American Operator

by Brian Andrews

  I’m going to have to drink slower . . . spread out my sips and pace myself.

  When the nausea passed, she eased back onto her haunches and then gingerly leaned against the wall. Staring at the locked plywood door, she resisted the compulsion to zone out. She needed to keep her mind active. Observation, data collection, analysis, and the communication of information and disinformation—these were the weapons of her trade. Despite the pain and the weariness, she had to put her skills to use at every opportunity.

  If that woman comes back, I need to try to make a connection, get her to care about me. I need to collect as much information as possible: Where am I, who took me, and why?

  That last piece of information was the most critical. They’d killed the Ambassador but taken her. Why? It didn’t make any sense. Her mind was sluggish, but eventually the gears began to turn: Scenario one, her kidnapping had been an opportunistic decision. She was young, Western, and reasonably attractive, which made her a valuable commodity for human trafficking. Scenario two, they knew who her father was, which made her a valuable ransom candidate. In both scenarios, their objective would be the same—trade her for money. Every terrorist organization needed to raise capital. It was the most logical explanation for why she, and she alone, had been spared.

  But there was a third scenario, one she was afraid to even contemplate.

  What if they had taken her because her official cover had been compromised? Because they knew she was CIA?

  What if she, not the Ambassador, had been the target of the operation?

  CHAPTER 5

  National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC)

  Liberty Crossing

  McLean, Virginia

  May 5

  0230 Local Time

  Kelso Jarvis sneezed and barely got the handkerchief up in time to cover his face. “Excuse me,” he said as he made his way down the corridor toward the briefing room.

  “Bless you,” said his Chief of Staff, Petra Felsk. Several others traveling in his wake, including his Deputy Director of Intelligence Integration, Catherine Morgan, echoed her.

  “Damn cold,” he grumbled and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  From a SOPMOD M4–carrying Tier One operator to a watery-eyed bureaucrat with a hanky. How the hell did this happen?

  This self-deprecating sentiment was a gross simplification of his evolution, however. Jarvis was not just any old watery-eyed bureaucrat. He was the Director of National Intelligence—the highest ranking official in the US intelligence community, responsible for overseeing the budget, operational priorities, and collection activities of the nation’s sixteen separate intelligence agencies. The CIA, Defense Intelligence Agency, NSA, and intelligence departments of each branch of the US military all worked for him, making Kelso Jarvis the second most powerful man in America. Which was why not a day went by since he’d accepted the appointment that he didn’t wake up contemplating whether today would be the day he quit.

  “The late-spring bugs are the worst,” said Reginald Buckingham, the Director of the NCTC, walking on Jarvis’s left. “My personal theory is that they’ve had all winter to fly under the radar and cross-pollinate with all the other germs. They wait until all the regular cold and flu bugs have run their course, then they strike, catching everybody by surprise.”

  “It’s just a cold, Reggie,” Jarvis said, suppressing the urge to hack up a throatful of phlegm, “not some virus conspiracy.”

  Despite the bleary-eyed hour, everyone in earshot laughed.

  God, he hated that—the sycophantic fawning that his presence spawned. The jibe wasn’t that funny, but because he was the DNI, they laughed—laughed at the Director of the NCTC, a man they would never laugh at under normal circumstances. This was how pecking orders were reinforced. Jarvis had no choice but to capitalize on these innocuous little opportunities whenever they presented themselves. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He was the chief. He was the boss. Every little test of his authority needed to be acknowledged and deftly dissuaded. Yet he also needed to engender loyalty, honesty, and respect from his subordinates. Reggie Buckingham was a smart, capable Director. As such, Jarvis would never berate, undermine, or question the man’s decisions or abilities in a strategic or operational setting. When it mattered, Jarvis built his people up—leaving occasions like this, when it didn’t, to knock them down.

