Covert Action

2 Storm Warnings

The Gulfstream received immediate clearance to land at Andrews Air Force Base just outside Washington. The pilot was a little surprised at the approach vectors. Normally he was routed around the metropolitan area in a complex, low-level landing pattern, wasting time and thousands of pounds of fuel. Not this time. The Andrews controller brought him straight in with only one turn that put him on final. Once on the ground, he was directed to a patch of hardstand where a Lincoln town car was waiting. That made sense — a single passenger and a single car on arrival. While the attendant dropped the boarding ladder, Garrett stuck his head inside the cockpit.

“Great flight. Thanks for the lift, guys.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” the pilot replied. “Have a nice stay in the D.C. area.”

“I’ll do my best,” Garrett replied.

“What else do you do besides take advantage of young women at cards?” the attendant asked, stepping aside to allow him access to the aircraft exit door.

Garrett leaned close and in a low voice said, “Can’t tell you, Cindy. If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” He winked, then added, “Thanks for the company.”

They had been just over nine hours in the air. Garrett had napped, ate, drank, and thoroughly trounced Cindy at cribbage. He felt surprisingly refreshed. They had departed Hawaiian airspace at 5:00 P.M. and raced to meet the sun, landing at Andrews just before 8:00 A.M. Prior to landing, he had retired to the aircraft’s well-appointed lavatory to get a shave and change — same blue jeans but a different aloha shirt. He carried only a small grip that held his dopp kit, slacks, a dress shirt, and a change of underclothes. Garrett wore a faded, wheat-colored corduroy sport jacket over the printed shirt and a pair of scuffed saddle oxfords.

Garrett Walker, Cindy pleasantly noted, looked a great deal like the actor Tom Selleck. Only he had green eyes, his hair was lighter, and at six-one, he was smaller than the six-foot-five Selleck. She also noticed that Garrett moved with the easy grace of an athlete. His wide shoulders and hands seemed outsize for his frame, and they were hands like those of a workingman. He had an even, easy smile that delivered crows’ feet to the corners of his eyes. Garrett was a smooth article and could have been taken for a CEO of a major corporation. The intensity and charm were there, but something about his persona suggested he was someone who fought battles, but not in the boardroom and not for market share.

A damp breeze was blowing with the temperature in the low forties as Garrett stepped from the aircraft. He felt the chill, but temperature variations had little effect on him. He descended the boarding stairway and headed for the idling town car, a black sedan with smoke-tinted windows, and sprouting several small antennas. No one appeared from the interior to greet him. He opened the rear door and tossed his bag onto the floor of the rear compartment.

“Mata Hari, I presume,” he said as he eased himself onto the pleated leather upholstery.

“The first thing you need to do,” she replied coolly, “is burn that shirt. Well, maybe not the first thing.” She then grabbed him and kissed him hard on the mouth.

The Gulfstream retrieved its stair-door and taxied back out toward the main runway. The only marking on the all-white aircraft was “GSI” blocked in black letters onto the tail. Immediately cleared for takeoff, it lifted neatly into the air.

“Do we have any idea who that guy was?” the copilot probed his fellow pilot. Their instructions were to drop him at Andrews, make the short jump up to Baltimore-Washington International, refuel, and wait. They were to stand by in a comfortable motel near BWI until Mr. Walker had completed his business, then take him back to Hawaii. A lot of Fortune 500 companies couldn’t afford that much airplane for that period of time for a single executive. Guardian Services International was not a Fortune 500 company, nor was it listed on any stock exchange. In fact, it had been in business for only three years. The company was wholly owned by a philanthropist named Joseph Simpson. A number of entities operated under the umbrella and cover; Steven Fagan and his IFOR were just one such organization. The Gulfstream that had brought Garrett from Hawaii to Washington was only one of several belonging to GSI.

The pilot shrugged as he swung the plane onto his departure vector from Andrews. “Hey, we just pick up the packages and deliver them. GSI does a lot of business with the Department of Homeland Security. Maybe they have a big contract that needs to be worked out.”

“You think that guy is here to negotiate a contract? He doesn’t look like some corporate mouthpiece to me. Gotta be something else.”

“Yeah, well whatever it is, it doesn’t concern us. And if you keep asking questions, you’ll be flying boxes for FedEx at a fraction of what you’re making now.”

The town car with Garrett and Judy was caught up in Beltway traffic, but the driver made skillful work of it. They crossed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge to Old Town Alexandria and looped around to pick up the George Washington Parkway into the city. It was stop-and-go in Old Town.

“How about a bagel?”

“Love one,” Garrett replied.

She said something to the driver, and he maneuvered to the right-hand lane and took a side street. After a few turns and dashes down narrow brick and cobbled streets, they pulled up in front of a storefront with no name. She led him inside, and they found a table along the wall. It was small, crowded, and smelled of yeast.

“You wait here,” she ordered and dove into the queue at the counter. In an amazingly short period of time, she returned with two steaming mugs of coffee. His bagel came just as he liked it — sesame seed, toasted, with no topping. Hers was nuts and raisins, covered with a thick icing of cream cheese. She deftly managed the order like a waitress at a short-order house. Once seated, she raised her mug to him.

“Well, sailor. Welcome to the capital of the free world.”

Judy Burks, as Garrett often mused, was a piece of work. She was not a tall woman, perhaps five-five in heels, but she exhibited a much taller presence. At thirty-something, she still had the wide-eyed enthusiasm of an undergraduate. She was pretty, not beautiful, with unremarkable, regular features, auburn hair, and a mouth that was just a little too big for her face. But her eyes were anything but ordinary; they were two dark pools of intensity. She ate like a longshoreman, but her figure was trim to the point of petite. Garrett worshiped at the altar of hard physical training and kept himself in top shape. Judy Burks, however, would not walk a block if there was a taxi stand nearby, but she gave every appearance of fitness and good health. She was, in fact, an accomplished tennis player and an excellent swimmer. They had become, according to Judy’s term for it, an item, or as much of an item as their work allowed. Garrett often wondered why he was attracted to this spring-loaded wisp of a girl. But he had come to see that she was a lady with heart and spirit. Perhaps, he admitted to himself as he touched her mug with his own, he simply found her intriguing. Garrett never knew what she was going to do next. He had met her shortly before he joined GSI and IFOR, while she was on special assignment with the Bureau. Their paths had crossed under unusual circumstances — but then Judy Burks seemed drawn to circumstances that were unsual.

