasking from the Agency pilots who controlled the assortment of armed Reaper and Predator drones prowling Syria’s skies.
In short, everything an indigenous Syrian strike force would need to decapitate Assad’s regime.
Along the way, Charles’s network had provided a stunning array of intelligence, much of which had found its way into the President’s Daily Brief. But before the operation against Assad could be executed, the dictator had launched a chemical weapons attack against the civilian population of Aleppo.
The attack, executed right under the Agency’s nose, had been a black eye for both Charles and his network. Beverly, who had resented the fact that the West Wing had pushed Charles on her to begin with, had reacted with predictable fury. She’d recalled Charles and his contingent of Agency personnel to D.C. and disbanded Shogun.
To make matters worse, Matt Drake, the DIA case officer operating in Syria, had turned in a damning assessment of Charles’s performance during the chem attack. According to the DIA’s official after-action review, Charles had denied Drake the use of the Agency’s Quick Reaction Force, or QRF, helicopters after Drake had received an emergency evacuation request from a highly placed asset.
Even now Peter wasn’t sure what had actually transpired. What he did know was that Assad’s chem attack had caught Charles completely unaware and that Drake and his bodyguard had tried to evacuate their asset by ground without Agency help.
They’d failed.
Instead, the two men had been ambushed and nearly killed. By the time the operational dust had cleared, two Americans had been seriously wounded, an asset and his family murdered, and Charles’s credibility destroyed.
Not a success by any measure.
Even so, in the last three months, the Syrian situation had grown steadily worse. The Russians, along with Iran and Hezbollah, were actively helping Assad, while the Saudis secretly funneled money to a variety of Sunni resistance groups. As the territory formerly occupied by the onetime Islamic Caliphate known as ISIS shrank, multiple terrorist splinter cells rushed to fill the void.
At this point, Peter considered Syria to be nothing so much as a distraction, a thorn in his side preventing the Gonzales administration from shifting the nation’s attention to a legislative agenda focused on American, rather than foreign, priorities. Every time Peter attempted to publicly sell the idea that Congress could make a down payment on free college tuition by siphoning funds from the military’s ever-expanding budget instead of raising taxes, Assad would commit another atrocity. Right on cue, the Republican hawks would point to the Syrian madman and his store of chemical weapons as proof that a robust military was needed now more than ever.
And their damn strategy worked.
Even the vulnerable Republicans who represented states Jorge had carried in the last election were reluctant to cross their party hard-liners when it came to the sacred cow of military spending. But if the current projections were correct, this stalemate would change in four days’ time. Polling showed the Democrats picking up enough seats in both the House and the Senate to hold majorities for the first time in four years. So while he still hadn’t solved the Syria problem, Peter would now have the votes he needed to move on his domestic agenda with or without Republican help.
But only if someone kept Beverly’s new Syrian charter in hand.
Someone like Charles.
If Charles’s rebel network found the elusive chem weapon, the President could take the credit, and if they failed, at least no American lives would be lost chasing that white whale. Either way, Peter believed that any problem was solvable as long as Jorge Gonzales was reelected.
But as the morning’s polling numbers had demonstrated, that scenario was not a foregone conclusion.
“You sure you can handle this?” Peter said. “The President’s future depends on it.”
“So does mine.”
“What do you mean?” Peter said.
“If I take care of this, I want an office on the seventh floor. Beverly’s office.”
“Are you kidding? I can’t guarantee you the Director’s job.”
“Of course you can. Agency scuttlebutt is that Beverly’s out after Gonzales gets reelected anyway. As much as you may wish it, the world’s problems aren’t going to vanish after the polls close Tuesday night. You’ll need the Agency, but more than that, you’ll need a friend running the Agency. Me. Give me your word that I’m the next Director, and I’ll take care of Syria.”
Peter looked at his friend for a moment, making a show of weighing Charles’s offer, but his decision had been made the moment Charles had voiced the bargain. At this point, Peter would have promised almost anything to anyone in exchange for a second Gonzales term. Peter couldn’t bring Kristen back, but he could make sure her death hadn’t been in vain.
“Okay,” Peter said, “you’re in. Try and find the chemical weapon or not—I don’t care. All I want is ninety-six hours. If Syria stays out of the news, you’ll be the next Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. But you’re on your own with Beverly. The President made it clear she’s riding herd. To get back in-country, you’ll have to go through her.”
Charles smiled as he clapped Peter on the shoulder. “I’ll be on a plane with my team in two hours. You’ll have what you need to handle Beverly before I’m airborne.”
