“Nice suit,” he said. “I like your haircut too.”
I murmured my thanks and sat down in a leather chair at the small conference table.
Carlton gathered up the bundle of papers from his desk and came over to the table. When he sat down, he placed the papers between us. Then, while pressing his long, slender fingers together to form a steeple, he studied my face.
“This morning I met with the DDO about your status with the Agency.”
I felt surprisingly calm.
Carlton reached over and thumped the documents a couple of times with the palm of his hand. “Here’s the agreement we’ve reached. Now is there anything you’d like to say to me before I explain what this means for you?”
He gave the papers another thump.
“Yes.”
I tried to decide where to begin. “First, please accept my apology for losing my temper yesterday with Deputy Ira. I know I must have put you in the awkward position of having to defend me.”
As if he’d just tasted something sour, Carlton pursed his lips together.
Maybe, though, he was just biting his tongue.
“Whatever the deputy said this morning,” I continued, “I’m sure you were backing me one hundred percent.” He shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter, but he didn’t correct me. “I don’t really believe I owe anyone except you an apology. I meant every word I said, and I hope you also expressed your own disgust with the deputy’s behavior.”
He rubbed his hand over his baldhead in a gesture of frustration, but he still didn’t reply.
“Secondly, I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I hope you’ll give me a chance to get my leg back in shape and return to the field.” I paused for a few seconds. “Admittedly, I’ve thought of resigning for the first time since joining the Agency. However, after what happened to me in Tehran, I really believe I can be an even better agent in the coming months.”
He looked at me thoughtfully for a few seconds.
“How long have I been your handler, Titus?”
I considered his question.
“Twenty years.”
“In all that time, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to anyone, much less to me.”
I smiled. “Maybe I’ve never been sorry before.” Then, hoping his comment was a good sign there was nothing for me to worry about, I added, “I really think I just need a few—”
“You have to go on medical leave,” he said flatly.
“What? Oh, well, sure, I can do that. The physical therapist thinks I need about six weeks of rehab. My leg should be as good as new after that.”
“It has to be a year.”
“A year?”
“You have to go on medical leave for one year,” he said calmly, reaching for the first document from his stack of papers.
“Why would I need to go on medical leave for a full year?”
He looked up from the document. His face held a look of incredulity.
It took me a few seconds, but I finally nodded my head.
“Oh, I get it. This is my punishment, isn’t it?”
“It’s what I negotiated your punishment down to,” Carlton said. “You basically called Deputy Ira a coward, Titus. If he had his way, you’d be gone from the Agency permanently.”
He pushed the first document across the table for me to read. It was the standard Agency medical leave form. It was already signed.
“Who’s going to believe my broken leg merits a full year of medical leave?”
Carlton’s voice held a note of exasperation. “Titus, you’ve been living undercover in Iran for two years. Your entire network was brought down. Not only did you break your leg, you also had to undergo emergency surgery in an underground medical facility. I can safely say no one will question why you need a year’s medical leave before returning to the field again.”
I decided not to respond to this logic. Instead, I started reading the document in front of me.
“This says I have to undergo an Evaluation Interview before resuming my regular duties. Does that mean Dr. Howard has to give me a checkup when the year is over?”
“No. You’ll have to go through an interview process with Deputy Ira and two other people of his choosing before you’ll be allowed to return to fieldwork. He insisted on that requirement. It was non-negotiable.”
He picked up the next set of documents and placed them in front of me. Then, his voice took on a somber tone. “As of a few hours ago, your medical leave falls under the Security Protection Protocol.”
I studied the document. “What triggered this?”
Instead of answering, he got up from the table, went over to the credenza, and pushed the intercom on his telephone console.
“Mrs. Hartford,” he said, “please bring me the most recent NSA printouts.”
Within a few seconds, Sally Jo handed Carlton the National Security Agency’s printouts concerning recent chatter intercepts from the Middle East.
“Would either of you like something to drink?” Sally Jo asked. “Coffee? Soda?”
I gave her a smile. “I’d like some water, Mrs. Hartford.”
Carlton was scanning the printouts and didn’t look up. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Sally Jo went over to a small refrigerator hidden inside a section of one of the bookcases and retrieved a bottle of water. After handing it to me, she gave my arm a quick squeeze and left the room.
Carlton folded over several sheets of the printout while walking back over to the conference table. “Mossad has a pretty good handle on the chatter coming out of Iran these days, and they think there are substantial references to you in some of their most recent intercepts. It appears someone in Tehran wasn’t happy about the fact you killed two of their guys. There’s talk here of revenge against the shooter.”
He slapped the folded printout in front of me. After skimming the contents, I said, “Well, this would worry me if I had plans to return to Tehran for my vacation this year, but, as it turns out, I won’t be leaving the States for at least a year now.”
The sarcasm in my voice came out sounding harsher than I’d intended, but Carlton appeared to ignore it.
“You know how these things work. Iran has plenty of proxies they can hire to get rid of you wherever you are. And the analysts think these guys may want to send the Agency a message by killing you on American soil.”
