by Cole Reid
• • •
The alarm came when it was least welcome. The simple device carried more authority than a senior agent. The sound meant she lost the liberty to lie down. She had to get up. To shower or not was the question. She packed ground espresso coffee into a stainless steel espresso maker and put a porcelain espresso cup in place. Pushing one button got the process going and she walked toward the balcony of the sixth floor condominium. She grabbed a blue pack of Pall Mall on her way out. A white box of matches was next to her cigarettes. She didn’t strike a match until she was outside, standing on the balcony looking across the bay toward downtown Baltimore. Her condo was just north of Latrobe Park about an hour’s drive from Langley. The drive was refreshing both to and fro. It cleared her head. The steady motion forward was reassuring no matter what was on her plate. It gave the illusion of making progress. She rented the condo almost immediately after being transferred from her overseas desk. She gave her real estate agent only two requirements: Nothing higher than the sixth floor and something with a view. The failure of Caprice taught her how to survive a fall and the healing process that came with it. She liked the sixth floor. It was a perfect confluence, a match between luxury and security. The view looking over the water and city was quite good from the sixth floor. And she knew she could survive a drop from six floors up if she had to. She reasoned she could get to her gun or her balcony in less than eight seconds. It all depended on the situation. She only had to make a choice to defend her fort or abandon it. No matter the choice, survival came first. And she could survive a six-story fall. She was fifty-eight years old. Something would break. But she would live. The older she got the more she saw living as the goal, life as a continuation. She decided on a second cigarette as she stood in the same sweat pants and t-shirt on her balcony. The air was chilly but she would survive it as well. The beep of the espresso maker was the sign it was time to come in.
She drank her morning routine in the form of a thick black liquid. The flavor was solid. She put the espresso cup back under the spout for a double shot, still feeling half awake. With the caffeine in her system, she took a shower to give it time to kick in. The water washed the stale dryness from her eyes and she let the water run over her face. It didn’t substitute the good-as-new feeling of enough sleep. But it was the available solution for a woman on the clock. The younger women at the Agency wore pants suits, cloning their male peers. Georgia wasn’t young and rising. She had risen high enough to be knocked down. She wore a skirt suit—like women of her day—showing off fifty-eight year-old legs that still counted as eye candy. She had never tried to fit in among her male counterparts. She found them underdeveloped. Their thinking was always too simple. Gael Barron was a classic example. Filartiga was good enough for a male operator. As a female, she always had to be twice as good. Thinking outside the box was basic. With Caprice, she had thought outside the box. Caprice was outside the realm. Her brainchild had been abandoned like a satellite. Her career floated in graveyard orbit. She still had her caliber. Getting Mason back gave her the opportunity to prove it.
The I-95 wasn’t crowded heading south out of Baltimore. The driving wasn’t much to think about so she focused on staying between her lane markers and waited for the sunrise. She parked in the same area of the garage for six years, four levels deep beneath the George Bush Center for Intelligence. They were encouraged to change parking spots frequently. Because she no longer had a serious role in projects she didn’t behave like other senior officers. She parked in or near the same spot everyday. Her ID badge was her key to everything. The elevator. The floor. The office. She went to her office first. The couch was more useful than the desk. Instead of going with tradition, she went with the moment. The image of the hurried desk officer, shuffling through files at her desk wasn’t just a cliché. She had lived most of the last six years that way. She was given table scraps, put in charge of details not planning. She hadn’t planned an operation since Caprice. She didn’t even assist with execution or recruiting. The Agency had given her a nice office and nice title, enough to keep her around so they could pick her brain. She was a one-woman think tank. With two hours of sleep, the couch was the best place to open a tired mind. The irony of having to explain how her project unraveled to buy time for the man who unraveled it was heavy. She ran through the scenarios in her head and the best way to present them. When she was done, she went to her desk and printed out the pictures she would need. It was old-fashioned. There wouldn’t be slides dissolving on a laptop screen. She would put up one picture at a time on the wall. Each would require its own explanation. The Room didn’t have outlets only a light switch. She printed her pictures and left her office. She took the elevator to the first floor and took the stairs the rest of the way. The key to the basement was—in fact—a key, simple brass. The technology was up on the higher floors. The closer to earth the more down to earth the rooms were. The Room was on level -2, stair access only. The corridors were painted cinder block, neither wide nor narrow. There was nothing comfortable. The floor was simple white tile with green and gray confetti pattern. The entire sublevel was boring and budgeted. There were only four doors. The room that was the Room was the last door on the right. Georgia imagined being the first through the door. She wasn’t. She used the same brass key to open the anonymous door. The entire area seemed unsecure but it was as secure as boredom. The basement was entirely uninteresting. There was nothing to see or do. The other rooms on the floor were for archive storage—boxes of forensic records not worth digitizing. The storage rooms lent the smell of must to the corridor. There was no escaping the smell, not even in the Room.
