Spy Trade

by Matthew Dunn

  Three years ago, the navy had asked Mason if he’d like a job on dry land that didn’t require him to wear a uniform.

  As he took a seat at the long rectangular conference table in the subterranean White House Situation Room, the diminutive silver-­haired admiral wondered not for the first time whether he’d made the right decision to leave the sea. Dry land sometimes felt like it had too many captains trying to sail the same ship. It seemed that way now as America’s political elite took seats around the table. They all knew Mason though none of them really understood what he did for a living. Given he was by nature a private man, it pleased him they didn’t know he’d been singled out by the president for a very discreet role that required him to be the president’s confidant and to think through solutions that were beyond the intellectual capabilities of the president’s other advisors. It was a role that on paper didn’t exist.

  The president walked into the room and sat at the head of the table. His chief of staff was close behind him and turned on three wall-­mounted TV monitors. Each screen showed a video link to the prime ministers of Britain, France, and Israel.

  After formal introductions and greetings were exchanged, the Israeli prime minister dominated the first fifteen minutes of the meeting. He told everyone that a week ago, a senior Hamas official had been killed by an Israeli missile strike in Gaza. Nobody in the room seemed particularly interested because Israel had made public the strike and kill, hours after it had happened. But as the Israeli prime minister moved on to the reason why this meeting had been called at such short notice, he made no attempt to hide his anger. His voice shook as he spoke about yesterday’s assassination of Israel’s ambassador to France. He spoke about how they’d gone to school together, served in the army as young men, attended each other’s weddings, and on more than one occasion shared a drink while watching the sun go down over Tel Aviv.

  Mason wasn’t watching him. Instead, he was observing his American colleagues and the prime ministers of France and Britain. Did any of them know why they were here? Even the U.S. president hadn’t been given a clear agenda for the meeting by the Israeli prime minister, beyond being told that it was to discuss what had happened in Paris. But Mason was sure he knew where this was headed.

  He checked his watch and estimated that the Israeli would drop that bombshell in three minutes. In fact, he was fifteen seconds wide of the mark. And that was when the room became a chaotic cacophony of ­people trying to talk over each other, some trying to do so with insincere smiles on their faces, others looking hostile and slapping their hands on the table. During the following hour, the chief of staff had to call for order seven times. The room seemed evenly split between those who were for Israel’s bombshell and those who were against. Mason was the only person who was silent throughout this unproductive period of too many generals and chiefs and secretaries of this and that all trying to take control of the ship and drive it in the wrong direction. He wanted to sigh but maintained his composed and professional demeanor while his mind raced.

  The chief of staff called for order again, and this time he did so with the look of a man who’d rip anyone’s head of if they didn’t comply.

  The president began asking ­people individually for not only their calm assessment but also whether there was a solution to this problem. All of them gave their views, and none of them had the slightest idea what to do about them. The president turned to the head of the CIA, the one man who technically would have some answers. He did of sorts, but they were insubstantial and certainly not enough to placate the Israeli prime minister.

  Finally, the U.S. president locked his gaze on Mason from the far end of the room. He asked the admiral if he had a solution.

  All eyes were on Mason.

  He didn’t speak.

  Didn’t need to.

  Instead, he gave the tiniest of nods.

  Admiral Mason was chauffeured in a bulletproof vehicle from the White House to the Pentagon. The car stopped in the secure underground parking lot; Secret Ser­vice agents escorted him through the vast labyrinth of corridors to his office and returned to their vehicles. Mason entered the large, oak-­paneled room that he’d furnished in the design of an eighteenth-­century man-­of-­war captain’s quarters, and pressed a button on his desk’s speakerphone. “I’m back. In here now. Both of you.”

  Mae Bäcklund and Rob Tanner entered without knocking and sat in leather armchairs facing their boss.

