by Evans, Misty
Susan glanced at her and back to the paused picture. “Ryan Smith, your Chief of Station in Paris. If you remember, he disappeared four months ago, right after he took over as Chief of Operations/Europe.”
Julia touched the face on the screen, a faint smile on her face. “Thank God he’s alive.”
Smitty had been much more than just her field coordinator when she was stationed in Paris. He had been her friend. During her first tour in Paris with Conrad, Smitty had been a junior case officer too. The three of them had sat in Smitty’s small flat, playing poker and laughing for hours, sharing corniottes, warm cheese pastries and cognac. Three years later, when she and Con went back to Paris, Smitty had been given the COS position. There had still been evenings spent at Smitty’s flat with a bottle of cognac between them, but things had changed. Smitty and Con were distant with each other, the easy camaraderie they had shared before strained. Ryan Smith was now the boss, the one enforcing the rules. Conrad didn’t like rules.
On her last tour, the fatal one in Germany, Smitty left his post and flew to Luxembourg to pick her up. Instead of simply hustling her off on a plane for the States, he bought a ticket for himself as well and held her hand all the way back. That was it, just his hand over hers that gave her the lifeline she had so desperately needed to hold on to.
Julia dropped her hand to her side. “Has he made contact?”
“No.” Michael let the word hang like a challenge in the silence of the room. “He hasn’t made contact and we still have no explanation for his disappearance. He entered the country under an alias. We are assuming at this point he’s AWOL.”
Julia’s stomach did a little flip. Ryan Smith AWOL from the CIA? Something was definitely off with that picture. Shaking her head, she looked at Michael. “I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.” She turned back to the paused picture and squinted at it. “Look at him. Ryan Smith is a trained CIA operator. If he were AWOL and trying to avoid being seen, he would disguise himself. Sunglasses and a baseball cap isn’t a disguise. Plus, he wouldn’t enter the country via Dulles, which he knows is always under heavy surveillance. He doesn’t care if you know he’s here.”
Susan and Michael exchanged a glance. “So why didn’t he enter the country under his own name?” Michael countered. “Why wasn’t he standing on my doorstep yesterday afternoon?”
Julia’s mind was clicking through possibilities. “What was the last assignment he worked on? Could he be undercover?”
Michael let out a derisive laugh. “Undercover? For what? He was Chief of Operations. He wasn’t supposed to be working assignments, only overseeing the European COS operatives.”
Julia’s back stiffened instinctively in her friend’s defense. Smitty, Conrad would have said, always preferred to have his fingers in the pie. What were the two of them up to? “Maybe one of his officers was involved in something too difficult,” she offered. “Maybe Smitty was infiltrating or recruiting within an organization himself.”
Michael shook his head. “We can’t know for sure what he’s up to at this point, but there’s still too many unanswered questions. He’s been out of contact with me for four months. He’s now entered the States, unharmed and of his own free will, but fails to come in and tell me what’s going on. In my book, that makes him a rogue agent.”
Julia let out a sigh and resumed her seat. Susan was staring at the frozen picture. “We think it’s possible he may contact you, Abby.”
He better. If he doesn’t, I’ll hunt him down. “Why?”
“You tell us.” Michael steepled his fingers under his chin. “You know him as well, if not better, than we do.”
She held Michael’s gaze, unnerved by the look on his face. Was her previous relationship with Smitty now suspect? Michael thinks I’m the Agency mole. The thought struck her mind with such force she felt like she’d been physically slapped. Her voice was harsh. “Ryan Smith is one of the best chiefs you’ve had in Europe over the past ten years. You owe him the benefit of the doubt to believe for now that his intentions are true to the Agency.” She paused, scanning Michael’s face. “As for me, if you think I’m the mole in your department, then say it straight out.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, studying her. Susan stepped forward. “Our European operations have been severely compromised, Abby. Probably from within Langley and quite possibly in conjunction with a field officer such as Agent Smith. Michael and I aren’t accusing you of anything…” yet hung in her pause, “…but the timing of your return to this office and your past working relationship with him may suggest collusion to people outside this room.”