As Georgia entered she noticed the empty space where she had logged two full days. The third day was meant to be the day of decision. Chessmaster was a good agent but his ordeal was complicated. The Agency dealt with all complicated situations the same—the mute button. But Langley staffers could identify something big was in the building. Seven of the Agency’s senior officers had been out for the day, three days running.
Closing the door behind her, Georgia saw the Room wasn’t empty. Edward sat at the head of the cherry wood table. For thirty years, he had used the name Edward as a personal codename, a cover. He had always felt a kinship with Georgia. And he respected her. He had the luxury of going by Edward to conceal his Cuban-Venezuelan roots. Georgia never had space to hide her curves or chromosomes. Edward fast worked his way into the Good Ol’ Boys Club at Langley. Georgia never had the option.
“Morning Edward,” said Georgia.
“Standing,” said Edward.
“I was wondering if I could get your help on something,” said Georgia, “More like support on something.”
“With the vote?” said Edward. Georgia nodded.
“We’re not supposed to talk about it till the vote, “said Edward, “You know that.”
“I do,” said Georgia, “That’s not what I’m asking.”
“What are you asking?” said Edward.
“I want your support in delaying the vote if need be,” said Georgia.
“Why?” asked Edward, “We’ve been at this for two days. And yesterday was for collecting any other evidence. I know you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t have your reasons. But, why not be done with it?”
“I have no projects of my own to get behind,” said Georgia, “If I could get you busy boys to humor me?”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to delay,” said Edward, “I’ll support it, keeps us from having to listen to Mr. Barron talk about how well he played Filartiga. If he played so well, we wouldn’t be here.”
“That was my first thought,” said Georgia.
“What are you going to talk about?” asked Edward.
“Wait and see,” said Georgia.
“Tease,” said Edward.
“All my life,” said Georgia.
“I had to start going gray before I got a woman to admit that,” said Edward laughing.
“Blame your career choice,” said Geo
rgia, “Don’t blame the women.”
“I don’t,” said Edward, “It’s been worth it.”
“The career or the women?” asked Georgia.
“All of it means all of it,” said Edward.
“Even listening to Mr. Barron go on about your mother’s birthplace,” said Georgia.
“I got used to that a long time ago,” said Edward, “I’m Cuban-Venezuelan.” Georgia gave Edward a smirk. Georgia and Edward sat in a smirking silence when Kevin walked in the room with Ren behind him. The conversation on the table turned away from Georgia. It became a guy’s beer chat without the beer. Georgia let them talk. She would get her chance later. Phillip came in with coffee, plural. He held a cardboard box and paper cups.
“If these sessions have been as long for you as they have for me, help yourself,” said Phillip. The coffee was poured out as they waited but they didn’t wait for long. Gael walked into the Room about five minutes later. He didn’t say anything. He did grab coffee.
“Kudos to whoever brought coffee,” said Gael.
“I’m a team player,” said Phillip, identifying himself. Bob was last. He walked in with his silent aggression. Seeing the six others in the Room he sat down without pouring coffee on principle.
“Speaking of team players,” said Ren, “What about Mason Keig?”
“We’re not there yet,” said Kevin running his hand through orange hair turning white.
“Does anyone have anything we might be over looking?” said Edward.
“We know he turned himself in from other Filartiga sources,” said Ren, “Do we know exactly why?” The topic was sensitive for Gael. Georgia wasn’t interested in the question she was interested in the clock. She knew the answer exactly, to give her time to find the mole. But she let the boys argue it out. And there was one word it didn’t make sense to bring up, mole. The men didn’t know about the mole hunt. It was better. A relaxed and lethargic mole was easier to handled than a startled, frightened one. She let the scenario play out before playing her hand. They talked for over two hours about the merits of Mason Keig turning himself in. They discussed the idea of Mason switching sides. It was generally considered to be unlikely. The Venezuelans wouldn’t have gone through the spectacle of parading Mason in front of the Agency’s satellites while in custody. And the satellites proved Mason was being held in a military prison, inappropriate digs for an agent switching sides. It was possible that it was all a ruse by Mason and the Venezuelans. That had to be discussed.
“What about Reagan Lee?” asked Bob, “We know he’s working with Keig.”
“Do we?” asked Philip.
“What’s the argument that he isn’t?” said Gael.
“It’s only the timing that links them,” said Philip, “That’s not intelligence.”
“He was Mason’s recruit,” said Gael, “Then he stole from the Venezuelan sovereign wealth fund when Mason was in Venezuelan custody. There’s coincidence and there’s intelligence. Then there’s being intelligent.”
“How did he know about the fund in the first place?” asked Kevin.
“Because of me,” said Georgia.
“Why did you do that?” asked Gael.
“I’m not sure how many of you have used After Sensory Perception to train your operatives,” said Georgia, “We didn’t invent it with Caprice but we developed it to what the Agency uses now.”
“Thanks,” said Philip. Georgia looked his way before continuing.
