by Becky Harmon
One day she would have a place of her own, though. One with lots of horses. It had been her mother’s dream and now it was hers. When she was little, before her mother had gotten sick, they had lived beside a horse farm. Evenings and weekends were spent riding and grooming the horses. She liked that horses didn’t try to hide their moods and that they didn’t ask a lot of questions. Unlike most of the women she had tried to date.
The social world outside of Flagler was something she chose to avoid. She wasn’t antisocial, but if she was honest maybe she was a little asocial. She interacted when it was necessary and could be quite charming at times, at least that’s what she had been told by more than one person in the past. But given the choice, she would stay away from dating and social events. Not because they made her nervous or uncomfortable, but because she preferred the peacefulness of being alone.
A solitary life on the horse farm was all in the future. A retirement plan. For now the few personal items she owned barely filled the apartment and she felt comfortable here. Vince took advantage of her being onsite and if she wasn’t out on a mission he put her to work providing intelligence or coordination for other teams. He often hinted at her job becoming more administrative, but she loved what she did too much to think about a time when she wouldn’t be doing it.
“Hey, Tag, you ready?” Eric Fleming, one of her team leaders, called as he knocked on her open door. He was an inch or two shorter than her six-foot frame, but his shoulders were broad and his arms bulged with huge biceps. He liked to work out and could be found in the gym at all hours.
He was single and, like her, he preferred the company of other Flagler agents to that of anyone in the outside world. His dark curly hair barely touched the collar of his uniform shirt. Its unruliness was a contrast to his starched tactical uniform and freshly polished black boots.
She picked up her duffel and backpack.
“Everyone’s returned?” she asked as they walked toward the briefing room.
She had given the twenty men and woman who would be accompanying her a few hours to return home and visit with their families. The others had remained to prepare equipment since they would be able to return to their families later that evening.
Eric nodded. “Shroder was the last to arrive.”
She couldn’t help but smile. Jim Shroder was dependable and disciplined but always the last to arrive.
She stepped into the briefing room and dropped her bags by the door. She looked around the room at the men and woman in various stages of undress and relaxation. Like her and Eric, they each wore a variation of the Flagler official dark blue tactical uniform—cargo pants, a Flagler-embossed polo shirt with a button-down shirt to go over it as needed, and boots. Making eye contact with her team leaders, she headed for the front of the room. When she turned, she wasn’t surprised that the chaos from moments ago had vanished and rows of eager faces awaited her instructions.
“We’re headed to the Islamic Republic of Mauritania. For those that don’t know, it’s on the northwest coast of Africa. It’s a country about the size of Egypt or six times the size of Florida.” She pointed to the map on the wall behind her. “Eric’s team will be team one and positioned with me at the US embassy in Nouakchott, the capital. Currently, there is a crowd of protesters on the street outside. Random gunfire has been heard, but it has not been deemed a threat yet.”
She walked the length of the room while she talked. It was a habit she had developed to make sure each team member was listening. She watched their eyes follow her as she paced. “Our mission is to protect the ambassador and her staff. Mauritania borders Mali, where al-Qaida and the Islamic Maghreb are active, so the risk of terrorist activity is great.” She held up her hand to stop any questions that might be coming. “At this point there is no reason to assume the gathered crowd is connected to any terrorist group. They have not made a public statement or given themselves a name.”
She looked at the attentive faces around her. Terrorism was a part of everyone’s life these days and even more so for this organization of men and women. They trusted her and for the moment she had curbed their concern for what they were going to face. She only hoped the information was accurate. She would make her own determinations once she was on the ground.
“Ninety percent of Mauritania is desert. The northern portion is part of the Sahara. The population is sparse in this area, roads are few and far between, and travel is limited. We will remain in the populated areas, but we’ll need to keep in mind that there is a curfew for Westerners.”
She turned to address the leader of her second team, Sarah Duncan. As usual, Sarah’s shoulder-length hair was stuffed under a Boston Red Sox cap but a few curly, red strands stuck out. At five foot five, she was one of the shortest members of Angel’s teams. Over the years, she had earned respect with a resilient vivaciousness. She was often referred to as Flagler’s Energizer Bunny.
“Sarah, your team will be at a remote location approximately thirty minutes from the embassy, so setting up and maintaining communications will be a top priority.”
She saw the questions in Sarah’s eyes but continued, knowing Sarah wouldn’t ask them unless they were alone. “Our plane departs in two hours. Travel will be courtesy of Flagler so you will be responsible for your own weapons.” This news brought smiles to the faces around her. Not only was normal commercial travel slow, but special arrangements had to be made for weapons. “The two active teams will assemble in the parking lot in thirty minutes. Everyone else, stay prepared. Team leaders, stay behind for additional information. Everyone else is dismissed.”
The room erupted as the agents grabbed their luggage and hurried into the hall. For the next twenty minutes, she laid out the specifics of their mission to the team leaders. She was clear and concise, leaving no room for questions. Then she sent them to prepare their teams.