“So,” he said in a low voice, “what’s going on? A plot to kidnap the president? A secret terrorist cell in Congress? Or maybe a mole on the Supreme Court?”

“Could be any one of the three,” she replied. “Or, maybe, I just wanted you back here so I could have my way with you.”

Garrett considered this. “That works for me, but no concerts.” The last time he was in the capital she had dragged him to the Kennedy Center for an opera. “Unless, of course, Willie Nelson is in town. Seriously, Judy”—again his voice dropped a notch—“what’s going on? Steven seemed to think that there were some people in this town who are more than a little concerned about something. He used the word scared.”

Judy Burks was an FBI agent whose current assignment was liaison officer for Guardian Services International. GSI was a worldwide provider of physical and consulting security services. GSI did many things. They provided counterterrorist training for commercial interests doing business overseas and to government agencies, including the FBI Training Academy in Quantico, Virginia. They had a reputation for being expensive and very competent. But Judy Burks’s liaison assignment had nothing to do with GSI’s training or consulting services. The Bureau nominally, and she personally, was the link between the U.S. government and the GSI subsidiary known as the Intervention Force. IFOR was buried deep within the GSI corporate structure, and for all but a select few in GSI and the government, it did not exist. The facility on Hawaii was simply a site where GSI trained bodyguards and security personnel. IFOR had been created in total secrecy. It was to be a response element for those situations that called for something stronger than a diplomatic protest and less visible than a special operations forces response. It was a force that operated without a portfolio or federal funding, and with complete U.S. government deniability.

Judy turned it over in her mind, hesitating just how to tell Garrett about why he had been summoned back to Washington. Had it been of more immediate concern to the national interest, someone far more senior to her would have met Garrett or his immediate superior, Steven Fagan. In the current lexicon, this one was in the “grave and gathering” category, rather than the “clear and present danger” one.

“Uncle Armand find some more loose nukes laying about?” he prompted. He was referring to Armand Grummell, the entrenched and unflappable Director of Central Intelligence.

“It’s nothing like that, or at least, it doesn’t appear to be. This one is more like a favor based on a hunch.”

“Say what?” Garrett asked, lifting his eyebrows. A look of irritation passed over his handsome features.

“Now, take it easy. Your boss wouldn’t have sent you here if there wasn’t potentially a good reason.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “You know, we’re not some global relief program or a cultural exchange. We deal with nasty people, and we do bad things to them. We move on hard intelligence, not hunches.”

“Hey, don’t blame me; I’m a liaison officer — a messenger. And if it makes you feel any better, this did come through the Director of Central Intelligence, okay? Well, from the DCI to the Bureau and then finally to me.” She was feeling a little wounded. She knew that she herself would have taken just about any frivolous excuse to see him, but he was not that way. “Now, if you’ll settle down, I’ll tell you about it. You eat, and I’ll talk.”

Garrett reluctantly took up his bagel and leaned back in his chair to listen.

“Of course, I’ve only been told what l need to know, but as I understand it, there are some unexplained events taking place in Zimbabwe. We have no national interests there, just humanitarian concerns, but there could be something brewing that could develop into a security issue. At least, that’s what the folks out at Langley seem to think. I assume you’ve read up on southern African geography and postcolonial politics?”

“Why, certainly, but how about you bringing me up-to-date? Uh, the executive summary will be just fine.”

“Sure, no problem,” she replied, warming to the subject. “When the colonial powers left Africa, Marxism and tribalism returned with a vengeance — usually one followed the other because the Soviets provided arms and advisers to any tribal thug who said he was a Communist. That’s what happened in Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe was a British colony, then called Rhodesia. It was stable, productive, and racially segregated — not especially nice, but a functioning colony. Zimbabwe became independent in 1980. After a sham of an election, Robert Mugabe came to power; Rhodesia-Zimbabwe became Zimbabwe, and Salisbury became Harare. Mugabe, the then and current president, proceeded to mismanage the country on a grand scale. He and his cronies have run the nation into the ground, looted the treasury, and wired fortunes in cash to Zurich. To stay in power, Mugabe distributed all the land held by the white farmers, essentially driving them from the country. The rural provinces are now mostly run by tribal warlords, and the nation is a basket case. The country now has the highest incidence of disease and AIDS on the continent. The new African nations have had their share of despots, but few are in Robert Mugabe’s league when it comes to lining his pockets. There’s genocide, perhaps not on Rwandan scale, but he’s killing his own citizens. He’s firmly in control of the capital, but his influence really doesn’t extend much past the city limits of Harare.” She took a breath and another bite of her half-eaten bagel. “The country used to be the breadbasket of southern Africa. But now people are starving. The international community and any number of NGOs have tried to help, but it just isn’t working. Zimbabwe is the classic failed African state. In late 2003, the British Commonwealth voted to expel Zimbabwe based on human rights abuses. It takes a lot to get kicked out of the Commonwealth, but Mugabe managed it.”

“So,” Garrett replied, “and I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but there are some situations, particularly in Africa, that simply defy outside help. They’re not candidates for intervention on any scale. When the European powers left, they took with them what they brought, the notion of a nation-state. In their absence, the tribal entities take over. The former colonies became sewers of corruption and lawlessness. There’s really no way to bring relief to the suffering without military occupation. And we are not in the business of occupying African nations, especially after our misadventure in Somalia. Even the French have pretty much given up on massive military intervention.”