Julia shifted her attention to the desk but otherwise remained completely still. It was part of the drill. Show no emotion, even when your pulse was racing. Underneath the façade, her mind was spinning and her feelings were hurt. She had whored herself for her country for the better part of eight years and basically no one knew or cared. The average American citizen took his liberties for granted and rarely wondered who exactly was keeping those liberties available. Now the two people she thought did care, the two she trusted and whom she believed trusted her, were accusing her of turning traitor.
Susan shot a look at her boss before continuing. “You’ll have to take a polygraph, Abby,” she said softly, “and then we’ll go from there.” Michael nodded his consent.
Julia continued to stare at the desktop. What they had proposed was completely logical. Reasonable. But how could Michael, after all they had shared, even suggest she was a mole? That she had committed treason? She looked up, searching his eyes, his face for a sign. Anything that would tell her he knew her, knew she’d never betray him.
The eyes she loved, gone steel gray now, refused to offer her comfort. “Susan, would you give me a minute alone with Abigail, please?”
The CTC chief hesitated, and then laying the remote on Michael’s desk, she nodded and exited the room. Julia listened for the soft click of the door before gripping the arms of the chair and leaning forward. “Are you serious, Director? After everything I’ve done for this Agency and my country, you think a freaking polygraph is going to prove anything?”
He didn’t move, refused to back down. “The polygraph is to cover your ass. Ryan Smith was your friend as well as your immediate supervisor. You are suddenly a convenient solution to the identity of the CIA’s mole because of that. Everyone from the Director of Central Intelligence on down is looking for a scapegoat before this situation comes before Congress and the President. If we don’t immediately eliminate you as a suspect, you will be crucified.”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks, how could you believe I was the mole? My car and my apartment are bugged, my phone is tapped.” Her voice was brittle with exasperation. “How could I secretly give out information when you keep me under your thumb day and night?”
The emphasis on the last two words weren’t lost on Michael, but her meaning was. “Who’s bugged your apartment and car?”
The corners of her eyes narrowed a millimeter. “You. The CIA. You’ve been listening to me for the past year and a half.”
“I’ve never given any directive to have your residence or car bugged.”
Sitting back in her chair, she was silent for a moment. “Who else besides the Agency would want to know what I was up to?”
“Ryan Smith possibly?” he asked, and then shook his head. “I don’t know, Ab, but we’ll find out. Why would you think it was me?”
“Come on, Michael, suspicion is part of your job. What you knew about me when I came out of the field was summarized in a couple of paragraphs in my Agency bio. I had to prove myself to you. I figured you were nervous about me so you had my place bugged. I left it all alone, hoping, I guess, that you would realize I was trustworthy.”
“Any idea who might have done it?”
“If it isn’t the Agency, I have no clue. I figured it was all part of your plan for Abigail Quinn…”
Michael frowned an
d pointed a finger at her. “I’ve never kept you under my thumb. Your work requires you to be in my department. You sleep in my bed because you want to.”
The words stung, but they were true. Pushing herself out of the chair, Julia walked over to the TV and stared at Ryan Smith’s frozen face again. His last warning resounded in her head. “Don’t let Stone get close to you. He’s a user, Julia. He’s dangerous. Watch your back around him.”
She’d held on to him, in essence clinging to her last link with Conrad. Smitty had pulled away and given her cheek a gentle pat. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, smiling his best lopsided grin. Then he was gone, disappearing into the menagerie of travelers in the crowded airport.
Julia heeded Smitty’s words for nearly a year. She hadn’t wanted a relationship with anyone, much less the Director of Operations. She had ignored his gazes that lingered a few seconds too long, turned away his casual offers of dinner or coffee, and kept herself in the background of the CTC office, doing her damnedest to imitate wallpaper.