  Tanner was in his early twenties and had the ready charm and confidence of a man who didn’t have a care in the world. Courtesy of 661 C Street’s Michael Anthony Salon, his auburn hair was designed in a medium-­length ruffle that looked asymmetrical yet was strand perfect and fashioned to exude playboy nonchalance. His suits, handcrafted by Michael Andrews, were—­the tailors of the bespoke salon often exclaimed—­a pleasure to cut for a man whose physique carried no surplus fat because it was toned by a personal trainer. And his teeth and eyes shone because they were fixed that way. On the surface, Tanner was a fraud. He was, after all, a trust-­fund baby; though unlike the majority of those who shared his financial ease into life, he had a Harvard-­sharpened barrel-­load of intellect. It wasn’t enough. Tanner wanted to position himself to one day have power. And real power, he understood, rested on Capitol Hill and in the Pentagon. That was why he was in Mason’s shitty office, sucking up rules and regulations and pocketing a government salary that barely made a dent in the bill for a bottle of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay fizz.

  Tanner needed Mason to set him on a path where riches and cleverness would pale into insignificance compared to what could be achieved by a click of his fingers. The admiral knew that, and Tanner didn’t care because if Mason didn’t employ him, he’d have to employ someone just like him. Mason mentored Tanner, knowing that one day Tanner might try to stab him in the back. The trouble for Tanner was that nobody had ever successfully outwitted the admiral.

  Mason needed his employees to have independent wealth. Those he’d previously employed had lacked that financial freedom and had quickly left to work in high-­salary positions in investment banks and law firms. It had been a major irritation because Mason required subordinates who would serve out the duration of their terms and complete the tasks at hand. But that requirement came at a cost, and in the case of Tanner, it was having to endure the young Harvard grad’s inflated ego and flippancy.

  Mason had trawled Ivy League universities to find someone with Tanner’s attributes. None of them suited him, and it was only by good fortune that the young man’s resume landed on Mason’s desk with a Post-­it note on page one stating the guy wanted a job in government.

  Bäcklund was different. She’d worked for Mason for half a decade and had seen other employees come and go. Only she remained because she was loyal, selfless, and adored Mason. It helped her work considerably that she was also calm, cerebral, and courageous in thought and conviction. Bäcklund was fully cognizant of the fact that Mason viewed her as the perfect counterbalance to the Machiavellian exuberance of the young bucks whom he’d handpicked to assist him and Bäcklund. Her usefulness in countering Tanner’s excesses was no different. But that wasn’t the sole reason why Mason had hired her. Mason had been a dear friend to her father, so much so that her dad had asked him to be his only child’s godfather. Fourteen years ago, Mason was a ship’s captain when her dad had asked Mason, “Do I walk from this?”

  “Admiral, you’re on your deathbed,” Mason had replied.

  “I expect better precision from you, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason had said. “I’ll walk out of the hospital room. You’ll float.”

  “I want angels and trumpets. Can you organize that for me?”

  “I’ll try my best, my friend.”

  “Want you to try harder on something—­my daughter, Mae. Patty gone, she’s all that’s left.”

  “I don’t have much money, but it will always b
e enough to look after her.”

  The admiral coughed, choked, nurses came, he ushered them away with his liver-­spotted hands. Then he fixed his eyes on the man who had dark hair back then and a reassuring demeanor. “Mae’s got money. Made sure of that. Man-­to-­man, I need . . .”

  “I’ll look after her.”

  “She’ll tell you no man should be tasked to look after her.”

  “Then I’ll tell her to look after me. It’s not far from the truth.” Mason bowed his head and held the admiral’s hand as it grew cold. “I can’t promise you angels.”