“How about the UN?” she replied. “You’d think they could do something there.”

“Right, send in the powder-blue berets. There are more than a few African nations who are willing to offer their troops for UN duty. You know why? The UN pays their salaries, and the troops get to do a little quiet looting in the nations where they’re sent to keep the peace. When they’re not looting outright, they set up protection rackets on the side, extorting the people they were sent to protect. Even worse, they spread AIDS. And if there is a serious confrontation with the rebels, they break and run.”

Judy Burks was silent a moment before she spoke. “So what’s the solution?”

“Mercenaries.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Yep. It’s a brutal solution to a nasty problem, but whenever mercenaries have been sent in, peace and order are quickly restored.”

“But what do they do that the UN or American troops don’t do?”

“Three things, or three things in Africa,” Garrett replied. “Mercenaries will take sides, take casualties, and fire preemptively.”

“Fire preemptively?”

“That means that they will shoot first. Mercenaries will move into an area and say, for example, that there can be no one on the streets from sundown to sunrise. Anyone violating this curfew will be shot. Then when someone appears out after dark, they shoot him or her — no verbal challenge, no get your hands up, no nothing. Bang, dead. Any local who has a weapon is shot. Anyone who opposes them or interferes with their patrols or house searches is shot. The first few days, they shoot a few people. Then everything gets quiet. Any rebels in the area leave for the bush, and rebels don’t do too well in the bush; they need communities to terrorize. In the long run mercenary intervention saves lives and restores order. It’s not pretty, but it’s effective. In Africa, it’s the only proven solution.”

Garrett watched as she took on a familiar semi-pout, something she did often when she questioned him and he gave her information she did not like.

“Well, then, why don’t we just do what the mercenaries do; why don’t we take sides and shoot first?”

He gave her a patient smile. “For the same reason the police don’t go out into the hood and shoot guys they know are up to no good. It’s not how we do business. Y’see, Judy,” he said turning serious, “in the past we have ridden down the Plains Indians and massacred their villages, we have lynched Negroes, and we have put Japanese Americans in concentration camps. These are shameful incidents in our history; as a white-dominated culture, we have to carry a lot of guilt about those events. In some parts of Africa, brutality still rules. Tribalism is just another form of racism. This nation has had its share of that. We can’t deal with it, and since we can’t, we have no business going there. The kind of counter-brutality required to restore order in some of these places is simply beyond our reach. And the last thing I want is for some of our soldiers, even our special operations troops, to be put in that kind of a situation. It’s bad enough in Afghanistan and Iraq. We have no national interest in Africa, and really no effective way to project force in that environment.” He tilted his head, watching her closely. “Say, what’s this all about, anyway?”

“You about done with that bagel?” Judy said as she rose from the table.

So it’s going to be like this, he thought. He blotted his mouth with a napkin and tossed it on the table. “Lead on, madam liaison officer.”

They drove into the District in diplomatic silence. Garrett had long ago learned not to try to pry information from Judy when she wasn’t ready to volunteer it. And she probably hadn’t been told all that much. A few things he did know for certain. As a liaison officer she would have some information, but not the whole picture, and certainly nothing of strategic or tactical value, at least not at this stage of the game. In all probability, only the wily Director of Central Intelligence, Armand Grummell, had a complete grasp of the situation, or at least as much as there was to know at the time. And Garrett knew he would not have been summoned to Washington if it were a matter that the Central Intelligence Agency or the U.S. military could handle. That most likely meant a difficult situation and one that had the potential to become critical. Since 9/11, the Special Activities Division at CIA had grown in capability and reach. They and the American special operations forces were able to handle a broad range of contingencies. So why have I been brought into this? Is IFOR being considered for a tasking in Africa? Armand Grummell does not scare easily, and the Agency would not reach out to IFOR unless they were very worried. Garrett concluded that there was little to be gained by speculation. In due course, all would be revealed to him, or as with Judy Burks, as much as he needed to know. As they drove across the Key Bridge and into the congestion of Georgetown, he settled back to enjoy the sights. Again, he was reminded of what a wonderful city this was to visit, and what a terrible place it must be to have to live and work.

The brownstone row house was a few blocks off Dupont Circle in a fashionable neighborhood of upscale residences and discreet businesses. They piled out of the town car, and Judy sent the driver off to hover; parking was out of the question. The brass plate to the right of the door read “Outreach Africa.” Judy led them up the stone steps and gave the door buzzer a long, insistent ring.

“This is a do-gooder organization,” Garrett said impatiently. “What the hell am I doing here?”

“Behave yourself,” she said as she again stabbed the buzzer.

“Yes, can I help you,” a haughty, clipped voice asked over the intercom.

“You certainly can. Judy Burks here to see Graham Burkett.”

“One moment, please, and I’ll see if he’s available.”

Garrett watched as Judy made a conscious effort to calm herself. He knew that if they were made to wait more than a couple of minutes, she’d have her shield out and attempt to kick in the door. Garrett was warming to the prospect when the heavy paneled door swung open. “Please come in,” the same intercom voice commanded. The foyer was dated, intricate, and very well manicured. The woodwork was exquisite. You could reach a lot of Africans, Garrett mused, for what it cost for this renovation.

“If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Burkett will be with you in a moment.” She was fifty-something, styleless, and carried herself with a cool, aloof condescension. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to my duties.”

“Thanks,” Judy remarked to the woman’s retreating back as she disappeared into another room, “but we just had coffee.”

Garrett grinned. “How does she know I’m not some well-heeled donor?”

“She knows. She can smell wealth, and you flunked the test.”

They were admiring the soft colors of an African landscape when a side door opened.

“Oh, hullo. You must be Agent Burks and Mr. Walker. Thank you so much for stopping by. Won’t you come in?”

