Spy Trade

by Matthew Dunn

  Oakland and the translator exited the village, heading southwest, away from the attacking force. Oakland had to drag his translator because the Jordanian was so petrified, his body wanted to curl into a ball. They staggered over the desert, Oakland ripping off his tie and jacket, flies jabbing his stinging eyes as the men headed across the vast expanse of godforsaken land that was permanently blowtorched by the sun. Oakland’s mouth felt dry because he feared what lay behind and ahead and because he’d sweated buckets since the American helicopter had dumped him in this place.

  The translator exclaimed, “We might as well surrender.”

  Oakland grabbed the translator and continued walking.

  What was happening was nothing like the tiresome cocktail circuits in Jakarta, Managua, and Khartoum.

  And it was considerably more dangerous than the exaggerated tale he’d constructed in his head to recount to offspring.

  Too dangerous.

  Too real.

  A story he didn’t want to tell.

  His heart pumped so fast he thought it might explode, and in a way he hoped it would. The Jordanian’s words now sounded distant and irrelevant as he put one foot in front of the other and headed toward oblivion and death. His mind now cloudy, Oakland imagined the actor Omar Sharif appearing on horseback in the heat haze on the horizon, just as he did in the movie Lawrence of Arabia, dressed in traditional Bedouin black garb, and dispatching the ISIS men with the dispassionate calm of a man who is indignant that a water hole is sullied by men who do not belong to his tribe.

  But there was no one ahead to help Oakland and his Jordanian colleague.

  And behind them, all gunshots ceased.

  The two SEALs had won?

  ISIS had won?

  Oakland knew he would soon find out because there was no way he could walk more than a few more yards. He collapsed to the ground and sat there, patting the ground while looking at the blinding sky. He’d put his life into the CIA, and in return, the Agency had sent him to his death.

  The Jordanian pushed himself off the sand and crouched before him, salty tears running down his face. “You wish to die?”

  Oakland checked the pistol and saw that only one bullet remained in the magazine. “No, I don’t wish to die. I wish to turn the clock back.”

  Endless miles of desert lay before them. Even Lawrence wouldn’t have risked that journey without a camel and Bedouins by his side. And behind them were devils.

  “You got to do what’s best for you,” said Oakland in a gravelly voice. It made him sound profound and manly. Perhaps that was how it should end.

  It didn’t end that way. Men in black, who bore none of the stoicism or clinical nobility of Sharif, slammed the butts of their rifles into Oakland’s jaw and the Jordanian’s temple. Unconscious, the American and his friend were dragged across shingle and dust, their faces lacerated by sharp objects and melted by their heat.

  ISIS had its prisoners.

  Oakland would soon wish he were dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ordinarily, America’s finest brains would have wondered how the collared dove had infiltrated the large operations hall within the CIA headquarters in Langley. Some of the Agency operatives within the room might have quipped that the bird didn’t need to have a security pass to enter the building, get lost in the labyrinth of corridors and rooms, and settle upon the ops center as a place where it could hop and flap between computer terminals and desks and light fittings and wall-­mounted frames containing TV monitors and maps. Others might have countered that the bird would need to have the ability to press the number six within the elevator to access the floor they were on. A few might have suggested the creature accessed the zone via an open window though they would be quick to dismiss the idea as impossible since all windows in the Agency are hermetically sealed.

  Patrick Bolte took it upon himself to establish how the dove got in. There was only one plausible explanation—­one of the eighty-­plus ­people in the room had brought the bird to work in a container that somehow got sufficiently loose for the dove to escape.

  “Where can I get some coffee?” asked Patrick of the person nearest to him.

  The young analyst didn’t look up. “Where everyone else gets it. Corner of the room.” She was tapping fast on her keyboard, wearing an irritable expression. She glanced at him and blanched. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “That’s okay.” Patrick smiled. “This time of morning, I’m like everyone else. I just need a caffeine hit. When were you drafted in?”

  “All of us were called yesterday evening. We’ve been working through the night.”

