by Ben Coes
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To my father, Rufus Putnam Coes, Jr.
We’ll know our disinformation plan is complete when everything the American public believes is false.
—WILLIAM J. CASEY, director, Central Intelligence Agency, 1981
PROLOGUE
ESTACIÓN DE MADRID ATOCHA
PLAZA DEL EMPERADOR CARLOS V
MADRID, SPAIN
MAY 1979
“Can I get a gelato, Daddy?”
Bruner looked down at his daughter and smiled.
“Of course you can, sweetheart.”
Bruner reached into his pocket and pulled out some pesetas and handed a bill to her.
“Thanks, Dad!”
“Honestly,” said Bruner’s wife, Janie, as soon as Molly was on her way to the gelato stand at the far side of the train station. “You spoil her.”
“It’s the first time I’ve seen you guys in five months. Of course I’m going to spoil her. Look at her.” He pointed at his nine-year-old daughter as she walked across the station. “She’s perfect! Have you ever seen something so cute?”
Janie took her husband’s hand and pulled him closer, smiling at him.
“Oh, go ahead,” she said. “You’re right—she is perfect. Why not?”
The explosion ripped through the train station with apocalyptic fury. The bomb—a suicide jacket worn by a seventeen-year-old Saudi Arabian—was detonated inside a T-shirt shop next to the gelato stand. Anything and everything within fifty feet was blown to shreds in a horrible moment of noise and blackness. The ground itself shook, air pushed out, and anyone not in the immediate blast zone was suddenly blown backward, including Bruner and his wife. Bruner reached out his hand as he was punched by the hot air, reaching for the fire and noise and smoke, reaching for his daughter.
“No…” he cried, but his word was lost in the wind.
DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
JUNE 1981
William J. Casey, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, stepped into his large corner office on the seventh floor. Casey was short and nearly bald. What hair he did have was in a loose ring around the back and sides of his head, white and long. He wore thick glasses and a dark suit, and did not acknowledge the man who was already in the room. Casey carried a manila folder. He walked slowly, with a pronounced limp, and sat down on one of the two beige-colored leather couches.
A visitor, already seated on the other sofa, watched as Casey approached, a blank expression on his face. He’d been waiting nearly fifteen minutes, despite the fact that he was the United States secretary of state. He did not attempt to hide his displeasure at the slight.
“Good morning, Al,” said Casey in a clotted mumble. “I apologize for making you wait.”
Alexander Haig practically spilled over the couch. He was large, but he accentuated his size by leaning forward, as if expecting to be called upon to tackle someone. Haig had a block of neatly combed brown hair fringed with gray.
“A simple call from your assistant would have been nice,” said Haig. “I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes.”
“I know,” said Casey. “It wasn’t intentional. I was in the bathroom. I fell down. I’m afraid my arthritis is getting worse. Nobody came in for quite some time and I had no way of reaching you.”
Haig grinned sheepishly.
“I’m sorry, Bill. I didn’t know.”
Casey waved his hand and gave a rare smile.
“There’s no way you could’ve. Anyway, I’ll keep it short.”
Haig leaned back and crossed his legs.
“Do you want me to get someone to fetch you a cup of coffee?” asked Casey.
“No,” said Haig. “Just tell me why you wanted to meet.”
Casey leaned forward and placed the manila folder on the glass coffee table. He flipped back the cover. A black-and-white photo sat atop a thin pile of paper. He handed it to Haig. The photo showed the president of the United States, Ronald Reagan, a few moments before John Hinckley stepped forward in a failed attempt to assassinate him. Several hand-drawn red marks dotted the photo.
Haig studied it for a few moments, then set it back down on the table. He looked at Casey, expecting Casey to begin. But Casey remained silent, watching Haig. Finally, Haig grew uncomfortable with the silence.
“What’s the point?” he asked.
“Notice anything wrong?” asked Casey.
Haig paused, glanced at the photo, then looked at Casey.
“Other than the president is about to get shot?” he said facetiously.
Casey smiled giddily and slapped his hand on his knee. “I knew you’d see it!”
Haig grinned. “Honestly, Bill, where are you going with this?”
Casey’s grin cut hard to a cold, almost bitter look.
“He was about to get shot,” he snarled. “And what’s going on? Nothing. Incompetence. Sheer, utter incompetence. There was no intelligence. But most worrisome, was there anyone prepared to step in front of the president? Anyone to take the bullet? The only ones who stepped in front of that psycho Hinckley were Brady and Ahearn, a press officer and an advance man, respectively. This was total and complete mismanagement by the Secret Service agents there to protect him!”
Haig nodded in agreement. “No doubt. I understand Knight is being fired.”
Casey waved his hand dismissively.
“Window dressing! It wasn’t his fault. It’s a structural issue, Alexander! We have the leader of the free world being protected by glorified security guards. They don’t know what they don’t know.”
