As he made his way past the medical center, the CIA museum, and portraits of previous agency directors, Derek ran into an old friend, Eric Stanley.
“Holy shit! Derek, that you, man?”
“It is. How are you, Eric?”
“Fuck, man. Good to see you. I'm good. Just plugging along, you know. Diane is pregnant, and yeah … well, that's it, I guess. Nothing new here. Just reading and writing.”
Derek was always amused with how people who had been in the field, even analysts, felt it was necessary to swear in order to come off hardened. Eric, for instance, had been a huge help to Derek in Afghanistan and had provided great insight into some of the cases he had worked, but Eric was not operational. The truth was, most agency personnel who deployed to combat areas never left the green zone and in most cases didn't know their heads from their asses when it came to street smarts or tactics. Still, having been abroad, in their minds, warranted growing a beard or getting a tattoo and adopting the swagger and salty language of a field operator.
“How you been?” Eric wanted to know.
“Great. We are living in Florida now and getting by. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”
“I had duty hours today, but just until this afternoon. Then I'm going hiking for a bit over at Great Falls. So, you have kids now?”
“No, not yet, although Heidi is pushing. I just want to slow the travel down a bit first.”
“I thought you were done traveling?”
“Well, yeah, me too. I stopped for the last seven months but just got called up yesterday for something.”
“What is it?”
“Honestly I don't know anything about it. You know how it is; who knows, right?”
“Those are always the best. More exciting than what most of us do around here.”
“Yeah, I know. That's what I'm afraid of … Hey listen, I gotta run, but I'll catch you sooner rather than later, hopefully. Good seeing you.”
“You too, man, and good luck.”
Derek thanked him and rushed on toward Starbucks.
Headquarters had become a completely different building over recent years and now offered many of the same commercial services civilians could find on the outside. Starbucks was just one example. The agency offered several popular restaurant choices, ATMs, and other services and amenities, all within a building complex that was rife with mystique and history.
Starbucks was a warmly welcomed addition when it came in 2006, but the place wasn't overly conducive to work. Computers be damned, coffee and a comfy chair always made for a better work environment, as far as Derek was concerned. The problem was, with reports and writing being the biggest function of everyone's job at the agency, Derek was technically a professional deviant. He didn't care.
The more he thought about it as he walked, the more he agreed with Eric's assessment: the assignments that could not be discussed and that were part of “new programs” often had the most sex appeal … at least, to the officer working the program. But he or she would never tell a soul of the project. The black ops in the agency were the only ones worth doing anymore. The problem was, Derek was looking to slow down and become a family man, not put himself into more critically dangerous situations.
“Derek. Derek, over here.”
Derek turned to see two gentlemen standing with cups of coffee in hand, waiting. One of them approached him. “Derek, Carlisle Davenport. Pleased to meet you. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“No problem.”
Carlisle wore a green badge, indicating he was, like Derek, a contract officer at the agency. He was an older man, likely in his sixties, but still appeared to be in decent shape. He had a distinguished look; his beard, glasses, and sweater-vest combined to give Davenport a look of prestige and an aura of confidence, as though he belonged in the director's office. Derek knew immediately from the sight of him that this was no ordinary contract officer. He had something about him, something different. Though he was a contractor, it seemed clear that he, not the senior-looking staffer who stood by his side, wore the pants for this new program.
“Derek, this is Jerry Carr. He is the man in charge of this fine new program we want to discuss with you, and a longtime friend.”
Jerry handed Derek a cup of coffee. “Pleased to meet you. Do you drink coffee?”
“Only way I've survived this long, Jerry. How are you doing?”
“Very good. Thanks. Carlisle here has said some great things about you.”
“Derek, we would like to step out into the courtyard, if you don't mind,” Carlisle said. “I know it's a bit chilly, but hopefully the coffee will help.”
“Sure.”
“Right this way.”
The large cafeteria at CIA headquarters was nice for a government facility. Outside was a large courtyard for agency employees to enjoy the weather or take a smoke break. During the colder months the patio was usually empty, with the exception of a few heavily addicted smokers.
Derek and the two other men made their way to a patio table and sat down.
Carlisle began to speak. “So, let's get right to the point. Jerry has been tasked to start a new program in support of our counterterrorism efforts worldwide, and he has asked me to help him staff it. The trial will be in Afghanistan, but the plans will have you going all over the Middle East, Europe—the world, really. These days, terrorists are expanding faster than we can track them, and they aren't limiting themselves to operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. You should see some new places. We have fusion cells tracking groups across the globe; you name it, they're there. But you already know this.”
“Of course.”