  “Sounds like you could do with the coffee more than me. Want me to make you one?”

  The analyst looked embarrassed. “That’s kind, but I’m fine.”

  “Where’s Mr. Soames?”

  She gestured toward the back end of the hall. “In the conference room. He’s expecting you.”

  Patrick walked across the hall and entered the conference room.

  “Ah, Patrick’s graced us with his presence. That means the world can now sleep peacefully.” Tom Soames looked tired and on edge. He had every reason to be as he was the head of the Agency and had lost one of his employees in Iraq.

  Seated next to him at the conference table was Lieutenant General Jerry Kinnear, the head of the Joint Special Operations Command, an organization that consisted of special-­missions units and experts at gathering intelligence within battle zones. Kinnear was wearing a civilian suit though he still looked every inch the military man, with black hair that had been cut short at the sides, the physique of a long-­distance runner, and cheeks that were hollow from either lack of food, too much exercise, or both.

  By contrast, Soames was a bear of a man, with inches of fat covering what was still a powerful and vigorous frame. He presented himself well for a man of his shape—­tailored suits that were cut in such a way so as to disguise his girth; expensive haircuts, even though the central strip of his head was bare of any strands; antique reading spectacles that might have looked pretentious on most men but gave Soames the appearance of a stout professor whose acute intellect would slice in half anyone less than his cerebral equal; and cologne that was purchased and imported from Paris perfumeries.

  Patrick sat on the opposite side of the table. Like Soames and Kinnear, the CIA director was middle-­aged, but there the similarities ended. He was as tall as Soames though his physique was wiry and deceptively strong; his suit was immaculately pressed but not expensive, and nor did he wear it in the way the military men did while feeling that they looked like fish out of water; his full head of silver hair was cut short enough to complete his professional demeanor but long enough to make him look like a crazy man if he shook his head wildly; and Soames and Kinnear were well and truly in the public eye.

  Patrick was not.

  There were eight directors in the CIA who reported to Soames and who were visible in the Agency. Yet, though it was widely known within the CIA that Patrick was a very-­high-­ranking officer, very few knew what he did and even fewer that he was the Agency’s ninth director. Patrick liked it that way. He didn’t want to be visible or to put in place a career ladder that subjugated the tasks in hand in favor of groveling around the power corridors of Capitol Hill. Patrick had reached the zenith of his career, and it was a very unusual place to be.

  Until it had recently been shut down, he’d been co-­head of the highly secretive joint CIA-­MI6 Task Force S. It had been the perfect job for a through-­and-­through operator as he was, one that gave him and his small force the most complex and dangerous assignments in Western Intelligence.

  But now he was a director without portfolio, idling away his time while senior CIA management tried to decide what to do with him.

  “Why am I here?” Patrick asked, crossing his legs and examining fingertips that h
ad been printless ever since his hands had been forced into molten metal.

  “Bob Oakland’s why, and you know it,” replied Soames, with no effort to hide his irritation with Patrick’s question.

  “Most likely he and his translator are dead.”

  “Not according to my men,” interjected Kinnear. “I deployed a search-­and-­rescue unit to the village yesterday afternoon. Once the village elder was confident the women and kids were safe, he asked for six volunteers to form a raiding party and go back to the village to rescue Oakland and kill ISIS. They trekked across fourteen miles of desert. It was unbelievably courageous. The village was empty when they got there, save for the four dead SEALs and my S&R team. Then they searched the village surroundings. The raiding party told the S&R unit they were certain from tracks in the desert that Oakland and his translator had been attacked, not killed, and taken away in two vehicles.”

  “ISIS has taken its highest-­value hostage to date.”

  Kinnear was motionless. “That’s providing ISIS knows he’s CIA.”

  Soames darted a look at the general. “Oakland’s a Western guy in a suit, meeting a Shiite opponent of ISIS in a remote Iraqi village. ISIS knows he’s CIA.”

  “What action have you taken?” Patrick looked at both men in turn.