  His persona as DNI was different from his persona as Director of Ember, just as his persona as Director of Ember had been different from his persona as a Tier One SEAL unit commander. Quality leadership was like a finely tailored suit, he knew, not a one-size-fits-all garment. What motivated a Navy SEAL operating downrange was very different from what motivated a junior CIA analyst in Langley, which was in turn very different from what motivated a senior “career” civil servant in DC. And Jarvis, while not a psychologist by training, was very much a lifelong student of human psychology and had spent his entire professional career reading people and fine-tuning his actions and behavior.

  Jarvis entered the conference room and took the seat at the head of the table. After the doors had shut but before everyone else had found their seats, he said, “I know it’s late, and I know everyone is exhausted, but your attendance here speaks volumes. Make no mistake, what happened in Ankara was not just a random act of terrorism. This was a premeditated attack against the United States and against Turkey, our most important NATO ally in the region. US Ambassador Bailey, Turkish Minister Demicri, and dozens of innocent citizens are dead. On top of that, we have an American who is missing and presumed in enemy hands. Every minute counts, people, so bring me up to speed. What are the new developments since the last brief?”

  “Unfortunately, sir, we still have more questions than answers,” Buckingham began. “No credible source has taken ownership of the attack.”

  “Has a ransom demand for Amanda Allen been made yet?” Petra asked, seated at Jarvis’s right.

  “Not yet.”

  “Do we think this was ISIS?” Jarvis asked.

  “Our data suggests that ISIS activity in Turkey peaked with last year’s New Year’s Eve nightclub attack in Istanbul. We’ve witnessed a declining taper since then as the multiple active campaigns against ISIS—ours, Iraqi, Kurdish, and Russian-backed Syrian offensives—have fractured the caliphate and hampered their command and control.”

  “So are we ruling out ISIS?” Catherine Morgan interjected.

  “Not categorically, but operating and loitering in Turkey has become a lot more difficult for ISIS over the past twelve months.”

  “What does Ankara have to say on the matter?” Jarvis asked. “Have we talked to anyone at Turkish National Intelligence?”

  “They’re being extremely tight-lipped,” Buckingham said. “Not a lot of sharing going on by Turkish MIT at the moment. Relations are strained, and we know it’s being driven from the top. Recent personnel changes aren’t helping, either. Some of our best allies in MIT have been sidelined or pushed out. Thankfully, Ankara Police are still talking to us—at least until Erodan shuts that down, too. Someone at OGA must have called in a favor with the Ankara Chief of Police because this evening we got street-cam video footage of the attack, which is how we confirmed Amanda Allen survived the blast and was abducted.”

  “Did anyone pop on facial recognition in the video?” Petra asked.

  “We’re still working on that.”

  “If it’s not ISIS, I would start with the Kurdistan Freedom Hawks,” Jarvis said. “TAK has been active with recent attacks in both Ankara and Istanbul.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s true, and TAK is high on our list of suspects. We’re also looking at PKK, YPG, and other armed activist factions pursuing Kurdish autonomy,” the NCTC Director said. “As you are undoubtedly aware, two years ago, PKK launched the Peoples’ United Revolutionary Movement with the stated aim of overthrowing the Turkish government. By our count, there are no less than nine factions who count themselves as members, including several Ma
rxist-Leninist and Communist terror groups. Even though the individual factions’ specific ideological objectives differ, they all agree that the Erodan regime needs to fall. Seventy percent of attacks in Turkey last year were promulgated by these PKK-affiliated groups.”

  “Both TAK and YPG have disavowed links to PKK,” Catherine Morgan said.

  “Intelligence suggests otherwise,” Buckingham replied with a tight smile.

  “The newly completed wall along the Syrian border has been a major impediment to the movement of Kurdish personnel in and out of southeastern Turkey,” Petra said, looking from Buckingham to Jarvis. “And the Turkish military has been conducting offensives across the border into Syria, directly striking Kurdish rebel strongholds in Afrin and Manbij. Yesterday’s attack in Ankara could be an act of retribution.”

  “CIA has a well-placed asset in PKK—Barakat, I believe is his name,” Jarvis said, looking to Morgan. “Have we heard anything from him?”