Graham Burkett was probably in his late thirties, but racing headlong into his fifties. He had drab thinning hair, a sparse mustache, sloping shoulders, and the soft pear-shaped contour of someone who had gone sedentary many years ago. He wore a red knit tie loosely cinched around a button-down collar he had neglected to button down. The shirt bloused over his belt, meeting up with a pair of dark green corduroys. But the carelessness seemed to end with his physical appearance. After greeting Judy courteously, he gripped Garrett’s hand firmly and held his gaze with sharp, intelligent brown eyes. He might have the appearance of a sloppy academic, Garrett inferred, but there was something more to this guy than met the eye. Burkett led them into a richly appointed office and motioned them to two leather wingbacks.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“None for me, thanks,” Judy replied. Garrett smiled and shook his head.

Burkett pulled a brocaded armchair from along the wall and joined them around a low coffee table that was made of a crude hammered metal, obviously African. He was clearly a man who didn’t like to talk to people from behind a desk.

“Zulu,” he commented noticing their interest, “late nineteenth century. Oh, and my apologies for any rudeness you may have experienced by way of our Florence.” He lowered his voice. “She’s the spinster sister of one of our wealthy donors and came with a rather substantial endowment. We call her the gift that keeps on giving — kind of our own personal mother superior.”

“But can she type?” Garrett offered.

“She can’t do a damn thing,” Burkett said, “but then the gift really was quite substantial. You’re probably wondering why you were asked to come here, am I right?” Both Garrett and Judy nodded. “Well, to be quite honest, it has to do with my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“That’s right, Miss Burks, my dear mom. You see, she is a senior analyst at the CIA and, from what I gather, is quite well thought of in the Operations Directorate. A week ago last Sunday I was at her home in Chevy Chase for dinner. It’s a second-Sunday-of-the-month thing. It used to be Saturday, but it seems that she’s working most Saturdays these days. These are busy times at CIA, and she’s very dedicated to her work. But since she can’t talk about her work, we usually end up talking about mine — that, and why I’m still single. To get past the issue of my inability to find a wife, I told her about a recent concern we have about a region in Africa. This area seems to be experiencing some unusual travel restrictions that affect our work there, and we’ve encountered some puzzling medical problems. She questioned me pretty thoroughly, as only a mother and a CIA analyst can. A few days later she said this may be of concern to others as well, and then told me to expect the two of you.” He smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Given my mother’s employer, I’ll not ask who you are or why you need to know about this.

“Briefly, Outreach Africa is a nongovernmental organization that focuses on disease and the prevention of disease in Africa. We support and staff fifteen regional hospitals, and have one of the leading education and vaccination programs on the continent. So we’re not in the intelligence-gathering business, but we do get very close to these people; their problems are our problems. It’s a very challenging business, but we’ve had our share of success, and to be candid, not a few failures. We do what we can with the resources we have.” He moved his hands in a helpless gesture. “What can I say? It’s Africa. We’re used to dealing with adversity, but we’ve had a little more than our share lately. You might even say, quite a bit more, and all of that is in northern Zimbabwe. Some strange things are happening there. We used to have two hospitals in the region. Actually, they’re more like what we in this country would call clinics, but both of them were burned to the ground. Africa can be a brutal place, but the people there normally respect our facilities. We’re not political; we just care. Before the burnings, the hospitals were reporting some strange deaths — people coming to the hospitals with symptoms they had not seen before. Some lived, but most died. It’s our business to know why they’re dying, but we hadn’t a clue. Now we have no information coming out of this area. Of course, when you deal routinely with large numbers of AIDS-related deaths, it’s often hard to determine if a death was brought on by something unrelated to the AIDS virus.” He looked directly at Garrett. “How much do you know about Zimbabwe and the situation there?”

“Not that much, I’m afraid. We talked about it on the way over here, but only in generalities. It’s a failed African state with a lot of problems and not many options. Robert Mugabe has ruined the country, and things are not likely to improve until he dies or is assassinated. And then it will be a long road to any kind of recovery. You said people are dying there, and you don’t know what is bringing this on. Are we talking about some kind of epidemic?”

Burkett gave him a tight smile. “I know what you’re thinking. The Ebola virus. That was what we first thought, but I don’t think that’s it. It’s interesting to note that an outbreak of Ebola, even a relatively isolated one, is cause for great alarm in the West. Yet the AIDS epidemic kills hundreds of thousands each year, and it seems to be of little concern.” He paused, lost within himself for a moment, then continued. “But that is another story. As for Ebola, the Africans know about it, and to some degree, they know how to deal with it. Total isolation and burning everything — the bodies, huts, and personal effects of those infected. Since the first documented outbreak in 1976, we’ve never had Ebola in a major city, just in outlying villages. They let the virus run its course, then go on with life. Most tribal societies are very stoic about these things. Drought, famine, Ebola, even AIDs; they carry on. These people can be very dignified in their suffering and misery.” He paused a moment and swallowed, and for a brief instant, a look of pure sorrow and hopelessness passed over his soft features. Then, almost as if by an act of will, he cleared his throat and continued. “Usually under these conditions, our mobile medical teams are welcomed, especially in a region where a clinic has been forced to close, or in this case, burned. But in northern Zimbabwe, primarily in the Tonga Province along Lake Kariba, they have been turned away. Several times we have tried to send in a relief effort, usually a small convoy of Land Rovers with basic medical kit and supplies. They are turned back, politely but firmly. This in itself is very contrary to our experience, but there’s more to it. We have reports that people are being taken out of villages at night. Some come back, usually sick and dying, and others are never seen again.”

“Do you have any idea who may be doing this?” Garrett asked.

“Not a clue. The bits and pieces of information that we get come from Zimbabweans being treated at our hospital in Harare. These are patients who have relatives who live in the Tonga region.”

“Any idea at all what may be the cause of the illness?”

