Cold Shot

DAY TWO

The Boeing 727–200 was not the most comfortable plane in which Dr. Hossein Ahmadi had ever flown. The craft was forty years old, making it only marginally younger than he was, and showing its age. The carpets were wearing thin and the interior plastics were discolored despite what he hoped were diligent cleanings by the maintenance crews. He would have much preferred an Airbus A320-200 or one of the Fokker 100s that Iran Air had managed to buy up the decade before, but he couldn’t convince the head of the airline to give him one of its most modern jets when he was going to be the only passenger aboard. His influence still had some limits.

The operation would change that.

Ahmadi looked out the window and watched the Atlantic waters passing beneath the plane in the morning twilight. The Markarid was somewhere down there, close, if Sargord Elham had kept the cargo ship moving on schedule, but that was an open question. Ahmadi had ordered radio silence after that affair in the Gulf of Aden. Some of his critics in Tehran had whispered that he should have stayed aboard and sailed with the ship, which notion he had laughed off. Even his political enemies had to admit that his duties were too important for him to spend six weeks aboard a cargo vessel at sea and so he had delegated the task to lesser men. Would his opponents spend a day aboard such a ship with no comforts, much less two months? The answer was obvious and the argument ended there.

The flight from Tehran’s Imam Khomenei International Airport had taken eighteen hours thus far, with two refueling stops adding almost three more hours to the schedule. It was an exercise in frustration and his patience was at its end. He had arranged for Iran Air to fly a Tehran — Damascus — Caracas route in years past that had allowed him to travel more directly but the security and cover stories surrounding those flights had been weak. Western intelligence services had seen through their purpose quickly and so Iran Air had terminated them. The route, though advertised commercial, had never sold a ticket to any common passenger. Those planes had been reserved for more special men and cargo, and Ahmadi despised the unknown idiots who had allowed their shoddy security to create this inconvenience for him now. Had that route been available, the Markarid itself wouldn’t have been necessary.

Ahmadi turned back from the window. That cursed Somali. The fool’s ignorant greed had almost derailed the entire operation at the start. The man’s punishment had been deserved. In retrospect, a bullet to the head would have been better for operational security but not as satisfying. And that was the real point of punishment, wasn’t it? Not to reform the criminal — a stupid expectation — but to make restitution to the offended. And in this case, the entire Islamic Republic of Iran had been offended, though only a few men knew it. How to make restitution to an entire country? Death was too quick. Even the pirate’s prolonged suffering wouldn’t measure up but it was all Ahmadi could exact at the time, so he’d left it to Allah to settle the difference in accounts. Ahmadi’s only regret was that he couldn’t drop the man’s broken body on the desk of whatever warlord had funded him, to send a message that his ships were not to be touched.

The Boeing’s pilot made the cursory announcement to prepare for landing. The plane had left the Atlantic and was now passing over mountains covered with shantytowns and tin-roofed shacks. A few minutes more and the wheels touched down on the Venezuelan runway. The pilot drove the plane onto the tarmac, then rolled it past the commercial concourses to a private hangar at the airport’s far end where the Boeing stopped, the engines began spooling down, and the steward took his place by the door. He stared out the window, waiting for someone outside, then finally raised the lever and pulled the door open. Only then did Ahmadi finally move to leave.

The hangar was old, unpainted metal walls with a high roof of steel, rust and bird’s nests, and brightly lit. The entire space was empty except for the plane and the two armored cars sitting near it. Ahmadi saw more black cars outside on the tarmac, doubtless the security team for his host, still kept at a distance because not all bodyguards could be trusted.

Two men in black suits stood near the base of the boarding ladder staring up at him. Ahmadi forced a practiced smile.

“Buenos días, estimado Señor Ahmadi. ¡Bienvenidos a Caracas!” one of them said. A second man translated the greeting into Persian. Good morning, esteemed Mr. Ahmadi. Welcome to Caracas.

