by Matt Miksa
Mole hunting was tricky business, and Snyder had some experience in the matter. He’d served twenty-five years in the FBI, the last four as a supervisor in the Bureau’s counterintelligence program. Last fall, after graciously accepting his hard-earned pension, the fifty-six-year-old had traded high-wire spy hunting for a peaceful desk job at the NSA. The respite didn’t last. Snyder’s distinguished track record in ferreting out traitors within the U.S. government had attracted the attention of a few bigwigs. And those bigwigs suspected Director Cameron, apparently.
Snyder slapped his cheeks to wake himself up and reached out to reposition the digital display. He watched a red dot inch across a map. The device started pinging automatically when the GPS tracker he’d planted on the director’s car began moving. Cameron was out for a midnight joyride. She never did that.
Most people stuck to their long-established routines, which made surveillance predictable work. A coffee stop on the way to the office. The gym on Monday and Wednesday evenings. Grocery shopping on Sunday afternoons. When subjects deviated from their pattern, it was time to pay attention. However, Director Cameron was no ordinary subject. She was a spy, and spies buried operationally sensitive activities within the normality of mundane errands. The number of oranges placed in a grocery cart could signal the time of day a brush pass would occur. A forgotten sock left behind in a gym locker room could indicate a loaded dead drop. Espionage was an art of deception and misdirection. Snyder knew that great spies gave meaning to the meaningless as a way to communicate with their compatriots and fool their opponents.
Cameron’s conspicuous break in her pattern intrigued the former FBI agent. It could be nothing, but at least he’d have something to write about in his surveillance log. Snyder waited to fire up his car engine until the digital red dot passed through a couple of traffic lights. Slowly, Snyder emerged from the shopping mall’s parking garage and began the silent chase.
CHAPTER
44
Washington, DC, USA
PRESIDENT JAMES BARLOW heard the pitter-patter of footfalls trailing behind him—an unsettling sound, especially when jogging after dusk. It conjured memories of plebe year at Annapolis. Barlow stored a mental library of fond memories from his four years as a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy. Endless running, in the dark and the cold, wasn’t among them. Gunnery Sergeant Carter had taken sick pleasure in leading the boys of the Seventh Company around the town’s harbor in subzero wind chill. Yet despite the torturous experience, Barlow still found a brisk evening run invigorating. The steady motion untangled his mind and released some of the pressure building in his skull. The pain from the migraines lessened when he ran, and even with five secret service agents in tow, Barlow could be alone with his thoughts.
“You’re slowing down, Jim. Looks like this job’s finally wearing on you,” a woman called out from a jet-black Escalade rumbling along the president’s right flank.
Barlow recognized the sarcastic twang. He turned to see Secretary Hart’s round glasses peeking over a half-lowered, heavily tinted window. The president shook his head and picked up his pace.
The Escalade rolled along in tandem. “Now, hold on, Usain, before you blow a gasket,” Hart scolded. “Come, take a breather. I promise your ten-K won’t suffer.”
“Why don’t you join me out here?” Barlow asked. “The last time I got into a car with you, I ended up in the Oval Office.”
“And I feel truly awful about that. Just look what it’s done to your gut. Like a sack of soggy yams. It’s an American tragedy, really.”
President Barlow laughed for the first time that day.
“Enough foreplay, Jim.” Hart’s tone flattened. “We may have a problem. You need to see this.”
Barlow came to a halt. His breath created puffs of condensation around his face. The president threw a sharp nod to his security detail and climbed into Hart’s SUV.
The secretary of state waited until Barlow closed the door. She signaled her driver to roll up the windows. An opaque divider rose behind the front seats, sealing off the rear of the vehicle. Hart wanted complete privacy.
“There appears to be a chink in the armor,” Hart said. “I’ve just learned that someone on your National Security Council has been suppressing critical intel.”
