by Andrew Huff
“You can call me John. I’m not an officer anymore.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cross.”
Cross rolled his eyes. Protocol always got in the way of a friendly conversation.
“So it’s true then.”
Cross cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not on Company payroll anymore. At least, not officially.”
Cross sat back in his seat. How long had it been? Eighteen months? Twenty? If not more. And yet his sudden exodus was still only rumor. Granted, he’d spent little time at Langley, preferring office hours in exotic locales. He made a mental note to ask Al if they were still denying the story of his resignation. Although it didn’t help he still took occasional jobs, his name popping up on reports once or twice a month.
“I do a little contract work from time to time,” he admitted. “But I’m thinking I might not be available for even that anymore.”
“And they let you walk?” Cross imagined Paulson’s eyes were bulging behind the dark sunglasses. “Just like that?”
Cross chuckled. “I wasn’t the kind of guy running around with national secrets, Officer Paulson. I couldn’t tell you how to get to Pennsylvania Avenue, much less nuclear launch codes or how to infiltrate PEOC.” Truth be told, Cross wasn’t even sure they used the president’s Emergency Operations Center under the East Wing of the White House. He guessed it wasn’t nearly as dramatic of a location as Hollywood made it seem.
Paulson gulped. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just, from what I’ve heard …”
“What have you heard about me, Officer Paulson?”
“Your unmatched valor and intelligence in the army resulted in an offer to join an elite, covert Central Intelligence unit. You were involved in almost all the nation’s top intelligence operations over the last decade. And for who knows what reason, you walked in one day last year and quit.”
Cross nodded, a broad smile across his face. “That’s an excellent summary.” He swallowed the last dregs of coffee and asked, “What reason have you heard for my abrupt departure from the CIA?”
Paulson hesitated. He clicked the car’s blinker and performed a slow lane shift. Probably stalling. “Well,” he said, finally. “The rumor around Langley is that you got religious.”
There it was. Cross loved it when the topic came up. It was an easy way to share his story with those least likely to want to have the conversation. “It’s not rumor. It’s true. I got religious.”
Paulson didn’t respond, and Cross didn’t blame him. The admission was often a conversation killer, but Cross didn’t care. “I had an experience that changed my life. And meant I couldn’t do my job the way I had been doing it. Unfortunately, that meant leaving the CIA altogether. Although they’ve obviously been trying to draw me back in however they can.”
“With the exfil ops.” A statement of fact, not really a question.
“Yes.”
“But how do you—”
“How do I pull it off with my newfound perspective on life? Well, up until now there’s never been an op that required engagement.” Cross decided Paulson didn’t need any more details. He knew the officer’s brain filled with memories of his own military service and any combat he might have participated in. Deployment was an instant connection between anyone across the services. If you’d discharged a weapon against another combatant or watched an IED detonate from across the street, you knew what it was like on the field. The emotions, the adrenaline, the doubt. “Tell me, Paulson. Are you religious?”
“Anglican, sir, though not as observant as my parents would like.”
An opportunity. If the first admission of religious conversion didn’t kill the conversation, that question was the death blow. Paulson even mentioned family, a rare topic for someone in the intelligence community. Cross wasn’t about to let this opening go to waste.
“I’d probably agree with your parents. It’s good to know you don’t shy away from the Anglican label, at least.”
Paulson cracked a smile for the first time. “The church was good to me, sir.” He weaved through another knot of traffic before nodding his head at the notebook. “I noticed you studying. If you don’t mind me asking, I heard another rumor around the CIA. About what you’ve been up to.”
“That’s funny,” Cross interjected. “I don’t remember making a formal announcement about my new career path.”
“You and I both know you can’t escape the microscope.”
“I tell you what, Paulson. I’ll make a deal with you. You promise me you’ll find an Anglican church to try in the morning, and I’ll let you in on my little secret.”
“Well, sir, I would, except I’m on duty in the morning. Next Sunday?”
“That’ll do.” Cross looked down at his notes. It wasn’t really a secret, and he was proud to say it. “The rumors are true. I left the CIA to become a Baptist minister.”
The remainder of the drive proved to be a more pleasant conversation than Cross expected with the officers ferrying him from the airfield to Langley. Paulson asked questions about Cross’s church, the sermon he was working on for the morning service, and even for advice concerning a romantic relationship. Before they pulled off onto the private access road that would take them to headquarters, Cross performed an online search for an Anglican church near Paulson’s home address.
They put the vigorous exchange on hold as they produced the proper credentials to pass through a guarded entrance gate, and Cross gathered his study materials into his backpack while Paulson silently navigated the SUV into a restricted subterranean parking garage.
Cross jotted his number on a piece of notebook paper and handed it to Paulson. “Give me a call sometime and let me know how that church works out.”
Paulson agreed and shook Cross’s hand. Cross exited the SUV and headed to the service elevator beyond a thick glass door. The SUV pulled away, and Cross prayed a quick prayer for the hope of a future phone call. The chance to mentor someone from his old life would be a nice change from pretending that life never existed.