Burkett leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His whole countenance became deadly serious. “Before the clinics burned, we had the chance to examine three individuals from the area. They were all Bantu. One had what looked to be anthrax. He recovered, but before we could investigate further, he left the clinic — fled in terror, actually. The other two died of what appeared to be some form of hemorrhagic fever. Before we could make arrangements to bring them to Harare for autopsy, the family claimed them and took them away. All three came into our facility in a small village near the town of Kariba. All three were seen by one of our field doctors on the same day. He could do little but make a preliminary diagnosis. His report did state that the families were terrified but would say nothing. The people in this region can be very superstitious. It was that night the clinic was burned, and we suspect arson. The headman of the village told our doctor that he was no longer welcome there. He also reported that the whole village was terrorized into submission. Midwives he had trained, young men he had befriended — all turned away from him. He could do nothing but leave. So he collected what personal effects he had in his quarters and drove away.” Again Burkett paused. “I’m afraid that is about all we know.”

Garrett considered this for a moment. “You said your medical teams trying to reenter the area have been turned away. How were they turned away?”

“The country is pretty open, with few roads. There are checkpoints along the roads manned by men with automatic rifles. They are what might loosely be called local police. Sometimes they are in uniform and sometimes not. Since President Mugabe’s land redistribution program went into effect, much of rural Zimbabwe has reverted to tribal and clan control. They inspect all traffic that comes through. But they know of our work, and they usually let our people pass without a problem or with a token bribe. Since the burning of the clinics, our people are ordered to turn around and return the way they came.”

Garrett had any number of questions. “Have you been able to question any of the locals about this? Has anyone from the area been willing to talk about it?”

Burkett smiled. “My mother asked the same questions. No one from that area will speak about it. The only people willing to talk seem to be out-of-area relatives, and they are very guarded. Our senior administrator asked several government officials in Harare about it, but she was told that it was none of her business. So as you can see, we know something is wrong, but little else.”

Garrett was silent for a moment, digesting what Burkett had said. He was about to ask another question when Judy Burks began to stir in her seat, pointedly glancing at her watch. Garrett took the hint and rose from his chair

“Mr. Burkett, we’d like to thank you for your time. We’ll be looking into the matter and getting back to you, or at least Miss Burks will be getting back to you.”

“Thank you. It’s been my pleasure to make both of your acquaintances,” Burkett replied. He shook Judy’s proffered hand and then took Garrett’s. Once again Burkett clasped Garrett firmly, and there was deep concern in his eyes as he spoke. “Mr. Walker, my mother said to answer all of your questions, and not to ask any of you. So be it; I understand. But sir, please understand this. I know Africa, and I believe something is wrong in northern Zimbabwe — very wrong. I’d consider it a personal favor if you could be of any assistance to my people there.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Garrett replied, meeting Burkett’s intense gaze. He paused a moment, then added, “From what I can see, your organization does some much needed and noble work.”

Burkett showed them to the door. Florence was organizing periodicals on the table in the reception area. Once on the street, Judy was immediately on her cell phone, and within seconds the town car slid to the curb. It was starting to rain as they climbed inside.

“Sorry to break that off, but I needed to keep you on schedule. Now don’t say it; I know what you’re thinking — why did I bring you to some do-gooders’ organization? You’re not in the relief or outreach business. Understood, but somebody thought—”

She was halted in mid-sentence by the look on Garrett’s face. It was dark and set, one of pure concern.

“I’m no expert on problems in Africa,” he said quietly after a moment, “but I can recognize when someone is concerned and very worried. Graham Burkett is in real pain. He cares deeply for those people — his people, as he put it — in Zimbabwe, and he’s afraid for them. Few people truly care for others that deeply. He’s quite a man — a very rare and very strong one.” They drove on in silence for a while before he turned to her. “Where to next?”

She looked at him closely, trying to control her own emotions. Garrett Walker was the most capable man she had ever met — a true man of action. Yet he could be compassionate to a fault. And he was not a man easily given to compliment or hyperbole. He had seen Burkett as someone of strength and character, a man whom she had written off as some privately funded, blowzy bureaucrat with a poor sense of fashion. She wanted to reach out and hug Garrett, but simply placed her hand on his arm.

“There is a guy from Langley who wants to talk with you. I kind of guessed how you’d be dressed, so we’re headed for a beer and burger place in the Virginia suburbs.”

It was just after 1:00 P.M. when they pulled up in front of the Vienna Inn, on Route 123 in Vienna. Garrett got out, but Judy remained.

“You’re not coming?”

“Nope. My liaison duties don’t extend to this meeting. I’ll be on my cell; give me a call when you’re done.”

Once inside, Garrett paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the interior. It was a gloomy day outside, but the Vienna Inn was a few shades darker. It was a warm, comfortable setting — lots of wood and red upholstered fake leather accompanied by the not unpleasant odor of fried food. A ring of tables surrounded an island bar. Past the tables there were booths along the walls. Most of the lunch crowd had left, but a good number of diners lingered over their beer or something stronger. Two older waitresses bustled about, shuttling drinks and bussing tables. Ignoring the Please Wait to Be Seated sign, Garrett crossed the room to a booth in the corner. Moments later a man appeared and slid into the opposite seat. In his early sixties, his gray hair combed straight back over his head, he wore a dated herringbone sport coat and an open-collared white shirt. His skin was mottled, and he had the look of someone who worked long hours and did not take particularly good care of himself. Yet the tired blue eyes showed a measure of intelligence and authority.

“Mr. Garrett Walker.” It was not a question. Garrett nodded. “My name is Jim Watson.” He smiled warmly and extended his hand across the table. “It is an honor and a very real pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming to see me like this.” He glanced around; at other tables men were gathered in close conversation. The older man smiled. “A lot of our business seems to get done in places like this. Probably too much, but then no one likes to talk in a hotel room or the back seat of a car.” A waitress appeared with an order pad, pencil poised. “Are you hungry?”

Garrett sensed that this was not the time for food. “Coffee will be fine.”

“Two coffees, then,” Watson said. The waitress holstered her pad and, pushing the pencil into her hair, left without a word.