She made her way to the weapons room and signed out her lightweight Five-seven pistol, along with a P90 automatic weapon and a metal case full of ammunition. To make things easier on the agents in the field, both weapons fired the same caliber of bullet and the ammunition was interchangeable. She secured both weapons and ammunition in her duffel bag. She had one more stop to make.
The halls were empty, and she easily made her way to the last office at the rear of the building. She nodded at Mandy, his secretary, as she crossed the room and rapped lightly on the interior door.
“Come in,” Vince Flagler’s husky voice commanded.
She pushed the door open but remained in the doorway. “We’re heading out now.”
Vince leaned back in his chair behind his huge mahogany desk and took a deep breath. He was a large man and the desk seemed to fit him rather than dwarf him. The gray hair at his temples didn’t reach to the rest of his dark hair or the stubble on his chin.
She watched his eyes as he contemplated what to say. When he spoke his voice was firm and without hesitation. “I don’t have to tell you that she’s important to me?”
She nodded. It was a conclusion she had already reached. There was no other reason for Vince’s accommodations to the ambassador.
“She’s levelheaded, but very headstrong. You can push, but she’ll push back. Just keep her safe, okay.”
She nodded again and tapped the door in salute.
“And keep in touch,” he called to her retreating back.
Chapter Four
Angel took a sip from the small glass of whiskey she held in her hand. It warmed her throat and she began to relax. She liked the fast-moving pace of her job, but she also knew when to let go. Taking a deep breath, she stretched her legs out in front of her. The luxurious leather chair seemed to wrap around her and for a brief second she thought about sleep.
The interior of the Flagler plane was mostly white and peach with chairs on the left and several couches on the right. It was plush and pristine, a stark contrast to the dark-clothed bodies spread around her. Some lay on the seats and some had made beds on the floor around othe
rs’ feet. At home in any environment, her team members took advantage of the down time to sleep, clean their weapons, or play cards. She could even see a push-up contest going on in the rear of the plane.
All four of her team leaders were battle-tested and she trusted them with her life. In fact, she had on many occasions. She didn’t play favorites when selecting teams for a mission, but her uncertainty earlier had played a part in her selection this time.
Sarah was logical and brilliant at seeing the big picture. She could be counted on to offer guidance without prejudice. Eric never let a situation influence his calm demeanor nor would he react without careful thought. With the two of them, she was free to focus her attention on negotiating or finding a peaceful ending to the disturbance. She always knew they were watching her back. As if on cue, Sarah slid into the seat beside her.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked.
Sarah grinned. “It’s the rattle of your ice cubes. Can’t you drink any quieter?”
She shook her head and passed her the glass. Sarah took a huge gulp.
“Better now?” she teased back.
Sarah nodded, resting her head against the back of the seat and closing her eyes.
She took her glass from Sarah’s hand and took another sip. Glancing at her watch, she calculated about six more hours in the air. That would put them in Nouakchott at about eight a.m. local time. She pulled the tray from beside her chair and dropped it in front of her. Setting her drink down, she opened the background file on Mauritania.
She wasn’t surprised to see that it had become a hiding place for terrorists. She did find a little comfort in the fact that few actual attacks had taken place there. The biggest areas of trouble were in the eastern region where Mauritania shared a border with Algeria and Mali, but kidnapping was an active threat for Westerners throughout the country.
She turned the page to find a detailed report from the US State Department on human rights violations. It listed mistreatment of detainees and prisoners, lengthy pretrial detention, harsh prison conditions, and corruption. She had traveled to many places where these crimes were committed, but what made the alcohol in her stomach start to turn sour were the unforgivable crimes against female children. She quickly skimmed the pages detailing accounts of genital mutilation, arranged marriages, and the practice of force-feeding that went beyond obesity.
The last practice was one she found particularly barbaric. It took young girls from their homes and sent them to camps where they were forced, often violently, to consume large amounts of food in a short time. Rolls of fat were regarded as attractive, something that made the girls more desirable to their future husbands and flaunted a husband’s ability to feed his wife generously even though others were starving in the drought-prone country.
There was also the lack of access to education, jobs, and health care for females. She took another sip of the whiskey, hoping to numb the queasiness. She held the liquid in her mouth for a second before letting it burn its way down her throat.
Sarah lifted her head. “Enough with the loud thinking. Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” she said, passing the Mauritania background file to her. “Read for yourself.”
Sarah could draw her own conclusions about the country and the atrocities committed there, and there wasn’t anything she wanted to say to her about the woman they were going to protect. Over the years, she had protected plenty of women in various governmental positions, but from the moment Tamara had produced the photo something about this assignment had felt different.
She leaned her head against the back of the seat. She couldn’t understand why an educated woman like Elizabeth Turner would volunteer to serve in this country. Maybe she was a political appointee being repaid for something. A reward? Maybe, but in a place where women outnumbered men and were still discriminated against in every area of their lives, it sounded more like a punishment. She wanted to know more. Not for her job, but for her. She needed to know more. Much more.
