Rebecca moved her chair away from the table. “I thought that was what the paintings were for.” Her eyes drifted to the paintings that hung along the walls of the conference room. A kaleidoscope of geometric cubes by Alvin D. Loving, the neon splatters of Jackson Pollack, bold blue and red gingham patterns of Thomas Downing …
Paulis turned back to face her. “You like them?”
“Well, they beat the old Revolutionary War battles the previous director had up.”
He cast an admiring eye over the canvases, then continued towards the exit. “When I took over the office, I requisitioned them from the Intelligence Art Collection. Some folks would be surprised to know the CIA covertly funded many of these artists at the height of the Cold War. Back then, we saw it as useful propaganda. A showcase of American creative freedom versus the rigid dogma of the Soviet Union.”
Rebecca followed him out into his office, a large square room filled with soft muted shades of gray. “Is that how you see them, sir?”
Paulis sat down behind a massive desk. Like the rest of his furniture, the slab of dark, stained wood was simple, clean, and modern.
“I see them as a reminder that there’s more than one way to skin a cat. And that sometimes the reasons why we do things are just as important as the results themselves. Besides, I happen to appreciate modern art.”
He leaned back in his chair. A bank of windows stretched behind him, looking out over the dense, green Virginia foliage. Rebecca saw the white domed roof of the Headquarters Auditorium nestled in a grove of trees. The structure was known as the ‘Igloo’ by CIA employees due to its bubble-shaped construction.
Paulis rubbed his temple. “Look, it’s obvious that you and Galloway were … close. Not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. Now, I could quote agency regulations all day long, but where would that get us? It’s not like I can say I’ve always made the best decisions when it comes to that part of my life. So let’s leave that alone for the time being. But I promoted you to D/NCS for a reason, Director Freeling. Do you know what that reason is?”
She uttered a short, bitter laugh. “To clean up Bernatto’s mess?”
Paulis’ dark brown eyes did not blink, but a frown creased his lips. “Bernatto crossed the line. He used our people as his own private army, to progress his own agenda. But men like Bernatto aren't created in a vacuum. Did you ever meet Bernatto's superior, Walter Grissom?”
“No sir. I was working under Bernatto when Grissom was the D/NCS. He resigned a few years after my orientation."
Paulis chuckled. “Resigned. Interesting story there. I worked with Grissom when I was with the JSOC. The man was intelligent. Ruthless. Toughest SOB I ever knew. Second man in history to be awarded all four of our nation’s highest honors. Medal of Honor. Distinguished Service Cross. Distinguished Service Medal, and the National Security Medal thrown in for good measure.”
“That is impressive. Funny, I never see his name turn up on the speaking circuits.”
Paulis shifted in his chair. “Despite the awards, his record doesn't make good speech material for the Ivy League crowd. Before he resigned in 2010, Grissom was laser-focused on China. At the time, we had our own little cold war going with Beijing. Their Ministry of State Security effectively dismantled our intelligence network there. Grissom was convinced we had a mole. One of the men we had planted inside the U.S. Ambassador’s Office. Grissom believed that China had turned him, that the man was a double agent. He claimed this man was selling out other operatives we had in place there. Giving China decryption keys for our communication network.”
“Was he right?”
Paulis smiled. "The D/CIA at the time didn't think so. But we’ll never know for sure. The man’s apartment exploded. Gas leak of some kind. Grissom's suspected mole died in the fire. Along with his wife and daughter.”
“Oh my God.”
"A Senate Intelligence Committee investigation tied the explosion to Grissom. He’d ordered an unauthorized assassination, based on his own suspicions. No hard proof. No authorization from the D/CIA, or anyone else. Our ambassador to China was furious. He was well-connected, and the committee wanted Grissom's head on a plate.”
"I’m surprised they let him resign."
