“Two years ago, in 2008, under the direct wish of President Nash, the Defense Clandestine Service—the DCS—was put back on the table, to be independent from FBI and CIA, to report directly to the Pentagon, thus directly to the President of the United States himself.”
She paused to look around the group.
“You are our first intake of personnel.”
Karis turned to Jay. He had a look of pure glee on his face.
“But let’s take a step back.” Fisher herself now moved away from the lectern and became more animated. “As you all know, the locus of global power has shifted a great deal over the past years. In the eyes of the world, the United States is no longer indisputably number one. This is—in part—due to the way former administrations have dealt with challenges in the past. However, we are living in a very different time than that of the men and women who served before us. We face very different threats, very different infrastructures and flows of information. If the United States is to regain its standing and its control on the global stage once more, we recognize that we need to take new roads—do things differently. Find new ways to run our economy, our government, and also our intelligence.”
She raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Which of course doesn’t mean we go ahead and eliminate everything we’ve created. The CIA and other agencies will continue to do their great work. But we …”—she looked around the room—“… we are different. The DCS will be able to achieve things that the older, less agile agencies have failed to achieve over the past twenty years.”
She stopped for a moment, perhaps to let this sink in.
“Our approach will be iterative and it will be fast. We will regularly revisit and analyze the geopolitical landscape, and we will target issues of strategic interest. Some of the powers in that landscape are China and Russia, as well as those smaller countries and organizations that are striving to become nuclear powers. Any questions so far?”
Jay raised his hand.
Fisher turned to him and nodded. The auditorium became still.
“Ma’am? This ‘Abbey’, as you call it … I mean, sure, it looks like a monastery, but does that mean we have to live like monks?”
Fisher smiled. “I can see it may look like that … Agent Stevenson, is it?”
Jay nodded.
“The reality is: this is a training facility, but it is also our home. And a home must be a safe haven: a place that allows you to step into the world fully prepared to face whatever may come. So, in the same way you would leave your apartment in New York to go to work and come home at night, you will be sent into the field periodically, and you will come home at the end of your assignment, to evaluate, feed back to the team, assess and recharge your batteries. And you will need time to recharge, because your job—our job—can, and will, be dangerous and very demanding.” She paused. “Let’s not make the mistake of thinking we are—or can ever be—part of the everyday world. We aren’t. And we can’t be. We made the choice, some of us less recently than others, to serve our country in ways that others are simply incapable of.” She looked around the room once more. “As I said, your training will be central to this. So that when you show up in that arena out there, you’ll be able to infiltrate the highest levels of business, government and society, be that at the wedding of a real estate tycoon’s daughter’s in Hong Kong or betting and having tea at the horse races in Ascot. And to do this, you and everyone in this room will be taught skills and given knowledge you would not expect to learn at an old-school governmental or military facility.”
She paused.
“The eagle is indeed the call sign of the President of the United States. But on a golf course in Dubai?” She smiled archly. “It’s one stroke less than a birdie.”
There was a round of laughter, and Jay grinned.
Fisher continued: “You’re laughing now, but these are exactly the nuances you’ll need to be aware of if you are to operate successfully, with your cover intact.”
She paused briefly. “From a personal point of view, I look forward to getting to know each and every one of you. I have long believed in, and worked toward, establishing this facility, and you can be sure I’ll do whatever it takes to help you achieve the excellence and lifelong surety that you’ve earned.”
She smiled now, and returned to the lectern.
“Meanwhile, all your personal belongings from your previous stations have already been stored away. We trust that you’ll find everything you need in your apartments here at the Abbey. And if you need anything in particular, please mention it to reception and we’ll take care of it.”
Karis turned once more to Jay, whose face exhibited a mix of disbelief and joy.
“That’s all for now.” Fisher had raised her voice over the rustle of movement as people turned to each other. “There will be a briefing here tomorrow at zero-seven-hundred.”
Chapter Forty-One
The Abbey, Virginia, USA
Karis heard the soft click of a lock disengaging as she touched the door handle of her new apartment.
Hastily, she removed her hand.
The door locked itself again.
“Dios mio!” The words came from a man who was standing in front of the door of the neighboring apartment, across the broad hallway. “This place is so cool!”
“Definitely better than a field tent and mosquito net,” she said, laughing. The guy was darkly tanned and well groomed, and his otherwise symmetrical face bore subtle signs of an old injury—perhaps from combat. Karis liked him immediately.
“Okay, I’m going in!” He pushed open the door. As an afterthought, he said, “Agent Tucker Santiago Avila. Remember that name!”
She laughed again. “Encantada. Karis Deen.”
“Oh, tu hablas Español?” He broke into a joyful smile, revealing a set of straight, white teeth.
“Si, bastante.”
“Even better!” He gave her a sailor salute, Broadway-style, and disappeared into his apartment.
Smiling, Karis touched her door handle again, and—this time—pushed open the door.
She stepped across the threshold.
Immediately, roll-blinds on all windows opened and began to ascend, allowing her to see the almost fully open plan apartment with its views across the forest and the grounds. A modern, white stone-and-glass kitchen ran the length of one wall. Leather sofas and an understated floor rug delineated the spacious living area.