  Since her father’s death, Bäcklund had considered Admiral Mason to be an uncle of sorts. Five years ago, she was twenty-­seven, didn’t need to work, and had just completed a PhD at Stanford. Mason took her out for a celebratory dinner wherein he asked her if she’d come to work as his assistant in a land-­based Pentagon job he’d just been assigned to. At first she had declined, but Mason was canny and knew that part of her had aspirations one day to get into politics. He gave her sage counsel that before that day came, she could learn the ropes from the inside. He would teach her the ways of politics until such time as she was ready to broadside the ugliest natures of government and run for office. And teach he did. She respected the fact that he gave her no special dispensation because of who she was. On the contrary, Mason could be as withering in his comments to her as he was to Tanner. Only when they were alone would he soften and speak to her with a light touch and a paternal combination of admiration and concern for her well-­being. Maybe Mason’s role in her life would recede if she got hitched to a guy. Right now, that wasn’t in the cards. On the rare occasions that men fleetingly entered her private life, the moments had made her feel sorrowful and unfulfilled. Finding the right guy was tough when you were an independent woman with a job that frequently shunted your brain into overdrive.

  Bäcklund and Tanner were silent. Mason sat on the edge of his desk, and said, “Interesting meeting.”

  “President, Secretaries of Stuff, you.” Tanner’s smile broadened. “Who else was there?”

  “Britain, France, and Israel.” Mason patted his short, silver hair. “Their prime ministers, anyway, and via video link.”

  Bäcklund was motionless. “France equals pedantic legal jurisdiction. Britain equals meddling has-­been. Israel equals rabid dog on a leash.”

  Mason eyed her with the look of a professor addressing a gifted but overly forthright student. “Perhaps I’ve been too long at sea to realize that the psyche of three countries can be distilled down to one sentence each.”

  It was Tanner who responded. “Perhaps you have, sir.” He was careful because Mason’s intellect would crucify too much sarcasm. “Israel wants blood.”

  “Yes. Why?” Mason was very still, watching them like a killer who would turn on his captives if he or she gave the wrong answer.

  Bäcklund put a cigarette in her mouth and left it unlit. “Israel kills a Hamas official last week; yesterday someone kills Israel’s ambassador to Paris. Has to be Hamas; ergo two egos need to have a head to head in the locker room. Should we care?” She glanced at Tanner, wondering whether the man-­boy seven years her junior would take her bait and make a crass remark. “Boys with dicks and toys. Right?”

  “Yeah, right.” Tanner tried to decide whether tonight he should finish writing his monograph on God & Physics or instead play Texas Hold ’Em poker with his pals. “Last time I checked, shit happens a lot in the desert. We shouldn’t care.”

  Mason ran a finger along the crease in his trousers. “But we do care, don’t we?”

  “Not me.” Tanner smiled.

  Mason did not. “Then I’m in the company of a fool. Think.”

  Bäcklund withdrew the unlit cigarette from her lips and looked at its sodden butt. “Escalation.”

  Tanner added, “Not just a few missiles lobbed into Gaza.”

  They took it in turns to articulate their thoughts at rifle-­shot pace.

  “It’s an excuse.”

  “One Israel’s been waiting for.”

  “Take revenge against Hamas.”

  “Big style.”

  “Invade Gaza . . .”

  “The West Bank . . .”

  “And . . .”

  Mason nodded expectantly.

  Bäcklund concluded, “Lebanon. Shit, this is a whole different story.”

  The admiral was pleased with his assistants because they’d nailed what the Israeli prime minister had said in the meeting. Israel believed the assassination of its ambassador gave it the legitimacy it needed to obliterate Hamas once and for all. And it had no problem invading two territories and one country to do so. “What position do you think France and Britain took?”

  “You know the answer to that. You were at the meeting.”

  Mason said, “If I hadn’t been there, I’d still know the answer.”

  Bäcklund placed the unlit cigarette in her jacket pocket, her craving for the cigarettes she so used to adore momentarily over. “They’ll have made the obvious point that Israel has no concrete evidence that Hamas killed the ambassador, and in turn they’ll say Israel doesn’t yet have any legitimate ground in international law to start a ground offensive.”

  “Correct. Going to war on a hunch.” Mason loosened the knot on his tie. “And what is our beloved president’s stance?” This was to Tanner.

  The young man was silent for three seconds. “He’ll be urging Israel to be exercise restraint. But he’ll also be worried that if he can’t persuade Israel to hold fire, he’s going to be in a political quagmire because if he doesn’t show public support for Israeli actions, he’s going to suffer big-­time at the domestic ballot box.”

