Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  “I’ll do what I can,” Garrett replied, meeting Burkett’s intense gaze. He paused a moment, then added, “From what I can see, your organization does some much needed and noble work.”

  Burkett showed them to the door. Florence was organizing periodicals on the table in the reception area. Once on the street, Judy was immediately on her cell phone, and within seconds the town car slid to the curb. It was starting to rain as they climbed inside.

  “Sorry to break that off, but I needed to keep you on schedule. Now don’t say it; I know what you’re thinking—why did I bring you to some do-gooders’ organization? You’re not in the relief or outreach business. Understood, but somebody thought—”

  She was halted in mid-sentence by the look on Garrett’s face. It was dark and set, one of pure concern.

  “I’m no expert on problems in Africa,” he said quietly after a moment, “but I can recognize when someone is concerned and very worried. Graham Burkett is in real pain. He cares deeply for those people—his people, as he put it—in Zimbabwe, and he’s afraid for them. Few people truly care for others that deeply. He’s quite a man—a very rare and very strong one.” They drove on in silence for a while before he turned to her. “Where to next?”

  She looked at him closely, trying to control her own emotions. Garrett Walker was the most capable man she had ever met—a true man of action. Yet he could be compassionate to a fault. And he was not a man easily given to compliment or hyperbole. He had seen Burkett as someone of strength and character, a man whom she had written off as some privately funded, blowzy bureaucrat with a poor sense of fashion. She wanted to reach out and hug Garrett, but simply placed her hand on his arm.

  “There is a guy from Langley who wants to talk with you. I kind of guessed how you’d be dressed, so we’re headed for a beer and burger place in the Virginia suburbs.”

  It was just after 1:00 P.M. when they pulled up in front of the Vienna Inn, on Route 123 in Vienna. Garrett got out, but Judy remained.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “Nope. My liaison duties don’t extend to this meeting. I’ll be on my cell; give me a call when you’re done.”

  Once inside, Garrett paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the interior. It was a gloomy day outside, but the Vienna Inn was a few shades darker. It was a warm, comfortable setting—lots of wood and red upholstered fake leather accompanied by the not unpleasant odor of fried food. A ring of tables surrounded an island bar. Past the tables there were booths along the walls. Most of the lunch crowd had left, but a good number of diners lingered over their beer or something stronger. Two older waitresses bustled about, shuttling drinks and bussing tables. Ignoring the Please Wait to Be Seated sign, Garrett crossed the room to a booth in the corner. Moments later a man appeared and slid into the opposite seat. In his early sixties, his gray hair combed straight back over his head, he wore a dated herringbone sport coat and an open-collared white shirt. His skin was mottled, and he had the look of someone who worked long hours and did not take particularly good care of himself. Yet the tired blue eyes showed a measure of intelligence and authority.

  “Mr. Garrett Walker.” It was not a question. Garrett nodded. “My name is Jim Watson.” He smiled warmly and extended his hand across the table. “It is an honor and a very real pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming to see me like this.” He glanced around; at other tables men were gathered in close conversation. The older man smiled. “A lot of our business seems to get done in places like this. Probably too much, but then no one likes to talk in a hotel room or the back seat of a car.” A waitress appeared with an order pad, pencil poised. “Are you hungry?”

  Garrett sensed that this was not the time for food. “Coffee will be fine.”

  “Two coffees, then,” Watson said. The waitress holstered her pad and, pushing the pencil into her hair, left without a word.

  Garrett was a little stunned, but he felt that he hid it well. James Watson was the Deputy Director for Operations—the head of the Clandestine Service. He was the man responsible for most, if not all, of the espionage and human intelligence collection at CIA. Since the war on terror began with 9/11, Watson also directed the Special Activities Division, which did a lot more than just gather information. More than a few senior Al Qaeda and Baathist leaders had been killed or kidnapped by SA operatives. The presence of Jim Watson took this African business to a whole new level.