Carlisle continued, “With lawyers and the media in a frenzy about Renditions, we've had to all but scrap that program. It has become a standard debriefing program in most cases.”
Derek nodded in understanding. The CIA's long-running Rendition program tracked and eventually snatched major terrorist targets or those connected to them, all around the world. Once captured from their homes, public locations, or other places, these targets were taken on private planes to top-secret detention facilities all around the world. Now, however, with all the public attention being brought to bear, the agency was being forced to greatly curtail Rendition, even though it had garnered some critical intelligence about terrorist operational plans.
“Is this similar to the original Renditions? Where do I come in?”
“Well, it is and it isn't,” Jerry said as Carlisle nodded. “You will be a rover, in a sense. You know as well as I do that agency personnel in Kabul or Baghdad are handcuffed and limited in what they can actually do. All we have there now are essentially two more headquarters facilities, and we all know nothing gets done at headquarters, except for paper getting shoved around. You will not report to station upon arrival, you will not visit station. In fact, the chief of station himself will have no idea you are in country; thus, the name of the program.”
“And what's that?”
“We're calling it the Maverick Program,” Carlisle said, “because that's what you will be: a rogue—but supported—officer conducting missions outside the laws that the agency has to follow.”
“Who does it fall under?”
“CTC, SMD, DSG,” Jerry said.
Derek shook his head as he chuckled. “This place gets more difficult to understand all the time. Who is that in layman's terms?”
“It's the CTC/SMD Defense Survey Group,” Carlisle said. “However, chief of SMD doesn't know who you are, or even that you are under him, for that matter.”
“So … I'm working in the Special Missions Division of the Counter Terrorist Center,” Derek said slowly, sorting out the alphabet soup in his mind, “but the chiefs don't know who I am or even that I exist … Which means that in Afghanistan, or anywhere, really, I have no protection whatsoever. My actions, which various chiefs may become aware of, will be unknown to them and, therefore, assumed hostile. So I can expect to be chased down by the agency and t
he military?” Derek gave a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Sounds like a real picnic. Where do I sign?”
Derek set down his cup of coffee and stood, turning and walking away from the table. Before he had taken three steps, he felt someone grabbing his arm.
“Hang on a second, Derek,” Carlisle Davenport said. “Just listen, OK?”
Derek paused.
“We finally have a director who will push the envelope and, surprisingly, the president supports him,” Carlisle said. “DCI and the president are the only people outside of the three of us who know about this program. We can really get some things done here.”
“Just you, Jerry, me, the director of the CIA, and the president?” Derek said.
Carlisle nodded.
“This really goes that high?”
Carlisle nodded again. “Like I told you before—clearance at the highest level.”
Derek took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And what, exactly, would I be doing along with all this exciting travel you're talking about?”
“Well, like I said, you will be acting outside of the law in order to ensure we are getting valuable information from our targets—and then getting rid of them.”
“How does that work? Who provides my targets, and how are we reporting the information we get? We can't do it through agency channels or we lose all deniability.”
Jerry walked over to where Derek and Carlisle were standing. “The simple answer is, you don't,” he said. “This program can never be connected to the US government, and certainly not the agency. You have to almost think of this program as its own agency or entity. You have someone funding it and supporting it, but in the field it will be your baby. Carlisle and I will essentially sniff out the hardest target sets the agency has and utilize our access to feed you critical data. The rest is up to you.”
Before Derek could respond, Carlisle spoke up. “Derek, things are worsening fast in Kabul. Since you left, the Talibs have figured out what we long hoped they wouldn't: daily attacks. The security office has station on lockdown so frequently that even the officers who got some ops done before aren't able to contribute now. It's bad.”
Derek knew Carlisle's assessment was correct. Major bombings and attacks made headlines, but knowing how the agency feared casualties, something as simple as tossing a hand grenade into a crowded bazaar was far more effective for disrupting counterterrorism efforts. If the Talibs made even the quietest boom every morning—even if no one was injured— station would go into lockdown and locals would remain in their homes out of fear. It was that simple.
Derek chuckled. “So they finally figured it out, huh? OK, so basically, we are the only ones doing any operations in Kabul because station doesn't have the balls to let their people do their jobs. Hilarious.”
“Who else would be in this little world-justice army you're building? Any other branches or directorates here?”
“No. Just you and your unit,” Carlisle said. “We would just have one of the other special mission units from DoD do it, but we can't involve multiple agencies, or in our case, even multiple directorates.”
“So, nobody from Clandestine Service, the Directorate of Intelligence, Support …”
“Right,” Jerry said, “none of the other directorates. This has to be tight and really quiet.”