Instinctively removing her shoes, she walked across warm ash floorboards toward the kitchen. Downlights and appliance interfaces came to life as she approached.
She opened the refrigerator briefly: it was stocked with fresh vegetables and a selection of gourmet-style, jarred condiments. No ketchup, she noticed.
Another, smaller, glass fronted refrigerator was stocked with beer and bottles of wine and champagne. She pulled out a bottle of white wine and looked at the label. For all she knew, it could have been a good one, or it could have been a five-dollar job. She had no way of knowing.
She placed the bottle on the bench top and made her way toward the bedroom, where a large bed was made up with white linen, and a blond wood bookshelf carried volumes, floor to ceiling: classic novels alongside philosophers and military strategists, scientific works, religious texts and poetry.
She ventured into the walk-in wardrobe.
At the far side, a long mirror reflected a young woman in camouflage uniform. Her long, dark hair was pulled back, and she carried herself with the carriage of a dancer.
Karis turned away.
A row of freshly ironed shirts and several long evening gowns hung below a shelf of jeans in various shades of designer-style denim. Bra-and-panty sets sat alongside brand-name tanks, and wool and cashmere sweaters.
She ran her hand along the row of fabrics: it was one thing to have the sum of your life packed into a trunk without your knowledge, but it was something else altogether to walk onto a stage where your presence is a foregone conclusion.
Her fingers rested on the
satin of a black evening gown that resembled her own midnight blue one. Except this one was without a doubt ten times the quality, its fabric heavy and soft.
For a moment, she was accosted by the memory of suffocating heat, salty fish and ocean breezes of Panama.
And the night with the English engineer.
She withdrew her fingers quickly.
The woman in the mirror shed her uniform, and pulled one of the designer t-shirts over her head. She stepped into a pair of jeans.
Karis now wondered if she’d wake up shortly to find herself back in her CIA digs at Langley or—worse—somewhere in the godawful Midwest wasteland where she’d grown up.
“Clean up your goddamn mess!” Her grandmother’s voice rang in her head, and Karis had the sudden urge to laugh. Her response, back in the eighth grade, had been the same every time: “I’m organized in my head, and that counts for more.”
In fact, her grandmother hadn’t disagreed. But—then again—the old woman had been a drunk.
Karis now turned as there was a gentle chime that she could only assume was the doorbell.
As she approached the front door she saw a screen had come to life, and she had a full view of the hallway, where Jay looked to be engaged in animated conversation with her new neighbor, Avila.
She opened the door, smiling.
“Karis!” Jay said. He was sporting new jeans and a black t-shirt. “I just came to …” He peered into her apartment.
“Confirm that it’s all for real?” She laughed. “Looks like it is.”
He exhaled. “I’ve obviously died and gone to heaven.”
“Tell me about it.” She laughed.
Jay now stepped back a little. “Me and Avila just decided we’re gonna go take a look around. Wanna join?”
Avila flashed a broad smile. “I heard they have an underground swimming pool and shooting range!”
Within minutes, the three of them were walking back through the foyer of the building and across the lawns.
It wasn’t yet lunchtime.
Chapter Forty-Two
The White House, Washington, D.C., USA
January, 2011
As Secretary of Defense, Bill McKenzie was a regular attendee at meetings of the National Security Council at the White House.
Today, he was running late.
The first person he saw as he entered the Situation Room was Rebecca Eisenhower: the Secretary of State. She nodded as he entered.
He looked around the room, his gaze resting on the chair of the council, the President of the United States—Richard Nash—who sat at the head of the table.
“Apologies, Mr. President,” McKenzie said, and took his allocated seat, across from Eisenhower.
Nash smiled in his usually breezy, midwestern manner and looked at the agenda on the table in front of him. “Good morning, Bill.” He looked up at McKenzie with a smile. “So we’re all ready to start. First topic of the day: Nicaragua.”
McKenzie removed his glasses. “We’ve just learned the government of Nicaragua is in secret talks with a Chinese businessman, with a view to building a canal cutting across Lago Nicaragua in the south of the country.”
“Are they crazy?” Rebecca Eisenhower laughed, shaking her head. “Nicaragua is … well, ‘complicated’ would be an understatement.”
There was a murmur of concurrence around the room: she’d clearly been referring to the ‘Iran-Contra’ affair of the 1980s, in which covert funding—not approved by US congress nor, allegedly, by the then President, Ronald Reagan—enabled US weapons to be sent to Iran via Israel for the supposed safe exchange of hostages in Lebanon. Except once the hostages had been released, those weapons had been sold off and the money—and more weapons—rerouted to aggressively right-wing contras in Nicaragua, effectively overthrowing Nicaragua’s socialist Sandinistas.
The Soviets had not been happy.
“Complicated: yes.” McKenzie nodded grimly. “But not impossible. A new canal in Nicaragua would certainly explain why China didn’t bother entering a bid to compete for the expansion of the canal in Panama: they probably want to have their own.”
“So what’s behind it? Is it just a show of muscle?”
McKenzie pursed his lips. “Could be. But if the Chinese succeed in building their own canal, it will definitely increase their foothold in the region.”