But she had been so lonely after the grief had run its course. Michael had been the one to convince her that she wasn’t the cause of Conrad’s death. That she was no longer a target. That she could quit hiding in the shadows of her past. Piece by piece he worked his magic, putting the broken pieces of her world back together and making it solid again.
She started to believe him and found herself hungry for human touch. She looked forward to seeing him at work, began returning his gaze even when it sent a shiver down her spine. She sought him out to discuss information that came across her desk and he listened because he knew her time in the field with Conrad gave her an edge over the other analysts. She didn’t just analyze the terrorists. She had walked where they walked, slept where they slept, watched their every move.
But now he was accusing her of being one.
The wave of her past crushed her under its weight. Michael sat in silence, watching her. Let it go, she told herself. Stop feeling. Analyze, like Susan taught you to.
Something was missing. Random pieces of the puzzle were there but nothing fit. Con was alive, Smitty had returned, and an unknown entity was eavesdropping on her. The picture wasn’t complete…
She looked Michael in the eye. “Can I see the rest of this tape?”
He nodded and she started the video rolling again. She scanned every face, watched every mannerism that could be picked up in the few seconds each passenger was on the screen.
Third from the last passenger, her breath caught in her throat. He was there and gone in an instant, his head tilted away from the camera. The disguise was good, but she had seen it before in Paris when he was recruiting a field asset. Just like then, his hair was dyed a rich black, his skin bronzed by tanning cream, and the beard and mustache were trimmed close to his jaw.
“Shit.” The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Susan Richmond picked up the telephone receiver at Abigail’s desk and punched in a seven-digit code. She remembered the rage she’d seen in her top analyst’s stiff posture. In a way it was difficult for her to push Abigail. She had once held strong feelings for her fledgling pupil and Susan knew she was innocent of betraying the Agency. But there was too much at stake these days. Any misguided feelings for Abigail could ruin her own position in the Agency and all that she had worked for. Abby was a pawn, just like a handful of others. Nothing more, nothing less.
When she heard the dial tone signaling she had reached an outside line, Susan carefully entered the number of a pager. Once connected to the paging service, she entered another seven-digit code comprised only of successive number threes, a simple signal to another pawn in her game: Operation Sheba was in motion.
A decoy. Con had used Smitty to take away any scrutiny of himself from those doing surveillance of the international flights. Julia felt like slapping her forehead. It was just the kind of thing he would do. Insurance, he would have said, just in case the disguise isn’t quite enough.
The insurance policy had worked. Someone was on their toes enough to pick out Smitty and pass the tape along to Susan and Michael. With everyone’s attention focused on Ryan, Conrad had passed right under their noses.
“What is it, Abby?”
Michael’s voice made her jump. Not what, Michael. Who. She took a breath and forced her fingers to release their grip on the edge of his desk. Should she give Conrad up? After the hell he had put her through, it would serve him right…but what about Smitty? By giving Con up, would she somehow endanger Smitty too? She couldn’t take the chance. At this point, she didn’t know who was holding the cards.
And no matter what the two agents were up to, she still cared about both of them. She couldn’t give them up.
“It’s nothing.” She refused to meet Michael’s gaze. “I was hoping the tape might offer something more, some explanation for this, but it doesn’t.”
“Do you have any idea what Smith is up to?”
Julia paced the floor of Michael’s office for a minute, buying herself time, buying them all a little time. “All of the operators and agents who were compromised in the past couple of years were in the European directorate, right?”
Michael nodded and began doodling on a piece of paper in front of him.
“So, counting Flynn, Ryan Smith lost five human assets in less than two years, probably all due to the Agency’s mole.” Hands on her hips, she paced back to the office door where she paused. “Honestly, Michael, Smitty is one of the most dedicated operators I’ve ever known. Dedicated to the cause and dedicated to his people. I’m sure he would take every loss as a personal hit against him. And I know he would never do anything to compromise his assets in the field. In fact he’d do just the opposite.” She turned back to face Michael.