A quick swipe of his keycard granted Cross a green confirmation light for the elevator, and he took a deep breath as he entered the car and demanded his floor with the press of a finger. The ride, though short, gave Cross time to rehearse his speech. His lips curved into a smile as he recalled rehearsing a similar speech in the same elevator thirteen months ago.
His second speech would contain fewer choice words.
Unlike the first confrontation with Al, this one wouldn’t involve any dirty laundry. All that had been aired. Now it was just going to be disappointment. A half sigh, half laugh slipped from Cross’s mouth. Or maybe relief. He hoped Al was already reconsidering their arrangement as well. That would make the debrief go smooth.
Still, he knew Al Simpson. And there would be bargaining. There was always bargaining.
The elevator doors opened, and Cross stepped through into an Apple Store. At least, that was what it looked like. Computers and glass, then more glass and computers. The Central Intelligence Agency had been built on subterfuge within shadows, but the shadows in the modern world were all online. Field officers played second banana to the young, tech-savvy information foragers in the new order. Cross was efficient on a computer, but his particular set of skills was not useful inside a cubicle.
No one looked his way as he strode down the middle of the glass desks and bright display monitors. Even on a Saturday afternoon, the office buzzed with activity. National security was a 24/7 business with ample supply and crushing demand. A handful of analysts were likely working on the cleanup of the Christine Lewis rescue mission, but that was only one of a dozen or more high-priority operations demanding full attention.
Guinevere Sullivan, a tall brunette with cream-colored skin and wide eyes set inside square black frames, marched toward him. Both arms guarded a leather portfolio against her blouse. Without missing a step, she met him in the center of the room, spun on a heel, and matched his stride.
“Welcome home, Officer Cross.”
Cross looked away, unable to stop himself from smiling. “It’s not ‘Officer’ anymore, remember, Guin?” She remembered. This was their game.
“It’s Officer Sullivan to civilians, mind you.”
Few ever called her Guin. And using Guinevere guaranteed the threat of bodily injury.
Cross snorted. “I didn’t think civilians were allowed to talk to the assistant executive director.”
“Assistant to the executive director, and while you may insist on informality, I can assure you our relationship has resided, and will continue to reside, on a level somewhere above professional.”
“Come on. We both know you could do Al’s job one handed. This whole ‘assistant to’ thing is demeaning and unjust.”
“What’s demeaning is your lack of respect.”
Cross’s smile widened. He believed she enjoyed the back-and-forth even more since he retired.
She dipped her chin and peeked over her glasses. “Good flight?”
“Got a full five.”
Guin’s confident steps ceased, and she stared at him. Cross stopped as well, his smile fading and his eyebrows creasing. “What is it?”
“Incredible.”
Busted.
Guin shook her head. “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”
Cross took a deep breath and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Guin. It got complicated.”
One of her fingers tapped on the leather portfolio as if it were the only part of her allowed to show emotion. “Of course it got complicated, John.” First name. That was really trouble. “Did you think it would never get complicated? You’re better than that.”
Cross kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Actually I thought I was good enough to keep it that way. Now we know.”
“He’s not going to like it.”
Despite the expression of disappointment across Guin’s face, Cross shot her a smile. “Did Al start liking things while I was gone? I thought you were better than that.”
Guin narrowed her eyes and breathed through her thin nostrils. “And I was just getting used to having you around again.” She started walking again.
Cross fell into step by her side. “Yeah. Me too.”
They were silent the rest of the way to the smoky glass door of the conference room. Guin placed her hand on the knob, then paused. Her smile returned, and she said, “I’m glad it didn’t get too complicated.”
“You and me both.”
She opened the door, and Cross stepped in. Guin didn’t follow. She closed the door behind him and no doubt left to find a corner to hide in until the cease-fire.
“Hey, Al.”
“Hey, Al?” came the response, a little louder than probably intended. “That’s all you got, is ‘Hey, Al’?” Or maybe the uncomfortable volume was intended after all.
Cross stepped to the nearest black chair behind a classy glass boardroom table in the center of the space. He sat and placed his backpack on the chair beside him.
Al Simpson, executive director of the Central Intelligence Agency, stood on the opposite side of the table, his hands buried into the pockets of his suit pants. His thinning gray hair stuck up in front, probably from pushing his fingers through it, and he scowled. All in all, pretty much as expected.
Cross stretched across the table and snatched a glass cup and matching water pitcher from the center. He filled the glass, replaced the water pitcher, and took a nonchalant drink. He sighed, then said, “Well, I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Ha! I think I deserve a kiss after saving your sorry behind in Amman.”
“Saving my behind? I’m pretty sure I saved your public relations backside when this sorry excuse for an op fell apart before I put my pants on this morning.”
Both men laughed aloud. Simpson slid into a seat and grabbed his own glass, but instead of water, he opted for a flask hidden in his inside jacket pocket. “I’d offer,” he said as he poured.
“But you know what I’ll say.”
Simpson tipped the flask at Cross, then tucked it away. “More power to you, son.”
Simpson called every male officer “son,” but Cross felt it meant something with him. Memories of success and failure on the field flashed through his mind. Beside him at every turn was Simpson offering support. Cross shifted his eyes to the table. He didn’t want to look. The disappointment would be crushing. A son betraying a father. For a second time. Wounds would reopen. Deep wounds.