“I already spoke with Nathan. He’d only just verified the reporting on Chang. I know he doesn’t always come across as a team player, but he would never—”
“Sullivan’s a dick. A real custard shooter,” Hart interjected. “But I’m not talking about him.”
“What is it, then?”
“Take a look at this.” The secretary pulled a photograph from her handbag.
Barlow unfolded the glossy paper, revealing an image of a man and a woman he didn’t recognize. The lighting wasn’t spectacular, but it had probably been taken in some sort of park. There were tall metal fences in the background. A zoo, maybe.
“What am I looking at?” the president asked.
“This photo was taken by an MI6 spook yesterday morning, our time, in Singapore.”
“Who’s the man?”
Darlene Hart looked Barlow square in the eye. “Marc Chen.” The secretary spat the name with contempt.
“The missing VECTOR officer? So, he’s alive. That’s good.”
“Not exactly. Chen hasn’t filed a report in weeks. As far as the Community was concerned, the man was dead as disco.”
“How long have we known otherwise?” Barlow asked.
“Well, I just found out forty-five minutes ago. I was wrapping up a meeting at Foggy Bottom with our British counterparts. We were casually debating the relative prestige of Cowes Week versus the America’s Cup—as if it’s not obvious—when an aide to the foreign secretary asked about our guy in Singapore, wondering if he’s learned anything from their Security and Intelligence Division. I just about shit my britches, Jim. That’s when he showed me this.” Hart pointed to the photograph. “MI6 snapped it, and their analysts flagged our man, Chen.”
“Why didn’t the British aide mention it sooner?”
“That’s just it. He was shocked that I didn’t already know. He said someone from the British embassy passed the photograph to U.S. intelligence last night.”
“You’re kidding. We’ve known about this for a full day?”
“Well, at least one of us did,” Hart said flatly.
President Barlow didn’t want to ask the obvious question. He could tell where the conversation was headed. After the Brits bumped into Chen, they would’ve immediately contacted Director Cameron. They knew she ran VECTOR and that Marc Chen was her officer. It would’ve made sense to go to her directly.
“The bitch just sat there, Jim.” Secretary Hart growled with a quiet rage. “Allyson sat there, in the White House Situation Room, and said nothing.”
Barlow frowned. Why would Cam withhold such valuable information? What reason could she have to make everyone think her officer in China was still missing? For Allyson’s sake, the president hoped she had a damn good one.
CHAPTER
45
McLean, Virginia, USA
CHAIN BRIDGE ROAD was a straight shot, six miles east to CIA headquarters. Allyson knew the route well. Years ago the drive had taken less than twenty minutes, even in heavy traffic. Now the same commute took twice as long due to major road renovations. Construction crews moved in every night around nine PM. A caravan of diesel-powered dump trucks squeezed the road down to a single lane, and bulky cement barriers blocked all turnoffs to intersecting side streets. Once drivers entered the mile-long work zone, their only option was to drive straight through in a long, single-file line.
The work zone was a perfect choke point, and if Allyson could lure her pursuer into it, she’d have no problem identifying his car. The Beirut Bottleneck—a simple yet effective trap.
The director’s pulse accelerated. God, she missed the rush of fieldwork.
* * *
Snyder maintained a caref
ul distance, watching the monitor as the dot traveled east. Was she heading to Langley? A former CIA operations officer—one under suspicion—taking a midnight jaunt to her old office would make for a juicy report.
Director Cameron would have no trouble getting past the guard gate. Her security clearance still gave her access to CIA headquarters. It was getting late, so most employees would’ve left already. Cameron would have the run of the place. What better time to poke around where she didn’t belong?
The former FBI agent was surprised to see the bright floodlights washing over the road ahead. He heard the low growl of diesel engines. Road construction. He’d driven this same route just hours before, and it had been completely clear. An orange sign flashed: LANE CLOSURES NEXT TWO MILES. MERGE RIGHT.