  “U.S. voters are not the only issue though I concede it is a relevant one.” Mason looked out of the window at the manicured grounds beside his office and wondered if he’d be able to sneak in some Japanese Salix Hakuro-­nishiki miniature trees in one of the flowerbeds. “The only solution for the president is to prove to U.S. voters that his decision to back or not back Israel is undeniably the correct one.” Mason returned his attention to his employees.

  Tanner asked, “You got an idea?”

  “I do.”

  “You gonna share it with the president?”

  Mason smiled. “I already have.” His smile vanished. “And to everyone else present at the meeting. It’s bought time. Israel’s given me two months to make the idea work. If it doesn’t, international law be damned as far as Israel’s concerned. It will go to war with our without our blessing. ­People will have opinions about whether it’s the right or wrong thing to do, but no one will know for a fact that it’s the correct course of action because no one knows for a fact that Hamas killed the ambassador.”

  “And the Middle East will tear itself apart, before looking west.” Bäcklund shook her head. “Anarchy. Bearded crazies foaming at the mouth and turning on us.”

  “Yes.” There was a tinge of sadness in Mason’s otherwise piercing cold blue eyes. “If my idea fails, the world should be wishing that I’d been a smarter man.”

  Tanner asked, “What is your idea?”

  “We must get undeniable proof that Hamas did or did not conduct the Paris assassination.” The admiral added, “My solution’s being enacted right now. It’s called Grey Site.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mosques were calling ­people to pray in Beirut, the amplified sounds nearly drowned out by the noise of traffic on the streets, the buzz of ­people going about their early-­morning business, construction workers building and repairing buildings, and cargo vessels in the adjacent Mediterranean sounding their horns to warn other vessels that they were cruising slowly in and out of port amid a mist that still hadn’t been burned out by the sun.

  A tall man called Laith Dia—­though that wasn’t the name he’d used to enter Lebanon two days ago—­ate a fres
hly baked za’atar croissant while standing in a doorway and watching not only a large derelict house, underneath which a newly constructed intelligence station had been established, but more importantly everything around the building. He was a paramilitary CIA officer. One of the men in the nearby subterranean complex was a colleague; the three other officers were respectively British MI6, French DGSE, and Israeli Mossad. Right now they were testing the newly installed electronic surveillance and intercept equipment. Laith was there to watch their back for twenty-­four hours, trying to establish if there were any indications that ­people knew they were there. It was his last job for the CIA because, a week ago, he’d resigned from the Agency.

  Though he was a big man with a striking visage, Laith blended in just fine. He looked like he was Lebanese, or certainly North African, and he was wearing clothes befitting an entrepreneur who was grabbing a bite to eat before heading off to his car dealership or dockland import and export business. It was a great time of day to do surveillance because ­people moving past him were bleary-­eyed from drinking wine and smoking hookahs last night, and were oblivious to little else beyond getting to work and forcing their minds into gear. It would be easy to spot professional threats to the Western intelligence complex.

  Laith sauntered along the street, taking another bite out of his breakfast while casually taking in his surroundings. The street was on the outskirts of Beirut, aligned with buildings that were residential and commercial, and was bustling with traffic and pedestrians. It was very different from how it had been during the preceding night when Laith had been here. Then, it had been almost deserted of ­people though the sounds of the city had been evident throughout his all-­night vigil.

  He saw an SUV stop. Two men got out and began walking along the street, one on either side of the route. Clearly, they were looking for something. They didn’t look bleary-­eyed. And though the young men looked similar to many of the pedestrians around them, they moved with vigor and purpose, showing no signs of having just dragged themselves out of bed after an evening of overindulging in the fine cuisines on offer in the city. After years of serving in the CIA and prior to that Delta Force, Laith knew the types. Still, they could just be innocents rather than Hamas terrorists who were looking for hostile intelligence officers who were spying on their activities.