“Mamnoon, President Avila. Salaam alaykum.” Ahmadi replied in Persian. Thank you, President Avila. Peace unto you. He waited on the translator to do his work. He had learned some Spanish, enough to converse generally, but preferred to make his hosts speak his language. Ahmadi could not have cared less whether Allah bestowed peace upon President of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela Diego Avila. He certainly had showed none to the man’s predecessors. Hugo Chávez had died years before from metastatic rhabdomyosarcoma and had suffered tremendously before expiring. But the man had at least shown the good sense to invite Ahmadi’s superiors to make use of his country before the cancer had eaten him alive, so perhaps God’s hand was supporting these people after all.

Avila stepped forward as Ahmadi touched down on the concrete floor and took the Iranian’s hand in both of his. “Señor Ahmadi, it is good to have you standing on our soil again. I take it your trip was free of trouble?”

Ahmadi had no desire to engage in pleasantries with this man and the translator gave him a few moments to consider the right words to seize the conversation. “It was,” Ahmadi offered. “Have you heard from our friends?”

“We have,” Avila confirmed. “They are inside our coastal boundaries to the northeast and will arrive tomorrow, late morning. But they are coming later than the schedule dictated. Engine troubles?”

“There was a minor problem after departure. I regret we could not inform you of the issue sooner but communication silence was necessary.”

“I understand,” Avila said. The man was fawning. He understood nothing, really, only that Ahmadi had something he wanted. “Your accommodations are ready now as requested. The driver will take you there. You may leave in the morning at your convenience and the head of the Servicio Bolviariano de Inteligencia will meet you dockside upon your arrival. I would accompany you, but it would be better, I think, if my presence did not draw attention to this.” The Servicio — known as the SEBIN — was Venezuela’s answer to the CIA.

“A shame,” Ahmadi lied. “But I agree.” Which he did. It was hard enough to keep the American intelligence services from looking in the wrong places, and the Israelis had eyes everywhere. Having an armored convoy and police escort leading Avila directly to the Markarid wouldn’t help matters. “If you have nothing else, I will take my leave. It was a long flight.”

“Por supuesto. Please come see me before your departure this time,” Avila said. “When this is all complete, I think that a dinner together would be in order.”

“Presidente Avila,” Ahmadi said. “When this is all complete in a few days’ time, my president intends to come dine with you. At that point, there will be much to discuss.”

Avila smiled, surprised. “Excellent. My kindest compliments to your president, then.”

“I will share them.” Ahmadi pulled himself into the waiting car, closed the door, and laid his head back to rest during the drive through Caracas.

The sun was rising behind the Markarid. Thirty hours, he thought. Thirty hours and we’re done. They were inside the Venezuelan coastal boundary now so no hostile vessels, particularly American naval vessels, would approach.

Six weeks they’d been aboard. It hadn’t been the worst duty he’d ever performed, but it was one for which he and his men were not fitted. Soldiers, not sailors, he thought. Still, his men had performed well enough. Now there would be no complaints from their superiors, none directed toward him and his unit anyway. Ahmadi would be the target for any blame but he was a connected man. He would survive if the mission came off well and Elham had given the civilian a chance now to make that happen.

One of his sergeants approached and held out a piece of paper — the daily status report. Elham stared at the sergeant, then turned back to the ocean. “Just tell me.”

“All ship’s systems are nominal. No unusual communications requests. Surface contacts tracked and logged. We dock by noon tomorrow.” The last was no surprise.

“The forward hold?”

“Still sealed.”

Elham nodded. The hold had been closed for the duration. He didn’t expect anyone to disobey orders and breach the seal, and no one had, but he made sure that all hands knew that checking it was a daily priority lest any of the surviving crew get stupid or curious.

“And our men?” By which he meant his actual team and not the Markarid’s own crew members. It was surprising how quickly he, a nonmariner, had fallen into the pattern of thinking of everyone aboard as “his crew.”

“The four who were in sickbay appear normal. No recurrence of symptoms.”

That was good news. The ship’s medic had insisted that they suffered from seasickness and prescribed Dramamine, but Elham knew from the start that the diagnosis was wrong. They had all taken the drug before boarding the vessel. There were other possibilities besides his worst-case scenario. Who knew what diseases those Somali pirates had carried? But those four had been the fire team that searched the forward hold, looking for Somalis during the raid.

