Secrets of State

by Matthew Palmer

  “One thing at a time,” Legal interjected. “We can still benefit from a more complete understanding of what happened before we write our own obituaries. For example, how did Braithwaite get control of his own stable of operatives? He was the White House chief of staff, not the head of CIA.”

  “We’re still trying to piece this all together,” Spears replied, “but it looks like Braithwaite was not only aware of our existence he had also picked up enough data to realize that a major operation was under way. He didn’t trust the established intelligence agencies and had good reasons for that.” Spears nodded in Reports’s direction.

  “Braithwaite’s been around D.C. for a long time. He knows how things work. Our understanding is that he managed to carve off a piece of the black budget to set up his own in-house intelligence agency and recruited operatives who reported directly and exclusively to him. One of his agents was assigned to penetrate the HeM, which was one of the prime suspects as a subcontractor in our operation. He wasn’t the only one. Braithwaite had other agents in other likely organizations. Not all succeeded. Not a few are dead. Our misfortune was that the agent in HeM seems to have been especially resourceful and was able to continue his mission even after the line back to Braithwaite was . . . cut.”

  “Clearly, then, none of this can be laid at your doorstep,” the Vice Chair said sarcastically. “What about your own little renegade? Trainor. You deny all culpability for him as well?”

  “Trainor was a nuisance,” Spears acknowledged, “and a threat. But he was a containable threat. If it hadn’t been for Braithwaite’s agent inside the Hand, the ghost in the machine, Trainor would not have been a problem.”

  “But he was, wasn’t he?” Vice continued, evidently unmollified by Spears’s cavalier dismissal. “He was more than a fly in the ointment. He brought armed men to ground zero and started a firefight with the jihadis, killing our liaison to Ashoka in the process. Do I have that about right? And this was your man. You hired him. You gave him access to the Panoptes material. Do I have that about right as well?”

  Once, at the early stage of his career before he had discovered that his real talent for combat lay in the bureaucratic and political battles of Washington, Spears had been deployed in an anonymous war zone in some steamy tropical hell when a sniper had zeroed in on his unit. For Spears, it was like a red X had been painted on the back of his head, and no matter which way he turned, the invisible sniper was sighting in on the target. He had not enjoyed that sensation, and he had never forgotten it. For the first time in a long time, he felt the stirrings of that same feeling again. A little tickle of fear, an unscratchable itch at the base of his skull.

  “Argus Systems hired Trainor because he was the best South Asia specialist available on the market and we needed credible product to provide cover for our extracurriculars. At the time, we were unaware of his relationship with Vanalika Chandra, as was Ashoka. It was unfortunate, but it was not foreseeable.”

  “Unforeseen and unforeseeable are not synonyms,” Finance chimed in, and Spears could feel the loop tightening. “It seems to me that you were in a position early on to identify Trainor as a problem and nip that problem in the bud. You failed and the debacle in Mumbai was a direct result of that failure.”

  “It was the Commander and the operations group who failed in that respect,” Spears insisted, and he hated himself for the whiny note that he could not quite keep out of his voice. He was a SEAL, dammit, not some grade-schooler. “The Council ordered the ops group to take care of Trainor. Experienced black-ops professionals went up against a middle-aged academic and failed. That was most definitely unforeseeable as well as unforeseen.”

  “That failure has been recognized,” the Chairman observed. “Those responsible have been separated from the organization.”

  “Separated?” Spears asked.

  “Separated,” the Chairman confirmed.

  “There is clearly a rich vein of self-criticism to mine here,” the Vice Chair said, “but this is not an accountability review board. We need to consider our course of action over the short and medium term, and address the clear and present threat posed by the Lord administration’s aggressive investigation. The floor is open for suggestions.”

  There was a pause. The only sound was the scratching of the Librarian’s pen as his note taking caught up with the conversation.

  “I think we should begin with a formal decision to terminate Cold Harbor,” Legal said, breaking the silence. “The operation has become a liability. It was ambitious. It was in the finest tradition of our organization, but we need to cut the cord and make sure that Lord’s people can’t follow it back to us.”

  There was a murmur of assent around the table.

  “Legal is correct,” Plans offered. “The organization comes first. Cold Harbor should be canceled.”

  “Let’s vote on it for the record,” the Chairman said.

  Spears voted yes.

  It was unanimous.

  “I don’t think that’s enough,” Legal continued. “Throughout the history of the Republic, our contributions to our nation’s health and well-being have been anonymous. It is that very anonymity that has enabled us to play the role we have at critical junctures. Now that anonymity is in danger of being stripped away. The public that benefits from our guidance and oversight would not understand what we do . . . nor would they welcome it. I am proposing an operational pause in all of our activities. No operations, no meetings, no recruitment, no communications of any kind, nothing that the investigation can lock in on. That is the only way to preserve the capability we represent for the future. If we are ever exposed, I doubt very much that anything similar could again be assembled. New safeguards would be put in place in the policy process specifically to prevent that.”

  “I agree with that,” Reports said. “There’s the question not only of institutional and organizational vulnerability, but also of personal risk. It’s better that we go to ground and wait for an operating environment more conducive to our activities.”