  “General Kinnear’s in charge of trying to locate Oakland. Since Bob went missing fifteen hours ago, Kinnear’s . . .”

  “Increased drone and satellite surveillance over northern Iraq and western Syria, put JSOC personnel on the ground, together with seconded units from the Rangers, USAF, and CIA Special Activities Division, and I’ve got NSA working round the clock to try to cover ISIS comms.” Kinnear prodded the table. “If Bob Oakland’s out there, we’ll find him.”

  “But the issue is whether you’ll do so in time to save his life.” Patrick repeated, “Why am I here?”

  Kinnear laughed. “Damned if I know.”

  Soames replied, “The Agency—­not the military—­has primacy on this operation. We cannot allow Oakland to be killed. Aside from the fact that Oakland deserves far better after spending his whole career serving the CIA, an ISIS execution of a CIA officer would be a massive propaganda win for the jihadists.” He wondered how he’d feel if he’d heard someone describe his imminent death as merely a propaganda win. “I want Bob safe.”

  Patrick gestured toward Kinnear. “And you’re doing everything you can to achieve that.”

  “Really?” The head of the CIA shook his head. “I doubt that. Why do you think you’re here?”

  “Because you want to know who tipped off ISIS that Bob and his team were going to be at the village.”

  Soames nodded. “Someone’s got loose lips.”

  “In the Agency?”

  “Not sure.” Soames pointed at Kinnear. “More likely uniform. Either way, this needs investigating by an outsider. The best of them are known to you. Have anyone in mind?”

  Patrick hesitated before nodding. “I have someone.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bob Oakland remembered a day in his childhood when he and his fellow six-­year-­old classmates were sent out into a bitterly cold school playground during morning break and told to play. Like him, all of the kids were wearing thick coats, some had gloves, others thrust their hands in pockets because they’d lost their mittens and were too guilt-­ridden to tell their parents they’d mislaid yet another item. Nobody played. It was too cold. Instead, kids huddled in groups of four or five and whiled away the time before they could get back inside the school. It was a rare moment when all of them wanted to be in class.

  The playground had metal climbing frames and painted white lines on the paved ground encouraging them to play hopscotch and compete in sports. On that day, the paintings were superfluous because nobody was inclined to risk their neck on the ice-­covered surface. The kids were nevertheless bored, irascible, and wanting adventure. Some of them offered a challenge to bite an iron bar that was part of an assault course. Bob took up the challenge, partly because he too was bored and more important because he wanted to find out if it was true that his tongue would freeze to the metal.

  Mitten-­covered hands either side of a head that was adorned with a knitted velvet hat, Oakland gripped the four-­inch-­wide bar and bit. His mouth didn’t freeze solid to the metal. But fingernail-­sized flakes of iron entered his mouth, and they tasted of blood.

  He hated the taste of iron then; and he hated it now.

  As he awoke in agony—­legs bruised and lashed with ropes, a face that felt squishy and throbbed, cracked ribs making breathing hell, pain that raced from his groin to his head and was no doubt related to the huge bootprint over his crotch—­he wanted more than anything else for the taste of iron to go away. His mouth was filled with blood. After spitting out what he could, he looked around. A chain around his neck, fixed at one end to a wall, yanked his head back. He gasped, realizing he could move no more than a few inches from his seated position on the floor in the corner of the large room.

  There was nothing in the room except Oakland, the translator, a single bulb hanging from the ceiling that cast shadowy yellow light over the windowless room, and large red Arabic letters on one of the walls. The translator was adjacent to the inscription at the far end of the room, also seated, trapped in ropes and chains. His clothes were ripped and bloody, and his bowed head was cut open at the crown, his normally coiffured black hair a crimson tangle. He wasn’t moving.

  Oakland called out to him in hushed volume. “Ramzi. Ramzi. Can you hear me?”

  Ramzi was motionless.

  “Ramzi?”

  The young Jordanian slowly lifted his head. His face had clearly taken a severe beating because it was swollen, bruised, and lacerated. “Oakland,” he murmured before coughing and wincing.

