“While the four biggest sponsors are not necessarily dependent on foreign trade and inclusion in world economic communities, all are beginning to feel the pinch of living on the fringes. They may talk about neither wanting nor needing any part of Western progress and values, but the story on the street is quite different.”
Smith said, “Are you telling us, Mr. Director, these countries care what the rest of the world thinks, that their feelings are hurt because they don’t get to play with the big kids?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’ll give you an example. In the past three years alone, while Syria has balked at the peace process and has continued to support terrorism—especially in Lebanon—the United States, along with Canada and the United Kingdom, have all but stopped buying Syrian products such as manganese, chrome, and phosphates. This alone has cost Syria hundreds of millions of dollars—money President Assad doesn’t have to spend keeping his country militarized.
“So, I ask you, Senator: What’s your guess as to what President Assad is feeling? The big kids have stopped playing with him, and his power base—his very ability to remain in power—is being eroded.”
Smith put his hand over the microphone and whispered to his vice chairman, Senator Dean. Smith was good at rhetoric, Mason knew, but rarely did his homework, and in this case he was so intent on punching holes in one of the president’s pet projects, he didn’t bother to find out what the hell he was talking about. Even so, Smith wielded power on the Hill. Though a confirmed womanizer and a borderline drunk, he won countless battles by simply wearing down his opponents. Victory by forfeiture was still victory.
“That’s a start, Mr. Director. Now you’ve caught on to what I’m talking about: tangible progress. But is your example an isolated one, or is it representative?”
“It is becoming more the rule rather than exception, Senator.” But we’ve got a long, long, way to go, Mason didn’t add. Destitute or flush, state-sponsored terrorist groups would never quit altogether.
Smith considered this and nodded. “Very well, Mr. Director, we appreciate your time. We may call on you again.”
“Of course.”
Mason nodded as the committee filed out of the hearing room. Once they were gone, he let out a long breath.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
He was back in his office an hour later.
“Morning, Mr. Director,” said his secretary.
“Morning, Ginny.” Mason had stopped trying to get Ginny to call him anything but “Mr. Director.”
“The world still in one piece?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who faced the beast this morning.”
“And got away only slightly scathed.”
“Mr. Coates and Ms. Albrecht are in your conference room.”
“Okay.” Mason walked into his office, checked his inbox and voice messages, then opened his door to the adjoining conference room. George Coates, his deputy director, Operations (DDO) and Sylvia Albrecht, his deputy director, Intelligence (DDI) were waiting. Coates and Albrect headed the two main directorates at the CIA, the “doers” and the “thinkers,” as Mason called them.
Dick Mason had been appointed by the previous administration and then asked to stay on by its successor. From day one, Mason dedicated himself to revamping the CIA and had never wavered in that pursuit. Among the many problems he tackled, the biggest had been rivalry: in-house rivalry between his directorates and outside rivalry between the CIA and other agencies such as the FBI and NSA. He handled the former by first doing some housecleaning that included cutting the position of DDCI, or deputy director of Central Intelligence, and becoming his own number-two man; and then by simply converting other agency heads through the sheer force of his personality.
Within a month of his appointment, Mason fired the incumbent DDO and DDI, both career bureaucrats. To their replacements he gave the simple warning, “Work together, or I’ll fire you.” They didn’t, so he did.
Mason then appointed George Coates and Sylvia Albrecht, gave them the same warning, and got very different results. For the first time in years, Operations and Intelligence began working hand in hand. The DI got quality raw product from the field, and in return the DO got unvarnished analysis. Most importantly, the agency’s output was unslanted and immune to the vagaries of political winds. This, Mason felt, was the CIA’s primary job.
“Why the long faces?” he asked as he took a seat.
In reply, Coates slid a buff-colored folder across the table. On the diagonal red stripe across the cover was the annotation, NOFORN/TS/EYES ONLY/SYMMETRY. Mason mentally translated the spookese to plain English: No Foreign Dissemination/Top Secret/No Unauthorized Electronic Reproduction or Conveyance. The last word, SYMMETRY, was the computer-generated name for their Beirut operation.
“We lost Marcus, Dick,” said Coates. “The report’s on top.”
Mason opened the folder and scanned Art Stucky’s message. He sighed. “Anybody claiming credit for it?”
Coates shook his head. “No. Too early anyway.” Like Mason, the DDO was hoping this was simply a random kidnapping. In Beirut, it was possible.
“What did Stucky do?”
“He told the agent to lay low and make contact again in two days. That should give us time to make decisions.”
“Okay, you and Sylvia put your heads together. I want all the SYMMETRY product sifted, and I want rough conclusions by tomorrow. Focus on whatever Marcus had going the last few weeks. Maybe he struck a nerve somewhere, and we missed it. Next, I want OpSec checked inside and out, and I want a plan to cauterize this thing if we have to. Questions?”
Both deputies shook their heads.
“This is not good news,” Mason said. “Aside from the fact we’ve lost a good agent and maybe a whole network, there’s a political side. I just got done with Smith over at the IOC—by the way, George, you best put on your hip waders before you go over tomorrow.”
“That, bad?”
“He’s got an agenda, that’s for certain.”
