by Ben Coes
The job of an architect was a mixture of an understanding of a situation on the ground, in extremely personal terms, in order to pinpoint possible actions, with an almost preternatural instinct for mapping operators into the ground-level picture. There were only four really good architects in the Western coalition of CIA, MI6, and Mossad. But everyone acknowledged that the five-foot-five, thirty-two-year-old Jenna was far and away the best.
That she’d turned down more invitations to drinks, dinner, bike rides, or coffee was well known already inside Langley’s hallways. For the most part, she didn’t give the time of day to anyone.
Jenna’s door was three down from the office of Hector Calibrisi, the director of the CIA. Her office was glass-walled on the interior and exterior, but bookshelves occupied the walls adjacent to other offices. It was part of a larger suite of offices, the CIA director’s suite, behind a wall of steel, flanked by gunmen. The director’s suite constituted the southeast penthouse corner of the building.
She was currently designing an action for her former employer, MI6, tracking down a former British intelligence agent who had been believed dead, but who’d been seen in Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia, by a French DGSE field agent. After analyzing bank records, various signals intelligence, and the agent’s detailed biographical file, Jenna had been able to pinpoint the rogue with the help of MI6 hackers, by focusing in on the man’s known thoracic issues. He had a bad heart, and had been born with it. After a thorough, and quite illegal, scan of health facilities across Russia, then pushing the data against financial activities, Jenna had found the traitorous man in a town forty miles outside Kiev. She didn’t care how or why the agent, a man named Perkins, had gone to the dark side. Instead, her focus was on designing a mission to eliminate him.
Her cell phone vibrated. It was a “44” phone code, which meant the call had come from Britain, her homeland. It was her mother. She didn’t answer it, and reached to turn it off, clicking a button on the side.
Her attention moved to her computer. An icon on her second screen caught her eyes. She opened the application. It was a so-called green flash, indicating a real-time situation involving one of Langley’s NOCs, or non-official cover agents. NOCs were Jenna’s primary architectural building blocks.
In this case, it was one of the few agents she knew well—and her eyes shot to the screen:
DCPD GEORGETOWN 9144. BLKG 3 A S 881
ASC 6, REPRO 42
3:08:31 PM EST
GPS: ALTA STRADA 36/H
: GUNFIRE
: MULTIPLE CASUALTIES
: DC METRO PO SWAT ON SCENE
: EST 17–22 FATALITIES CIV 14
FLASH
: POSSIBLE TARGET NOC 2495–6
: ANDREAS, DEWEY
NEED FOR IMMEDIATE DCIA ATTENTION
FLASH
DCPD AT SCENE/FBI QUANTICO, CASE TEAM 4 (VA BEACH #1)
6.R [DOMESTIC ECA]
PER STATUTE 44.B.2: POSSIBLE CONTRAVENTION OF LOCAL/STATE LAW ENFORCEMENT WITH CIA NON-OFFICIAL COVER AGENT
FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH
: IMMEDIATE EXFILTRATION REQUIRED
: IMMEDIATE EXFILTRATION REQUIRED
: IMMEDIATE EXFILTRATION REQUIRED
Jenna looked at her watch. It was 3:09. Whatever had just happened had literally just happened.
Suddenly, a red alert—another icon—appeared on the screen. It was a garbled text from Bill Polk through some sort of encryption engine.
We have Dewey. Run a quick analysis on this with preliminary op response, also ref approx 800k wired through GID tertiary to HEZB forget file no, yesterday. Back in 10
Polk, the head of NCS, the deputy director of the agency, wanted to know what, or rather, why what just happened to Dewey happened, and what to do about it.
She smiled ear to ear. It was the first real challenge since coming to Langley. That it involved Dewey Andreas crossed her mind. Jenna had already exposed Dewey to life-threatening operating parameters, in China and North Korea. She was used to exposing agents to danger in an operation and had no emotion whatsoever about it. It was one of the reasons she was a good architect. But there was also something about him. Jenna remembered meeting him for the first time and feeling a tingle when he looked at her. He was rugged but he had something else about him still. She scanned the spec sheet again and realized there had been a firefight and a team had been sent to kill Dewey, but that he’d survived.
