MJ-12: Shadows

10

Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send every single last one of you back to the States on a leaky freighter,” Jim Keeley seethed as he threw a manila folder down on his desk. “You got a woman shot, Miles! A woman! What if that was your wife? Or your little boy?!”

Frank watched Copeland’s face fall slightly, while Meade just looked ahead stoically. The fact that the two OPC men had waited days to report the “break-in” at Copeland’s house to Keeley, the envoy and their ostensible boss, hadn’t been a good idea. Frank had told them as much. Not that it mattered at this point.

“The woman was part of a team sent by Foggy Bottom,” Copeland replied. Frank knew that neighborhood housed both the CIA and State Department headquarters, so at least there was some wiggle room for the truth in his statement.

“A team for what, Miles?” Keeley demanded. “Or am I not cleared for that? Again?”

Copeland looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, sir. You’re not.”

Keeley stared hard at Copeland, as if his gaze could burrow through the other man’s skull and find the truth inside his brains. He finally looked over at Frank instead. “And I suppose you can’t tell me anything either, Mr. Lodge?”

Frank considered this a moment. Copeland was potentially the worst goddamn spy he’d seen in a while. Half the town knew he wasn’t just a diplomatic attaché, and his own boss knew damn well he was reporting to someone higher up the ladder. Copeland should’ve been recalled months before. Maggie getting herself shot was the only reason his harebrained op had actually worked.

“Miss Jones is fine, Mr. Keeley, sir,” Frank said tentatively. “It wasn’t as bad as the Syrian doctor made it out to be, but we sent her on home just in case. As for her being here, well, she’s a civilian dependent and it didn’t work out. No harm done.”

Keeley softened a bit. “Look, I’m glad the girl’s OK. I’m also glad you got her on a plane out of here with Commander Wallace. But you’re still here officially, and Mr. Hooks and God-knows-who-else are still here unofficially. And I got my phone ringing off the hook for a week straight, alternating between investigators, reporters, Syrian Army officers promising ‘support’ — whatever that means — and government officials apologizing every hour on the hour.” He turned his attention back to Copeland. “I’m not an idiot, Miles. You want al-Quwatli out and al-Za’im in, and you think you can do it with charm and a slush fund. You might even be right. But you came this close to killing someone. This is not a goddamn game, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Copeland replied, still looking at his hands.

Keeley regarded him for several long moments, opening his mouth to speak once or twice but failing to find the right words. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” the envoy finally said. “I’m filing an official complaint with CIA and State about your activities, Miles. I know they’re in all likelihood the ones who sent Mr. Lodge and his people here in the first place, but I got a feeling you’re blowing smoke up their asses back in Washington. And I swear, one more public screwup like this and I’m personally revoking your diplomatic passports and sending you all home, and to hell with what Foggy Bottom wants.

“Now get the hell out.”

Copeland opened his mouth to say something, but Meade was already on his feet and had a hand on his colleague’s shoulder to keep him quiet. They all quickly filed out, leaving Keeley staring out the window, looking extremely tired.

“He doesn’t understand,” Copeland muttered as they walked through the office’s small secretarial pool. “Everything went perfectly. It just—”

Frank turned on his heel and got in Copeland’s face. “First off, shut the fuck up about operational matters in the middle of the goddamn office, you fucking amateur,” he whispered. “Second, one of my people got shot in your little op, so everything did not go perfectly. Third, I figure you have about two weeks to go before the folks in D.C. match up Keeley’s report and mine and decide to send you the hell home, so if you have any interest in staying here and playing kingmaker, you better fix this shit fast — and quietly.”

Frank stalked off without waiting for a reply, leaving the office — a small suite of rooms above a Persian carpet merchant — and heading downstairs to the busy, dusty street. It was only when he started walking toward the center of town that he realized Meade was following him.

“He’s not so bad, you know,” he said, catching up to Frank and settling in beside him. “I mean, yeah, he’s lucky he’s lived this long, but he’s smart. He takes chances. I think he can do this.”

Meade carried himself with the economy of movement belonging to an experienced soldier. “You know as well as I do that this op was messed up,” Frank said. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

Meade shrugged. “It was the best of a number of bad options, Lodge. We needed a way to quickly cast doubt on al-Quwatli, both at home and abroad. And it worked.”

Frank frowned but had to concede the point. The raid had made all the papers back home and was the talk of the town in Damascus. Embassy and consulate security had doubled since the attacks, and more than a few ambassadors had called on al-Quwatli to explicitly guarantee their safety. Meanwhile, Parliament was up in arms trying to get to the bottom of it all, and Za’im was busy stoking the fires further. Just that morning, Frank had caught him on the radio talking about an “assassination list” compiled by the al-Quwatli administration and consisting of opposition leaders, army officers, and a few foreign diplomats.

“What’s your status, then?” Frank asked.

“Our friend is working to build support,” Meade said, referring to Za’im. “Figure he’ll have the whole thing lined up soon. The goal is to do it without shots fired, and I genuinely think he can do it.”

“There were already shots fired, Steve,” Frank reminded him. “Maggie took one in the leg.”

“And she looked pissed about it,” Meade said with a small smile. “She’s a tiger, that one. I admit, I’ll miss her.”

This actually prompted Frank to crack a smile. “You got no chance, pal. Never seen her give a guy the time of day. She’ll kick you much as look at you.”

Meade shrugged. “My kind of girl. I imagine she’s got some interesting skills to get her attached to your team.”

“You have no idea. But because of her injury, she and Wallace are out. And I’m supposed to keep an eye on you now.”

“Why did Wallace leave?”

Frank thought back to a short cable the Navy man had received just after the “successful” op at Copeland’s house. He’d gone pale, then quickly set it on fire in an ashtray. He and Maggie were then on the next flight out of Damascus. All Danny had told them was that there was something up at Area 51 that needed his attention.

“Probably to go speak to the Director about the crap you got going on around here,” Frank replied. “Like I said, I figure you got two weeks to seal the deal and get your guy in the big chair. You think you can manage that?”

Meade stopped at a street corner and checked his watch, just as a nondescript Mercedes-Benz pulled up. “Right on time. You want to find out for yourself?”

Frank peeked in and saw three men in ill-fitting suits in the car. Military bearing, all with shoulder harnesses, all of local extraction. Mid-forties and up. Senior officers. They were all at the reception.

“What’s this?” Frank asked casually.

“A little city tour. Making a to-do list for later with a little friendly advice from yours truly. Could use your ideas, Frank.”

“Five’s a crowd,” Frank replied. “There’s just some stuff I don’t want to know.”

Meade shrugged. “I’ll keep you posted. Two weeks seems good.”

The OPC man got in the car, which sped off down the street, leaving Frank to wonder whether Meade could make this whole thing happen despite Copeland, or if he’d have to get Cal and Zippy over the border fast.

Turning back toward Copeland’s house, Frank made a mental note to look into buying a car and getting a good map of Syria and Lebanon. Just in case.