“What about SYMMETRY?”
“Not a word. Right now, there’s nothing to tell. My call—I’ll take the flak.
“Bottom line: SYMMETRY is our flagship on our ‘war on terrorism’ as Smith put it. The president is dedicated to making a dent in terrorism, and everybody knows it—especially on the Hill. Plenty of people are looking for anything they can use to sink him. Being able to label a major policy a failure would be just the kind of ammunition they need. And as much as I’d like to think we’re above politics, that’s just not the case.”
Mason leaned forward to make sure he had their attention. “This is what they call a career decider, people. Whatever it takes, we fix SYMMETRY, and if it can’t be fixed, we find a way to turn it into a win. Understood?”
What Mason had essentially told Coates and Albrect was, I think it stinks, but if we don’t make this thing right, we’re all out of jobs.
Quantico, Virginia
When Charlie Latham’s boss first approached him with the idea of teaching a few seminars at the FBI academy, Latham balked. He wasn’t a teacher, he argued. As usual, his wife Bonnie had simplified it for him: “Crap.” Whether he was in the field teaching by example or in a classroom teaching by lecture, it was the same thing. Now, two years later, Latham had to admit he enjoyed it.
Today’s topic was the fall of the Soviet Union and its effect on espionage operations in Europe and Asia. Though a decade had passed, the U.S.S.R.’s dissolution was still an idea backdrop for the kind of lessons fledgling agents needed to learn.
To the trainees Latham was something of a legend, perhaps the greatest CE/I (counterespionage and intelligence) and spy hunter in FBI history. Now he was working counterterrorism.
“… it’s important we don’t get tunnel vision when assessing threats,” he said. “The former Soviet intelligence community hasn’t vanished. And there are other organizations out there that deserve our att
ention. Think about the old Cold War term the Soviets used for its bloc countries: satellites. Initially, they were designed to insulate the U.S.S.R. against invasion, but it didn’t take long for the Kremlin to see the opportunity. These satellites could be molded in Russia’s image, could carry out its clandestine dictates. In other words, surrogate covert warfare. Why do the dirty work when you can get someone else to do it for you?
“So, when you get into the field—and if you are so blessed as to find yourself in CE and I—” Latham paused as there was general laughter. “—ask yourself this: All that infrastructure, all those agents, all those controllers … Where did they go and what are they doing now?”
A young trainee raised his hand. “Hold on a second, sir. Can anybody today mount operations with the same sophistication of the Soviets?”
“The French, the Germans—”
“But those are our—”
“Allies? No such thing, not when it comes to espionage. It goes on everywhere, all the time. Allies simply aren’t as likely to act as vigorously against one another, that’s all. Sophistication is nothing more than training, creativity, and resources. Those things don’t go away. There’ll always be someone with a need, and someone willing to supply it.”
“You’re talking about freelance espionage, aren’t you?”
“Could be. Look at all the weapons scientists that found themselves out of work after the Soviet Union collapsed. We were—still are, in fact—trying to figure what they’re doing. Same deal with all those KGB boys and their Czech and Bulgarian counterparts. Some are working in factories making shoelaces. Some aren’t.”
Another trainee raised his hand. “Sir, I know this is off the subject, but I was wondering if you might … I mean, we’d be interested to hear about the Vorsalov case.”
That caught Latham by surprise. He hadn’t thought about that for … How long? A whole week? He paused, took a sip of water. “Maybe next time. You’re right, though, it’s a good, uh … case study.” On just how quick a rookie agent can die, right, Charlie?
Suddenly he felt like a hypocrite, standing there as a supposed expert when just a decade ago an agent not much older than these kids died in his arms. And it had been his fault. What could he tell them? Even if you run a flawless op, track down and corner Russia’s most dangerous KGB illegal, you can still lose.
He hadn’t expected the Russian to bolt, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to kill to get away. It just wasn’t done—or so the rules went. That was crap then, and it’s crap now, thought Latham. He should have known better.
He glanced at his watch. “I want you to think about something for next time. On the robbery side, banks can be held up only a certain number of ways; serial killers usually stick to predicted profiles. But CE and I is a fluid business. The threat never goes away. It might mutate—tactics or allegiances or goals might change—but it’s always there. Where there are secrets, there’ll be people who want them and will do anything to get them. Okay, see you next time.”
Latham watched the students file out, then walked to the window and looked out. “Demons, Charlie,” he muttered.
Kingston, Jamaica
In a bungalow overlooking the island’s Southern shore, the man resealed the false bottom of the suitcase and carefully repacked the clothes. He could hear her in the bathroom, humming as she finished putting on her makeup. Once satisfied the case was ready, he returned it to the bed and sat down beside it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
She came out of the bathroom, placed her kit in the bag, then closed it. She leaned over and kissed him. “I wish you could come,” she said.
“As do I. As soon as I finish my business, I will join you.” He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip. “I think I’ll have a hard time waiting.”
She giggled. “Hard? Did you say hard?”
He kissed her again. “Don’t tempt me. You’ll miss your flight.”