It had been days before they could hold down solid food and none of them could control their bowels. The medic had labored mightily to make sure they didn’t succumb to dehydration. They were all back on duty now, under orders to report to the medic daily for follow-up and to limit their contact with the rest of the crew. If the Somalis had infected them with some malady, Elham didn’t want it spreading.

“Very good,” Elham finally said. “Any problems with that?” He nodded toward the island superstructure where several tarps covered the crater in the ship left by the thermobaric RPG round one of the Somali pirates had fired off at the moment of his death.

“No,” the sergeant confirmed. “The lashings held fine during last night’s storm. We are still checking it every hour.”

“Good.” The hole was sizable, large enough that it wouldn’t be repaired without a welding team, a dry dock, and more supplies than they had aboard. Even covered, he worried that any vessel could have seen at a thousand yards that the ship had taken damage, so he had ordered the crew to avoid contact with other vessels and populated islands. Ascension Island, home to a UK airbase, had been a particular concern some days ago, but they had passed far enough away that there had been no incidents.

“Your orders?”

Elham shook his head. “Prepare for docking and unloading. After that’s complete, the actual crew remains aboard until we receive further orders. Our men will provide initial security until I can hand off that responsibility to our hosts.”

“The men are asking about shore leave,” the sergeant noted.

“I’m sure.” Six weeks aboard this barge had felt much, much longer. “Perhaps after the cargo has been relocated. Dismissed,” Elham said. The sergeant saluted and walked away.

After the cargo has been relocated, he repeated in his mind. You should have found a reason to scuttle the ship, he thought briefly, then quashed the thought. That was treason… but was treason the smarter course here? His country was hated. Even their fellow Muslim states despised them. A few kept it hidden for the most part, barely, behind false smiles and closed doors but some like the Saudis didn’t even bother with that pretense. The cargo in the forward hold would not change that for the better. It would earn them neither the respect nor the fear that Ahmadi insisted it would, he was sure. We will be true pariahs now, to everyone.

Elham pulled back from the portside rail. Such debate was pointless but he’d rarely had the luxury of so much time to reflect on orders while carrying them out. Time could be dangerous for a soldier in so many ways. He’d been drilled to obey orders as a younger man and taught the reason for it as he’d climbed the ranks. Questions were a hindrance to duty… and yet he’d never fully quashed that part of his mind that wanted to reason things out. It was a terrible habit for an Iranian soldier but he’d long since given up trying to kill it.

He forced his attention away from the debate going on in his head. Elham had never truly been in control of this mission, no matter how free he’d felt on the bridge high above. Such was a soldier’s life. Freedoms were always bounded by the whims of higher men. Decisions about cargoes and the fates of nations were not his to make and he was happy for that.

The room was smaller than some of the other conference rooms in the building but more ornate than most. That was fitting, Kyra supposed. The CIA director met with presidents and every other kind of dignitary here on occasion. Like the rest of the CIA director’s office complex, no expense had been spared here. High-back leather chairs surrounded a real hardwood desk. Colored wooden seals of all the intelligence community agencies hung on the walls at eye level. The largest flat-panel monitor Kyra had ever seen hung between the U.S. and CIA flags standing in the far corners and it had taken her ten minutes to figure out how to drive the controller mounted on a touch panel rising out of the table.

Cooke entered, seven minutes later than promised, and Kyra knew better than to ask the reason. “Coffee?” Cooke asked without preamble.

“No, thank you. I’ve never had a taste for it.”

“A tea drinker?”

“Only sweet tea on hot days,” Kyra explained. “I’m a Virginia girl after all.”

“You’d never have survived in the Navy,” Cooke mused. “It was good to see you again this morning, Kyra.” She poured her own cup, then seated herself at the head of the table.

“It had been a while, ma’am.” More than a year, she realized. She knew Cooke and Jon made excuses to see each other on occasion, though not as often as either would prefer.

“You can stop with the ‘ma’am,’” Cooke ordered.

“My apologies, ma’am. It’s not optional. Southern upbringing.”

