by Bentley, Don
Maybe defense contractors weren’t so bad after all.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I said to the flight attendant standing in the open doorway behind me. “I’m fine.”
The flight attendant looked at me for a long moment, his eyes traveling across my battered face. “Okay, then,” he said. “We should be landing in Turkey in about six hours. Need anything?”
“Do you have a guitar?”
“A guitar?”
“Yep. Acoustic would be great, but I’ll take an electric if that’s all you’ve got.”
“My apologies, sir, but we do not have a guitar. Something else, perhaps?”
“Sure. How about a bowl of M&M’s? But no brown ones.”
“Sir?”
“Not a Van Halen fan, I take it. Never mind. I’m just gonna grab some shut-eye. Wake me an hour out.”
“Yes, sir,” the attendant said, looking immensely relieved to be leaving the crazy man secluded at the rear of the plane. “Pleasant dreams.”
I didn’t bother to reply. The Ambien in my pocket guaranteed that I’d sleep, but if recent events were any guide, pleasant dreams were a thing of the past.
THIRTEEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
I’m going to start by reiterating that everything said in this room is classified at the Zulu level,” Peter said. “Any questions?”
Peter let his gaze travel from face to face as he spoke, making eye contact with each member of the President’s inner circle. As he’d intended, announcing a Zulu classification had a sobering effect. The Joint Chiefs gave universal looks of distaste, while the civilian principals showed their nervousness through furtive glances at their counterparts.
New to this administration, a Zulu-level classification had been one of Peter’s more successful attempts to stop the multiple leaks that had plagued President Gonzales’s first two years. More stringent than even code-word-level classifications, Zulu meant that the revelation of any information was considered treason and thereby punishable by execution.
The penalty had not yet been implemented, thankfully, but the career politicians that inhabited these halls had received the message loud and clear. The occasional call to a reporter might be accepted as part of doing business, but leaking classified material would not be tolerated. Within a week of Zulu’s implementation, the damaging leaks had ceased. This aside, Peter had no doubt that Zulu’s perceived deterrence was about to be put to the test.
Only after each person sitting at the oval conference table, with the exception of the President, verbally affirmed his or her understanding of the Zulu-level classification did Peter begin to speak.
“Very well. I apologize for the ominous beginning, but as Director Castle alluded to earlier, what we have to discuss could be the gravest threat our nation has faced since the Cuban Missile Crisis.”
Peter paused, allowing the weight of his words to register. As agreed, Beverly, seated to his left, reinforced his words with a somber nod of her own. Peter was about to set in motion one of the most elaborate deceptions ever perpetrated. For his lies to have any chance of passing the combined intellect of the men and women surrounding him, he needed Beverly on board, lock, stock, and barrel. Fortunately, thanks to the single page of tightly spaced text he’d passed to her thirty minutes prior, she belonged to him, mind, heart, and soul.
Assuming, of course, that Beverly Castle had a soul.
“As I said before,” Peter said, “Director Castle has been pursuing a highly sensitive operation on the President’s behalf. Unfortunately, that operation, code-named Even Flow, was only partially successful. Director Castle, please continue your summary.”
The hair on the back of Peter’s neck stood up as he surrendered the meeting to Beverly, but he knew that the men and women assembled at this table needed to hear the next lie directly from Beverly’s lips. Things had already gone awry with Beverly’s ill-timed reveal only moments before. To ensure that the President’s inner circle embraced this next deception as truth, Beverly needed to be the one spinning the tale, not Peter.
Besides, with every false word that left her lips, Beverly was binding herself ever tighter to the President. If the worst came to fruition, and Peter’s desperate plan exploded in their faces, the career politicians in this room would remember that it had been Beverly, and not President Gonzales or Peter, who had voiced the most damning aspects.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Beverly said, her words clipped and even, “as you now know, a CIA paramilitary team operating in Syria raided a suspected chemical weapons laboratory. Over the course of the operation, casualties were sustained, and now it appears that one team member who was presumed dead is still alive and has been captured. What I did not tell you is that this suspected laboratory sits within Assad-controlled territory.”
Once again, the television affixed to the wall behind Beverly flickered to life. This time, the screen revealed a map of Syria with the shifting boundaries denoting territory claimed by the Assad government, ISIS, and various rebel factions. The lines, while drawn in different colors, more resembled an abstract painting than any coherent military map.
This, in essence, was the problem with Syria. The country was a mishmash of violent elements, all hell-bent on destruction. The only thing predictable about the war-torn territory was its unpredictability. Today’s friend was tomorrow’s enemy, and the town controlled by Assad loyalists yesterday could morph into a haven for former ISIS members over the span of a single night.