Sobered by his reply, I picked up the form for the Security Protection Protocol and looked it over.
“What’s the point of the protocol?” I asked. “I’m not going to have bodyguards following me around all day.”
Carlton smiled at that thought. “We both know that’s not going to happen. This form simply authorizes Support to relocate you somewhere outside the D. C. area during the time you’re on medical leave. They’ll also provide you with housing, a legend, and whatever security setup you need for the coming year.”
His explanation sounded simple, but the reality of what it meant in terms of my freedom caused me to grimace.
Carlton saw my pained expression and said, “It’s actually a good thing for you, Titus. The Agency will be taking care of you as if you were on an overseas assignment.”
He picked up the last document from the table.
“I’ve pulled your personnel file,” he said. “Your family lives in Michigan, don’t they?”
I nodded. “My mother and sister still live in Flint.”
“That’s right. Your father passed away in ’92. If I remember correctly, we had to pull you out of Iraq so you could attend his funeral.”
“Look, Douglas, if you think I’m going to live in Michigan during my year off, you’re dead wrong.”
He laid aside the data sheet. “Okay, then, where would you like to go? Where do your friends live? Is there a vacation spot you especially love?”
Feeling frustrated at his inquiries about my personal life, I asked, “Can’t I decide this later?”
He was unyielding. “No, y
ou can’t. That was part of my negotiation with the DDO’s office. You’re out of here as of today. You’ll go back to The Gray, wait a few days for Support to arrange your relocation, and then, unless something unforeseen happens, I won’t see you again until next year.”
“Okay.” I took a swig of water to give myself time to think.
“Don’t you have a place that’s really familiar to you?” he asked, prodding me for an answer. “Where do you go when you’re on leave?”
“I stay around the D.C. area,” I said. “I visit the library or the planetarium; go to the shooting range, that sort of thing.”
He shook his head and picked up my personnel file again.
After a few minutes of flipping through some pages, he looked inspired. “Here, this is perfect. You spent two months in Norman, Oklahoma back in 2001 researching that Moussaoui connection to the 9/11 hijackers.”
“Yes, but—”
“And, even better,” he interrupted, “you were working with Danny Jarrar then.”
“Why does that make it even better?”
“I thought you knew he’d left the Agency. He’s now a Deputy Director with the OSBI, the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation. His wife’s from Oklahoma, and she insisted they move back there when they started their family. He’ll be able to help Support set up security for you in the area and watch your back.”
I hadn’t realized Danny had gotten married. If he’d married that waitress, he was probably still mad at me for the things I’d said about her.
Carlton looked at me expectantly, waiting for my answer.
I thought back to my prayers asking for guidance and wondered if this was the way God had of working things out for me.
Finally, I relented.
“Well, why not?’ I said. “At least I’m familiar with the Wal-Mart there.”
Reluctantly, I signed the required documents.
When I handed them back over to Carlton, he said, “For what it’s worth, I agreed with what you said to the deputy yesterday. However, for both our careers’ sake, it’s best if we don’t talk about your accusations against the deputy ever again.”
I gazed up at the ceiling for a minute as if I were actually giving this some thought. Then I nodded at him. “Understood.”
He rose from the table.
I remained seated.
Carlton looked over and me and asked, “Is there something else?”
“Could I ask you a question?”
He nodded his consent.
“What’s the most important thing in the world to you?”
“Ah,” he said, clearly recalling my narrative during the debrief. “That’s an easy one for me. It’s the Agency, of course.”
Of course.
CHAPTER 9
When Greg picked me up outside the OHB, I told him I’d decided to take a year’s medical leave from the Agency. He showed no surprise.
As we cleared the security gate, I asked him to take me by my bank where I got some cash, removed several items from my safety deposit box, and paid him back for my new clothes and haircut. Next, he drove me over to my storage unit where I retrieved some of my guns. I also picked up a few other items, which I thought I might need during my year’s absence from the area.
After that, Greg dropped me off at a car dealership, where I kicked a few tires and ended up purchasing a new Range Rover. Later in the afternoon, I called Support Services. They told me to license the vehicle out of Maryland to match the cover story they were building for me.
Having my own car gave me a sense of freedom I hadn’t felt since shooting my first gun with Roman Hudson on a snowy Christmas morning years ago.
Whether it was remembering that moment, or the fact I was already beginning to feel disconnected from the Agency, I decided to give him a call. I purchased a new iPhone from an Apple store and punched in my former father-in-law’s number from memory.
Although his raspy voice was showing his age, he told me he still owned the hardware store and went in to work every day. He mentioned Laura before I got around to asking about her. He said she was getting ready for her oldest son’s graduation from high school and seemed very happy.
His graduation comment gave me pause, and I suddenly remembered the words of the hair stylist about the gray in my hair. I suspected I wasn’t looking thirty-five anymore.