Cooke shook her head, took her first sip, then set the mug on the coaster. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Kyra pressed a button on the touch controller and a video feed appeared on the conference room monitor. Then she pulled a photograph out of a folder and held it out. Cooke accepted the paper, never moving her gaze from the screen. “I spent last night in the Ops Center with their IMINT team and we found this at 0330. That’s our best candidate for the Markarid. We can’t really confirm it’s her… hard to see the name on the side of the hull when you’re looking straight down and they probably changed it anyway,” she said, deadpan. “But she’s missing a raft from the starboard side.”

Cooke’s head turned at that bit of news. “Nice call,” she offered. “What happened there?” She pointed at a spot on the photograph.

Kyra pressed a button and the satellite video magnified by a factor of two. “It’s hard to tell. It looks like she suffered some kind of explosive damage to the superstructure, more than the crew could fix at sea. They covered it over with tarps and moved some cargo containers around to prevent anyone from getting a look at sea level. We’re just guessing at that but I think it’s a pretty good guess. The imagery analysts tell me that’s fresh paint higher up, above the tarp… probably to cover some scorch marks. They also tell me there’s not much aboard any legitimate cargo vessel that could tear up a hull like that… the worst thing they usually carry is fossil fuels, which would just burn the paint, not tear up the metal unless they did something spectacularly stupid.”

“If they hosted a firefight, somebody might’ve gotten a bit happy with the high explosives,” Cooke answered.

“That’s what Jon thought when he saw it,” Kyra conceded. “But it would take something bigger than a grenade to do that—” she said, pointing at the ship’s damaged island. “At least an RPG round. I guess Jon has seen a few go off.” She’d asked him for the particulars but the man had demurred.

“Where is she now?” Cooke asked. “Where are we looking?”

“Southwest of Grenada, almost due north of Caracas. She’s inside Venezuela’s coastal waters on a west-by-southwest heading. Extend the line and it looks like her port of call will be Puerto Cabello. If that’s right, she’ll dock by noon tomorrow. Drescher has asked the National Reconnaissance Office to keep a bird on her and let us know if she changes course, but they’re not in a hurry to retask a satellite just to prove Jon’s theory.”

“I’m sure,” Cooke said. There had been an unhappy note in the younger woman’s voice. The director looked up from her coffee. “So what’s on your mind?”

“I’m thinking maybe we could get coverage the old-fashioned way?”

“We should send someone down there?” Cooke offered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you volunteering?” Cooke asked her.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t willing to do it,” Kyra finally answered after a second’s pause.

“There’s a difference between ‘wanting’ and ‘willing.’ Which is it?” Kyra pondered that for several seconds, long enough for the silence itself to tell Cooke that the younger woman wasn’t sure. “Kyra, why are you still in the Red Cell?” the director finally asked.

“Ma’am?” The question had left her off balance.

Cooke stared at the younger woman long enough to make sure she had her full attention. “You weren’t thrilled about becoming an analyst when I first assigned you to the Red Cell last year. The last time we talked down at the Farm, you weren’t even sure you wanted to stay at the Agency. But you’re still here and you’re still working with Jon. I’m the CIA director, so I don’t have career conversations with people at your level as a general rule. But you have two Intelligence Stars, both of which you earned within six months after you came on duty, and I’m pretty sure that’s never happened before, so I’m making an exception. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’re a very good analyst but you proved that you can be a better case officer and I don’t want you working in a job where you’re performing below your talents. People who do that usually just drag down their unit before they finally quit. So, again, why are you still in the Red Cell?”

Kyra felt her cheeks flush. She hadn’t expected the CIA director to be quite so honest or blunt. She exhaled, a long, slow breath. “I can speak freely, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been a case officer. In my first two field assignments, I got shot, assaulted, chased, and almost caught shrapnel from an antiship missile that would’ve hit the Abraham Lincoln very close to where I was standing if the CWIS gun hadn’t shot it down. I admit, I don’t want to spend my life behind a desk but every field op I’ve run came this close to getting me captured. That’s not really what I signed up for. I thought I’d be working a cover job at an embassy or as a NOC, attending conferences, meeting with assets. I didn’t expect people to try to kill me quite so often.”