She pulled the background file on Ambassador Turner out of her carry-on and started looking for the answers to her questions. Elizabeth Turner spent her formative years following her father from post to post around the world including two years in Mauritania when she was eight and then again when she was fourteen—after her mother died.
That was certainly a part of the ambassador that Angel could relate to. Losing a parent was hard at any age, but as a teenager, believing that you aren’t alone in the world becomes a struggle. She had spent more than a little time wondering where she might have ended up if Vince hadn’t been one of her father’s closest friends and willing to take her in.
The ambassador, on the other hand, hadn’t had a father who was fighting a war in an undisclosed desert halfway around the world. Turner’s had been returning to Mauritania to start his second tour as US ambassador. After a few short months in a prestigious boarding school in Switzerland, the future ambassador had joined her father until she graduated from The American International School of Nouakchott.
Things were starting to make sense now. She knew Vince had been shuffled through many countries during his early years with the Central Intelligence Agency. He must have crossed paths in Nouakchott with a teenaged Elizabeth Turner. She drank the last swallow in the glass and set it down hard on the tray.
“What?” Sarah asked.
“Ambassador Turner’s father was assigned to Mauritania at the same time as our fearless leader.”
Sarah nodded. “That certainly helps explain why we aren’t following normal protocol.”
“Yep.”
“Is that her background info?”
“It is.”
“Anything good?” Sarah asked, leaning to read over her shoulder.
“She has a degree in political science from Harvard. This is her third time in Mauritania. She was there twice as a kid.”
“Interesting. She must have really liked the country or the people. Or one particular person?”
She shook her head. “No indication of that here. Never has been married. She’s fluent in standard Arabic and speaks several Arabic dialects as well as French, which is probably one of the reasons the CIA recruited her.”
“Wasn’t she in politics?”
“That was after twelve years with the agency and a masters in national security studies from the Naval War College.”
“I was in Virginia seven years ago. I remember her senate campaign.” Sarah rested her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes again. “I’m pretty sure I voted for her. She won by a landslide.”
“Impressive career,” Angel said softly, closing the folder in front of her.
Elizabeth Turner did have an impressive career, but the information in the file had left her with more questions than answers. Why did she leave the CIA? Or politics for that matter? There was nothing, for instance, about why she had chosen to serve in this desolate country rather than one of the many beautiful locations she could have chosen. The years she had spent there should have been a reason not to go back. Maybe she had been too young to see the truth in the country. If the opportunity arose she would enjoy hearing all of these answers directly from the ambassador.
* * *
Ellie walked down the hall and entered the office of the embassy’s deputy chief of mission. Sam Pantone was her second-in-command and the man she counted on for all diplomatic relations. As the son of a retired Foreign Service officer, Sam had grown up in various parts of Africa. He followed in his father’s footsteps and remained mostly in Africa and Europe during his time in the Foreign Service. He had been assigned to Mauritania for three years as a public affairs officer before returning to Washington for the required political elbow-rubbing. He had returned to Mauritania about a year ago after spending the previous eight years moving through three different embassies in Africa.
He came quickly around the desk when she knocked on his open door. “What’s up?” he asked. “You should have called. I’d have come
to you.”
She waved away his concern at finding her in his office. She had a regular scheduled meeting with him every morning and an informal one before he left at the end of the day, so she seldom had the need to search him out. For some reason it bothered Sam if she had to come to him.
“I need to fill you in on some security changes.”
His eyebrows, like fuzzy white caterpillars, creased in concern.
“What’s happened?” he asked, motioning to the couch opposite him and waiting for her to sit before he did.
His hair was cut short on the sides leaving a small amount of gray stubble above his ears. His lean build made him look younger than his sixty-four years. Today he was dressed in a black suit, a red shirt, and a blue-and-white-striped bow tie. His glasses rested on the end of his nose and he tilted his head down to look at her over them.
“Do you know Vince Flagler?” she asked.
“Flagler Security, right? I’ve heard of him.”
“The secretary of state contacted him concerning our situation. Apparently she has exhausted all of her means to send us more troops so Vince is sending a detail.”
Sam nodded. “I’m not against that. Our situation is a bit hairy at the moment. How many men is he sending?”
She didn’t miss his reference to the Flagler agents being men, but she didn’t take offense. Sam was old school in terminology but certainly not in his opinions. He never had seemed to mind that she was assigned the position of ambassador and from her first day on the job he had been her strongest supporter. His encouragement had gotten her through days even she wasn’t sure she would survive.
“A team of ten will be assigned directly to the embassy. Ten more will be at a location nearby.”
“Ten won’t increase our visual effect much. Which I’m sure was your goal?”
“Correct,” she said. “As Vince explained, his crew will be able to engage if needed without following marine or embassy protocol.”
“Maybe, but we’ll still be held responsible for their actions.”