I ended the conversation before Roman had a chance to ask me about my job. Although I believed he knew I was employed by the CIA, I still maintained I was an employee of a think tank in the D.C. area. However, for some reason, lying to him about it seemed wrong to me.
After saying goodbye to Roman, I gave my sister Carla a call. We spent most of our time discussing my mother, who was living in a nursing home specializing in Alzheimer’s disease, a diagnosis confirmed by doctors two years after my father passed away of liver cancer. As usual, I felt guilty about Carla carrying the burden of my mother’s care, so I did what I always did after such phone calls—the next day I put a huge check in the mail to her.
Before I left the Langley area, I telephoned Katherine. She was on her way out to dinner, but she promised to call me back.
She never did, but a few weeks later, we saw each other again in Oklahoma.
Exactly one week after my ill-fated debriefing session, I found myself entering the same conference room yet again. Only this time, I chose where I wanted to sit, and there were only two other people in the room with me. Both of them were from Support Services, specifically, Legends.
Support is a multi-faceted division in the Agency with more departments than I could ever name. However, if you were to ask any covert operative which department in Support Services was the most important one, I’m sure most would pick the one responsible for forging a plausible identity.
Legends was that department.
Josh Kellerman, a soft-spoken man in his early forties with large, tortoise-shell glasses, was sitting at the head of the table. He was looking at a PowerPoint slide on his computer. April Snyder, a redheaded woman with frizzy hair and the body of a gymnast, was walking around the room with a cup of coffee in her hand. The two of them were responsible for briefing me on the legend I would be using while living in Oklahoma for a year.
I’d been through briefings before with Kellerman, but I wasn’t acquainted with April. When Kellerman had introduced her, he had called her “my assistant.” I suspected that meant she was in training, which probably explained why she appeared to be slightly nervous.
They were both dressed in casual clothes—no suits today—and I was dressed in jeans and a pullover knit shirt, my traveling clothes, because I intended to head out of town once my Legends briefing was over.
Although I was going to be living in the States and not overseas, I didn’t expect the briefing of my domestic legend to be much different from others Kellerman had given me when I was headed overseas. He usually used presentation software and organized his briefings under what he called The Outline. Previously, he had worked for an advertising agency and had honed his PowerPoint skills to an art. His expertise didn’t go to waste at the Agency.
Kellerman picked up a remote mouse, clicked once, and a blue slide entitled “The Outline” was projected onto a large screen at the far end of the conference room. “Here’s The Outline we’ll be using, and it includes four essentials,” he said.
Bullet points appeared in white on the screen as he spoke. “Identity, Housing, Lifestyle, and Medical Care. April will start us off this morning with Housing.”
April took over the remote mouse and clicked on a slide showing an aerial view of a large house located on about thirty acres of land. I was able to see a red barn on the property, plus a small lake near the residence. Most of the surrounding land looked undeveloped.
April’s voice had a slight tremor as she began speaking. “We’ve rented you this property located on the outskirts of Norman, Oklahoma on East Tecumseh Road. It belongs to Phillip Ortega, a professor at the University of Oklahoma, who�
��s on sabbatical in Spain. He was scheduled to return in nine months, but I negotiated the lease for a full year.”
At the mention of negotiating the lease, the tenor of April’s voice changed slightly. Since she’d been responsible for negotiating with the realtor, perhaps remembering her success at this task helped to settle her nerves. At any rate, after mentioning the lease, she seemed more relaxed and continued describing my new accommodations by flashing photos of the home’s interior across the screen.
“It’s fully furnished, of course, and Mr. Carlton’s office had a former Agency employee visit the property and arrange for some additional security systems to be installed.”
I assumed she was talking about Danny Jarrar, the former field operative who was now working for OSBI. Since I knew he tended to operate with a “worst case scenario” mentality, I hoped he hadn’t overdone the security thing. Too much security would only draw attention to me.
“You’ll pick up the keys, security codes, and owner’s instructions from Eric Hawley at the Dylard Group Real Estate Agency. His information will be included in your Kit, of course.”
The Kit was given to the intelligence officer at the end of a Legends briefing. It included all the items mentioned in the briefing, plus a few extras. Kellerman usually called these extra inclusions “gifts.”
April gave control of the presentation back over to Kellerman.
“Now, we’ll cover Identity,” Kellerman said, moving on to the next slide. “You’ll be living under your given name, Titus Alan Ray. You’re a Senior Fellow for Middle East Programs at the Consortium for International Studies or CIS. This is a think tank located in College Park, Maryland, and, Titus, I believe you’re familiar with this enterprise.”
When he glanced over at me for confirmation, I nodded. “Yes, of course.”
CIS served as my cover employment for my friends and family. However, I had always been listed as a Research Analyst with them and never a Senior Fellow.
I felt my promotion was long overdue and well deserved.
Probably at least one-third of the Consortium’s listed employees were really Agency employees. Given the fact the firm’s initials were just one letter off from CIA, I’m not sure how many people—especially those working in the Beltway—were totally fooled by this deception.
One Night in Tehran: A Titus Ray Thriller Page 8