It was to this chaotic maelstrom that Beverly wanted to commit America’s sons and daughters. Her wanton disregard for the butcher’s bill that would undoubtedly accompany any overt U.S. military action still astounded Peter. Peter wasn’t an idealistic pacifist. He understood that there were causes worth dying for, but he also knew that Syria wasn’t one of them.
“Excuse me, Madam Director, but are you saying that the splinter cell was under the Assad regime’s protection?”
The question came from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Etzel, and Peter made a mental note to keep an eye on the man. Smart military leaders were all well and good, but the brilliant and charismatic ones tended to cause problems for their political masters. President Truman’s tumultuous relationship with General MacArthur was a perfect case in point.
“I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying, General,” Beverly said. “We’ve suspected that Assad has been extending his patronage to different elements within ISIS for quite some time. This, unfortunately, is the first direct evidence we’ve seen linking the two organizations.”
“What does this mean for that captured operator?” Etzel said.
Peter scratched the man’s name on his legal pad. President Gonzales could ill afford an insubordinate general. Etzel might have to be dealt with sooner rather than later.
“As strange as it seems,” Beverly said, “we believe this is actually a fortuitous development.”
“Come again?” Etzel said.
“While the video we received leaves no doubt as to who is holding our captured operator,” Beverly said, directing her response now to the second questioner, Jeremy Thompson, “we think that applying pressure to the Assad regime will allow us to secure our man’s release and repatriation.”
“So we won’t be mounting a rescue?” General Etzel said.
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Peter said.
As much as he enjoyed watching Beverly draw the brunt of the group’s criticism, now was the time to provide a united front. The group of advisers had to believe that this was the President’s intent, even as Peter kept Jorge’s direct statements to a minimum to ensure plausible deniability. That meant that, because Peter was the President’s senior adviser, it was his turn to step into the breach.
“We will spare no effort to bring our serviceman home,” Peter said, his words t
asting like vinegar. “As Director Castle mentioned, we are even now negotiating with the Assad regime to apply pressure to the splinter cell holding our operator.”
“Surely that can’t be the sum of our plan? Negotiations with a homicidal dictator?”
Etzel again. Peter had assumed, perhaps naively, that once he had Beverly under control, the meeting with the principals would be smooth sailing. Now Peter was beginning to wonder if his shortsightedness would cost them. Maybe he should have brought another principal on board first. Weren’t military officers supposed to follow orders? What was going on?
“Of course not,” Peter said, meeting Etzel’s attack head-on. “If you’d allow me to finish, I was going to say that—”
“I think it’s time for me to weigh in.”
The voice, while tired, carried an unmistakable tone of command. President Jorge Gonzales had spoken. And though this hadn’t been part of the plan, attempting to talk over the President would have been suicidal. What Peter was proposing would be confrontational enough. But if the principals deemed the course of action contrary to the President’s wishes, his plan would be dead on arrival.
“While I appreciate what Beverly and Peter are trying to do,” the President said, looking at his advisers one by one as he spoke, “ultimately this decision is mine, and you should hear it from me. Of course, we aren’t relying solely on the Assad regime to free our captured warrior, but I’m not prepared to start a shooting war with another Middle Eastern dictatorship. Not to mention the possibility that our forces might come into direct confrontation with the Russians, who are even now flying combat sorties in support of Assad’s ongoing offensive.”
“Then how are we responding, Mr. President?” Etzel said.
“We will continue to work through our intermediaries. We will explain to the Assad regime that we know that this ISIS splinter cell is operating in territory under their protection. If our operator dies, we will hold Assad personally responsible.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but what if that isn’t enough?” Etzel said.
“I fully expect that it won’t be,” the President said, his voice heavy. “This is why I’ve authorized Director Castle to begin setting the conditions for a rescue attempt.”
“Sir, wouldn’t that be better suited to fall within the purview of the Joint Chiefs? Even if the raid is conducted by one of Director Castle’s paramilitary teams instead of a JSOC tier-one unit, we will need a substantial strike package standing by. At a minimum, the carrier battle group operating out of the Mediterranean should be retasked. I would think we’d also want—”
“General Etzel, you misunderstand me,” the President said, holding up his hand. “We cannot risk an overt engagement. Putin has invested considerable capital, both political and military, in Syria. He will want to reassure Assad that Russia will defend the sovereignty of the Assad regime. Any escalation on our part, perceived or otherwise, will result in Russia doing the same. But let me be clear. I will honor my solemn oath to bring each and every service member home. With this in mind, Director Castle has been charged with positioning a small, agile package of experienced Syrian operators within striking distance of our captured CIA officer’s suspected location. The moment we have actionable intelligence, we will move heaven and earth to bring our man home. Until then, we need to negotiate in good faith with the Assad regime while giving Beverly and the rest of the intelligence community space to work.”
“So Director Castle is taking lead on this?”