Cooke nodded. “I do understand that. I know those stars didn’t come easy.” The director stopped talking and Kyra waited for her to start again. The silence dragged out and became painful. Finally she spoke. “You know, when the World Trade Center came down, it became obvious that we couldn’t go after terrorists and tyrants the same way we did the Soviets, but we couldn’t change overnight and a fair number of people around here fought it when we started. For a long time we were too dependent on case officers who still wanted to work the cocktail circuits and meet with assets in hotel rooms over crab and caviar. Change isn’t just hard, it’s painful, and we’re still not there.” Cooke stopped for a moment, embarrassed just a little by the passion in her voice. Then she looked the younger woman square in her green eyes. “I don’t mean to preach to you but we don’t just need people who can work the streets, we need people who can work the street and the bush. Different worlds, different tradecraft. You proved in Caracas and Beijing that you can work the street. And your file says you can work the bush — your Farm instructors still can’t figure out how you got away from the dogs during Hell Week. And a case officer who can do analysis too? That’s just gold. You’ve shown everyone that you’re up to it. We need people like you out there.”

Kyra fumbled for a response and no good one came. “Have you had this conversation with Jon, ma’am?” she finally asked, deflecting.

That stopped Cooke in her tracks. “Why do you ask?”

“First, because he won’t like it, you approving me for a field assignment, even if it’s temporary,” Kyra said. “‘This is not a good idea,’ and all that.”

Oh, Cooke realized. Have I had this conversation about you with him. “That sounds like him,” she agreed. “I can handle Jon. I presume there’s a ‘second’ to come after that ‘first’?”

“Ma’am, I know you two are friends.” Kyra actually knew better than that but didn’t want to be too bold. “I’ve shared an office with him for over a year and sometimes I feel like I barely know him. I know he’s spent time in the field. He knew his way around the Lincoln like he’s spent serious time at sea. But he gave up the field for a desk and never talks about why. He’s an amazing analyst. He has a Galileo and a Langer Award… I’ve seem them. But he’s one of the most disliked people in the building and he could be doing a lot more than he is. You said you don’t want me working a job where I’m performing below my talents. What happened to him?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. He was forward deployed to Iraq during the war, but he never talks about that with me. He came back, joined the Red Cell and never left, even when everyone else did,” Cooke offered.

“He could do more,” Kyra said.

“Yes, he could,” Cooke agreed. “But right now we’re talking about you, not him. Do you want to go? Do you want to be an operator or an analyst?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore, ma’am. And I’m not sure how to find out.”

“You know how,” Cooke told her. “Your suggestion that we put someone on the ground is accepted. You’ve worked in Caracas so I’m sure the new station chief will be happy to see you come even if it’s only for a few weeks. She’s shorthanded right now anyway. Take the initiative. Get to Puerto Cabello, find some safe spot to hole up with line of sight on the dock, and report back what you see. I think the mission will be fairly low risk.”

“‘Low risk’ is a relative term.”

“True. But risk is the business, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kyra stood to leave.

“When you get back, you tell me what you want. If you want to be a case officer or an operator, I’ll make it happen for you. If not, I’m sure Jon would be happy to keep you… as happy as he ever gets about anything. You remember the first three rules from case-officer school?” Cooke asked.

“‘Don’t get killed. Don’t get caught. Bring home the intel.’”

Cooke raised her coffee mug. “Go thou and do likewise.” Kyra nodded and left the room. Cooke took a sip from her coffee mug and realized that it had gone cold.

Despite standing orders to the contrary, Cooke’s secretary almost stopped Jon dead at the door. Cooke had told her executive assistant that she’d summoned the Red Cell chief but agitated men didn’t get past the front desk as a general rule and the secretary had a button on her desk connected to the security station around the corner to enforce that policy. She let him in but not without a warning stare.

Cooke was sitting on her couch when Jon stomped into the office. He didn’t bother to look at her or to close the door behind himself. The secretary, a woman of good sense, reached in and did it for him.

“What do you think—?” he started.

Cooke cut him off. “Whatever you’re about to say, you’re out of line.” It came out a bit quieter than she had intended but had the desired effect, mostly. Jon stopped short, saying nothing. He turned away from her and stared out the windows. Already, this meeting felt different and Cooke didn’t like it.