  “We’ve not had a report for six weeks,” she said, her eyebrows rising with apparent surprise at her boss’s by-name knowledge of this asset. “In fact, this is the longest he’s ever gone dark. CIA is worried about him.”

  Jarvis scanned the room, looking for a familiar face from Langley. Not seeing one, he said, “Is everyone here yours, Reggie?”

  Buckingham did a quick scan of his own and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why is no one from Langley here?”

  “Well, it’s late. But we’ve been dialoguing with them from the beginning,” Buckingham said and folded his arms across his chest. “I realize this meeting doesn’t feel interagency, but I assure you we’re talking to all the right people.”

  “Amanda Allen is CIA,” Jarvis said. “Everyone here knows that, right?”

  He got nods back from around the table, but no comments.

  “Who’s looking for her on the ground?” he asked.

  “Langley is on it,” Buckingham said. “Ground branch is looking for her.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Jarvis said, both annoyed and flabbergasted. “Whoever took Allen is going to move her out of country. It might have happened already. This needs to be a coordinated effort so we can bring all the resources of the intelligence community to bear.”

  “Agreed,” Buckingham said. Then, after an uncomfortable beat and an obvious effort not to look at Catherine Morgan: “But to be completely honest, sir, we wanted to see which direction you wanted to take things. My predecessor was let go for overstepping his bounds. Given the highly political and sensitive nature of this event, we weren’t sure if you wanted CIA or DIA to take the lead? Or maybe you’d prefer to task that black-vapor task force of yours. NCTC has stepped on all kinds of toes the past couple of years, and I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes.”

  Jarvis resisted the urge to scowl. He resisted the urge to sigh, to curse, to condemn, or to use sarcasm. Reggie Buckingham had just been brazenly honest with him and highlighted the exact reason Jarvis had started Ember in the first place—institutional paralysis perpetuated by bullshit rice-bowl mentalities and supersize bureaucrat egos. The oblique reference to his predecessor’s firing by Catherine Morgan during her short tenure as acting DNI was not lost on Jarvis, either. That single act of perceived retribution against his predecessor for protecting Ember had left a mark on Buckingham’s psyche. It was astonishing to Jarvis that the Director of the NCTC, one of the top posts in the counterterrorism community, had chosen to handcuff himself rather than face professional admonishment.

  In his peripheral vision, Jarvis noted Catherine’s jaw set in hard, silent discord. “Your predecessor was put in an impossible situation, Reggie,” Jarvis said calmly. “I’m going to try not to do that with you.”

  Buckingham nodded but offered no other reply.

  “All right, folks, let’s take a ten-minute break,” Jarvis said, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his runny nose. Then, turning to Buckingham, he quietly added, “Reggie, why don’t you give CIA Director Barrett a call at home. Tell him that the DNI was disappointed that neither he nor any of his deputies were in attendance at this meeting.”

  “Yes, sir,” Buckingham said, nodding and red-faced.

  “And ask your people to give me, Petra, and Catherine the room for a few minutes.”

  “Roger that,” the NCTC Director said and turned to make it happen.

  When the room was theirs, Jarvis exhaled loudly and looked back and forth between the two women he considered to be the brightest and most capable people on his staff, his gaze ultimately settling on Catherine. “What’s our exposure with Allen?”

  “She’s green,” Morgan said, not missing a beat. “She’s only been in the position four months. From what I can gather, she’s smart and early feedback was positive; Clandestine Services had high hopes for her. She’s read into most of our operations in the region.”

  “How big is her stable of collection assets?”

  “Pretty big. Her predecessor was Mike Hughes. Do you know Mike?”

  “No,” Jarvis said.

  “Well, he left behind some big shoes to fill. Mike was very aggressive in Turkey, spending most of his tenure developing assets. If she was a hard study and committed her network to memory, it could be a problem for us if they break her.”

  “That’s assuming her cover was blown and she was the target of the operation,” Petra interjected. “I find that scenario unlikely.”