Again, Jenna’s cell phone vibrated and again the number “44” appeared on the screen. Her mother again.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she said.
She placed an earbud in her ear and hit the phone screen.
“What is it, Mother?” she asked impatiently. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“It’s your father’s birthday,” said Jenna’s mother in a lilting aristocratic British accent. “The entire family will be there,” she added, “including your aunt Winifred.”
“I know, Mother, I just don’t think I can get away,” she said, reading the screen.
“Jenna, it is your father’s seventieth birthday,” said her mother in a patrician tone. “Bring a friend. You’ve been in the United States for six months. Surely you have made some friends, perhaps a … boyfriend?”
Jenna was silent.
“You know how much your father and I want grandchildren,” her mother intoned.
In six months, Jenna had been on a grand total of zero dates, despite being asked many, many times.
“You have a way with words, Mother,” said Jenna.
“I’m sorry. I just.… well, can you try, Jenna dear?”
Bachelor SOG agents as well as rising single officers in the CIA hierarchy all knew of the arrival of Jenna Hartford. She was on loan from MI6, beautiful, mysterious, talented, and elegant, and sat three doors down from Hector Calibrisi. So many had asked her for a drink or dinner she’d lost count, her answer invariably being “No, thank you.”
Calibrisi and Polk protected her as best they could, though really it wasn’t necessary. She was fully prepared to take care of herself.
“I have a very active social calendar,” said Jenna to her mother, lying.
“The Austin boy from Yale told your father he’s attempted to call you on several occasions. He’s a successful hedge fund man and I don’t need to tell you he went to Eton and was president of his form. He said he attempted to reach you more than once.”
Jenna typed, looking for more information on the situation in Georgetown.
“Well, Mummy, maybe that’s the problem now, isn’t it?” said Jenna.
“I have only the best of intentions for you, my love,” said her mother.
“I know, Mummy,” said Jenna softly. “I’ll try and make it.”
* * *
Jenna heard the sound of activity. The footsteps grew louder but there was no discussion. She saw Bill Polk pass quickly by her door, followed by Calibrisi. Several moments later, Jenna saw Dewey walking behind them. He moved across the front of her doorway. He was bleeding; his shirt was torn.
“Dewey?” she said, calling out from behind her desk. “Dewey?”
Nothing happened and then a moment later, Dewey turned. He stepped into the frame of the door.
“Jenna?” he said. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said. “Are you okay?” she asked with a concerned look on her face.
Suddenly, in her ear comm, she heard her mother’s voice.
“Of course I’m okay,” said her mother. “I was just—”
Jenna tapped her ear, cutting off her mother.
“Yeah,” said Dewey.
“I read the scans,” she said with a concerned look. “They knew you were coming.”
Dewey pretended he didn’t hear, and changed subjects.
“So, how’s it going so far?” Dewey asked politely, looking around her office in curiosity. “Do you like working here?”
“Sure.”
“What’s it like?” he said. “
Don’t you get tired of being in an office all the time?”
“Not really,” she said.
Dewey smiled.
“Do you like living in Washington?” he asked. “I meant to check in on you after we got back. I apologize.”
They both knew he was talking about North Korea.
“It’s great,” she said.
“Where do you live?”
“Kalorama.”
“Schmancy,” said Dewey. “I hear even the homeless people wear Gucci.”
Jenna smiled. “How about you?”
“What about me?” said Dewey.
“Where do you live? Do you like it?”
“Georgetown,” said Dewey, “but you already knew that.”
“Because of the attack earlier? That doesn’t mean you live in Georgetown.”
“You know the profile of every person in this building,” said Dewey, grinning.
Jenna giggled.
“I do not,” she stammered with a pretty English accent.
Dewey nodded toward Calibrisi’s office.
