“I just couldn’t stay away from your cooking, Martha.”
She smiled at my compliment and then turned to the man standing next to her. “I believe the two of you know each other already.”
I nodded at Mitchell. “How are you, Ben?”
“I’m fine. Nice to see you again.”
As Greg and Martha headed toward the kitchen, Martha looked back at us and said, “I’ll be serving dinner at seven. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we both said.
* * * *
Once Mitchell and I were alone, I glanced up at a camera in the corner of the ceiling. I did this several times. Then I asked, “You feel like taking a walk before dinner?”
He got my hint. “That might be a good idea.”
For security purposes, The Gray was monitored 24/7 by a system of closed-circuit cameras. Except for the staff members’ personal living quarters, there were cameras in every room of the house.
To most covert operatives, this aspect of living at The Gray for a few weeks might seem comforting, especially if he or she had been living in a stressful situation while they were in the field. However, to someone like me—who valued privacy more than being comforted—the thought of having my face displayed across a security officer’s computer screen 24/7 was disconcerting, if not downright irritating.
In order to escape Big Brother’s clutches, whenever I was assigned to a safe house, I usually spent most of my time outdoors. Although there were still hidden cameras monitoring the grounds, there were no microphones, and I could always find dozens of blind spots the cameras couldn’t penetrate.
Now, I led Mitchell down a path toward a group of yellow forsythia bushes, where we skirted around a large elm tree. From there, Mitchell followed me off the walkway, down around a marshy area close to the lake, until we finally ended up on the high ground beneath a couple of spreading oak trees.
I plopped myself down on the grass. “We should be fine here.”
Mitchell lowered himself to the ground a few feet away from me and said, “It’s definitely quiet here.”
“Quiet with no cameras,” I said. “The best place in the world.”
Mitchell surveyed the area, craning his neck around so he could look back down the path we’d taken.
“How long before someone comes looking for us?” he asked.
“Maybe thirty minutes.”
I took a look at Mitchell’s face.
He looked different.
I decided it must be the sadness I saw there.
It hadn’t been there the last time I’d seen him, but I realized his melancholy was probably the result of seeing three people brutally murdered within a short amount of time. Although he hadn’t really known Ernesto and Hernando, I had the sense he and Bledsoe had developed a father/son relationship, and his death had shocked his system.
“I’m not very good at finessing a subject, Ben, so I’m just going to ask you this outright. Is Toby’s death messing with you?”
He cleared his throat and said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I mean are you seeing bogey men around every corner, are you jumpy, are you constantly thinking you’re going to be the next one to go?”
He shook his head. “No. Of course not. Toby’s death had nothing to do with me.”
“Is that right?”
He yanked a clump of grass out of the ground. “Well, I guess in a way it had something to do with me. I mean, I wish I could have gone after him, provided him backup ... or ... or ... something.”
I quickly assured him. “Toby knew he wasn’t going to have backup when he went after Hernando. Langley ordered you to remain in place, and you followed orders. You did the right thing.”
He looked at me. “Really? Is that what you would have done?”
His question surprised me, and I hesitated before replying. “Ah ... yeah ... yeah ... that’s exactly what I would have done.”
I continued lying. “The truth is, the Ops Center can see the big picture, and you’re better off trusting their judgment in such matters rather than your own.”
He gave me a disbelieving look. “You’re kidding me, right? I believe you would have figured out a way to go after Toby. In fact, I’m certain of it.”
“Well, pardon me if I’m not as sure of my actions as you seem to be.”
Mitchell took the clump of grass he’d been holding in his hand and flung it aside. “Well, I didn’t go after Toby, and I’m not apologizing for that. Yeah, I was following orders, but I thought staying at the pier was the right thing to do. It was Toby who told me to stay there in the first place.”
The muscles in his lower jaw had started to twitch.
Now, it wasn’t sadness I saw in his eyes but anger.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m sorry we lost Toby and Hernando too, for that matter. You can even throw in Ernesto for all I care. But those are the breaks. You lose people in this game.”
I didn’t say anything. I wanted to see how far down the anger demon had penetrated.
He stared off in the distance for a few seconds. Then he said, “I survived; they didn’t.”
Suddenly, in one fluid motion, he rose to his feet. “End of story,”
“Yeah,” I said, looking up at him, “end of story.”
“Did I pass your little test?”
I got to my feet. “My question wasn’t a test, Ben. There wasn’t any right or wrong answer to it. I was simply trying to gauge whether your anger over Toby’s death was going to work for you or whether it was going to work against you.”
A look of disgust passed over his face, but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to merit that look. Sure, I’d suggested he stop seeing Sonya, but it was hard to believe his contemptuous look was the result of that bit of advice. He knew he shouldn’t have been seeing her in the first place.
Then, I wondered if something else was going on with him.
Before I had a chance to ask him, he turned his back on me and walked away.