  “So you think she was a target of opportunity?” Morgan asked.

  “Not even—I think she was an acquisition of opportunity,” said Petra. “A spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  “There’s been no ransom demand yet. Do we think the assholes that took her know who her father is?” Jarvis said.

  “The story broke; it’s all over the news. If they didn’t know before, they most certainly do now,” Petra said.

  “Has the Chief Justice made a statement yet?” he asked.

  “No,” said Petra and Catherine in unison.

  He nodded. “Good. I want to be in control of the narrative. Petra, can you reach out to Justice Allen and set up a meeting with him tomorrow—er, I mean, this morning? We also need to get someone from the Joint Hostage Recovery Task Force in the loop here. Make sure it’s someone good.”

  “Understood. Will do,” Petra said.

  “Regardless of the optics, we have to get Allen back. Whoever did this murdered the US Ambassador in broad daylight in downtown Ankara. They’re obviously intent on making a very loud statement on the global stage, and I’ll be damned if I let them execute Allen on YouTube,” Jarvis growled. “It’s just us now, so I want your unfiltered opinions. Who do you think took her?”

  “My money is on TAK,” Morgan said. “They have been the most active terrorist group in Turkey over the past five years, and their MO is bombing police and civilian targets in major cities. Just a month ago, they released a statement reiterating that, and I quote, ‘all the cities of Turkey are our battlegrounds,’ and that their ‘actions will be more intense than in the past.’ They’ve also stated that the recent Turkish offensives in Syria against Kurdish settlements would not go unpunished.”

  Jarvis nodded, then looked to Petra.

  “My money is on PKK,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “They have the most resources, and they have an active intelligence collection apparatus inside Turkey. Despite publicly renouncing the use of terrorist tactics, I think they’re escalating. And that’s not to say this attack wasn’t executed by TAK or one of the other factions, but I believe PKK is driving this bus.”

  “The common thread I’m hearing from both of you is escalation. Erodan is going after the Kurds—no ifs, ands, or buts about it—and the Kurds are fighting back. Still, how TAK or PKK could pull off an attack like this is perplexing to me . . .” Jarvis rubbed his temples. “It would have required dedicated advance ISR—with spotter teams and assets running interference. Maybe PKK has evolved to that level of sophistication, I do
n’t know, but we can worry about the how later. Right now, we need to focus on two things: one, finding and rescuing Allen, and two, figuring out who is responsible and what they’re planning next. Because mark my words, something else is coming. I can feel it.”

  “Agreed,” Petra said. “So we have a decision to make. Do we let CIA manage Allen’s recovery effort, do we take over and put together a joint task force, or do we simply use Ember?”

  Tasking Ember was the most expedient solution. It was the easy answer to a difficult problem, but that didn’t make it the right answer. Jarvis sighed with frustration. “Honestly, my immediate inclination is to pick up the phone and conference Shane Smith into this meeting right now. But . . .”

  “But to ignore the systemic dysfunction we’re witnessing between CIA, DIA, NCTC, and State would be a failure of leadership—a failure of our leadership,” Morgan said.

  He met her gaze. Was this the new Catherine Morgan talking or the old one? He knew how she felt about Ember. This was the very woman who one year ago had informed him that her first act, were she confirmed as permanent DNI, would be to disband America’s premier black-ops task force. In an ironic twist of fate, the President had appointed Jarvis as DNI, not Morgan. Instead of firing her, Jarvis had made her his Deputy Director of Intelligence Integration. Since she’d been the one complaining most loudly about silo operations and compartmentalized activities within the IC, he’d decided to put her in charge of implementing policies and structures to address interagency dysfunction. Thus far, she’d made very little progress.

  Now wasn’t the time to rebuke her, so he simply said, “You are correct in saying that a failure to try to bring order and improvement to the current system would be a failure in leadership. But leadership is also about recognizing the difference between emergency surgery and rehabilitation. This is emergency surgery, and Ember is our crash team on standby. I’m sorry, but we don’t have a choice. I’m tasking Ember.”