Without waiting for a reply, Charles started up the path leading out of the woods, his long legs pumping.
Peter watched his friend and, for the first time since Beverly’s ambush this morning, felt a stirring of hope. Beverly might be a colossal pain in the ass, but if Charles did his job, in four short days she’d be nothing but a memory.
NINE
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
The structure was modest by Old Town, Alexandria, standards—an unassuming two-story town house situated on a quiet side street. Our rental shared a common courtyard with four other units, and the landscaping and raised flower beds bordering the walkway leading to the front door showed Laila’s touch. Though the flowers had long since withered, their exotic perfume lingered, reminding me of Laila’s dark, fragrant hair.
The clock on the rental’s dashboard s
aid that I had three and a half hours until wheels up. More than enough time to say good-bye to Laila, but rather than get out of the car, I sat in the dark, watching as the minutes slowly ticked away.
The front porch light glowed warm and inviting, just as it always did when I was away. Fiercely patriotic, like the children of most immigrants, Laila had wanted to mount a flag holder to the redbrick exterior so that she could fly Old Glory each time I was operational.
I’d talked her out of it.
I loved my country, but the presence of flags in this part of town was rare, and I hadn’t wanted to draw unnecessary attention. Such was the life of a spy.
I sucked in a breath, rehearsing what I’d say even as I thought about what I’d do if Abir’s mother was waiting for me inside. This unnerving possibility, more than anything else, explained why I was still sitting in the car, listening to the downtown traffic through the rental’s open windows.
It had been six weeks since I’d left, but Laila was accustomed to my frequent job-related absences and the lack of communication that went with them. She understood that my job was unique. Oftentimes, I operated under NOC, or Nonofficial Cover, guidelines. This meant that I had to live my “legend” twenty-four hours a day, sometimes under a foreign intelligence service’s watchful eyes. During operational periods, I couldn’t communicate with her at all.
Laila didn’t like the draconian restriction, but after I’d explained its purpose, she’d understood. Still, no amount of explaining would help my wife understand why a dead woman shared her face.
My newly issued cell phone buzzed. I answered, more grateful for the interruption than I cared to admit.
“Drake.”
“Matty, it’s me,” Frodo said, his voice tinged with urgency. “You need to get to Andrews. Now. We’re moving up the timetable.”
“Einstein?”
“No. Head for Andrews and look for a Gulfstream. Your kit’s already on board. I’ll fill you in once you’re wheels up.”
“Roger that,” I said, and ended the call.
Secure phone or not, I knew Frodo had communicated as much as he intended to over an open line. My friend was as even-keeled as they came. His abrupt call could mean only one thing—something had changed.
Something significant.
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and started the car’s engine. I should have been feeling sadness, desperation, or even anger as I drove away, but I felt something else instead.
Relief.
TEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
All right, friends, shall we begin?”
The question was purely rhetorical, but even after almost four years in the Oval Office, and a life of public service prior to that, President Jorge Gonzales was still uncomfortable calling a meeting to order.
Usually, Peter found the President’s timid nature charming. But today, he wished that the President would reveal the iron core beneath his sunny demeanor. Jorge had been leading Senator Price by only three points before Beverly’s Syria fiasco hit the airwaves. Now the President’s tenuous lead was likely history.
“Certainly, Mr. President. Beverly, please begin.”
The words came from Jeremy Thompson, the Director of National Intelligence, or DNI. Much like his constructed political position, Jeremy was generally a worthless human being.
The role of DNI had been created as a response to the September eleventh attacks. In theory, the political appointee had been given charge over the sum of the nation’s multiple intelligence apparatuses to ensure that the pre-9/11 information stovepiping would never happen again. In practice, the position was a figurehead at best, or a platform for political grandstanding at worst.
The first post-9/11 CIA Director, George Tenet, had quickly demonstrated that he had no intention of ceding his direct access to the President to a politically appointed speed bump, and subsequent Directors had followed suit. Jeremy’s very presence at this meeting was sure to lead to friction, and Peter had no doubt that Beverly would be its source.
“Of course,” Beverly said, not bothering to look at Jeremy as she spoke.
Although she was seated several places away from the President at the circular conference table Jorge Gonzales preferred for staff meetings, Beverly didn’t pay lip service to the Joint Chiefs, the principals, or even the fellow agency directors. Her political fate rested with just one man, and Beverly behaved accordingly.
In his more guarded moments, Peter had to admit that he admired her dogged determination. She’d made no secret of her intention to succeed Jorge as President, and she conducted herself as such.