I yelled after him, “If it means anything, your anger is definitely going to work for you.”
He didn’t look back, and seconds later, he disappeared from view.
Yeah, that anger was definitely going to work for him all right—unless it ended up getting us both killed.
Chapter 26
When I returned to The Gray, although it was almost time for dinner, I took a quick trip upstairs before entering the dining room.
As expected, while Mitchell and I had been out playing hide and seek with the cameras, someone had left the Chuck suitcase in the room I’d been assigned. I was still wearing my funeral clothes, so I quickly changed into something more casual and then went downstairs to join everyone else for dinner.
As I sat down at the table, I had the feeling my world was slightly off kilter. Things just didn’t seem quite right to me.
However, I’d just buried my mother—and on an emotional level, my father—less than twelve hours before, and during that same time, I’d also had a fight with Nikki, and then I’d angered the one person who was going to be watching my back when I went up against a dangerous Jihadi assassin in Venezuela.
Although I knew my feelings were understandable, they still bothered me, and I didn’t say much during the meal. No one at the table seemed to notice my lack of participation in the dinner conversation.
Mitchell, in particular, completely ignored me and talked exclusively with Greg the whole time.
I was beginning to question whether I should have requested that Mitchell be assigned to partner up with me for my run into Venezuela. For that reason, immediately after dinner, I decided to touch base with Jim Grover, the person responsible for security at The Gray.
Jim and I had met during my previous stay at the house, forming a kind of friendship—or at least a connection—due to our similar backgrounds.
Jim was a former operative who’d been transferred to Support Services following his involvement in
a coup attempt in Libya, an operation resulting in the disfigurement of the whole left side of his face. Unfortunately, his memorable features disqualified him from further clandestine work.
After such an occurrence, a covert officer was usually given the opportunity to take a desk job or was asked to provide security at an Agency safe house.
Jim had opted to provide security at The Gray. His responsibilities consisted of keeping the perimeter secure, checking into the backgrounds of every guest at The Gray, recording the debriefing sessions, and a dozen or so other security-related tasks.
When I’d appeared at The Gray’s doorstep several months before, my confidence was at an all-time low, and Jim’s quiet manner and his I-know-where-you’re-coming-from attitude had helped me get over a rough patch in my life.
Jim had also put his own job in jeopardy by giving me some valuable intel on an Agency employee. That intel could have gotten him fired if anyone had found out he was the source of such information.
Now, since I didn’t want to draw any undue attention to the conversation I intended having with him, I used a slightly unconventional means to lure him out of his hidden communications room, where I knew he was monitoring the video feed from the grounds.
After dinner, I wandered around the walking trails for a while, and then I took a seat on one of the wrought-iron benches alongside the Olympic-sized swimming pool. The bench I’d chosen was in front of a group of neatly trimmed hedges at the side of the house away from the kitchen, but I knew it was easily visible on the security feed being monitored by Jim in the communications room.
As soon as I sat down, I located one of the cameras mounted on the patio’s south-facing walls. Then, while staring directly at the lens, I made a quick circling motion with my forefinger.
A few minutes later, after hearing a noise in the bushes directly behind me, I heard Jim say, “I’ll meet you at the boathouse in ten minutes.”
I gave him five minutes before I got up from the bench and wandered down a cobblestone path leading over to the lake, which bordered The Gray’s property on the south side.
Morningstar Lake was shared by all the homeowners in the luxurious Morningstar Gated Community and each residence had its own dock and access to the waterway. Many of the estates, including The Gray, had elaborate boathouses for their expensive water toys.
The day after I’d made my escape from Iran and landed at Andrews Air Force Base, the person responsible for delivering me to The Gray had told me the Agency had acquired the property during the housing bust in ‘08. The CIA had remodeled the house shortly after that, equipping it with several unique and one-of-a-kind additions, including a tunnel running underneath Jim’s communications room right down to the boat dock.
Each safe house owned by the Agency had some sort of concealed exit, and in the event of a security breach, this feature made it possible for those inside the house to get out safely and make their way to a predetermined rendezvous point.
Since Agency safe houses were not only used for Level 1 operatives returning from the field, but also for high profile defectors and valuable foreign assets, this emergency exit was a necessity.
I’d only used a secret exit at a safe house one time—but not for reasons involving security.
* * * *
The Gray’s boathouse matched the architectural design of the main residence and the portion containing the lift and the boat slip was almost indistinguishable from the building itself—at least from the viewpoint of the main house.
Inside the glorified shed were seating areas, a fully furnished kitchen, and an entertainment/media room. However, the centerpiece of the structure was the luxurious boat parked in the middle of the large room. A brass guardrail separated the entertainment portion of the house from the boat slip and also prevented a careless guest from falling into the water below.
Scattered among the furnishings were gigantic metal sculptures made out of old boat parts. The largest piece of artwork, located near the main entrance, almost reached the ceiling.