“I’m so glad to see my opinion matters to you,” he said.

“This isn’t about your opinion,” she corrected him. “You’re mad that I approved Kyra going to Venezuela.”

“The Venezuelans almost killed her the first time she was there so you’ll forgive me if that doesn’t seem like a bright idea. We don’t usually send people back into countries where they ran into that kind of trouble.”

“Whether it seems smart to you or not is irrelevant, Jon. I’m the one whose opinion matters here. I’m the CIA director, in case you’d forgotten,” she reminded him. “I don’t have to discuss my ideas with you before I present them to anyone. But she volunteered, in case she didn’t mention it—”

“She did.”

Good for her, Cooke thought. Cooke had never thought Kyra was a coward. “A successful field op could get her career back on track.”

“And why would choosing to be analyst be considered ‘off track’?” He was angrier than she’d ever seen him. This was not going like she’d expected… too much on the defensive. Jon had never been this aggressive with her.

A soft answer turneth away wrath… where had she heard that? “She could be the best case officer of her generation. She could be running the Clandestine Service by middle age but not if she stays down in the Red Cell,” Cooke said. “And that wasn’t fair. I’ve never pushed you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

“And I’m doing fine.”

“By your standards, Jon, not by mine,” she said. “And not by a lot of other people’s here on the seventh floor.”

“I’m the one whose opinion matters there.”

Cooke winced, hearing her own words turned on her. That was a first between them. “You don’t think she can handle it?”

“I think this is a terrible way to find out. The failure mode on this could get real ugly, real fast—”

“It’s a straightforward surveillance op,” she protested. “Minimal risk—”

“There’s no such thing as ‘minimal risk’ in field ops. We’re kidding ourselves to think we can even quantify risk,” he retorted, cutting her off. “But I thought you respected me more than this,” he said. His voice had an edge that was both sad and sharp.

“My respect for you has nothing to do with this. It’s not personal,” Cooke assured him. She stood and walked over to him, closer than was professional, but the door was closed. She stared straight into his eyes to make the point.

“If you’re determined to send her, she shouldn’t go alone.”

Cooke pulled back, surprised. Are you asking to go? Suddenly the operation seemed more dangerous than before. “You don’t do field work anymore.”

He answered nothing. Cooke tried to read him but he’d retreated into himself, which usually meant he wanted something he wasn’t willing to ask for. She held her silence, giving him the chance to finally open himself to her, but she’d seen this play before. As always, she was the one to finally break the silence. Another missed chance, she thought. “Jon, the Markarid was your theory. I was hoping you’d come with me to the White House—”

“I don’t care about the White House,” he said, ignoring the professional temptation. “I’ve been there, I’ve briefed presidents and I don’t care if I ever do it again, much less with this one,” he replied, his voice heavy with contempt.

Cooke nodded slowly. “Caracas station is gutted right now. The SEBIN tore the entire operation open last year and we had to pull almost everyone out. We’ve been sending people in slowly but it’s not even a skeleton crew. I’ll call the chief of station down there. She’s new to the place, but I can set things up,” she said in surrender.

“It’s still not a good idea.” He started for the door.

“Jon,” she called after him. He stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder. Cooke stood and walked over to him, put her hand on his arm to pull it away from the door. It took her another minute to figure out what to say, but he waited for her. “This is my decision,” she said finally.

“I’ll call you from Caracas.” Jon pulled away, opened the door, and walked out, closing the door behind him. It saved Cooke from having her secretary see her exhale a long, sad breath.

The president of the United States was far younger than his predecessor and not much older than Kathy Cooke herself. Rostow was just out of his forties, one of the boy presidents that the country liked to elect when it decided that vigor was a suitable substitute for experience. Cooke had known Harrison Stuart, been nominated to her current job by the older gentleman, and had come to like him during their infrequent meetings. He’d been a septuagenarian who exuded the calm of a man whose ambitions had all been realized. She had been as sorry as he was happy to see his term in office end. For once, she believed, one of the honest and wise men John Adams had prayed for had actually ruled under the White House roof.