“I have to go,” he said.
“What is it?”
“I assume it’s about what just happened,” said Dewey.
“Well, your meeting won’t officially start until I arrive,” said Jenna. “Bill asked me to run analysis on it.”
Dewey felt blood dribbling from his elbow. He looked down. There was a small pool of red on Jenna’s carpet. Her eyes followed his.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He glanced around, then stepped outside her office, walked into the central cubicles, which were mostly empty, and returned with a newspaper someone had been reading. He threw it down over the pool of red, even as he then dripped on top of the newspaper. “That should soak it up,” he said. He attempted to wipe up the blood, though it only made his shoulder bleed more. Jenna watched as he turned the small pool of blood into a larger one. Finally, he stood back up. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine, Dewey.”
Dewey was several inches taller than Jenna. She was close to him now, less than a foot away, looking up at his shoulder, then into his eyes. She wanted to hold the shirt tighter, to take care of him, though she didn’t do that; in fact she didn’t move.
“So what you’re saying is, you have to do analysis for those guys?” said Dewey.
“Yes.”
“Do I have time to get some stitches?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. She put her hand on his wrist. She walked him to the door.
“Go get sewn up,” she said. “I won’t start until you get there, promise.”
7
11:19 P.M. ALGIERS
6:19 P.M. U.S. EST
HOUARI BOUMEDIENE AIRPORT
ALGIERS, ALGERIA
Mansour flew from Tehran to Algeria, refueling in the sweltering heat of Algiers.
He was in a silver-and-red Bombardier Global 7500, owned by a French-Arab businessman, an importer of wine and cigars, and occasionally other things, like missiles, who Hezbollah had lent $30 million to a few years before, and as with anyone doing business with Hezbollah was now paying Hezbollah back, in the form of a ride on his jet—and use of the luggage hold. Mansour was the only passenger aboard other than the crew. Because of Voges, Mansour’s entry into the U.S. would be a “clean insertion.”
A pretty black-haired flight attendant was there to wait on Mansour, prepare his dinner, cater to his every need, but he barely acknowledged her existence. He tried to sleep but he couldn’t even close his eyes. He kept staring at a video on his phone. It was from the camera on the weapon of one of the men in Georgetown. It showed Andreas walking into the restaurant and diving down out of the fusillade from the man filming. Mansour saw the mistake immediately. All three men should have converged on him. By remaining back, they’d given Andreas a precious few seconds to escape.
Then he reread a text. It was from eight minutes later. A hacked live-transcribed voice scan from Washington police. Three men were dead at the scene—and an American was still alive.
Mansour wanted to believe he’d anticipated Andreas’s behavior but he knew he hadn’t, and that the beginning gambit had failed miserably. Andreas was still alive. In addition, not only would the U.S. government begin poking around, Andreas would be wakened. It was why Mansour had risked everything to try for a shot at him. It irritated him. But Mansour knew that the plan was still impervious to Andreas.
After touching down in Algiers, he saw that General Ghaani—Shakib’s chief of staff and the third most powerful man in Iran—had called him three times.
It was dark when Mansour stepped down onto the tarmac. He dialed.
“Hello?” came the steely voice of Ghaani.
“General Ghaani, it is Commander Mansour. I saw that you called. I was on a plane.”
“I’ll cut to the point, Zakaria,” said Ghaani. “General Shakib was found dead in his office earlier this evening. You were the only one to visit him.”
“I killed him,” said Mansour bluntly.
Ghaani was silent.
Mansour said nothing.
“Did I just hear what you said?” asked Ghaani.
“That depends on what you think I said.”
“You … killed … General Shakib?” said Ghaani, finally.
“I was in the same meeting you were in,” said Mansour. “The Supreme Leader approved the mission. Shakib was a traitor. If you disagree I suggest you speak to the Supreme Leader.”