"Like I said, Grissom was smart. He wasn't just using agency resources to spy on China. By the time the committee called him in to testify, he had dirt on every single senator sitting at that table. Sex scandals, payoffs, shady deals … He knew where all the bodies were buried. The Committee was forced to accept his resignation, or deal with the fallout. After that, Grissom did some light consulting work … Homeland security advisor, private intelligence contractor, that kind of thing. Then he dropped off the face of the earth. Man would be in his late seventies now, if he’s even still alive. So as you can see, Bernatto's apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Rebecca leaned forward in her chair. "So what does all this have to do with me, Director?"
Paulis sighed. "I won’t deny there may have been some who saw your promotion as a PR opportunity, or a chance to head off a lawsuit. But not me. Grissom and Bernatto tarnished the reputation of this agency. That hurts our credibility, and that's dangerous. To fix it, I need someone I can trust, someone who can get the job done the right way. Someone who can put their responsibilities ahead of their personal feelings.”
She nodded. “You mean someone who follows orders.”
“That’s a copout, Freeling. We both know this job is never that simple. Sometimes you have to make the tough call. But I need to know that I can trust you to make those calls for the right reasons. And that you know where to draw the line. Guys like Grissom, and Bernatto … they lost sight of that. I need to know you won’t do the same.”
“Sir, putting aside any … personal feelings I have for Agent Galloway, there’s still the matter of his mission. He may possess critical intel concerning a stolen biological weapon.”
Paulis flipped open a report that sat atop a stack of folders on the side of his desk. “Yes, the Syria thing. As far as I can tell, you can’t confirm that the missing materials are in fact a weapon of any kind. There’s no clear indication of exactly what was being manufactured in that lab.”
“Sir, I realize the intel is not conclusive, but this is too important—”
“Yes, it is. Too important to risk your personal feelings blinding you to facts that don’t fit with what you want to see. I’m reassigning this to your Deputy Director. He’ll have an independent team confirm this report. If the situation warrants it, I’ll brief the President. Until that time, his order stands. You are not to send any operatives of this agency into Sudan, for any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?”
She met his stare for a second. Then, she lowered her eyes and nodded. “Clear, sir.”
“Good. Now, in the meantime, I want you to liaison with FBI Counter Intel. They’re moving to incept this rogue operative of yours. After they take Caine into custody, I want you on hand to advise during his debriefing. You know him better than they do. Let’s use that to our advantage.”
“I thought I was going to handle Caine’s capture and—"
Paulis shook his head. “Not a chance. You already got away with running one illegal operation on U.S. soil. You try to take this on yourself, and I’ll have the FBI, the Department of Justice, and an Oversight Committee camping out in this office for days. And trust me, they won’t be here to admire the art.”
Rebecca nodded again. “Understood.”
“I’ll have my office send you a report on the agent in charge. I understand they’re also responsible for insuring Mr. Lapinski makes it to his own Senate Intelligence Committee hearing. I want you on site when they move him. You'll only be an observer of course, but I’ll feel better if you sign off on their security protocols. It’s their party, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help set the table.”
“Got it.” Rebecca turned and began to move away from his desk.
“And Rebecca?”
<
br /> She stopped near the double doors that led to the anteroom outside the office suite. “Yes, sir?”
“I spoke with Dr. Corrigan.” His voice softened. “After you meet with the FBI, I want you to take some time off. Focus on your recovery.”
“Corrigan’s a good doctor. He wouldn’t tell me how you two met though. Said it was classified.”
Paulis chuckled. “Not exactly. I was suffering chronic lower back pain after my last marathon. It was Boston. Corrigan treated me there. Told me to take it easy for sixth months.”
“I didn’t know you ran, sir.”
Paulis smiled. “Something else we have in common, Director Freeling. Thing is, I didn’t listen to Corrigan’s advice. Ran a 5K two months later. My back gave out halfway through. I ended up with a lumbar stress fracture. By the time I was through with physical therapy … well, let's just say I won't be running any more marathons.”
He tapped his desk with a pen and stared at her over the rim of his glasses. “I hope you’ll be smarter than I was. Listen to the doctor. Get better.”
“I’ll try, sir. Thank you.”