“How many people?”
“Pretty small, at least to start. There will be a team of five, including you,” Carlisle said.
Derek had his hands in his pockets, staring upward in thought and speaking quietly, almost to himself. “Lots of logistical problems … How do we get in? Where do we stay? How do we procure vehicles, weapons, communications, et cetera?”
“We have some friends who will assist with air operations but will not know about your assignment,” Carlisle said. “They will simply get you where you need to go and not ask questions.”
“Get us where we need to go,” Derek said, giving Carlisle a direct look, “but not get us out?”
“No, they will assist with that as well, when appropriate. I won't lie, though; in most instances, you will be on your own and will need to procure your own travel. That's just how it has to be. There will be packages waiting for you by the plane for each assignment. They'll contain all your operational needs, including funds. You will be responsible for vehicles, food, clothing, bedding, and any other items you will require. Of course those all fall under operational costs.”
“How about lodging? Who pays the rent?”
“You do. We can't use one of our safe houses because station does not know about this. So it's up to you to find a suitable place to live for a while. I suggest somewhere with a good basement.”
“Hasn't that been done before? The Special Forces guy who did that years ago was arrested and thrown in Pol-e-Charkhi prison outside of Kabul. Not an ideal place for an American. Which, in light of this conversation, begs the question: Was he really rogue, or working for us?”
“No, he was rogue, like you'll be. Only you will have some under-the-table support.”
“OK, I'll bite. How do you come into play?” Derek stared at Carlisle.
“I'm here for recruiting purposes and to help you when you need it. Global Defense Solutions Inc. is just a company that provides people like you to people like Jerry. We broker spies.”
Jerry leaned in. “Bottom line, Carlisle is well connected to people throughout the agency, and he knows of people like you. Without him, we'd be unable to staff this thing. I certainly couldn't do it without him, and on top of it all, he is a good friend. We went through the Farm together decades ago after he left the Army Special Forces.”
“Fair enough. So, Carlisle, why me?”
“Well, a few reasons. You're young but have a ton of experience relative to your overall time in the intelligence community. It's unlikely you've been burned too severely yet. You've managed to keep a pretty low profile; very few people in any of the services know who you are.
“Obviously, we need an interrogator, but you've also run clandestine sources and conducted cross-border operations. You know how to operate in environments such as Afghanistan. You are clearly capable of learning and maintaining multiple foreign languages. You are well trained on weapons, high-speed driving, escape and evasion tactics, and communications, and you understand how to travel undercover. And perhaps most important—and I mean this—we know you hate rules, and we need someone who will push the envelope with this program. The only thing you need now is jump school.”
“Excuse me? I'm diving into these places?”
“Yes, mostly. So what do you think?”
“How long until a team can be assembled?”
“We meet with the rest this afternoon. All should be finalized by the end of the week. You have a crash course in jumping this week. You up for it?”
Derek took another deep breath. “Look, guys, this all sounds good, and if you know anything about me, you know this is my type of mission. But how is the—”
“You give us an account number, we provide the funds,” Jerry said. “Monthly payments when you're working, forty thousand US per month worked. GDSI will provide you with a one million dollar life insurance policy and health benefits. How does that sound?”
“I haven't worked twelve months a year in, well, years.”
“You won't. Just when we need you, and we will deposit the money for a month regardless of whether you work the full month or not. Fair enough?” Jerry said.
“Fair enough.”
“You in?” Carlisle said.
“Why the hell not?”
Jerry handed Derek a slip of paper with an address. “Here's where you need to go when the call comes.”
The slip showed an unfamiliar address for an airfield in south Florida.
“It's a new site we'll be using for your training and our flights. It should be convenient for you, just a few hours away from your home. Do not bring any identification. Remember, none of these guys are read in; they only know you a
s government. You can leave your car in the hangar. We'll be in touch.”
C H A P T E R 2
Sunday, December 27
Jacksonville, Florida
Stevens Residence 1637 Hrs
Derek's plane touched down at Jacksonville International Airport. The landing was a bit rough but at least they were on the ground. Compared to some of the places and situations he'd had to land in, a little bounce on the Jacksonville runway wasn't much of a distraction.
On the other hand, explaining this new assignment to Heidi was very much on his mind. Would he tell her the truth? Or would he develop a cover story, as he had so often done?
Although the agency had grown more supportive of telling family members of operatives' involvement in the intelligence community, it was still not acceptable to comment on any specifics regarding missions and, in some instances, locations. The more acceptable and usual solution for people in the agency was, simply, to lie.
The Maverick Experiment Page 2