Mansour hung up. He had to make one more call. He steeled himself for a few seconds. Technically, the man worked for Mansour. But he was not a soldier. Rather, Rokan was a computer hacker. He was delicate and prone to flights of fancy and fear. Yet his role in the coming maelstrom was perhaps even more important than his own. Mansour hit speed dial. After a short pause, a voice came on.
“Commander,” said Rokan. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m in Algeria,” said Mansour. “Things are about to begin. We execute our plan tomorrow and you need to be ready to do your part.”
“I’m not nearly prepared!” said Rokan. “Do you understand the amount of encryption I need to move through? If I don’t have the proper algorithms, it’s all pointless!”
“There’s no need to yell,” said Mansour.
“But I need another few days.”
“You don’t have another few days,” said Mansour. “Whether you like it or not, it’s happening tomorrow.”
“Then leave me alone,” said Rokan, his voice agitated. “I need to … to—”
“Don’t be nervous, Rokan,” said Mansour. “I know you and I know you’re ready. We will be providing all the distraction you need. All you need to do is meet the messengers at the hotel.”
“Jesus, Zakaria, you think that’s all I have to do?” shouted Rokan.
Mansour held the phone away from his ear.
“That is by far the easy part!” he yelled. “We’re talking about the Federal Reserve. If I don’t get killed getting in, I have to hack into an iodine sheet field.”
“You’ll do fine,” said Mansour reassuringly. “Just do your best.”
* * *
In a private hangar of Houari Boumediene Airport, the Bombardier took on more fuel. While the jet was refueling, Mansour met a man on the tarmac. Mansour approached under darkness, with fragments of light from the fuel truck illuminating the two men. The other man was pale skinned, and spoke with a German accent.
Mansour towered over the short, rotund man, an international arms dealer originally from the United States, named Kyle Schnabel. Schnabel stood at five-foot-four and weighed three hundred pounds. He was a billionaire several times over.
“Mr. Schnabel,” said Mansour.
“Hello, Mr. Mansour,” said Schnabel. “Where is the money?”
“Where are the Strelas?” said Mansour.
“Where’s the money?” said Schnabel.
�
��I have nothing to do with the money,” said Mansour.
“Well, I suggest you consider having something to do with it,” said Schnabel, “that is, if you want your Strelas.”
Both Schnabel and Mansour glanced around the tarmac. They were alone.
“Are they sanitized?” said Mansour.
Schnabel looked offended.
“Of course,” he said. “Clean as it is possible to achieve. All Thales circuits and AESA tracking capabilities have been either disabled or removed,” said Schnabel. “I employ only the top SIGINT experts in the world.”
“Thales is interwoven with the firing sequence,” said Mansour.
“Correct,” said Schnabel. “Which is why for twenty Strela missiles that will cross Interpol borders without attention, the price is what it is. By the way, where do you intend to take these?”
“None of your business. Your terms are outrageous,” said Mansour angrily. “I can purchase a single Strela for less than a hundred thousand dollars.”
“You might be able to buy a Strela or two for that, and you will be picked up as soon as you cross into a monitoring country, and I’m talking about Echelon,” said Schnabel tartly. “That’s Canada, Australia, Europe, and of course, the United States. Let’s face it, Mr. Mansour, if the missiles were intended for Iran you wouldn’t need me. The price was explained. I have gone through great trouble to have the missiles here and to have them bleached. There are twenty in all. Technically they don’t exist. All metadata and crystal code has been erased. But unless the money is wired immediately, I’m perfectly happy to not transact with you. The fact is, I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Mansour stared at Schnabel an extra few moments.
“Fine,” said Mansour, putting his phone to his ear. “What is the price?”
“One hundred million dollars, as agreed,” said Schnabel. “I pay my expenses in terms of flying here to meet you, et cetera.”
Mansour’s nostrils flared as he spoke into the phone yet stared at Schnabel across the dark runway. He wanted to put a bullet in him, and yet he couldn’t, and the truth was, a hundred million was neither here nor there, for Mansour would’ve paid even more for the sanitized surface-to-air missiles.