Garrett was a little stunned, but he felt that he hid it well. James Watson was the Deputy Director for Operations — the head of the Clandestine Service. He was the man responsible for most, if not all, of the espionage and human intelligence collection at CIA. Since the war on terror began with 9/11, Watson also directed the Special Activities Division, which did a lot more than just gather information. More than a few senior Al Qaeda and Baathist leaders had been killed or kidnapped by SA operatives. The presence of Jim Watson took this African business to a whole new level.

“Mr. Walker—”

“Please, sir, call me Garrett.”

“Thank you,” he continued, “and it’s Jim, here. Garrett, one of the reasons I wanted to see you was to thank you in person for what you and your people were able to do in Afghanistan last year. It was deeply appreciated at the highest levels. The resolution that you and Steven Fagan were able to bring about over there was nothing short of a miracle. You rendered your country an invaluable service. In a town with a notoriously short memory, it will not soon be forgotten by those who count.”

Again, Garrett nodded. He had not considered what he did as a service, at least not service in the manner of when he was in uniform — when he was in the Navy SEAL teams. It had been a job, one for which he was very well paid. But it was a high compliment nonetheless, both in the sincerity of the words and the man who delivered them. Garrett had not recognized the face — few would outside the closed world of intelligence. Garrett did know that Watson had been the CIA chief of station in Moscow when Joseph Simpson had served as the American ambassador to Russia. During a portion of his career at CIA, Steven Fagan had reported directly to Jim Watson. According to Steven, Watson was a man of character and integrity who rose to the post of DDO through merit. With the exception of Armand Grummell, the Director of Central Intelligence was usually a political position. Deputy directors like Watson were there because they were the top men in their trade.

The coffee arrived, and Watson continued. “Under normal circumstances, we would bring you into the headquarters building and award you the Intelligence Star.” Watson smiled, and there was a twinkle in his watery eyes. “Kudos from the Director and all that. Well, we think too highly of you and your organization to bring you in the front door and take your picture. And quite selfishly, we don’t want to risk compromising a valuable national asset.

“Another reason I’m here is that those who know about IFOR make up a very short list. I don’t want to intimate that my agency is a porous organization, but the fewer who know about your force, the better. The DCI is very adamant about that.” Again he smiled. “So I’m your case officer. It’s been a while, but I hope I’m up to the task.”

“I’m sure you are, sir.” Garrett found it hard to call him Jim, and Watson didn’t correct him.

“And finally, I want to speak to you about this business in Africa. We are becoming increasingly concerned about what may be going on there. I understand you met Graham Burkett today. What did you think of him?”

Garrett noted that Watson asked about the man, not his story. He answered carefully. “I think our Mr. Burkett may at times let his heart rule his head. But I also think he is as intelligent as he is compassionate, and not given to overstatement. I believe him. If he thinks something is wrong in Zimbabwe, then something is probably wrong. Whether it’s another African tragedy or a national security issue is not clear, or not clear to me.”

“I agree,” Watson replied.

“You must also think something is wrong, or we wouldn’t be having this meeting.”

Watson gave him a tight smile. “True enough. As you well might gather, we don’t have as many assets in that part of the world. Our attentions and priorities are elsewhere. Even so, a great deal of valuable information and intelligence leads come from NGOs and citizens in the private sector. In Africa, as in Afghanistan, the best information comes from the locals and those with the ability to get close to the locals. We have managed to pick up a few things from time to time, primarily from our contacts with the French. At a national political level, the Francophiles in this administration are in a small minority, but at the working level we get on with the Frogs quite well.” Garrett thought he detected some distaste in Watson’s voice at the mention of the French, but the older man was skilled in managing his feelings. “But Zimbabwe was a former British colony, and the Brits are gone, so our sources there are limited. We have computer models that send up flags when certain parameters and conditions are met. But computers give us indications, and little else. Tell me, Garrett, does the term ‘Sampson Option’ mean anything to you?”

Garrett slowly shook his head. “No, sir, I can’t say that it does.”

“A little over ten years ago, Seymour Hersh authored a compelling book titled The Sampson Option. This well-researched work detailed the development of Israel’s atomic bomb. According to Hersh, whose account we believe, the Israelis built secret underground laboratories in South Africa in the 1980s to conduct nuclear research. With this clandestine endeavor, they were able to process highly enriched uranium and build several atomic weapons. In total secrecy, even from us, Israel became a nuclear power. We had our suspicions, but not until they exploded a test weapon off the coast of Namibia did we really understand what had taken place. Whether or not we approved of Israel joining the nuclear club was beside the point; it happened without our knowledge. Can you just imagine the conversation between Reagan and William Casey, the Director at that time? Or the reaction of John Poindexter, the national security adviser, when he was told what had happened? Following that intelligence embarrassment, we have been very mindful of secret events in Africa. In the 1990s we implemented a set of programmed indicators that would alert us to illegal or unusual events in Africa. Those indicators are updated and modified for various national security threats. As you might imagine, they are now tweaked for terrorism and weapons of mass destruction. Long story short, the alarms built into our monitoring systems are going off. Graham Burkett’s concerns parallel our own. Something is going on there, and we’d like to know more. We can’t afford another Sampson Option, nor can we let ourselves be on the wrong end of such a secret program.”

Watson stirred his coffee carefully and continued. “We’ve had a report from our station in South Africa that may have some bearing on this. Garrett, have you ever heard of a military unit called the Selous Scouts?”

For a moment, Garrett was too taken aback to answer. “The Selous Scouts,” he managed. “Rhodesian Army trackers, as I recall, but weren’t they disbanded some years ago?”

“They were,” said Watson, “supposedly in 1980, but they were something of a legendary unit. We now have indications that some of them may still be around.”

They talked for the better part of an hour before Watson paused for a moment to frame his words. “Garrett, the Director would like your organization to look into this. It’s not something that seems likely to respond to diplomatic pressure, and we have no assets that can respond in any reasonable time frame. We need some help. This may be one of those situations that we ignore at our own peril.”