“We put so much in our agents’ subconscious,” said Georgia, “Looking back now it was a mistake. Which is why you all still have active projects and I don’t. But at the time it didn’t matter to us what information we imbedded in their brains because we could control them through Caprice. And the subconscious absorbs information at a faster rate than the conscious mind. We could recruit an agent and get him up and running in about fifteen to twenty months. That’s from day of induction to day of first operation. And based on background they already had survival instinct and combat skills—the one thing we couldn’t really teach their subconscious to do.”
“Why not?” asked Bob.
“Ever had a dream where you die?” said Georgia, “Where you’re hit by a car or fall from a building? That’s your subconscious trying to deal with these scenarios that you’ve consciously learned can kill you. Your subconscious tries to play them out, even though your conscious mind has flagged them as taboo.”
“So survival is a conscious mechanism not an unconscious one,” said Bob.
“Yes,” said Georgia, “We learned that on Caprice when developing ASP. You really have to have guys who have consciously been in life or death situations. Simulation training isn’t good enough. They really have to know what it’s like to know you’re going to live or die in the next moment. The simulation is more for the subconscious. The conscious mind always knows it’s bullshit. It deals with it differently.”
“What’s that got to do with the Venezuelan fund?” asked Gael.
“We programmed it into their subconscious,” said Georgia, “Along with all other sovereign wealth funds that we know about. Venezuela’s was easy because I helped with it.”
“Why would you give them all that?” asked Gael.
“If they would need it,” said Georgia, “With Caprice they couldn’t go rogue or change sides. We’d give them the red card. So as long as they were within our framework, we wanted them to have everything available to them.”
“Thanks,” said Philip.
“So we’ve got this guy—Lee—running loose with the Agency’s database in his head?” said Kevin, “I see why they don’t let you run projects anymore.”
“It’s a ten year old database,” said Georgia.
“So this guy’s mom got raped and she wouldn’t do the smart thing and abort him,” said Bob, “Now he’s our problem.”
“Maybe she couldn’t afford it,” said Ren.
“What’s wrong with that narrative?” said Georgia, “Half of history was written by men who showed up swinging a sword and a dick.” The room went silent for the moment.
“I know it’s unusual to ask for the floor at this hour,” said Georgia, “I’d be delaying the vote on whether we want to deal for Chessmaster. But now is as good a time as any. Would anyone have a problem with that?”
“What do you want the floor for?” asked Kevin.
“Give it to me and I’ll show you,” said Georgia.
“I don’t have a problem,” said Edward, keeping his promise.
“I’m ok,” said Ren.
“Thanks Standing,” said Philip.
“This should be enlightening,” said Gael.
“Haven’t I been thus far?” said Georgia.
“I like you, Standing,” said Bob, “Please don’t waste anymore of my time.”
“Promise,” said Georgia.
“It seems wiser men than me are in the habit of agreeing,” said Kevin, “Who am I to be the odd man out?”
• • •
Georgia opened one of two things brought with her, a simple brown file folder. She pulled out a sheet of paper with a colored picture printed on the front side. She walked to the front of the Room forcing all present to rotate. She pulled a simple roll of clear adhesive tape from her pocket and taped the picture to the wall.
“Rough looking guy,” said Bob.
“Mykola Voloshyn,” said Georgia, “You know about Reagan Lee but you don’t know the whole story until you know this guy.” Georgia paused to see if she really had the floor. Everyone was interested.
“Reagan Lee is not the first agent to drop off the Caprice grid,” said Georgia, “This guy gets the gold medal. He dropped off grid on May 13th 2003 over a year before Reagan Lee. She hung two pictures above Mykola Voloshyn.
“The man on the left is Aaron Argote,” said Georgia, “Not sure if any of you knew him. He was Voloshyn’s project manager on Caprice same as Mason Keig was project manager to Reagan Lee. We know Voloshyn killed Argote and that opened a
window. Because no one was able report him going rogue, even though we still had him on grid. Now here’s where the intelligence part comes in. It has to be the case that Voloshyn used Argote’s computer right after he killed him, to find the closest Caprice agent at that time, which happened to be this man.” Georgia pointed to the second picture above the picture of Mykola Voloshyn.
“This is Fabian Gasset,” said Georgia, “He was another Caprice agent, same as Mykola Voloshyn and Reagan Lee. Like Voloshyn and Lee, he was implanted with a chip. After Gasset was killed, he went off grid. Naturally that happens when the brain shuts down because the chip is powered by brainwaves. That’s not an anomaly. But a little outside twenty-four hours after Gasset goes off grid, Voloshyn goes off grid. We found Gasset’s body because we went to the last location that registered on grid, but his limbs were separated and his head was gone. We couldn’t recover the chip. But we tracked Voloshyn to his last known spot and we couldn’t find him, not even a body. So we went outside Caprice and requisitioned other satellites.”
“Why couldn’t you just use facial recognition software to find him?” asked Renato.
“Our satellites weren’t that capable in 2003,” said Georgia, “The technology wasn’t up to snuff. We could just do specific markings like a tattoo.”