Haig sat up straight. He didn’t know Casey well, but he knew him. He knew the moment always came, the moment when Casey cut to the chase and put forward an idea that half the time was crazy and the other half was brilliant.
“What are you thinking?” Haig asked quietly.
“A covert program. Housed inside State, because State’s so big we can hide it there somewhere, budgetwise I mean. An added layer of protection for the president of the United States in a climate of increased threat and specifically in the aftermath of an assassination attempt that came very close to succeeding. We cull its members exclusively from CIA paramilitary, Delta, and SEALs.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s a pure strike force—more capable, lethal, and autonomous than anything the U.S. has.”
“Strike force?” said Haig. “That’s beyond the parameters of protecting the president.”
“Is it?” asked Casey.
Haig sat back, thinking.
“Without the restrictions of the CIA or the Pentagon, the unit could operate anywhere, including inside the U.S.,” he said, thinking aloud.
“We’ll stick it inside some ubiquitous but irrelevant office,” said Casey. “I was thinking Consular Operations.”
Haig bit his lip, his initial skepticism morphing into excitement.
“What do you mean by preemptive measures?” asked Haig.
“There are some threats that need to be dealt with long before any bullets are fired.”
“Are we talking about a kill team?”
“That’s right. Black on black. Best of the best. Protecting the most important asset America has, its leader.”
Casey sat back, crossed his legs, and folded his hands. He looked at Haig.
“How many operators are we talking about?” said Haig.
“We keep it small. A few dozen at most. They’ll get access to intel so that things like John Hinckley don’t happen ever again. Most important, we get guys willing to take a bullet. Young Turks with balls of steel.”
Haig nodded, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“I fucking love it,” he said.
* * *
Two doors down from Casey’s office, a man was seated at his desk. Other than a pair of telephones, the only thing on the desk was a photograph. It was a photograph of a girl. She was smiling widely and enthusiastically despite the fact that both front teeth were missing. Long brown hair was tied in pigtails. She wore a blue dress with white piping around the collar. The photo was a tad yellowish and a little faded from age. The man stared at it until finally he picked it up and placed it in a cardboard box behind the desk.
He was tall and handsome, with neatly combed brown hair. At thirty-six, Charles Bruner retained the healthy physique of the athlete he had once been, the Special Forces operator he had once been, the CIA paramilitary officer he had once been. But his eyes were dark, including the skin around them; whether it was from age, a chronic lack of sleep, or some undiagnosed disease, it gave him a haunted, vaguely demonic look.
Bruner’s eyes were drawn to the glass wall that looked out at his assistant. The stooped, slowly moving figure of William Casey came into view. A few moments later, there was a gentle knock on the door.
“Come in,” said Bruner.
Casey stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“Hi, Charlie,” he said enthusiastically.
“Hi, Bill.”
“Mind if I sit down?” asked Casey.
“By all means.”
Casey sat in one of the chairs in front of Bruner’s desk. He flashed Bruner a rare, slightly awkward, heartfelt smile.
“So, you’re really doing it?” said Casey.
Bruner nodded. “Yes.”
“You’re going to be bored out of your mind. You’re thirty-six years old, Charles.”
“Well, I feel like I’m eighty-six.”
“I’m going to ask one more time,” said Casey. “For God’s sake, don’t do it. Take a month. For chrissakes, take a year. But I want you back.”
Bruner had a troubled look on his face. He stared at Casey. “She was nine years old. She’d be eleven now. Why was she even there, Bill? Why did I let them come for a visit?”
“Oh, Charlie,” said Casey.
Casey stood and walked around the desk. He placed his hand on Bruner’s shoulder, trying awkwardly to console him.
“You can’t blame yourself,” he said. “She was your daughter. Of course you should have her there with you. It wasn’t like you took her to Tehran. It was Madrid. Stop beating yourself up, son.”
Bruner paused and slowly started to nod.
“I know,” he whispered.
“Stay and help defeat these crazy Muslims,” said Casey. “Channel your anger. As hard as that is to think about, use that hatred you feel for the Muslim terrorists who killed Molly.”
“I’ve tried,” whispered Bruner. “It doesn’t work. You know it better than I do. Congressional oversight, rules of engagement, red tape. I wish I could channel it, but it’s impossible, even here at Langley, even running NCS.”
Bruner looked at Casey, and for a moment Casey seemed to sit up and flinch, as if seeing something darker than what he expected in his deputy.
“Honestly, Bill, I’m afraid of what I might do. I shouldn’t be here.”
Casey handed Bruner a manila envelope. On the cover was a small label:
* * *
ECT: 7
EYES ONLY: DCIA CASEY/DNCS BRUNER/DDCIA MALONE
* * *
Bruner opened the folder and started reading. After a few minutes, he looked up.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“I want you to run it.”