  “Where are we?” the CIA officer asked urgently.

  “Don’t . . . don’t know.” His voice was weak. “Think they brought us here yesterday. Can’t be sure.”

  “What happened?”

  Ramzi tried to straighten his upper torso, but his chained throat suffered the same fate as Oakland’s when he’d tried to move. “You can’t remember?”

  The last thing Bob could recall was the momentary agony of being hit in the face in the desert. “Nothing.”

  Ramzi stared at the closed door in the room. “I woke up while they were driving us across the desert. It was night. Fucking jeep was bouncing so hard, I vomited. That caught their attention. One of the men hit me with his gun. Passed out again.”

  Bob tried to keep his voice calm when he asked, “Was I in the same vehicle as you?”

  “No. I spotted a second vehicle behind us when I was awake. You must have been in there.”

  “How many men?”

  “There were three of them in my jeep.” Ramzi shrugged, then gasped as his bonds cut into his body. “Guess . . . guess same number in your car.”

  Six ISIS men. Four of them had approached the village on foot while the fifth watched over them with a sniper rifle, and the sixth caused havoc with his missile launcher.

  Ramzi lifted his hands, placed them against his injured head, and cursed when he saw his blood had coated the ropes around his wrists. “I wish they’d put a bullet in my head.”

  Bob Oakland didn’t know what to think. He was confused, and in absolute pain; the idea of a quick and clean death was tempting though part of him still clung to the notion that he had to survive.

  The door opened, and two men, both bearded, one tall, the other shorter yet with a broad and powerful physique, entered the room. They were wearing combat fatigues, boots, and holding batons. Oakland’s stomach knotted; Ramzi involuntarily thrashed, the chains and ropes making him bug-­eyed as they jerked him back into position.

  The shorter man was silent as he unlocked the chain fixed to the wall behind Oakland and used it to drag the CIA off
icer to the center of the room.

  “Fuck you!” Bob stared defiantly at the jihadist.

  “Shut up.” The taller man’s English was accented. He slammed his baton into one of Bob’s shins, forcing the officer onto his knees while his colleague held the chain tight so that Bob’s upper torso was erect. “The more you act like a foul-­mouthed infidel, the more we treat you like one.”

  Where had these men come from? This was something that Bob had expertise in, as he’d spent more time working overseas than in the States. They weren’t Arabs; nor were they Westerners. Their faces were a little swarthy though it was hard to tell whether that was due to their ethnicity or time spent under the sun. But the man’s accent was telling. Bob was certain the men were Chechen Muslims, an ethnic group that had been the scourge of the Soviet Union and, subsequently, Russia. And unlike the Western kids in ISIS that the village elder had derided, these men brought decades of combat and terrorist experience to the region. Bob dearly hoped that meant they had some degree of maturity and restraint though the look in their eyes told him it was probably a false hope. No doubt, these men were psychopaths.

  Four more of them entered the room and positioned a video camera on a tripod in front of Bob. All of them donned headscarves to disguise their faces. The camera was turned on, and they stood behind Bob, the red Arabic letters on the wall clearly visible above their heads.

  Bob wondered, Is this it? A knife sawed through my gullet while the camera rolls? He didn’t know how he’d get through that ordeal, then realized it was a stupid thought given he’d have no choice other than to suffer whatever was dished out to him.

  The tall man was probably their leader. Speaking to the camera, he said, “We have traveled to the Middle East to join Islamic State. We hope our brothers in ISIS will accept us into their ranks. But we must do something first, to prove to ISIS that we are worthy to become their warriors. This is our proof.” He grabbed the chain from his colleague and pulled it back, forcing Bob’s face upward. “This man is an American spy. He represents everything that is sick with the world. He will suffer”—­he nodded at one of his colleagues, who swung his baton into Ramzi’s arm, causing the translator to scream—­“far worse than this traitor to Allah.” He held a knife to Bob’s throat. “America: you will do what we ask, or you will watch this pig die.” The Chechen leader said to Bob, “Tell the world your name.”