She exited the office and rolled past the pair of secretaries. They were both busy answering the phones and filing reports. They didn’t even look up at her as she moved past them and exited the Director’s suite.
She took the elevator down to the first floor and exited the southwest corner of the Old Headquarters Building. She moved towards the auditorium, keeping a wary eye on the other employees walking past her.
Once she put some distance between herself and the OHB, she slipped her cell phone from her purse. She dialed a preset number.
A man’s voice answered. “Director?”
“He said no. We’re on our own.”
The man on the phone grunted in acknowledgment. “FBI is on him. I have a narrow window to extract the asset. You sure you want to do this?”
Rebecca was silent for a moment. A light breeze picked up. Her fiery hair whipped behind her. She bit her lip. Then she brought the phone closer to her face and lowered her voice.
“Code green. Do it.”
“Understood.”
The man hung up.
Rebecca slipped her phone back in her purse and continued to roll away from the building.
Chapter Eight
Josh coughed and spit up a mouthful of blood. His body tensed as he watched the muscles ripple under the shoulders of the big man standing in front of him
The hulking brute’s fist slammed into his gut again, and he felt the muscles around his ribs spasm in pain. The wind expelled from his lungs in an agonized gasp, and his chest heaved up and down. Each panting breath shot a lance of white-hot pain down his side. He winced and tried to slow his frenzied breathing.
Gotta be a cracked rib, he thought. Add it to the list.
The muscles in his shoulders throbbed in protest. His arms were pulled behind him and cuffed to a thick metal pipe that ran up and snaked along the ceiling. The room was dark, but he could make out clusters of other pipes and valves, hidden in the shadows. They had hooded him before leaving Kanfar, and now he had no idea where he was. It had been hours since his last sip of water, and days since his last meal.
The big man grabbed a tuft of his short brown hair and yanked his head up. Josh’s face was a mess of cuts and bruises, and his right eye was swollen half-shut. But he could still make out the features of the man standing before him. Tall, broad shoulders, a wide snarling mouth, and small beady eyes.
A white paste-like paint covered his face, drawing the shape of a skull around his eyes and nose. Long painted fangs curved down his cheeks. The paste smelled like a mixture of ash and clay, mixed with the pungent odor of the man’s sweat.
Josh forced a whistle though his battered lips. “Hey, man. I think you got something on your face.” He began to chuckle, but his laughter transformed into a painful spasm of coughing.
“You think this is funny, eh?" the big man snarled. "I give you more to laugh about then.”
He drove another fist into Josh’s stomach, cutting his bout of coughing short. Josh groaned and tugged against his chains. He looked up and glared at the man, rage simmering behind his battered eyes.
The big man smiled. “You think you die here in Africa, eh? You wrong. I won’t let you die. Not yet. Not until you tell me what I want to know.”
Josh spit another mouthful of blood and watched it pool on the dusty concrete floor.
“Where is Mister Takuba’s property?" the brute demanded. "Is it still in Kanfar? Did you leave it in Malakal?”
Josh looked up and panted for breath. “Wait, please. Just … there’s something I need to know first.”
The big man focused his tiny eyes on Josh. He took a step closer. “What are you talking about?”
“Does that scare people? You know, painting your face? The whole skull thing? Cause, where I come from, we have a word for people who do that. We call them clowns.”
The man grabbed Josh’s forehead and slammed his head back against the pipe. His skull hit the metal tube with a loud clang. The sound echoed through the room.
“I don’t hear you laughing anymore,” the man shouted. Josh’s eyes fluttered and rolled back into his skull. His head lolled forward, and a black mist began to creep in around the aides of his vision.
He forced himself to chuckle, despite the pain that burned through his body.
Footsteps echoed across the concrete floor. Someone was walking towards them.
“That’s enough, Yiel. You let him get the better of you. He must be awake to feel the pain, yes?”
Josh recognized the voice.
Takuba.
“Huh,” Josh grunted. “We got the clowns, here comes the ringmaster.”