“It’s a bunch of glorified bodyguards. No, thanks.”
“Keep reading.”
Bruner quickly skimmed the five-page document.
ORDER 6 establishes a secret paramilitary unit to act as an added layer of protection for the president of the United States in a climate of increased threat and specifically in the aftermath of an assassination attempt on President Reagan that nearly succeeded. (FINDING US.SCP F776390)
ORDER 6 is a pure strike force and counterterrorism unit, more capable, lethal, and autonomous than anything the United States government has. (GSI 90-86Y)
ORDER 6 members are selected exclusively from CIA paramilitary, Delta, and SEAL Team 6 (DEVGRU). (US HIE/DOD 65.32X)
ORDER 6 members are not encumbered by the restrictions of the CIA or Pentagon. (WHS 45)
ORDER 6 can operate anywhere, including inside the U.S.A. (GSI 142.29)
ORDER 6 members are embedded inside the White House and near POTUS. U.S. Secret Service, White House advance team, and U.S. State Department are primary assignments for unit agents, but they are also embedded elsewhere, such as the White House mess and press corps. (POTUS DIR540.46.8)
ORDER 6 recruits are selected based on a set of criteria having to do with physical and mental strength. All recruits are unmarried, thus capable of operating without any sort of external personal, emotional, and financial attachments. (REG US 120.M-45)
When Bruner finished, he looked up.
“So we get the best operators, embed them near the president as an extra layer of protection, but we can also go after potential threats and enemies?”
“Yes. Anywhere in the world, including here at home.”
“Without oversight?”
“There will be some, but it’ll be buried inside State,” said Casey. “Haig’s already agreed to it. There’ll be some level of notification and reapproval every year, but that’s it. We turn the bureaucracy on its head—you turn the bureaucracy on its head. We use the bureaucracy to hide it.”
“It’s a kill team,” said Bruner.
“Precisely,” said Casey. “Preemptive, off-the-grid, utterly and totally lethal, undocumented, outside the lines. Black on black. In fact, if there was a color that was darker than black, this would be it.”
Bruner nodded and leaned back in his chair, picking up the folder again and looking at the cover sheet.
Casey stood up. “Take your time deciding. But I’ll need to know sooner rather than later.”
Bruner eyed Casey. “I’ll do it,” he said.
1
YATES FIELD HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
TODAY
Dewey Andreas was lying on his back. He stared up at the long steel bar above him, his hands holding it loosely. Attached to each end of the bar were two fifty-pound barbells, two hundred pounds in all. With the bar itself, he was looking at a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound lift.
“You sure you should be doing this?” asked Rob Tacoma, who was standing behind Dewey, ready to spot him. “You’re not supposed to do any heavy lifting. That’s what Hector told me.”
Dewey leaned his head back and looked upside down at Tacoma, shooting him an icy stare.
“From this angle it looks like you were just smiling
at me,” said Tacoma.
“You mind shutting the hell up?”
Dewey clenched his hands a little tighter around the bar. He took several deep breaths. He pushed up on the steel bar; it moved with a slight wobble up into the air, his arms straightening. The pain in his right shoulder went from a dull ache to electric, like a sharp object was inside. He grunted as he slowly lowered the bar to his chest, pausing a half second, then pushed it back up.
“Not bad,” said Tacoma absentmindedly as Dewey struggled to push the weight up again. “You’re using your legs too much, though.”
After several wavering seconds, Dewey’s arms were straight above his head. He locked his elbows and breathed rapidly. The pain in his shoulder was intense. Yet as much as it told him to stop, he knew he needed to keep going. He had a hundred pounds to go until he was back to the strength level before Sirhan el-Khan stabbed him in the shoulder.
“Please, Rob, shut the fuck up,” Dewey groaned.
Tacoma smiled.
Dewey was the only individual who made him understand what it was like to have an older brother. There was no question who was in charge, but that was the way he wanted it, the way he liked it. Sure, there had been other mentors in his life: upperclassmen on the UVA lacrosse team; older SEALs who took him under their wing; after the Navy, other agents within Special Operations Group who helped him out, who showed Tacoma a trick or two. But Dewey was different. He was the only operator Tacoma had ever met whom he knew he could not defeat in battle, unless luck was involved. He was the only man who’d ever made him wish he had an older brother.
The last month had been a blast. Katie was off in Rwanda, spending six weeks volunteering along with a group of six other CIA agents, working to create a more secure route for food shipments into the region. Katie was his business partner, and her hiatus had given Tacoma time to hang out and help Dewey recover from the nearly fatal knife wound.
Dewey enjoyed it too. The problem was, at certain times Tacoma acted like that little brother Dewey never had. Little brothers sometimes couldn’t resist the temptation to make things difficult for their older brothers.