He raised his gaze to her. “Best guess?”
“Ryan Smith is tracking down your mole.”
Chapter Five
Arlington “I don’t know, Conman. Do you really think this is going to work?” Smitty eyed Flynn with a mixture of humor and apprehension as they stood together in the hallway studying their handiwork. Artfully arranging flowers in a vase was more difficult than either man had imagined.
“Hell no,” Conrad said, plucking at the drooping head of a tulip. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to her, but maybe flowers and dinner will take the edge off her anger so she’ll at least listen to us tonight.”
“She loves us, and besides, Julia doesn’t hold grudges.”
“Are we talking about the same woman? About five-four.” Conrad held his hand up to his chin. “Hardheaded, fanatical about right and wrong. Thinks Martha Stewart should run for President?”
“It’s Oprah for President. And, politics aside, she does love us.”
Conrad patted Smitty’s back. “You go with that. But I got a bottle of Glenlivet that says she’ll hold this one against us until we die.”
Julia’s one-bedroom apartment was on the ground floor of the building complex. The rooms were small and tidy. Nothing in the sink besides her “I’d rather be in Paris” coffee mug. No dust on the furniture. A couple of power suits in the closet next to an array of brightly colored T-shirts and skirts, a collection of jeans. There was a flat-screen TV in the living room, but only one framed picture on her nightstand by the bed of her and her younger brother. There were cans of diet Pepsi in the refrigerator alongside a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio and a selection of expensive cheeses.
To Flynn the small apartment exuded Julia: a bottle of Le Jardin lotion in the bathroom and a collection of lipsticks from all over Europe lined up like army soldiers on the vanity, a book of Rumi poetry beside her bed, her red duffel bag—a survival kit of sorts—packed and ready to go in the bottom of her closet next to an assortment of Prada high heels and Puma sneakers.
“I’ll be glad to see her. What time do you think she’ll get here?” Smitty glanced at his watch. It was nearing five o’clock.
Flynn gave up on the flo
wers and shrugged. “She may not show at all, but she isn’t expecting me until after midnight.” He started down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“She’ll show.” Smitty followed him. “If for no other reason than to kick your ass.”
Flynn stopped and placed a hand over the crotch of his button-fly jeans. “It’s not my ass I’m worried about.”
The two men exchanged a grin.
Julia pulled the pearl white Audi into the parking lot of the Borderline Bar and Grill and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She’d been toying with the idea ever since she’d left Michael’s office that morning.
There was little doubt that even if Susan and Michael believed that she wasn’t conspiring with Ryan Smith, they were having her followed and watched by the CIA’s Office of Security. If Smitty or Conrad attempted to contact her tonight, they would be arrested. She didn’t want that. Not before she knew why Con had faked his death only to show up again on her doorstep and why Smitty was helping him.
Then there was the issue of the other guys, the ones who had bugged her apartment. She had yet to tip her hand where they were concerned. For the time being she wanted to leave the bugs alone, so it would not be wise for her and Con to discuss anything inside her apartment.
Julia watched her rearview mirror for signs she was being followed. Checking over her shoulder had been second nature for years, but she had become less vigilant about it since returning to America. In the Land of the Free, she’d become one of the brave, or careless, as Con would say, again.
Assured no one was following her, Julia stepped out of the car and locked it before entering the bar.
Smoke hung lazily above the patrons’ heads as their voices buzzed over the voice of Kenny Chesney crooning from a jukebox in the corner. The after-five crowd, wearing faded jeans, ratty T-shirts and leather boots, was off to a good start on the evening’s drunkfest. Julia scanned the male faces that turned her way as she walked to the back of the bar. No one looked familiar and, outside of a few who ogled her, none appeared particularly threatening. She stuck her hand inside her purse looking for coins and felt the cool handle of her SIG Sauer P229R. Lighter than the Beretta, it was easier to carry and it could still do significant damage to anyone who got too close wanting to do her harm.