Garrett met Watson’s steady gaze. “I see. Sir, when we tracked those nukes through Iran and into Afghanistan, we were operating almost as an extension of the U.S. military — we are at war with the jihadists. The Middle East and Southwest Asia are in effect a theater of operations in that war. Going into an African nation like this, under these conditions, meets all the tests of a covert operation. This is a covert action.”

Watson nodded. “It does, indeed. We need to investigate this without showing the hand of the United States Government. And if something should go wrong, neither the president nor the administration will take any responsibility — or come to your aid.”

Garrett considered this a moment, then smiled. “I think I understand. Let me take this up with Steven. It may be within our charter and capability, but as I’m sure you know, his assessment of this is critical to any role we might play.”

“Understood, and thanks in advance for taking a look at this matter.” Watson consulted his watch. “Garrett, I’m afraid I really must get back to the office.” He smiled ruefully. “Another meeting, as usual. I know your organization will need some time with this. Have Steven contact me when you’ve had a chance to review the matter. In the meantime, we will pass along anything we learn on our end. And once again, it’s been a distinct pleasure to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir. Just one more question.” Watson gave him his full attention. “Graham indicated this matter was somehow surfaced or brought forward by his mother. Without presuming too much, what the hell does his mother have to do with this, even if she does work for the Agency?”

This brought a genuine smile to Watson’s tired features. “Garrett, we are blessed with some very talented and dedicated analysts at CIA. Elizabeth Johnstone, Graham’s mother, is one of them. She is a very perceptive lady. Her instincts regarding the nuclear weapons you recovered in Afghanistan were spot-on. Candidly, without her intuition, we — you — would have been too late to prevent a catastrophe. And she enjoys something of a special relationship with the Director.”

Garrett again thought he detected something of a twinkle in Watson’s eye at the last comment, but the DDO was nothing if not a very controlled man. “We’ll be anxious to hear from you after you’ve had a chance to discuss this with your people. Please give Steven Fagan my very best.” They shook hands across the table, and Watson motioned for him to remain seated. “With your permission, I’ll leave first. Once again, Garrett, it has been a distinct pleasure.”

The older man rose and donned a topcoat and car cap. Then, plunging his hands into his pockets, he made his way through the tables to the door. Garrett glanced around; no one looked up, but a man seated by the door quietly followed Watson out. Garrett smiled to himself. Conventions, he mused, have to be observed, even in a meeting place for spies. He called Judy, took a last sip of coffee, and slid from the booth. Garrett started to reach for his wallet and stopped in mid-motion. He had not seen him do it, but James Watson had managed to slip a five-dollar bill, neatly folded, under the lip of his saucer.

The rain had changed to an oppressive drizzle by the time he reached the car. Judy Burks smiled sweetly at him as he crawled in.

“Everything go okay?” she asked.

“It was interesting,” Garrett said evenly.

“Just interesting?”

“And informative,” he replied

“Was it, now?” Garrett nodded, giving her an innocent grin. “Okeydokey, no more questions.”

They were headed east on Route 123. “So what’s next, madam liaison officer?”

“Ah, our next destination. I’m not sure I can tell you. It’s a highly classified matter.”

He pulled her toward him and began to tickle her. She squealed and made a show of fighting him off. The driver, from the Bureau motor pool, kept his eyes on the road.

“Okay, okay. Enough torture, you win. I have orders to take you to a safe house and to conduct a thorough interrogation.”

“How thorough?” he said in a low voice.

Her voice was suddenly hoarse. “Very, very thorough.”

The town car moved ahead of the afternoon traffic and made good time, clearing the beltway and sliding easily through the town of Fairfax and out toward Warrenton. They were on 66 West for only a short time before taking an exit onto a secondary road for about ten miles, then swinging onto a country lane. The road dwindled to a gravel turnaround that served a stately Victorian mansion. A small sign swung from a decorative metal arm: The Cedar Inn, circa 1810.

The driver pulled away without a word, and they mounted the steps. Garrett had his leather grip, and Judy a small overnighter slung over one shoulder. He had not noticed it in the car during the trip; she must have brought it from the trunk while he was with Jim Watson. They were expected, and a kindly older woman showed them to a two-room suite on the third floor — very private, spacious, and well cluttered with antiques. Garrett dropped his bag and tested the four-poster with his hand. Through the feather quilt, the mattress was surprisingly firm. On the settee was a tray of fruit, bread, and cheese, and a chilled bottle of claret.

“So now the interrogation begins?”

She came over and stood close to him, looking up with an impish smile. She gave him a gentle shove, and he fell back onto the bed.

“Now the interrogation begins.”

While Garrett Walker and Judy Burks were making the most of a chilly winter evening in northern Virginia, a man in Rome was looking out the window onto his balcony and watching the first rays of the new dawn spread onto the western reaches of the eternal city. In the background, a throaty, gurgling sound from a bar across the small room announced his espresso was ready. He had not yet shed his striped Egyptian cotton pajamas, but had pulled on a satin robe and slippers against the morning chill. He padded across to the espresso machine and poured a measure of the strong brew into a demitasse. He seated himself at the table by the window, where he blew and sipped, enjoying the accompanying warmth and exhilaration of the drink. This brought on, as he knew it would, the desire for a cigar. In another hour, the sun would clear the hills behind the city, the same hills where Romulus and Remus were said to have suckled from a she-wolf. He would wait till then to have his cigar. This delay from coffee to cigar unvariably caused him to reconsider his choice of Rome in favor of some warmer city, but he was a man who simply could not live in a city without good opera and a decent orchestra. These necessities, he often reflected, seemed to bear a direct correlation with an increase in latitude. This was unfortunate for a man who enjoyed an early-morning cigar on the balcony. As he contemplated this, the cell phone on the table purred gently. It was programmed to purr at certain times of the day and ring at others. He glanced at the caller ID and considered whether or not to take the call. After a moment’s thought, he pressed the speaker button.