Simpson took a sip from his glass and cradled it in both hands. “Listen, I know the op went bad, but you did good work out there. The fact that you and Ms. Lewis made it out alive means it was a win in my book.”
“It did get bad. Honestly, I don’t know why we’re still alive.”
“I thought a man of your convictions saw miracles all the time.”
“I almost took a life today, Al.” The smiles faded. “There are about a million other ways this could have gone where I would’ve had to kill.”
He put the word out on the table just as he had a year ago.
Simpson set his drink on the table and folded his hands. “OK, I get it. The op went bad. You made choices. That doesn’t mean it was like before. Even if you’d had to, this is a completely different scenario. We’re talking self-defense, John. Even someone like you should be able to see that.”
After his first resignation, it took nine months before the two men reestablished contact, another three before Cross agreed to work pro bono. Simpson hadn’t gotten over it, that much was certain. “Someone like you” was the way he put it. As if Cross sprouted wings and grew a tail.
“Justifying it is not the point,” Cross replied. “It’s about balance. If I have to take a life, it’s just adding to the scale on the other side.”
Simpson spread his hands and leaned back in the chair. “Look, this was a hot one. The intel was bad, and you stepped into the middle of an execution. How many has it been? Five? Six? So we found a bump. That’s all it is, John. A bump. We can move past this. I can guarantee that the next six will be smash and grab.” Simpson grinned and let a curse slip. “We can even talk about some black-bag jobs where you don’t have to talk to anyone.”
Cross put a hand on his backpack and downed the last bit of water in his glass. “Al, I’m sorry, but—”
“Think about what you’re about to do,” Simpson interrupted.
Cross sighed. “I got a new job,” he said after a brief pause.
“Don’t tell me it’s the bureau. It’d break my heart.”
Cross forced a smile and shook his head. “Actually, it’s at a church.”
Simpson didn’t respond. His eyes narrowed a bit. An audible exhale exited his nose.
“I’m a pastor now. I preach every Sunday. I’m preaching in the morning, in fact. It’s a small country church. They’re just happy to have someone, and I’m taking classes. Online stuff.” Cross knew he was rambling, but this might be the last time they spoke. “It’s just going to make it harder. And we both know what this was.”
Simpson leaned forward and stared into the clear liquid in his glass. Without a word, Cross stood from the chair, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and moved to the exit.
“If you walk out that door …”
Simpson’s voice paused Cross’s hand against the door handle. Here came the speech. Cross turned to face him, but Simpson kept staring into the glass.
“You’re going to leave a big”—Simpson caught the expletive he was surely about to use—“hole in the only thing keeping this country together. Everybody on the Hill is only trying to pour gasoline on the fire. Without us, the whole thing goes up in flames. They need us to contain the fire, John. Maintain the order.”
“Al, you don’t need me. You’ve got a lot of good officers.” Cross turned the doorknob. “Come by sometime. We’ll get a cup of coffee.”
Simpson looked up from his drink. He turned a corner of his mouth up and relaxed his thin
eyebrows. “I will.”
Cross left the conference room knowing it was a lie.
CHAPTER SIX
HE STOOD IN the open doorway of his new home, staring at the black silhouette of the Rural Grove Baptist Church across the street. His heart swelled, and he recalled how different his life had been only six months ago as he’d searched for a church to call home. Megachurches provided the blessing of anonymity, but that meant sacrificing his quest for isolation. So he opted for something small. And now here he was, the pastor of a church. Less isolated now than he’d ever been in his life.
RGBC wasn’t a large building, but picturesque even at night, thanks to the traditional steeple rising from its sloping roof. The skeleton of an unfinished expansion framed the silhouette, a behemoth of debt saddled to the church, serving as a monument to the nearsighted vision of the previous shepherd.
Cross would never admit it to anyone attending the church, but he liked the blemish of the unfinished building. They paid a loan for it and couldn’t use it, but it reminded him of the grave responsibility of leading the small group of Christ followers.
With a deep breath, he finally released his gaze and stepped into the house, closing the front door in his wake. He preferred the house dark. Tonight, however, he needed light to work by, so he flipped on a table-side lamp and tossed his backpack into the arms of a lonely armchair.
He took a detour into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Bare, as he’d left it. His doors were never locked, and the little old ladies of his congregation were too generous. He’d expected a surprise casserole or baked pie.
No covered dish sat next to the half-full jug of skim milk. And yet he smiled. Just the picture of Mrs. Templeton or Ms. Johnson doting on him always brought a smile to his face. His smile grew as he grabbed the jug of milk and closed the door.
He filled a bowl with bran flakes and added the milk. He returned the milk to its home, grabbed a spoon, and headed back to the armchair. Cradling the bowl in one hand, he pulled his notebook and Bible from the backpack and balanced them on his knees. He shoved a spoonful of bran into his mouth, then slid the bowl onto the side table. Flipping the Bible and notebook open, he said a quick prayer and buried his thoughts into his sermon.