by Bentley, Don
According to the future CIA Director’s latest report, the network of Syrian rebels once dedicated to assassinating Assad was now closing in on Shaw’s location. The would-be assassins had uncovered a number of promising leads, and Charles was confident that the men would have Shaw in hand within the next hour or two.
In reality, Peter couldn’t have cared less. By his reckoning, the CIA paramilitary officer was already dead. The man’s fate had been sealed the moment Beverly had authorized her poorly conceived raid. That Shaw was currently still alive was nothing more than semantics.
No, what mattered now was keeping the situation under wraps long enough for the American people to usher Jorge Gonzales back into the Oval Office. For this to happen, the next forty-eight hours needed to be uneventful. This in turn meant that, for the next two days, Peter needed to make sure that actionable intelligence detailing Shaw’s location never made it to the President’s desk.
Peter believed that the President was a good man, perhaps even a great one. But more than that, Peter knew in his heart that Jorge Gonzales was the right man to sit behind the Resolute desk’s weathered oaken timbers. Still, Peter wasn’t naive when it came to his friend’s limitations. For all his admirable qualities, President Jorge Gonzales simply did not have the steel core necessary to let one man die so that thousands could live.
Kristen’s death had turned Peter, however unwillingly, into just such a man. To shield his friend from the pain he himself had experienced, Peter would do what was needed even if President Gonzales could not. This was Peter’s sacrifice, and he bore it willingly, but all would be for naught if the President was somehow persuaded to authorize a half-cocked rescue mission.
And judging by the expressions on the three unexpected faces around the President, half-cocked missions were exactly what they had in mind.
“Sorry, Mr. President,” Peter said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe in the center of the table. “I was under the impression that our update didn’t begin for another fifteen minutes.”
Peter shifted his gaze from the President to Beverly as he spoke, promising retribution if the ice princess had made a play behind his back. For once, Beverly didn’t return his unspoken threat with a haughty look. Instead, she stared down at the legal pad in front of her, allowing a curtain of blond hair to shield her face.
Interesting.
Perhaps Beverly wasn’t the guilty party.
“No need to apologize, Peter,” the President said, the strain of the past forty-eight hours evident in his voice. “Generals Etzel and Beighley you know. This third gentleman is James Glass. He’s a Branch Chief with the DIA’s Directorate for Operations. There’s been a development in the search for Shaw, and these gentlemen asked to speak with me prior to Beverly’s formal update. It would be good for you to hear this as well. Please, sit.”
Peter glared at the men as he took the indicated seat.
General Jeff Beighley was the JSOC commander, and he and General Etzel had been West Point classmates. Physically, the two men couldn’t have been more different. Beighley had short red hair and a commando’s compact, muscular build, while Etzel looked more the academic with his Buddy Holly–style black reading glasses and lankier physique.
Still, appearances aside, the two men were cut from the same cloth. If they agreed on a proposal, Peter was almost certain that he wouldn’t like it. With a confidence he didn’t feel, Peter pulled a small notebook from his suit jacket pocket, opened it to a clean sheet, and uncapped the attached pen.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Peter said, keeping his growing sense of alarm from his perfectly modulated voice. “Gentlemen, please continue.”
General Etzel exchanged glances with Beighley while the DIA liaison, an eye-patch-wearing mountain of a man whose massive hands looked as if they should have been wielding a sledgehammer rather than a pen, stared back at Peter.
These men had been about to attempt a coup by circumventing Peter’s influence, no two ways about it. President Gonzales might be too trusting to realize what was happening, but Peter had no doubt that Beverly knew. He would have words with the soon-to-be-retiring Director after this little meeting, but first he needed to defuse this plot before it gained legs.
“As we were saying, Mr. President,” Etzel said in a not-so-subtle reminder to Peter who was actually calling the shots, “the Syrian JSOC detachment commander, Colonel Fitz, now has actionable intelligence detailing Shaw’s location. He’s requesting permission to conduct a raid to rescue Shaw. I believe we should grant it.”
“My, my,” Peter said, deliberately interrupting before the President could answer. “I seem to have missed quite a bit. Forgive me for playing catch-up, General Etzel, but where did this actionable intelligence originate?”
“We have a case officer on the ground in Assad-controlled territory. He’s linked up with an asset that was part of the splinter cell holding Shaw. We’ve verified the asset’s bona fides through previous reporting, and the asset has provided us with Shaw’s location.”
“That’s strange,” Peter said, looking past the General to his nemesis. “Beverly, I hadn’t realized the CIA possessed a case officer with this level of access in Syria. My understanding was that we were relying on a network of indigenous agents for precisely this reason. Why haven’t we heard about this mysterious case officer and his magical asset before now?”
General Beighley leaned forward, physically imposing his bulk between Peter and the CIA Director. “The case officer in question belongs to JSOC, not the CIA. Director Castle was informed of his existence only moments before you were.”