Takuba smiled. Josh saw the glint of red, the diamond, glowing between his curled lips.
“Let him down,” Takuba said. His voice was calm, almost serene.
The man called Yiel walked behind Josh. There was a click as he twisted a key in the handcuffs. They snapped open, and Josh tumbled forward onto the floor. He moaned in pain as his battered flesh struck the concrete.
Takuba shook his head. “So much pain, Mr. Galloway, so much ugliness.” He kneeled down next to Josh. “And for what? What are you fighting for?” He looked around the dim room and gestured towards a cluster of pipes. “You think you fight for your country? No, my friend.” He thumped a fist against his chest. “I fight for my country.”
He pointed at the brute, who stood under the single dangling light bulb. White sweat dripped from the man's face paint and ran in streaks down his neck.
“Yiel, there, he is one of my warriors. He is a Ghost Jackal, favored by the spirits that give me power. He also fights for his country. But you? You are nothing but a dog, sent to gather scraps for your master.”
“Yeah?” Josh wheezed, lifting his head to stare into Takuba’s eyes. “I guess that makes you the latest scrap.”
Takuba stood up and brushed the dirt off his trousers.
“I have some entertainment for you, Mr. Galloway. Come, you will find this most interesting, I promise.”
He turned to the man he called Yiel. “Bring him.”
Josh winced again as Yiel yanked him to his feet.
“Move!”
He stumbled as Yiel shoved him forward. A pair of rebel soldiers stepped out of the shadows behind him. They prodded him with the barrels of their assault rifles.
He wiped a streak of blood from an old cut on his cheek and glared at them for a second. Then he followed as Takuba led him out of the dim room, into a long, gray hallway. The air smelled of rusting metal and chemicals.
“Where the hell are we?” he demanded.
Takuba looked around. “This place? This place is a cancer, a tumor on the flesh of my home. It sucks the blood from the ground and leaves only death and desert behind.”
“You mean oil?”
They walked past a row of slim, dusty windows. Josh caught a glimpse of men t
raining outside. He looked closer, but he could not make out the weapons and equipment they were using.
“Yes,” Takuba continued. “Oil. The great addiction of the civilized world.”
“Your country sold the oil rights,” Josh muttered. “No one put a gun to your head.”
Takuba stopped. “You are wrong. When I was six years old, a man did put a gun to my head. Not for oil. Not for money. I had neither, of course. No, this man said he was a soldier. He fought for the Lord’s Resistance Army. Have you heard of them?"
“The LRA are a bunch of thugs led by a psychopath,” Josh said. "Just like you." He glanced out the windows as a pair of big-rig trucks pulled up outside the building. He saw the men rush to the trucks and begin unloading long black cases.
“Yes, the LRA are very bad men. Raiders and thieves masquerading as freedom fighters," Takuba continued. "This man, he told me I was to become a soldier, and fight for his glorious cause. Then he said I must give him my loyalty. Or he would give me a bullet.” Takuba laughed. "I was just a boy, I was terrified. I said yes, of course. What choice did I have?”
Josh was silent as they marched past the windows. The men behind them prodded him again with the barrels of their rifles. They turned left and entered a larger room filled with metal chemical tanks and more pipes. A massive plate glass window was set in the far wall. On the other side, a series of long pipes and valves ran across the ceiling. A catwalk ran along the top of the room. Panels of instruments and controls lined the walls of the second floor. Shadowy figures moved along the catwalks, monitoring the gauges and screens above.
“To prove my loyalty, that man ordered me to kill my own parents, Mr. Galloway.” Takuba grinned. “I remember my father looking up at me as I held a bloody machete in my hands. It was so heavy, my arms were shaking. He smiled at me. He said, ‘It is all right, my son. I will feel no pain. It is all right, as long as you live.’”
Takuba shook his head and paused for a moment, then continued. “Can you imagine the strength? The strength it took to face death like that?” He shook his head. “I was small. I was not strong. My father did his best to hide it, but he was a liar. It took him many hours to die. He suffered great pain.”
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