  “Mr. Walker—”

  “Please, sir, call me Garrett.”

  “Thank you,” he continued, “and it’s Jim, here. Garrett, one of the reasons I wanted to see you was to thank you in person for what you and your people were able to do in Afghanistan last year. It was deeply appreciated at the highest levels. The resolution that you and Steven Fagan were able to bring about over there was nothing short of a miracle. You rendered your country an invaluable service. In a town with a notoriously short memory, it will not soon be forgotten by those who count.”

  Again, Garrett nodded. He had not considered what he did as a service, at least not service in the manner of when he was in uniform—when he was in the Navy SEAL teams. It had been a job, one for which he was very well paid. But it was a high compliment nonetheless, both in the sincerity of the words and the man who delivered them. Garrett had not recognized the face—few would outside the closed world of intelligence. Garrett did know that Watson had been the CIA chief of station in Moscow when Joseph Simpson had served as the American ambassador to Russia. During a portion of his career at CIA, Steven Fagan had reported directly to Jim Watson. According to Steven, Watson was a man of character and integrity who rose to the post of DDO through merit. With the exception of Armand Grummell, the Director of Central Intelligence was usually a political position. Deputy directors like Watson were there because they were the top men in their trade.

  The coffee arrived, and Watson continued. “Under normal circumstances, we would bring you into the headquarters building and award you the Intelligence Star.” Watson smiled, and there was a twinkle in his watery eyes. “Kudos from the Director and all that. Well, we think too highly of you and your organization to bring you in the front door and take your picture. And quite selfishly, we don’t want to risk compromising a valuable national asset.

  “Another reason I’m here is that those who know about IFOR make up a very short list. I don’t want to intimate that my agency is a porous organization, but the fewer who know about your force, the better. The DCI is very adamant about that.” Again he smiled. “So I’m your case officer. It’s been a while, but I hope I’m up to the task.”

  “I’m sure you are, sir.” Garrett found it hard to call him Jim, and Watson didn’t correct him.

  “And finally, I want to speak to you about this business in Africa. We are becoming increasingly concerned about what may be going on there. I understand you met Graham Burkett today. What did you think of him?”

  Garrett noted that Watson asked about the man, not his story. He answered carefully. “I think our Mr. Burkett may at times let his heart rule his head. But I also think he is as intelligent as he is compassionate, and not given to overstatement. I believe him. If he thinks something is wrong in Zimbabwe, then something is probably wrong. Whether it’s another African tragedy or a national security issue is not clear, or not clear to me.”

  “I agree,” Watson replied.

  “You must also think something is wrong, or we wouldn’t be having this meeting.”

  Watson gave him a tight smile. “True enough. As you well might gather, we don’t have as many assets in that part of the world. Our attentions and priorities are elsewhere. Even so, a great deal of valuable information and intelligence leads come from NGOs and citizens in the private sector. In Africa, as in Afghanistan, the best information comes from the locals and those with the ability to get close to the locals. We have managed to pick up a few things from time to time, primarily from our contacts with the French. At a national political level, the Francophiles in this administr
ation are in a small minority, but at the working level we get on with the Frogs quite well.” Garrett thought he detected some distaste in Watson’s voice at the mention of the French, but the older man was skilled in managing his feelings. “But Zimbabwe was a former British colony, and the Brits are gone, so our sources there are limited. We have computer models that send up flags when certain parameters and conditions are met. But computers give us indications, and little else. Tell me, Garrett, does the term ‘Sampson Option’ mean anything to you?”

  Garrett slowly shook his head. “No, sir, I can’t say that it does.”