“Yes, this is Jacques Drouet,” he said in French.

“Ah, Monsieur Drouet, I am happy to have found you in the office. We wanted to let you know that the sum of twenty million Swiss francs has been deposited to your account. We will send the printed confirmation in the manner that you have specified.”

“Very well. Thank you for the call.”

“You are most welcome, monsieur. Have a pleasant day.”

He sipped at his espresso, but he was not so pleasantly disposed as he had been before the call. It was not the deposit; it had been anticipated and expected. And the money would be there only a short time before most of it was wired elsewhere. Twenty million Swiss francs, nearly $16 million U.S., would, after making its way through a number of intermediaries, be deposited to a bank account in Riga. Sixteen million was a lot of money to pay for a small vial of pathogen, but the whole operation hinged on it. It was a lot of money for the man, a Russian, who would ultimately take ownership of this sum. He was not experienced in handling that kind of money. In all probability, he thought as he sipped the espresso, the man and the money would soon be parted, and it was highly likely that they would be violently parted. But he had met his obligation, and the money was his.

One reason he was not so pleasantly disposed was the business itself — the business in Africa. It was not something he felt very good about. He had always practiced his trade with some measure of ideology. Today it was sometimes a stretch to find something redeeming in his chosen field, but a man in his line of work did what he had to do. But he had not come to this point in time by his own hand. He had been stripped of his wealth, wealth he had carefully amassed by hard work and professional skill. One thing he was sure about; it was the Americans who had done this to him.

This business in Africa is not something I wanted to be a part of, he said to himself not for the first time, but what choice do I have? A man must have those things that his spirit demands. So I have no choice in the matter.

He took up another phone on his desk, a state-of-the-art system with embedded cryptology and frequency-hopping. Most corporations dealing in sensitive or proprietary information had this capability, and so did he. He dialed in a number from memory; he did not keep certain numbers in the speed dialer. His call was picked up on the second ring.

“Good morning, Dimitri,” he said, shifting to Russian. “This is Pavel. How are you this day?…That is good to hear. Dimitri, I am calling to ensure that the delivery has been made before I wire the funds…. No, no, Dimitri, no other assurances are required. I need nothing but your word that it has been done. If you say the merchandise is in place, then the funds, per your instructions, will be there by the close of business today…. Da, and thank you as well. Good day, Dimitri.”

He rang off and sat in silence before taking his second cup of espresso. There were few men whose word he would not question, and Dimitri Muschovia was one of them. In this business one needed intermediaries, and Dimitri was someone he could trust. But then, in the world in which he did business, was he not also a man others trusted? He smiled to himself. Trust was a commodity that was becoming increasingly hard to find. There were not many like Dimitri and himself, but then there were not many truly skilled former KGB operatives still working his side of the street.

He turned the project over in his mind again and once more concluded that while it might be an unseemly enterprise, it was a professionally challenging piece of work. And it would hurt the West and possibly cripple America. He noticed that the sun had finally lifted over the crest of the hill and now bathed his patio. So Pavel Zelinkow selected a robusto from his humidor, carefully prepared it, and let himself out onto the balcony to properly greet the morning.

Garrett and Judy had spent the evening drinking wine, making love, and talking late into the night. The following morning they slept late, then made love again. They had worked up an enormous appetite. When they finally crept down the stairs, they were treated to a generous farm breakfast. Garrett contacted the flight crew and informed them that his business would be keeping him in Washington an extra day. It was the off-season, and there was only one other guest at The Cedar Inn, an elderly couple who packed off midmorning. The temperature dropped, and there was the threat of snow, but the innkeeper had a rack of old coats so they were able to bundle against the weather and walk about the spacious grounds. The inn had a small library well stocked with the classics and a cheerful, inviting fire. Judy had hoped that they would be extending their stay and had planned for it. They settled in next to the warmth of the fireplace to enjoy the cozy ambience. There was a steady diet of cheese, bread, fruit, and wine throughout the day, and sitting down to a regular meal never crossed their minds. The second night at The Cedar Inn was much like the first. The following morning, Garrett was up early, on the floor doing his exercises. The room was quite chilly and must have seemed more so to Garrett, coming from the tropical warmth of Hawaii. Clad only in his undershorts and not seeming to mind the cold, he moved quietly from one exercise to the other.

“Guess the honeymoon’s over.”

“What was that?” he said, finishing off another set of stomach crunches.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied. The smell of coffee filled the room, and she realized that he had already brewed a fresh pot. The room was equipped with coffee service — and not just some prepackaged motel setup, but a canister of fresh-ground dark roast. Unable to resist the aroma, Judy leapt from the warmth of the down comforter, raced the chill across the room to fill her cup of the hot, dark liquid, and then, just as quickly, returned to the coziness of the bed. There, she nursed the steaming cup, content to watch Garrett complete his morning routine.

Judy Burks entertained fantasies of what it would be like if they were married, if she were Mrs. Garrett Walker. There was no one else in her life, and she was reasonably sure there was no one else in his. But they led very different, busy lives with a great deal of distance between them. Judy guessed that he would not soon leave GSI, nor had she any plans to leave the Bureau. Both of them traveled a great deal away from whatever place each might call their home. She also knew herself well enough to realize that spending weeks, possibly months, waiting while her husband was away on one of his adventures would be very difficult. She was equally sure that he wouldn’t relish the idea of stoking the home fires while she was away on some case or at a stakeout. So once again she concluded that this was it, passing ships when their schedules would permit. It was the best they could hope for, at least for now.

Garrett was a passionate man, but not usually a morning lover. However, once again he slipped out of his shorts and was back under the covers, taking a sip from her mug and putting it on the nightstand. As his powerful arms enveloped her, maybe someday was her passing thought. For now, this was a slice of paradise sandwiched into their busy and sometimes violent lives. A town car arrived promptly for them at 8:30 A.M.