Eisenhower looked at the President. “Admittedly, sir, this is the first I’ve heard of it, but I can’t help thinking that it would be very much in China’s interests to see the Panama Canal somehow weakened. You remember that report we received two years ago from Ambassador Roebuck in Panama? About the British consortium winning the bid for the expansion?” She looked around the room. “The number they came up with for their bid was unrealistically low, and we still don’t know if they’ll be able to finish the expansion successfully.”
“Go on.”
“We made inquiries at the time, and London reported that the UK government was in no way involved or subsidizing the British consortium. And it’s doubtful they’d interfere in any way. So we still don’t know if the British consortium are running alone, or if there are some other forces behind them that we’re not aware of yet.”
Nash nodded slowly. “So humor me,” he said. “If the ongoing Panama Canal expansion were to fail, who would benefit?”
“At a minimum, it would buy public approval for the Nicaragua canal, wouldn’t it?” The suggestion came from the Vice President.
Nash looked over to McKenzie. “Bill, what intelligence do we have coming in? You think the Chinese could have a hand in the expansion project in Panama?”
“To further their own interests?” McKenzie held up a hand. “I’m not ready to make that call. For the moment, I suggest we watch and we continue to gather intelligence about the British consortium and the progress of their work.”
“Sir?” The White House Chief of Staff leaned in to the President and spoke to him in a low voice.
President Nash stood. “You’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes,” he said to the group.
There was a moment of general discussion, while the Vice President had a word to Nash on his way out.
McKenzie took this opportunity to sit back in his chair and stretch. It had been a long week.
From her seat on the opposite side of the table, Rebecca Eisenhower leaned toward him.
“Say, Bill, how’s the new Clandestine Service shaping up?” Her voice was lowered. “What did you call it? The Abbey?” She smiled.
McKenzie nodded. “Erika Fisher has it well in hand.”
“Are they operational already?”
“I’m told they’ll shortly be a force to be reckoned with.”
Eisenhower gave a curt nod. “Let’s hope so.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The Abbey, Virginia, USA
February, 2011
“If you’d told me a couple months ago I’d be able to code in C++ and Python, I’d’ve thought you were completely mad.” Tucker Avila turned to look at Karis and Jay.
The three of them had been jogging in the forest for about half an hour, and it was cold. A low mist hung in the hollows on the forest floor.
The only one who didn’t seem to notice the cold that day was Avila, who wore the same form-fitting, three-quarter leggings he’d worn since they’d very first arrived at the Abbey; he claimed they suited his physique.
“Turns out, I’m quite good at analyzing patterns,” Avila continued. “On a large scale.”
“So you think you could already hack into China’s State Council mainframe?” Karis teased him.
“One step at a time. Let’s just say I aced the function parameters and arguments test.”
Jay snorted, good-humoredly. “Yeah, you know all about arguments—”
“Hey, is that Fisher?” Avila slowed his pace.
A figure in dark sweats with a hood was running toward them.
“I think so.”
As they drew closer, Karis
saw the short blond hair that escaped from under one of the DCS issue hoodies, and recognized it as that of her boss.
“Good morning!” Fisher pushed back her hood. She slowed to a walk.
Karis came to a standstill alongside her colleagues, her breath now clouding in front of her in the stillness of the forest.
“Agent Deen, do you have time for another round?” Fisher asked. She smiled. Straight to the point.
Karis nodded. “Sure. I don’t have class till this afternoon.”
Waving at Jay and Avila, she fell into step alongside Fisher. They were well matched, with a similar stride.
“How are things for you, Agent Deen?”
Karis nodded. “Great, thank you, Ma’am. I still feel the need to pinch myself daily. Or every time there’s a new delivery of wearable technology.” She laughed, and pointed at the hi-tech running shoes she was trialing.
Karis appreciated her boss’s attempt at communication. She appreciated even more the fact that Fisher hadn’t resorted to first names. Too many women in positions of power did that, like there was some tacit camaraderie, or a secret club based purely on the basis of their physiology. In reality, she had less in common with most women than she did with agents in general.
“So, Agent Deen, what can you tell me about yourself?”
“Other than what’s in the files, you mean?” Karis grinned. “Not much!”
“Indulge me,” Fisher said congenially. “I like to get to know my reports. And you, Agent Deen, are one of the more challenging ones.”
Karis laughed. “I don’t mean to be. I guess I’ve never been a pack animal.” Her whole life, she’d seen and heard her peers—girls, and then women—chit-chat about themselves, explore their feelings about their tastes, their dreams, their friends, their families. Swapping clothes and whispers. It was like another language. “Well, I wasn’t, until I joined up.”
“I can relate to that,” Fisher said with a smile. She paused for a moment. “You grew up with your grandmother, is that correct?”
“Yes. Until she died. I was fourteen. Then I lived by myself, and then I signed up for the marines.” She wondered if she should beef up the combat and patriotism talk if she wanted to impress Fisher. But the fact was, Fisher didn’t come across like most of the personnel she’d worked with, who came from long strings of folks lining up to receive the triangle-folded flag for their fathers’ coffins. Fisher’s patriotism seemed to come from somewhere else.
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