To me, it resembled some sort of sea monster. Whether that was the artist’s intention or not, I couldn’t say, but the other pieces around the room depicted mythical sea creatures, so I didn’t think I was too far off the mark.
Personally, the boathouse had no appeal to me.
Most likely, the whole designer showcase appearance of the place was entirely lost on me because, as soon as I stepped inside it, I was almost overcome by nausea. I realized my reaction could have been caused by the gasoline fumes coming off the lake from all the passing motorboats, or the unavoidable pungent fishy odor of the place.
But, I knew that wasn’t it.
It was a phobia I experienced whenever I had to be near the water and the accompanying feeling of disorientation that went along with it.
I’d never told anyone at the Agency about my problem, and I didn’t plan to do so.
I had it under control.
* * * *
Seconds after walking in the door, I spotted Jim standing next to a well-stocked bar. He was helping himself to a drink.
When he saw me, he lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Welcome back. Nice to see you again.”
“Thanks.”
“Help yourself to a beverage,” he said, gesturing toward the bar.
There was a Keurig coffeemaker on the counter, and I chose a K-cup from an assortment of coffee pods. By the time the hot water had finished spurting into the mug, Jim had walked over and sat down on a couch a few feet away from the bar.
The couch faced an enormous oil painting of an ocean scene. When I walked by, I noticed the painter had entitled his masterpiece Danger On The High Seas. As I studied the painting, I saw the artist had depicted a fishing vessel being buffeted by an enormous storm, and it looked as if the high wind and waves were putting the sailors aboard her in imminent danger of losing their lives.
I sat down in the armchair next to Jim, and he motioned toward the painting. “Not the most comforting image to have in a boathouse, is it?”
“Maybe it’s supposed to serve as a warning. It could be a cautionary tale about what could happen if you take your vessel out on the high seas.”
He stared at the painting again. “Could be.”
“I think the artist was trying to say if the ocean doesn’t get you, then the hurricane might.”
He chuckled. “Or your engine might fail.”
I nodded. “One never knows what awaits one out there on the high seas.”
Jim smiled. “That’s the reason we do what we do, isn’t it, Titus? We get a thrill out of not knowing. It’s the not knowing that keeps us going. At least, when I was in the game that’s the way it was for me.”
I shook my head. “Not for me. I get pumped up whenever I know things. The more I know, the more excited I become. The more I know, the better I like the game.”
“I enjoyed being surprised by the unexpected. Knowing something ahead of time didn’t give me that rush, and I really loved that rush.”
He looked away, as if remembering something from his past, and I took the opportunity to study the scar running from Jim’s eye socket to his ear.
Yes, Jim, you loved the rush of not planning ahead. And where did that get you?
Jim would have been better off clawing around in the dirt for some tiny scrap of information left behind by a bunch of disgruntled Libyan rebels, rather than getting pumped up at the thought of rushing into a rendezvous without a backup.
Had I been in Libya, I would have been down there in the dirt clawing away.
In other words, I would have been doing exactly what I was about to do by asking Jim a few questions.
* * * *
“Speaking of knowing things, Jim, I need some information.”
He studied the ice floating around in the bottom of his glass for a few seconds. Then, he looked up and asked, “Such as?”
Although it wasn’t easy to read Jim, he didn’t seem apprehensive I’d asked for this
meeting. His calm demeanor was one of the reasons I’d sought him out when I’d returned from Iran. Now, though, I could see why a calm guy like Jim might need the thrill of the unexpected in order to experience any real excitement in his life.
“I know you’ve seen the PDS on Ben Mitchell. He wouldn’t be here if the Agency hadn’t sent it over. So, what’s in his closet? What turns him on?”
A Personal Data Sheet (PDS) was the biographical summary on an Agency employee. It included background, operative status, postings, and any potential security risks posed by the person involved. A station chief received a PDS on any incoming Agency personnel, as did the chief security officer in a hot zone or, in Jim’s case, the security officer in a safe house.
Jim put his empty glass down on a side table and leaned forward, rubbing his hands together as if he might need to get his blood flowing.
“Sure, I’ve seen his PDS, and I’d be happy to tell you what’s in it. That’s not a problem. Most of it is public knowledge anyway.”
I didn’t hide my surprise. “Public knowledge? Why would Ben’s private data sheet be public knowledge?”
Jim sat back on the couch and smiled. “Don’t you know who Ben Mitchell’s father is?”
“How would I know who Ben’s father is? I just met Ben a couple of days ago.”
“Ben Mitchell is the son of the Senator.”
I mentally flipped through my rolodex of senators, stopping at the only possible choice.
“You mean Elijah Mitchell?”
Jim burst into laughter. “You really didn’t know, did you?”
“I had no idea.”
* * * *
Elijah Mitchell was the senior senator from Ohio and a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee. More importantly—at least to me—he was also the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. A leading news magazine had recently named him one of the three most powerful senators in Congress.
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