But Peter’s admiration never lasted for long. Time and time again, Beverly had demonstrated that she would trample anyone who stood in the way of her goal, even if that person happened to be the President of the United States.
“Mr. President,” Beverly said, fixing Jorge with her glimmering blue eyes, “I’d like to start by relaying an additional piece of bad news.”
Peter resisted the urge to interrupt, even as he clenched his fingers into fists beneath the table. This was neither the time nor the place to surprise the President with anything, least of all additional bad news. Bad news should have been relayed ahead of this meeting in a one-on-one with the President or, at the very least, Peter.
This was the time to project unity. It was an opportunity for the President to model the type of reserved, but competent, leadership he expected from his cabinet. Had she been a team player, Beverly would have understood this unspoken tenet and acted as such.
Beverly Castle had been accused of many things over the course of her political career, but acting as a team player had never quite made the list.
“Please continue,” President Gonzales said, his steady voice the model of self-control even as the wrinkles lining his forehead grew more pronounced.
Though Jorge would never admit it to his staff, Peter knew that Jorge regretted providing Beverly with the Director’s billet. Healing the party was all well and good, but it wasn’t worth sacrificing the President’s chance at reelection. If Beverly had just been bad at her job, that would have been surmountable. But the combination of her malfeasance and unbridled ambition had come perilously close to sinking Jorge’s administration on more than one occasion.
But maybe that was part of her plan. Perhaps the coterie of sycophants surrounding her had determined that Beverly stood a better chance of running on the heels of a disastrous Republican administration than following a successful Democratic one.
Maybe she didn’t want the President to win reelection at all.
The thought felt like a punch to Peter’s already clenched gut. Could that be true? Could Beverly be working to sabotage their campaign? On any other day, Peter would have dismissed such a ludicrous idea outright. But today, the notion didn’t seem quite so far-fetched.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Beverly said, her voice the model of subservience. “As we briefed you this morning, last night a CIA paramilitary team raided a presumed chemical weapons laboratory at great personal cost.”
Beverly paused for a moment as if overcome by the thought of losing four operators Peter was certain she couldn’t name, let along pick out of a crowd. Still, her Shakespearean-quality acting got sympathetic nods from the Joint Chiefs seated to her left.
“In any case,” Beverly said, “their sacrifice was not in vain. After securing the objective, the team determined that the structure was not a chemical-production facility as we’d originally thought. It was an execution chamber.”
Beverly’s pronouncement sent a chorus of murmurs rippling down the table. Even these battle-hardened men and women blanched at some of the more graphic depictions of ISIS’s brutality. During a particularly heart-wrenching video in which boys as young as eight or nine were made to execute prisoners by shooting them in the face, more than one of the military repre
sentatives had turned away from the television screen.
But not Peter. He’d watched every excruciating frame.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, Peter fully embraced the idea that evil existed, and he had no problem applying this label to the terrorists who called Syria home. The fanatics could not be negotiated with or somehow brought back into the proverbial fold.
Where Peter differed with the Republican members of the House and Senate was on the solution to the Syria problem. He had no issue raining down Hellfire missiles on the fanatics. In fact, with Peter’s encouragement, the number of targeted drone killings had risen almost tenfold since the previous administration, but he drew the line at committing U.S. troops to the mission.
Peter believed that only Syrians could solve Syria’s problems. The U.S. should provide assistance in the form of training, weapons, and even intelligence, but no American lives should be lost to yet another futile attempt to export democracy to a country unable to sustain it.
Yet if Beverly were allowed to have her way, this was exactly what would happen.
“How did you determine that the structure was an execution chamber?” the DNI asked.
As was often the case when the man spoke, Peter had to make a supreme effort to clamp down on the biting reply lurking just behind his lips. Jeremy Thompson’s questions frequently put Peter in mind of a poorly written sitcom. The kind of show in which the token new character always asked a series of clarifying questions because the writers believed the audience was too dumb to understand the plot’s complexities.
Except that, in the DNI’s case, the writers would have been spot-on. The man was as dumb as a box of rocks and twice as worthless.
“The dead bodies were our first clue,” Beverly said, responding deadpan.
Despite his irritation with the CIA Director, Peter had to hide a smile at her answer. His adversary had a gift. She could deliver the most caustic of replies without a hint of malice, ensuring that she remained above reproach while still managing to demean and belittle her intended target. More than once, Peter wondered if this was perhaps a block of instruction offered to would-be college professors somewhere between defending their dissertations and obtaining tenure.