Snyder grimaced. The narrowing roadway was a problem. He risked exposure by driving into the bottleneck. The greatest concern of any surveillance specialist was being spotted—getting burned by the white rabbit. And bottlenecks burned like bonfires.
The red dot moved smoothly into the work zone. Snyder considered his options. Most people would abort. It was too risky. Should he turn around, leave, let Cameron go?
No. Surveilling a high-value target took guts. That’s why they’d selected him for this ultrasensitive assignment. He wasn’t most people.
Snyder popped a handful of sunflower seeds for good luck, held his breath, and merged into the right lane. He was heading into the choke point.
* * *
Allyson smiled when she saw the two glowing orbs drift into her rearview mirror. Her shadow had taken the bait. The director’s sense of satisfaction faded as the unfortunate reality of her situation sunk in. She was being watched, followed, spied on, in her own country.
Careful not to spook her tail, Allyson kept her speed slow and steady. She was almost there. It was time to turn the tables.
* * *
Snyder worked the digital display and felt a hot panic churning in his gut. The red dot had stopped. Director Cameron had driven to the end of the work zone and pulled over.
She knew. She’d lured him into a choke point so she could burn him on the way out. Snyder’s Audi was the only car in sight traveling through the one-lane stretch of road. The frozen red dot was still about a half mile downstream. Waist-high concrete blocks flanked the street. There was no escape. Cameron would spot his car as soon as he emerged from the work zone. Snyder felt like an idiot. She’d set him up, and he’d fallen for it like a Quantico rookie.
Eyes darting side to side, Snyder surveyed the roadway ahead, searching for a detour. He tried not to think about what he’d write in his log. Director Cameron had trapped him with a rudimentary countersurveillance maneuver.
Then another orange sign flashed overhead: I-495 INNER LOOP NEXT RIGHT.
The Beltway! The on-ramp was open.
Interstate 495, the Capital Beltway, was a sixty-four-mile loop that circumnavigated the District of Columbia—a godsend for surveillance work. Snyder often relied on it to slip in and out of Washington’s prolific suburbs without attracting attention.
He felt a rush of relief. He wouldn’t need to drive to the end of the work zone, where Director Cameron had parked, waiting for him. He could still abort the surveillance operation and take the Beltway back to Maryland. The director had set a clever trap, but she’d overlooked the obvious egress. A critical error. Instead of exposing himself at the end of the choke point, Snyder would simply divert onto the freeway unnoticed. Director Cameron would never know he’d been following her. She’d assume the driver of the black Audi was just another well-paid workaholic, heading home after a marathon day at the office.
Snyder flipped on his right turn signal and glided up the ramp. His eyes danced back and forth from the road to his GPS monitor. The red dot remained motionless. He accelerated to fifty-five miles per hour. He’d return to Fort Meade and report the incident. Snyder had less than an hour to figure out how to break the news to the higher-ups.
* * *
Allyson kept about four or five cars between her and the black Audi as she cruised the interstate. Her plan had worked flawlessly. Just as expected, her shadow had panicked when her Ford Focus stopped at the end of the work zone. Left with no alternative, the driver of the Audi was forced onto the Beltway to avoid exposure.
Shortly after emerging from the single-lane work zone, Allyson had turned into the parking lot of Capital One’s headquarters, where the company had stationed a row of Zipcars. The general public could rent the vehicles by the hour, and Allyson had reserved an electric blue Toyota Prius before leaving her condo. It took less than thirty seconds to locate the car, which she unlocked with her membership card. A square key fob dangled from the Prius’s steering column. Allyson silently rolled out of the parking lot just in time to see the black Audi flick on its right turn signal.
From her location, initiating pursuit was easy. The northbound Beltway on-ramp arced right up to the mouth of the parking lot. In moments, the subject became the shadow. Who the hell had been tracking her anyway? Now was her chance to get some answers. She’d follow the Audi until sunrise if necessary.