  “How much time are we talking about here?” Finance asked. “Months? Years?”

  “Years, for certain,” Reports replied. “Decades, if necessary. The logic of the situation mandates patience and fortitude. At a minimum, we should be prepared to outwait Emily Lord and her left-wing administration.”

  “Lord is only two years into her first term,” the Vice Chair observed. “If she wins a second, and her poll numbers look pretty good right now, that’s a minimum six-year hiatus. Can we afford that?”

  “We’ve been around for more than two centuries,” Legal replied. “If we aren’t greedy, we’ll make it through the next two in a position to make a difference. But only if we aren’t greedy.”

  “What about the Indians?” Vice asked. “Can the Ashoka people finger any of us when they crack under questioning?”

  “No,” Reports insisted. “The link between us and Ashoka was Chandra and she’s unlikely to break. Being dead and all.”

  It was gallows humor. No one bothered to fake a smile.

  “What about Argus Systems?” Finance asked, looking pointedly at Spears. “That would seem to be the most obvious point of entry for the investigators.”

  “That’s a reasonable concern,” Spears acknowledged. Unconsciously, he ran one hand across the back of his head, trying to brush off the imaginary target.

  “What have you done about the computer systems?”

  “Scrubbed clean and wiped down to the bare operating systems. There’s nothing there.”

  “There’s no such thing,” Reports said contemptuously. “Not for people who know what they’re doing.” It was clear from her tone that this group did not encompass Garret Spears.

  “Argus needs to be removed from the equation, including the physical plant,” the Vice Chair suggested. “I know someone who can take care of that at a reasonable rate.”
/>   “I propose we vote on that,” Legal said.

  “Seconded.”

  It was unanimous.

  “What about personnel?” Legal asked. “What connections are there from Argus that could lead back to us?”

  “Just the Commander and Ops,” the Vice Chair replied. “No one else was looped in on Cold Harbor or the organization.”

  “The Commander can disappear,” the Chairman suggested. “A new face. A new identity. We have done it before, and the Commander has a unique skill set that we will almost certainly want to draw on in the future once we resume a normal operational tempo. Would someone care to make a motion?”

  “I move that we authorize the Commander’s disappearance and make available the necessary financing to support that operation.” Finance made the motion and it would be his responsibility to identify the financial assets that would be employed.

  “Seconded,” said Vice.

  Spears voted yes.

  Again, it was unanimous.

  “Which leaves Operations,” Reports said, with just a hint of regret in her voice.

  “I could disappear like Weeder,” Spears said. Even to himself he sounded desperate. He had also, he realized, violated Council protocol by speaking Weeder’s name out loud. It was one more strike against him. “I could make it to Mexico and use that plastic surgeon we contracted with for the Bolivians. I have contacts in South America, a network. No one would ever find me.”

  “It seems an unnecessary risk,” Legal commented.

  Spears pushed his chair back slightly from the table, calculating the distance to the doorway and wondering if they had disabled his car. He was too late. Weeder’s meaty hand settled on his left shoulder, and Spears felt something cold and hard pressed up against his neck right over the carotid artery. He did not need to look to know what it was. A jet injector. Powered by a cartridge of compressed gas, the jet injector would drive a narrow stream of liquid straight through the skin without the need for a needle. Charged with sodium thiopental or another fast-acting barbiturate, it was the weapon of choice for SEALs in snatch-and-grab operations. The jet injector could also be charged with other drugs that served other purposes.

  There was nothing Spears could do. He was pinned at the table and Weeder had every conceivable advantage of position.

  “I’m sorry, Ops,” the Chairman said. “But while the talents that the Commander brings to the organization are all but irreplaceable, your particular abilities are more . . . shall we say . . . commonplace.”

  “I have important friends,” Spears protested. “Congressmen. Committee chairs. People who matter in this town. You need me.”

  “You do understand,” Plans said, “that there are fifteen other people in this room whose security and well-being are at risk as long as the Lord administration’s investigation is focused on you. The math is really quite simple. If you could sacrifice one to save fifteen, why wouldn’t that be the optimal solution?”

  “The logic does seem unimpeachable,” Finance added.

  “Do we have a motion?” the Chairman asked.

  For Spears, everything seemed be moving as slowly as though they were underwater. His mouth felt dry and cottony. Even if he had known how to plead his case effectively, he did not think he would be able to speak.

  “I move that the current chief of operations be removed from his position on the Governing Council and then neutralized as a threat to the organization’s future.” Reports made the motion, but she seemed to take no pleasure in it.

  “Seconded,” said Plans, who did not bother to disguise his own eagerness.

  “We will have a vote on the motion,” the Chairman said. “Ops, at this point you are still a member of the Governing Council and entitled to vote, but I would ask that you do so by raising your left hand and I caution you to move slowly.”

  Spears voted no.

  Otherwise, it was unanimous.

  DHARAVI

  JUNE 12

  How’s the arm?”

  “Getting better. I’ve had three surgeries and the rehab’s a bear, but I’d be lying if I said it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Sam smiled at that.

  “I’ll bet.”