  “A little over ten years ago, Seymour Hersh authored a compelling book titled The Sampson Option. This well-researched work detailed the development of Israel’s atomic bomb. According to Hersh, whose account we believe, the Israelis built secret underground laboratories in South Africa in the 1980s to conduct nuclear research. With this clandestine endeavor, they were able to process highly enriched uranium and build several atomic weapons. In total secrecy, even from us, Israel became a nuclear power. We had our suspicions, but not until they exploded a test weapon off the coast of Namibia did we really understand what had taken place. Whether or not we approved of Israel joining the nuclear club was beside the point; it happened without our knowledge. Can you just imagine the conversation between Reagan and William Casey, the Director at that time? Or the reaction of John Poindexter, the national security adviser, when he was told what had happened? Following that intelligence embarrassment, we have been very mindful of secret events in Africa. In the 1990s we implemented a set of programmed indicators that would alert us to illegal or unusual events in Africa. Those indicators are updated and modified for various national security threats. As you might imagine, they are now tweaked for terrorism and weapons of mass destruction. Long story short, the alarms built into our monitoring systems are going off. Graham Burkett’s concerns parallel our own. Something is going on there, and we’d like to know more. We can’t afford another Sampson Option, nor can we let ourselves be on the wrong end of such a secret program.”

  Watson stirred his coffee carefully and continued. “We’ve had a report from our station in South Africa that may have some bearing on this. Garrett, have you ever heard of a military unit called the Selous Scouts?”

  For a moment, Garrett was too taken aback to answer. “The Selous Scouts,” he managed. “Rhodesian Army trackers, as I recall, but weren’t they disbanded some years ago?”

  “They were,” said Watson, “supposedly in 1980, but they were something of a legendary unit. We now have indications that some of them may still be around.”

  They talked for the better part of an hour before Watson paused for a moment to frame his words. “Garrett, the Director would like your organization to look into this. It’s not something that seems likely to respond to diplomatic pressure, and we have no assets that can respond in any reasonable time frame. We need some help. This may be one of those situations that we ignore at our own peril.”

  Garrett met Watson’s steady gaze. “I see. Sir, when we tracked those nukes through Iran and into Afghanistan, we were operating almost as an extension of the U.S. military—we are at war with the jihadists. The Middle East and Southwest Asia are in effect a theater of operations in that war. Going into an African nation like this, under these conditions, meets all the tests of a covert operation. This is a covert action.”

  Watson nodded. “It does, indeed. We need to investigate this without showing the hand of the United States Government. And if something should go wrong, neither the president nor the administration will take any responsibility—or come to your aid.”

  Garrett considered this a moment, then smiled. “I think I understand. Let me take this up with Steven. It may be within our charter and capability, but as I’m sure you know, his assessment of this is critical to any role we might play.”

  “Understood, and thanks in advance for taking a look at this matter.” Watson consulted his watch. “Garrett, I’m afraid I really must get back to the office.” He smiled ruefully. “Another meeting, as usual. I know your organization will need some time with this. Have Steven contact me when you’ve had a chance to review the matter. In the meantime, we will pass along anything we learn on our end. And once again, it’s been a distinct pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, sir. Just one more question.” Watson gave him his full attention. “Graham indicated this matter was somehow surfaced or brought forward by his mother. Without presuming too much, what the hell does his mother have to do with this, even if she does work for the Agency?”

  This brought a genuine smile to Watson’s tired features. “Garrett, we are blessed with some very talented and dedicated analysts at CIA. Elizabeth Johnstone, Graham’s mother, is one of them. She is a very perceptive lady. Her instincts regarding the nuclear weapons you recovered in Afghanistan were spot-on. Candidly, without her intuition, we—you—would have been too late to prevent a catastrophe. And she enjoys something of a special relationship with the Director.”

  Garrett again thought he detected something of a twinkle in Watson’s eye at the last comment, but the DDO was nothing if not a very controlled man. “We’ll be anxious to hear from you after you’ve had a chance to discuss this with your people. Please give Steven Fagan my very best.” They shook hands across the table, and Watson motioned for him to remain seated. “With your permission, I’ll leave first. Once again, Garrett, it has been a distinct pleasure.”

