“Thanks.”
Justin chewed on a small piece. “Hmmm, these are really good,” he said when finished. “But not as good as the ones you used to make for us.”
Carrie said nothing for a couple of seconds, then shook her head. Her auburn shoulder-length hair, which she usually kept in a semi ponytail, flowed down her slender neck. “Yes, I used to make,” she said quietly after a deep sigh, “but not anymore. Have you heard from the army?” she asked, eager to change the conversation.
“Yes, I did.” Justin’s voice rang with a tinge of despair. “They rejected my application. They consider me, how did they put it, oh, a ‘liability,’ regardless of my flawless service until the Libyan episode.”
“I know what you mean. It took me a long time and a great amount of luck to get in. I’ve heard mil intel selection is even harder than regular army entrance.”
Before joining the Canadian Intelligence Service, Carrie had served in two tours of duty in Afghanistan with the Joint Task Force Two, the elite counter-terrorism unit of the Special Operations Forces. Justin had always been in the CIS, operating mainly in Northern Africa. After returning from Libya, both Justin and Carrie were suspended from field missions until the completion of an internal inquiry on the deadly prison escape. The inquiry was still pending. For the meantime, they were assigned routine desk duties.
“You know,” Justin said, “I got a paper cut yesterday, and I was glad it happened. It’s good to know I still have some blood left in me and that this office hasn’t sucked it all out.”
Carrie smiled. “I think I’m going blind reading figures and names and more names and figures every single freaking day. Some first-year analyst should do this, not intelligence officers like us.”
Justin sighed. Then a smile spread across his face. “Perhaps we’ll get our wish. Did you see Johnson’s last e-mail?”
“The one from last night?”
“No. She sent another one this morning.”
“I haven’t been to my office yet.” She took a sip from her coffee.
“The CSE has recorded another sighting of icebreakers, this time off the coast of Cape Combermere, southeast of Ellesmere Island.”
“Could they determine who they belong to?”
Justin shook his head. “No, they couldn’t.”
“So, what does Johnson want us to do?”
“She didn’t give any specifics, but she called a briefing for this morning.”
“I see. What did you tell her?”
“I suggested a recon op and pretty much volunteered for it.”
Carrie put her coffee cup on his desk. “What? This is the Arctic, in the middle of winter.”
“Well, office boredom is killing me. I’ve got to get out there in the field.” Justin pointed at his office door.
“More like the ice field.”
“It’s not like I have a lot of options. The Libyans didn’t take the destruction of their mosque and half of their world heritage town by an ‘infidel’ lightly. Abdul and I were running for our lives, after being tortured by their operatives working with the Algerian terrorists.” Justin’s voice rose up. “After coming back, it was either this crappy job or administrative leave. Now an opportunity shows up and since no one is going to hand it over to me, I’m going to seize it.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me; we’re in the same boat. I didn’t destroy much of the town, like you did, but I heard I made room for twenty new recruits at the Algerian terrorist camps. Still, you want to go to the Arctic?”
“If Johnson decides to dispatch a team up there, which I’m sure she will, I’d like to go. After all, how else can we confirm the icebreakers’ identity?”
“You’re right. If only those damn satellites would work.” Carrie took a bite of her muffin and washed it down with a gulp from her coffee. “So, it’s safe to assume I’ll need to pack my bags.”
“I didn’t volunteer you.”
“Johnson won’t let you go on your own. That’s if she even decides to assign you to such a task force.”
Justin held her gray-blue eyes. He nodded. “You’re right about that. She’s bringing in a couple of other people to this briefing. Some bigwig from DND and a lawyer from our legal services.”
“You know them?”
“No, and I don’t understand why they’re here.”
“I’m sure Johnson will give us her excuse for calling them in.”
“Yes, she will.”
Justin glanced at his wristwatch. “Shall we head up?”
Carrie finished her muffin and her coffee and stood up. “Sure. Let’s not make her wait.”
The office of Claire Johnson, Director General of Intelligence for North Africa, was at the northeast corner of the sixth floor. Justin walked in fast, short steps, listening to the rhythmic thud of his shoes over the hardwood floor. He stopped once in the hall. The corner of his left eye caught a glimpse of a huge painting on the wall, depicting an impressive Arctic landscape and three determined explorers. Their weary faces were very much alive as they stoically pressed ahead with dogsleds toward the white horizon peppered with snow-capped ridges. The ice packs, the snow banks, and the heavy blizzard appeared quite real. Justin shook his head in awe before resuming his swift pace. He turned the corner and saw Carrie pacing in front of Johnson’s office door.
“Justin, what took you so long?”
“The painting. And it was only a minute.”
“Everyone’s here.”
“If they are, they’re early. We’re on time.”
Justin knocked.
“Come in,” called Johnson.
Johnson’s office was neatly arranged, with an L-shaped desk and matching bookcases. Two women sat around an oval glass table that took almost half of the office space.
Johnson nodded at Justin and Carrie while still swiveling in her black leather chair and tapping the keyboard of her desktop computer. She stood up. “Welcome, welcome. Let me introduce you to Colonel Alisha Gunn, with the NDHQ. She’s the chief of the Defence Intelligence Section.” Johnson gestured toward the older woman.
The National Defence Headquarters in Ottawa was the heart of Canada’s military defense machine, where every nut and bolt of all operational forces joined together. The colonel was in a perfect position to feel the pulse of the armed forces. She had access to every piece of information streaming into the Department of National Defence databases.
She was in her late forties, with her gray, curly hair sticking out unevenly. Almost a head shorter than Carrie, she stood at about five feet, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit. The colonel had a strong handshake. She gave Justin a nod while her small brown eyes sparked with a tiny, almost invisible, glint of mischief.
Justin said, “My pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Hall.” Her voice was coarse and throaty, as if she had just recovered from a serious case of sinus infection.
“Please call me Justin.”
She nodded. “That’s great, Justin, and you can address me as Alisha,” she said with a sincere smile before moving on to exchange pleasantries with Carrie.
“And this is Anna Worthley. She’s an Operational Liaison with our Legal Services,” said Johnson.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Hall, especially after hearing so much about you,” the young woman said.
Justin fought the initial impulse to frown as the counsel’s delicate fingers touched his large, rugged hand. Anna was in her late twenties, with short raven hair that sported an odd red highlight. She wore a black woolen sweater and black dress pants.
Justin disliked all lawyers working for the CIS’s most controversial department. They complicated his life and his operations with lengthy and dimwitted arguments, motions, and inquiries. Security and intelligence meant little to these kinds of people. They were more concerned about the legal aspects of the agency’s operations than their actual impact on the safety of all Canadians. But the innocence of the Anna’s blue eyes — peering timidly at him from behind rimless glasses — and her soft voice — slightly insecure and with a certain amount of agitation — disarmed Justin’s defenses and melted away all his objections.