  The last time Sam had seen Kamran Khan, the American mole in the HeM was being unceremoniously shoved into the back of a Toyota panel van outfitted as an ambulance. One of the paramedics had told Sam that Khan’s chances were no better than 50/50. Khan had beaten those odds, which were far from the longest he had faced that day.

  Khan’s arm was out of the cast, but still in a sling. He had abandoned Pakistani dress in favor of a tan summer-weight suit. Sam had to look closely to spot the slight bulge on the right side of his suit jacket. Khan was armed, but he would have to draw with his off hand for a while. His beard was trimmed short, and he wore fashionable rectangular glasses with gold wire rims that made him look more like an art history teacher than a secret agent.

  Sam’s feelings about Khan were complicated. This was the man who had both kidnapped Lena and protected her; killed for the Hand of the Prophet and taken a bullet to save the city Sam loved. He was, at a minimum, a complex person.

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “They tell me I’ll get back full use of the arm with three or four months of physical therapy. There’s no nerve damage, so there shouldn’t be any lasting effects.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then it’s back to work.”

  “Well, I’m glad you were able to make it today. Lena appreciates it as well.”

  “She’s something else,” Khan said admiringly.

  “Yes, she is.”

  Sam could see his daughter standing about fifty feet away talking to one of the BMC officials. She laughed politely at something he said and lightly touched his arm. She would have been a hell of a diplomat. She was dressed formally in a sleeveless choli with a vermilion sari draped over her left arm. The chain across her throat was a thick braid of gold in three different colors. It had belonged to her mother, a gift from Sam. Her earrings were small golden hoops and there was a gold pin in her thick, lustrous hair that a high-end stylist had spent hours fussing with earlier that morning. He loved her so much and the knowledge of the danger she’d been in because of him clamped on to his heart like a vise. When he thought about what a near-run thing it had been, it was hard to breathe.

  It was a sizeable crowd. There were at least several hundred people gathered alongside the freshly cleaned and scrubbed canal that divided the slum from the rest of Mumbai. Two square blocks on the Dharavi side of the bridge had been cleared and leveled. Half would be for new housing, a mixture of middle-income homes and subsidized apartments for the residents of the slum. The other half was set aside for a new school: the Janani Trainor Technical Academy.

  In less than half an hour, Lena and the mayor of Mumbai would be breaking ground for the school construction with a gold-colored shovel. Until the school was built, Lena would continue to teach the children of Dharavi out of her old building, albeit with brand-new computer equipment donated by the city. What happened at the Hill Station Productions studio had been kept out of the newspapers, but the commissioner knew what Lena had done and just how close his city had come to annihilation. Approving a new, more sustainable plan for the development of Dharavi was the least he could do.

  There would be time enough to speak with Lena later. Right now, he had some questions for Khan.

  “I wanted to ask you about the status of the investigation into Argus and the Stoics. I’ve learned a few things over the last weeks, but this is all being kept very close and I suspect that your sources on this may be a little more direct than mine.”

  Khan smiled ruefully at that.

  “That’s probably true,” he admitted.

  “So what’s the latest?”

  “It’s not ea
sy. The president has given the FBI the lead. The agents involved have been handpicked and then polygraphed about any connection to the Stoics or Cold Harbor. Argus Systems and its leadership are the most obvious places to start, but the Argus building in Arlington burned down before the investigators could go through it. There’s no lead on the arsonist. It was a real professional job.”

  Sam knew about the fire. It had made the news, and he had spoken to Shoe, Sara, and Ken, who had already all found positions in rival firms.

  “What about Spears?”

  “They pulled his body from the Potomac just a few days after we interrupted Cold Harbor. He drowned. Kind of ironic for an ex-SEAL. We’re keeping it quiet for now, and when it comes out, it’ll officially be an accident of some kind. The currents up by Great Falls can be pretty treacherous.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. My organization has loaned me to the investigation.”

  “You’re still not going to tell me what that organization is, are you?”

  “No way. You’re not cleared for it. I’m in it and I’m hardly cleared for it.”

  “So what are you doing here? Isn’t the investigation in D.C.?”

  “In between my PT sessions, I’ve been helping the services here roll up the Sons of Ashoka, the Stoics’ Indian counterparts. They’ve had more success than we have. I was able to ID the go-between who met with Masood and Jadoon, and he rolled over on his comrades in conspiracy faster than Sammy the Bull. Turned out he was an Indian Air Force general with access to the nuclear weapons codes. He and the rest of Ashoka were ready to sacrifice Mumbai if it meant we’d step in and strip Pakistan of its nukes. It’s hard to believe some of the people who were in that group. People you’d never imagine.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Khan looked abashed.

  “I’m sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s okay. It’s something that I’m going to have to come to terms with. You know the irony of it is that Vanalika really did make the phone call that started all this. She had a satellite booster up in the cabin where we were staying. I thought the intercept of the call was fake, and when I went looking, Andy Krittenbrink and I found other reports that had been falsified by Weeder and his people. Argus was salting the Panoptes material with real intel products that were consistent with the messages they were trying to send to Delhi and Islamabad. But if I hadn’t been suspicious of the Vanalika intercept, I never would have found the others.”