  The older man rose and donned a topcoat and car cap. Then, plunging his hands into his pockets, he made his way through the tables to the door. Garrett glanced around; no one looked up, but a man seated by the door quietly followed Watson out. Garrett smiled to himself. Conventions, he mused, have to be observed, even in a meeting place for spies. He called Judy, took a last sip of coffee, and slid from the booth. Garrett started to reach for his wallet and stopped in mid-motion. He had not seen him do it, but James Watson had managed to slip a five-dollar bill, neatly folded, under the lip of his saucer.

  The rain had changed to an oppressive drizzle by the time he reached the car. Judy Burks smiled sweetly at him as he crawled in.

  “Everything go okay?” she asked.

  “It was interesting,” Garrett said evenly.

  “Just interesting?”

  “And informative,” he replied

  “Was it, now?” Garrett nodded, giving her an innocent grin. “Okeydokey, no more questions.”

  They were headed east on Route 123. “So what’s next, madam liaison officer?”

  “Ah, our next destination. I’m not sure I can tell you. It’s a highly classified matter.”

  He pulled her toward him and began to tickle her. She squealed and made a show of fighting him off. The driver, from the Bureau motor pool, kept his eyes on the road.

  “Okay, okay. Enough torture, you win. I have orders to take you to a safe house and to conduct a thorough interrogation.”

  “How thorough?” he said in a low voice.

  Her voice was suddenly hoarse. “Very, very thorough.”

  The town car moved ahead of the afternoon traffic and made good time, clearing the beltway and sliding easily through the town of Fairfax and out toward Warrenton. They were on 66 West for only a short time before taking an exit onto a secondary road for about ten miles, then swinging onto a country lane. The road dwindled to a gravel turnaround that served a stately Victorian mansion. A small sign swung from a decorative metal arm: The Cedar Inn, circa 1810.

  The driver pulled away without a word, and they mounted the steps. Garrett had his leather grip, and Judy a small overnighter slung over one shoulder. He had not noticed it in the car during the trip; she must have brought it from the trunk while he was with Jim Watson. They were expected, and a kindly older woman showed them to a two-room suite on the third floor—very private, spacious, and well cluttered with antiques. Garrett dropped his bag and tested the four-poster with his hand. Through th
e feather quilt, the mattress was surprisingly firm. On the settee was a tray of fruit, bread, and cheese, and a chilled bottle of claret.

  “So now the interrogation begins?”

  She came over and stood close to him, looking up with an impish smile. She gave him a gentle shove, and he fell back onto the bed.

  “Now the interrogation begins.”

  While Garrett Walker and Judy Burks were making the most of a chilly winter evening in northern Virginia, a man in Rome was looking out the window onto his balcony and watching the first rays of the new dawn spread onto the western reaches of the eternal city. In the background, a throaty, gurgling sound from a bar across the small room announced his espresso was ready. He had not yet shed his striped Egyptian cotton pajamas, but had pulled on a satin robe and slippers against the morning chill. He padded across to the espresso machine and poured a measure of the strong brew into a demitasse. He seated himself at the table by the window, where he blew and sipped, enjoying the accompanying warmth and exhilaration of the drink. This brought on, as he knew it would, the desire for a cigar. In another hour, the sun would clear the hills behind the city, the same hills where Romulus and Remus were said to have suckled from a she-wolf. He would wait till then to have his cigar. This delay from coffee to cigar unvariably caused him to reconsider his choice of Rome in favor of some warmer city, but he was a man who simply could not live in a city without good opera and a decent orchestra. These necessities, he often reflected, seemed to bear a direct correlation with an increase in latitude. This was unfortunate for a man who enjoyed an early-morning cigar on the balcony. As he contemplated this, the cell phone on the table purred gently. It was programmed to purr at certain times of the day and ring at others. He glanced at the caller ID and considered whether or not to take the call. After a moment’s thought, he pressed the speaker button.

  “Yes, this is Jacques Drouet,” he said in French.