Daniel Rostow felt like another animal entirely. He seemed to her like a man whose ambition could never be satisfied. The former governor of Oregon had been in the White House barely a year and his hunger for a legacy already was no secret at all. She’d watched him devour his intelligence briefings and she worried that he did so only because he was hoping each morning that the President’s Daily Brief would bring him the tidbit that would finally give him the opening to write his name into history.

Cooke opened the lock bag while Rostow watched. “I apologize for the sudden request for a meeting, Mr. President. I appreciate your willingness to carve out a few minutes.”

“Happy to do it,” Rostow said. Cooke didn’t believe it. The president’s daily schedule was carved out in five-minute increments so agreeing to this meeting meant three others with donors and political allies had been canceled.

“Just don’t let it become a habit.” Gerald Feldman sat in a chair next to the president. Feldman had run Rostow’s campaign two years before and then surprised the pundits by taking the national-security-adviser job instead of the chief-of-staff position everyone had predicted. The Post had openly questioned whether he wanted to be the next Kissinger.

“That depends on the world, sir, not on us.” Director of National Intelligence Cyrus Marshall sat to Kathy’s immediate right. The retired Navy admiral uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, anticipating the paperwork that his subordinate was about to dole out.

“Calm down, Gerry. This is the first time she’s done this since we got here,” Rostow said. “The world’s been quiet.” Cooke thought she heard a strain of disappointment in the man’s voice.

“I appreciate your patience, Mr. President,” Cooke said. “I promise, I don’t do this lightly.”

Rostow took the file that Cooke offered with duplicates going to the other men and he opened the folder. The picture of the Somali pirate sat on top. The briefing took five minutes and the president never looked up from the photograph, no emotion playing across his face.

“What’s your confidence that the Markarid is the right ship?” Feldman asked.

“Our confidence is high,” Cooke admitted. “The damage to the superstructure and the missing lifeboat are compelling.”

“What are you asking for?” Rostow asked.

“A presidential finding authorizing a covert action. I want to send an officer to Puerto Cabello to put eyes on the ship and determine the nature of her cargo, if possible.”

“Why not just use the satellites or a drone?”

“Can’t read a ship’s name on the hull from straight up,” Marshall told him.

Rostow let out an exasperated laugh. “Billions of dollars per satellite and they can’t read a vertical sign.”

“The laws of physics are a cruel mistress,” Feldman quipped.

“And the Venezuelans have a half-decent air-defense system, courtesy of the Russians and the Cubans, so sending out a surveillance flight would be problematic,” Marshall added. “There is a carrier battle group in the Caribbean at the moment and the Navy could detach a sub to ID the vessel, but she’d have to hustle and she’d be running in close proximity to all of the cargo ships running around Puerto Cabello. That would raise the chance of an accidental collision. Getting someone on site to give us a ground-level perspective would be cheaper and easier.”

“Cheap as long as they don’t get caught. You had some trouble with that in Caracas last year as I recall. What’s the risk?” Feldman asked.

“Low, we think. All of the dockyards in Venezuela are under government control, but Puerto Cabello is one of their largest so foreigners are a constant presence,” Cooke said. “We expect no contact with the target.”

“When will the Markarid dock?” Feldman asked.

“Imagery confirms that she’s on course to arrive tomorrow, late morning. She’ll enter the docks just before noon local time.”

“Then you’re wasting time, aren’t you?” Rostow chided her. “Gerry, draw up the paperwork. Have it on my desk by lunch. Kathy, when can your team be on the ground?”

“They’re ready to fly out today. I don’t think we can get a team on site before she docks, but we hope they can get there in time to observe the unloading.”

Rostow smiled, and Cooke wasn’t sure she liked it. “Good,” he said. “Give me daily updates after they arrive. Thanks for coming.”

Marshall led Cooke out to the secretary’s office and closed the door to the Oval Office behind him. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” Cooke replied. It was sincere. This director of national intelligence she liked. There were any number of people in this town for whom she could not say the same, including the two men in the office she’d just left. “I appreciate you supporting my request.”

“Unlike my predecessor, I think it’s important for CIA and the DNI to cooperate. From time to time, anyway.” The gentle joke made Cooke smile for the first time in hours.

Cooke nodded. “I guess you’ve heard the stories by now.”