Jeremy Thompson again. This time, the DNI didn’t seem altogether put out by the apparent usurpation of his authority. Probably because, unlike the military members seated around the table, Jeremy was a political animal at heart. While his stock in the administration might currently be falling, there would be other administrations. Especially if this rescue operation turned into another Operation Eagle Claw—the ill-fated attempt by President Jimmy Carter to rescue the American hostages held by radical Iranians forty years previous. When and if that happened, DNI Thompson would be able to stand before Congress with his most sorrowful expression and explain how he had opposed this operation from the start.
Plausible deniability at its finest.
In some ways, Peter envied the man. Much like Beverly in her going-in position, Thompson was now poised to succeed regardless of the outcome. Success, and he could take the credit after wallowing in a bit of false modesty; failure, and he’d have the Joint Chiefs to vouch for his side of the story.
Politics was definitely not for the faint of heart.
“Yes, Beverly has the lead,” Peter said, attempting to keep the President from making statements he’d later have to explain. “She will be responsible for coordinating additional assets when and if she decides they’re needed. In the meantime, I’d ask that you stand by for additional taskings and contingency operations as the situation progresses. Beverly, am I missing anything?”
Beverly eyed him without expression for a beat before turning to the waiting audience. “Nothing further at this time, ladies and gentlemen. The Deputy Director will institute twice-daily updates. In the meantime, if you have questions, particularly as they pertain to the JSOC units or CSAR assets, have your staff reach out to their counterparts in the Directorate of Operations. Anything further, Mr. President?”
“Nothing operational, Beverly—thank you.” The President paused for a moment, staring down at his folded hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were flinty with determination. “I will not leave this man. I swear it to you. The second we have operational intelligence, I will put the full might and power of the United States behind my words. I will not fail him or you.”
The speech was a good one, even more so considering that the President meant every word. If the President were left to his own devices, Peter had no doubt that Jorge Gonzales would gamble everything—his legacy, his political capital, even the election itself—on the faint hope of rescuing a man who was, for all intents and purposes, already dead. This was why Peter knew without a shadow of a doubt that actionable intelligence would never arrive.
Charles Robinson IV would see to that.
The sacrifice of Beverly’s operator was tragic, and his unnecessary death rested squarely at the CIA Director’s feet. But that was for later. Like the President, Peter had his own solemn oath, and he intended to honor it. If managed correctly, Shaw’s tragic death would ensure that others would live.
Sometimes, that was all a soldier could hope for.
FOURTEEN
Director Castle? Director Castle, a word, please.”
At the second, louder mention of her name, Beverly turned as if just hearing Peter for the first time. Peter was under no such illusion. Beverly had been making a beeline for her waiting armored limousine. She might have lost this skirmish, but Peter had no doubt that she had yet to concede the war.
Beverly was many things, but a quitter she was not.
“Peter, I’m afraid I’m extremely short on time. Can this wait until I’m back at Langley?”
A few staffers edged by on either side of the narrow hallway, but for the most part, Peter and Beverly were alone. The other principals had left a good five minutes before, while Beverly had remained seated at the conference table. She’d made a series of calls on her secure BlackBerry and then scrolled through her e-mail until the room had emptied.
Peter had his doubts about the entire performance. While he had no reason to believe that there weren’t a thousand things demanding the Director’s attention, he found the timing suspect. In all likelihood, Beverly hadn’t wanted to get buttonholed by one of the civilian principals seeking to increase their standing or a nervous member of the Joint Chiefs ready to offer unsolicited advice on a rescue attempt that would never progress past the planning stage.
This was why Peter had found something to occupy himself with at a temporary desk just down the hall from the conferen
ce room. He’d waited until Beverly emerged to make his move. Once she was back across the Potomac in her Langley fortress, Beverly would have the advantage. But here, in the West Wing, she was still on Peter’s turf.
“I’m afraid not,” Peter said, his voice properly contrite, “but I promise to be brief. If you’d just step in here for a minute?”
Peter gestured toward one of the many closet-sized spaces that had been converted into meeting rooms over the years. The West Wing served as office space for the most powerful man or woman on the planet, but it had all the elbow room of a Silicon Valley start-up. Many of the staffers saw the tight quarters as endearing.
Not Peter.
For him, the lack of space was just damn inconvenient.
Beverly looked from Peter to the empty room and back again. For a moment, he wondered whether he was going to have to physically move her into the meeting space, but after a discreet glance at the broad-shouldered security officer who trailed her, she slipped inside.
Peter followed a step later, closing the door behind him.
As soon as she heard the door latch click, Beverly whirled to face him, all traces of civility gone. “How did you get it?”
The meeting room might have been phone booth sized, but it was soundproof, making Beverly’s question seem much sharper without the ambient noises of murmured conversations, clacking keyboards, or buzzing phones.
“Get what?” Peter said.
“The paper. How?”