She was a pretty woman, if slightly overweight, and he’d had no trouble orchestrating their whirlwind romance. To his practiced eye, she was the perfect target: Just the right mix of low self-esteem and neediness. All it had taken was some attention and well-rehearsed passion.
There had been a surprise with this one, however. In the past he’d been able to use the skills with a certain detachment, not unlike the skill a golfer uses to assess a putting green. But this time … He couldn’t put his finger on it. He wrote if off to weariness. He needed rest.
The woman stroked his shirtfront. “We have time. …”
“When I’m with you, there is never enough time. Now go, before I lose control.”
She beamed. “All right. You’ll call me with your flight number?”
“Of course.”
He hefted the green checkered suitcase off the bed, guided her to the front door, and opened it A yellow taxi waited at the end of the path.
They embraced again. Her eyes were wet, and he dabbed them with his handkerchief. Abruptly, the feeling returned. What is this? he thought. She is nothing. A tool, nothing more. Get on with it!
He walked her to the cab, put her bag in the trunk, and closed the car door behind her. “I already miss you,” she murmured.
“Travel safe.” He patted the taxi’s roof, and it pulled away.
Beirut
Bound and blindfolded, Marcus felt himself shoved from behind. He fell to his knees. The floor was made of stone, damp and cold. He could feel the chill seeping into his bare feet.
They led him down some steps, then turned left at the bottom. Now he could hear water lapping. He caught the smell of tar and rotting wood. Docks, he thought. Where, though? It could be anywhere in the city—anywhere in the country, for that matter. His heart sank. How were they going to rescue him if they didn’t know where he was?
Another turn. Down another corridor, this one longer. He heard a crackling noise to the left. It sounded like a welder’s torch. An acrid stench filled the air. A man’s scream echoed down the corridor. Oh, God, oh God …
He was jerked to a stop. He felt cold steel at his throat. The blade paused, then ripped downward, cutting away his shirt and pants. The blindfold was torn away, and he was shoved forward. The door slammed behind him.
Marcus blinked his eyes clear and found himself standing in a windowless stone cell.
4
Shiono Misaki, Japan
Tanner showered, ordered coffee from room service, and sat on his balcony. The day was sunny and warm with a slight breeze. He had half an hour before breakfast with Camille, and there was a lot to think about.
Lying in bed the night before, images of the shooting kept-playing in his mind. Umako Ohira. Irrational as it was, Tanner couldn’t help feeling he’d failed the man. In those brief seconds before the fatal shot had come, could he have done something different?
The figure below his window was also a curiosity. It could have been anyone—hotel staff, a guest—but long ago he’d developed a healthy suspicion of coincidence. This counted, he felt.
Though now a civilian, Tanner had spent almost a third of his life in the U.S. military. After graduating from the University of Colorado, he enrolled in Navy Officer Candidate School, after which came four years in the Naval Special Warfare community, followed by four more years with SEAL Team Six, the Navy’s counterterrorist group, and a final four attached to a multiservice hybrid experiment called the Intelligence Support Activity Group, or ISAG.
In the inner circles of the Pentagon, ISAG members had been called “the new breed of elite warrior/spies,” the world’s elite special operators. Their training made them unsurpassed in unconventional warfare and covert intelligence gathering deep inside contested territory, in myriad cultures, environments, and situations. Two years after Tanner left ISAG, it was disbanded, a victim of a budgetary turf war between the Pentagon and the CIA. He’d been one of only sixty graduates.
After resigning his commission, Tanner forced h
imself to take a sabbatical. He’d forgotten what it felt like to simply do nothing—to just be. No training, no midnight planes bound for cold waters or humid jungles. It took him most of that year to realize he would never be happy in a nine-to-five job. Luckily, it never came to that.
Tanner’s mentor, former IS AG instructor, chief tormentor, and friend, Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate Ned Billings, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and again he found himself part of an experimental group. The group’s official designator was NSCD (“Knee-sid”) 1202, named for the National Security Council Directive from which it was born. The plaque on the door to the group’s Chesapeake Bay office read Holystone, Shiverick.
In the tradecraft jargon, Holystone was a “fix-it company.” It worked outside normal channels, silent, unacknowledged, and answerable only to the Oval Office. Where the CIA was a shovel, Holystone was a pair of tweezers. Most importantly, Holystone provided the president plausible deniability. In other words, Holystone and its people did not exist. It was called working on the raw. No cover, no backup.
Holystone had unrestricted access to the U.S. intelligence loop without the accompanying squabbles and political infighting. Its budget—a fraction of the size of the CIA’s annual cafeteria allotment—came directly from the president’s covert ops fund and was therefore off-limits to both the General Accounting Office and congressional oversight.
How long had he been with Holystone? Tanner thought. Six years. Cliché or not, time did, in fact, fly. In that time, he’d found a home with Holystone and its people. He’d also lost his wife on a mountain in Colorado and his mentor Ned Billings during a project in the Caribbean—the very same ordeal that had reunited him with his finest friend, Ian Cahil.
And now this. A simple vacation turned murder mystery. So what? he thought. He was witness to a murder. He’d picked up a key Ohira had carried in his hand. It was an impulse—an unwise one at that—but he could turn it in to the police and be done with it.
End of Enemies Page 4