“I got an earful from the Senate chairman when I was nominated,” Marshall admitted. “They’re afraid of you, you know.” He nodded toward the Oval Office door.

“Afraid of me?” She hadn’t heard that.

“Rostow’s not a fool, Feldman even less, even if he does tend to politicize intelligence. The Hill likes you and that’s never to be underestimated. But the truth is you took down the last director of national intelligence in a straight-up political knife fight… got Harry Stuart to fire his own appointee. That’s not to be underestimated either. So, yeah, they’re giving you some latitude.”

Cooke repressed a rueful smile. “Your predecessor was appointing political donors as CIA station chiefs. The one he installed in Caracas was talking too much to an asset who turned out to be working for the SEBIN. And then he sent a talented young lady on a mission that got her shot when she’d only been in the field for five months. That man was a fool that cost us our infrastructure down there and almost cost us a very good officer. Harry Stuart was just honest enough to call it for what it was.”

“And you risked your job to snuff him. Bold.”

“It helps to have a righteous cause.”

“So it does,” Marshall agreed. “That young lady… she’s still with us?”

“I’ve assigned her to this op,” Cooke said.

“Wanting to put her back on the horse?”

“She’s been back on the horse, sir,” Cooke replied. “She was the one who went into China last year and exfiltrated our prime asset after he was burned.”

“I remember that report… that was a good read,” Marshall said, honest respect in his voice. “Let me know when your team’s in place.”

“Yes, sir,” Cooke said.

Kyra set her bag by the front door and checked the wall clock above the entry table. Less than two hours until the flight. Dulles Airport was twenty minutes away and the Greenway certainly wouldn’t be jammed at this hour unless someone was lying dead in the road. So long as the security lines weren’t backed up, she would make the plane without having to rush if she left now.

She knew the flight time by heart. Caracas. She’d tried to keep the old memories out of her thoughts and failed for the most part, and the old anxiety had been rising inside her stomach all morning. Kyra ran her hand across her left arm and felt the scar that ran along the triceps. It was no thin line. The bullet had ripped through the skin and muscle there, taking much of both with it as it had passed out the other side. She hadn’t even felt it at the moment. The adrenaline had been rushing through her, killing the pain then like the Vicodin had done for months after. Now it was a numb mass of scar tissue, visible from feet away whenever it was left uncovered. She always wore long shirts now, even in the humid Virginia summer. It was easier to explain that fashion choice away to her parents than to try excusing how she’d acquired that mutilation.

She had been trying to ignore the telephone on the entry table most of the evening as she packed her travel bag and secured the house. There was nothing left to do now, no good excuse for procrastinating about the call and the phone would not be denied any longer. Kyra picked up the receiver and dialed, hoping no one would pick up. She sat in silence while the call went through. She’d thought her mother would be home at this hour, but Kyra’s wish was granted as a voice-mail system told her to leave her message.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me,” she said. And like that, it was time to lie. “My boss asked me to take a trip overseas today. We’re having trouble with one of the software packages we’re developing. The bug is in some code written by a foreign contractor and they’re just not getting it fixed, so I have to go straighten things out. It’s a mess and we’re on a deadline. So I’m heading out for the airport and I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

And the lie was done. Kyra hated it. Sarah Stryker was a kind soul who didn’t deserve to have her only child deceive her, and Kyra had been doing it for almost three years now.

She paused for a moment. She could almost hear her mother, as though the woman were on the phone speaking to her. The entire message didn’t have to be a lie, she thought, but now she would have to tell the truth and that would hurt the other woman more than the lie she’d already told. “I know you wanted me to come down for a visit and try talking to Dad again this weekend. I think it’s still too soon after what happened over Christmas… probably would just do more harm than good if I did come, but I won’t be around this weekend anyway. Thanks for trying to help. Maybe when I get back. I’ll call you in a few days. I love you. Bye.”

Kyra hung up the phone, rolled her bag out onto the front step, and closed the door behind her. She started to lock the dead bolt when she heard the phone on the entry table inside begin to ring. She stopped for a second, then finished locking the door, seized her luggage and walked down the stairs toward her truck, the phone calling behind her.