“Hmm,” Peter said, feigning his best puzzled expression as he looked from Beverly to General Beighley. “That’s perplexing. The President specifically gave the CIA operational control of Syria, and if Beverly didn’t know about your case officer, she couldn’t have authorized his insertion into Assad-controlled battle space. I guess I’m still a bit confused. Who exactly approved this operation?”
“Excuse me, Mr. President,” General Etzel said, swiveling in his chair. “I don’t see why any of this is relevant. I—”
“It’s relevant,” Peter said, talking over the former aviator, “because yesterday there was only one case officer in the entire Syrian theater who didn’t belong to Director Castle—a DIA case officer named Matt Drake. A man who announced his presence to the CIA Chief of Base by walking into the TOC and pointing his pistol at one of the Chief’s trusted commanders. The same commander who right now is risking his life, and those of his men, attempting to locate Shaw. The Director of the DIA—who is strangely absent, I’d like to note—responded to this near catastrophe by ordering Drake to leave Syria. Immediately. So please, for all our sakes, put my worries to rest. Tell me that the name of your case officer is not Matt Drake.”
“Mr. President,” General Beighley said, “sir, you need to understand—”
“It’s a simple question, General,” Peter said. “Is it Drake or not?”
“I’m not going to—”
“It’s Drake.”
Peter turned his head in surprise. The answer hadn’t come from Generals Beighley or Etzel but from the DIA Branch Chief, James Glass.
“Mr. President,” Glass said, his voice rumbling like a rock slide, “the case officer in question is absolutely Matt Drake. And before Mr. Redman asks, everything he just said is true. Yes, Mr. Drake took the leader of the Chief of Base’s asset network into custody. Yes, the DIA Director ordered Mr. Drake to leave the country in response, and, yes, Mr. Drake ignored that order. Instead, he chose to risk his life by meeting his asset deep within Assad-controlled territory. All of that is true. What is also true is that I’ve known Matt Drake for the better part of five years. He was a decorated Ranger before he came to the DIA’s Directorate for Operations. In those five years, he’s had more successful recruitments than anyone else in my organization.
I know him personally, and, Mr. President, if Matt says he has the goods, we need to believe him.”
“Sir,” Peter began, but the President silenced him with an uplifted hand.
“I know what you’re going to say, Peter, but I also know that Shaw’s life is my responsibility, and I don’t take that responsibility lightly. General Beighley, what do you recommend?”
“Sir, the JSOC QRF is ready to launch. Give them the go-ahead. Let’s bring this boy home.”
“What about the Russians?” Peter said. “How are you going to carry out an operation in their battle space without their knowledge? We at least need to coordinate the operation with them.”
“Mr. President, I think that’s a bad idea,” General Etzel said. “We don’t have time to sort through the international implications of this mess. Shaw is running out of time. We can inform the Russians as we’re executing.”
“You want to ask for Russian approval as we’re transiting their airspace?” Peter said.
“That’s exactly what I’m recommending. Mr. President, there’s a good chance the Russians won’t even detect our helicopters. The birds flying the Delta assault team to the objective are second-generation improvements on the MH-60s used during the bin Laden raid. They are extremely stealthy. If the Russians don’t know what to look for, I doubt they’ll even notice our presence. That aside, I would recommend advising the Russians of our intentions once we’re airborne. Time is of the essence, and in this case, begging for forgiveness is better than asking for permission.”
“I concur,” General Beighley said. “The Russians don’t own Syria. We need to get our man back. We can sort out the political repercussions later.”
“Sir,” Peter said, not able to mask the desperation in his voice, “please just take ten minutes to consider the ramifications before you authorize this. If you would let me—”
“Director Castle,” the President said, talking over Peter, “what do you think?”
From the other side of the table, Beverly lifted her gaze from the legal pad on which she’d been furiously scribbling. For an instant, her blue eyes slipped from the President’s face to Peter’s before centering back on the President. Even so, Peter had seen enough. He recognized what he saw in that glance.
Himself.
Beverly was a political animal, and thanks to the e-mail Charles had supplied, Peter held her political future in the palm of his hand. This had been too close for comfort, but the mutiny was over, and Peter would be victorious. If she wanted to be the President’s successor, Beverly would side with Peter. She had no other choice. Charles had seen to that.
“Mr. President,” Beverly said after clearing her throat, “I think you need to send in the QRF. Bring Shaw home.”
And just that suddenly, Peter’s victory turned to ash.
FORTY-TWO
Peter ascended the stairs leading from the subbasement at a run, ignoring the curious glances from the Secret Service Agents standing post. His stomach churned, threatening to send bile rocketing up his esophagus, but this wasn’t why he hurried. The President had just made a disastrous choice, one that might bring an end to a career twenty years in the making, but Peter still had one card left to play.
Assuming he reached his desk in time.
Peter tore through the hall, passing paintings of Lincoln and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. On many occasions, these men had brought him hope as he’d strolled by the portraits at all hours of the day and night, carefully laying the path that would ensure Jorge Gonzales’s second term.