CHAPTER
46
Fort Meade, Maryland, USA
SNYDER HUNCHED OVER his keyboard, sipping burnt coffee. The drive to NSA headquarters had been a slog, thanks to an unexpected cloudburst. The pelting rain and crashing thunder foreshadowed the fury he’d face when his superiors learned he’d aborted the surveillance op.
Snyder stood by his decision to fall back. He laid out his justification in an artfully constructed memorandum. When working as a team, he explained, you had the option to break pursuit and radio a partner to pick up the target downstream. It was like passing the baton in a relay race. But solo observation was more limiting. If things got hairy and you were alone, the only options were to terminate or get scorched.
His gut told him Cameron had maneuvered through the construction zone to check for shadows. Revealing himself would have validated the director’s suspicions. A mole was hard enough to catch. A paranoid mole, nearly impossible. Once spooked, they dug deeper underground. Snyder had had no choice but to abort, he told himself.
On the other hand, Cameron’s evasiveness might have indicated that she was operational. Basic surveillance detection tactics were standard procedure for a trained spy. They didn’t necessarily prove Cameron had spotted Snyder’s Audi. What if the director had merely paused to look over her shoulder?
Whatever the outcome, praise or admonishment, Snyder would take it like a professional. Winning the war was more important than winning a single battle. Ferreting out traitors took patience. In the last two decades, he’d exposed four. The last one had taken three years to pin down. And Cameron was a powerful target, with allies and officers all over the world. Officers like Olen Grave, the man who’d used the TRIDENT system to request a code six—immediate exfiltration from denied enemy territory.
The intelligence community took code sixes very seriously. CIA extraction teams stood by twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nevertheless, given the outbreak and military coup, an exfiltration from the Tibetan Autonomous Region would be nearly impossible. Officer Grave would know that, so he must’ve been desperate.
To leave a man in-theater, twisting in the wind, was truly callous, if not treasonous. The thought of abandoning a fellow intelligence officer in distress had been eating away at Snyder ever since he’d intercepted the signal. Espionage was hazardous work, and operatives relied on each other for backup when things went south. Even if Allyson Cameron had chosen to neglect her officer in Tibet, Grave’s blood would be on Snyder’s hands. He had deleted the TRIDENT alert. He had no one else to blame.
To hell with his orders. He had to make it right. Snyder dialed a number for a personal contact at Langley. A familiar female voice picked up.
“We have a code six,” Snyder explained. “Tibet. It’s—”
The woman cut him off. “Don’t say any more. Can you meet me
at the usual spot?”
“Of course, but we’ve got to do it now.”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
The line went dead. The request to meet in person didn’t surprise Snyder. Agency folk despised speaking over open phone lines. Especially government phone lines.
Finally, Snyder flicked off his desk lamp and powered down his computer. He pulled his jacket off the back of his swivel chair, shaking free the raindrops still clinging to the leather.
Just as he turned away from his workstation, the portable GPS monitor, now sitting on the corner of his desk, made a faint, high-pitched beep. A message on the screen read LOW BATTERY.
Something still bothered Snyder about the night’s failed surveillance operation. The red dot indicating the location of Director Cameron’s Ford Focus hadn’t moved an inch since Snyder broke pursuit. It hovered over the same parking lot at the end of the work zone on Chain Bridge Road. Snyder knew Cameron hadn’t removed the tracker. Any attempt to tamper with the mechanism would have alerted him. Had Cameron’s destination been the parking lot all along? Maybe she hadn’t stopped there just to burn her tail.
Zipping his jacket, Snyder considered another possibility. Director Cameron had dumped her car and switched vehicles. She was nowhere near that frozen red dot. The woman could be anywhere.
* * *
Allyson gripped the steering wheel of the rented Prius. She’d followed the black Audi for forty-one miles, all the way to Fort Meade. It wasn’t shock burning inside her sternum. It was red-hot anger. The NSA was keeping tabs on her. An order like that had to come from someone high up the chain.