The man took a seat. His shirt was open at the collar and his thin gold-rimmed glasses, perched on a bony nose, gave the man a banker’s air. Mason could handle muscle-bound goons and the thick-necked interrogators who spat on you when they yelled, but this guy immediately made him nervous.
“Good evening, Mr. Kane. I apologize for any theatrics on the part of my associates, but we have a few topics we need to address. I hope you understand.”
Mason stared at the man. He was going to let him do all the talking until he could get a handle on the situation.
“My name is Mr. David, and I’ve been looking for you for quite some time,” he said, peering at Mason over the top of his glasses.
Mason remained silent, and the man opened the file and began casually turning pages.
“May I call you Mason?” he asked without looking up.
“Yes,” he finally replied.
“Good,” he said, managing a thin smile. “Mason, you have had a very extraordinary and distinguished career. According to your file you were one of the youngest men to ever pass Delta selection. You have remarkable ability with languages and are fluent in Arabic, Pashto, Dari, and Spanish. Everything was going according to plan until that night in Wardak.” Mr. David looked up from the file folder, crossed his hands, and looked at Mason. “Would you mind telling me what happened?”
“It’s not in the file?”
“Oh, it’s in the file, but I think it only fair to hear your side of the story.”
“I was a member of the Anvil Program, and I believed that some of Colonel Barnes’s methods were not in the best traditions of the United States government.”
“You were in Afghanistan at the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what exactly was the problem, in your opinion?”
“Colonel Barnes killed a local family when they wouldn’t give him information on a Taliban network that was operating in the area.”
“So you believe that he murdered these people in cold blood.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“And you had a problem with that?”
“Yes, sir, I had a problem with that.”
“So for brevity’s sake, you reported the allegations to General Swift, and what was the result?”
“They tried to kill me.”
“Who are they?”
“Barnes, the team, Decklin. Pick one.”
“And where did this occur? In Libya?”
“Yes, while we were on an operation.”
“But you survived, and after that the situation got decidedly worse. When did you decide to start killing employees of the CIA?”
Mason didn’t like where this was going. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I am curious: at what time did you decide that it would be a good idea, for a man in your position, to torture an Algerian national, put a bomb in your handler’s cell phone, and cut off another man’s head in Libya? It’s a simple question.”
Fuck.
“I guess it happened around the time they decided to kill me,” he replied.
“It seems that a lot of people are trying to kill you. I wonder why that is.”
“I’ve been told that I have a smart mouth,” Mason replied honestly.
“Right now the CIA has a problem. We seem to be suffering from major incompetence among the operational elements in the theater. The last two station chiefs in Libya and Somalia are probably working at Walmart right now as greeters, and we have had to shut down our intelligence operations in the area. I’ve been watching you since we discovered you were communicating with Vernon, and I believe you can help me. But honestly, you hardly have a choice, really.” All signs of the banker who had been sitting in front of him moments ago had vanished. The man’s eyes had hardened and his face was filled with determination.
“Since the attack on Benghazi the CIA’s operational footprint in North Africa has been reduced to zero. Right now we are unable to recruit assets, gather intelligence, or conduct operations in most of the countries where terrorism is thriving. And now with Hamid Karzai’s assassination things have gone from bad to worse.”
“Wait, what did you say?”
“The president of Afghanistan was assassinated with a drone. The people of Afghanistan blame the Americans and have begun a massive uprising.”
“How the fuck did that happen?”
“Our best guess is that Colonel Barnes has decided to prosecute this war on his own terms,” the man said.
“So, what do you want from me?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment.” He slipped the glasses back on his face and returned to the papers before him. “According to your files, you have a problem with authority but are extremely capable. Your handler Vernon categorized you as, and I quote, ‘a valuable weapon who will continue to operate in any capacity as long as properly motivated.’ Is that true?”
“I accomplish the mission assigned to me in a timely and efficient manner.” Mason felt he needed to toe the party line until he got a better grasp on the situation’s dynamics.
“That is a very cute answer. However, your records indicate that this is actually true.”
“Sir, what exactly do you want from me?” Mason felt like he was at a job interview, but the flex cuffs told him otherwise.
“Well, Mason, your credibility in the United States and the Middle East is at a very low point. We are blind, deaf, and dumb right now, and my only salvation is a man accused of treason and acts of terrorism. Your friend Zeus has ties to Hezbollah and al-Qaeda, and you yourself are a known associate of quite a few terrorists.
“Right now the team needs a win, and I think that you two would fit the bill. I can offer you the same deal that Agent Vernon proposed. Except this time I can promise we’ll follow through on it. No more false missions. You get Barnes and I’ve been authorized by the president to take you off the terror list and welcome you back into the fold.”
“So you want to be my friend, is that what you’re saying?” Mason was getting tired of the games, and if he was going to hang, then he’d rather get it over with.
Before the man could reply, the door to the room opened and a man stuck his head in. He motioned for Mr. David to come out into the hall.
“Please excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
“Can I have a cigarette, in the spirit of cooperation?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Mason was examining his flex cuffs when the door opened and an attractive woman walked into the room. The sterile uniform she was wearing told him instantly that she was not with the CIA.
“Did Mr. David need a bathroom break?” he asked.
She smiled without humor and pulled a knife from her pocket. Walking over to Mason, she slipped the hook of the blade into his flex cuffs and cut them free. Tossing a pack of cigarettes on the table, she made her way to the empty chair.
“My name is Renee,” she began.
“Are you with the CIA too?”
“Nope, I’m with the military,” she said, taking a seat.
Mason pulled a cigarette from the pack and looked around for a lighter. Renee leaned over the table, lit the smoke with his Zippo, and then tossed it on the open file.
“Thanks,” he said after taking a drag.
“Mason, I don’t have time for bullshit, so I’m going to get right down to it,” she said, pulling her pistol out and placing it on the table. “I’m running a time-sensitive operation right now and either you can help me or I’m going to put a bullet in your head.”
Surprised, Mason looked down at the pistol and then up at the woman’s face. He cocked his head to the side and took another drag from the cigarette.
Who in the hell was this woman? Mason wondered, about to call her bluff when she picked up the pistol and aimed it at his head.