Even Inauguration Day almost four years before had been a cause for only muted celebration on Peter’s part. Any political hand worth his salt knew that a President’s major policy achievements had to wait until his second term. Press too hard in the first, and the voters would take out their wrath during the midterms, destroying the Congressional majority Peter desperately needed to pass the sweeping domestic-focused agenda he envisioned.
Even here, Peter had left nothing to chance. Passing game-changing legislation that survived more than one administration took the participation of both political parties. Laws that were passed along party lines were often repealed in the same manner once the majorities in Congress shifted.
With this in mind, Peter had spent the last four years quietly cultivating relationships with Republican Senators and Congressmen, particularly those who represented districts or states that Jorge had carried. These vulnerable legislators needed to be seen as bipartisan, standing above the typical Washington morass, and Peter was only too willing to help.
For a price.
Senator Sandford Kime was typical in this regard. The two-term Republican hailed from Pennsylvania, and Jorge had carried the state by five percentage points. Sandy was up for reelection next year, and he desperately needed a legislative win or two, particularly ones that showed he could reach across the aisle when the cause was worthy.
Enter Peter’s Veterans Administration initiative. Exactly one week after President Gonzales’s reelection, Sandy Kime would announce that he was fed up with the abysmal state of veterans’ health care and offer up a bill that would privatize much of the VA. The newly reelected President, under Peter’s guidance, would embrace the initiative lock, stock, and barrel, calling on the Senate and the House to follow suit. Just like that, Senator Sandy Kime would have a legislative notch in his belt, and Peter would have a Republican cosponsor for his free-college-for-all initiative.
Except that Peter’s years of painstaking strategy and patience had just been upended by a well-planned ambush coupled with an unexpected treachery.
Et tu, Beverly?
Once he’d understood that the President’s decision was final, Peter had excused himself from the Situation Room in a hurry. Fortunately, his unexpected departure from meetings was a common occurrence.
Peter worked at a pace that dwarfed that of even the most committed Washington acolyte, and he kept a grueling schedule that had broken many a staffer ten years his junior. Even so, his productivity came at a price. Peter consumed coffee in quantities that would have humbled the most caffeinated Seattle hipster.
As such, trips to relieve his troubled bladder were frequent.
After standing up from the table, Peter had told the President he would return shortly. But rather than head for the bathroom, Peter ran to his office and the one thing that might yet help him snatch victory from the jaws of defeat—a phone.
But not just any phone.
Once he’d skidded across the final turn into his office, Peter slammed the door behind him, rattling the framed Harvard diploma hanging precariously on his wall. The diploma and a single picture were the only personal touches Peter permitted in the tiny office. His work was too important to allow himself to be distracted by anything other than the changes he’d vowed to bring about to the country he loved.
The Harvard diploma was there to remind Peter that, while he’d come from nothing, equal parts hard work, perseverance, and suffering had allowed him to achieve greatness. The photo embodied both the reason for sacrifices he’d endured and the source of his suffering.
Kristen grinned back at him from her high school senior picture. His sister looked beautiful, more than a girl, but not yet fully a woman. Her blond hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkled with thoughts of her future.
A future cut much too short.
Even twenty years later, the photo still cut his heart in two. But today, the image of his carefree sister fortified him. What he was about to do could not be undone, but Peter knew that his sacrifice would not be in vain. More than twenty years ago, he’d stood in front of his sister’s flag-draped coffin and made a promise.
Today, he would honor that vow no matter the consequences.
Dropping to his knees, Peter reached under his desk, grabbed his messenger bag, and dug through the pockets until he found the
secure phone that Charles had given him. With the seconds until disaster ticking away, Peter didn’t have time to reflect on the potential consequences of his actions. He didn’t even bother to climb into his comfortable leather chair. Instead, he knelt on the floor in a position of supplication and began to dial.
As the ringing filled his ear, Peter looked at the photo perched on his desk and had just one thought.
No more Kristens.
FORTY-THREE
Hello?”
In a rush Peter exhaled the breath he’d been holding. The phone had rung a half dozen times before it was answered. In that time, a score of scenarios flashed through Peter’s mind, each one worse than the one before. For the span of ten agonizing seconds, Peter had wondered whether the person on the other end of the line would even answer, since the number was unfamiliar and the contact unexpected.
Then the ringing had ceased.
“Hello,” the voice said again in slightly accented English.
“It’s me,” Peter said, the words coming out in a rush.
“Peter? This is a surprise. Why are you calling me on this number?”
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Peter said, each passing second registering with the subtlety of a pealing church bell. “I don’t have time to explain. I need your help.”
A moment of silence and then, “Okay. What can I do?”
“We are about to make a mistake. A terrible one.”
“‘We’?”
“My country,” Peter said. “If you can help prevent that mistake, you’ll have my unconditional gratitude. The unconditional gratitude of the newly elected President’s senior adviser. Do you understand?”
Another beat of silence. Then, “I understand. How do I help?”
“Stop us.”
FORTY-FOUR
RUSSIAN-CONTROLLED AIRSPACE, SYRIA