“Water’s fine, thanks.”
Dayton walked to a small fridge by the wall and returned with a bottle for George. He was wearing tight-fitting jeans, a trim, light blue jacket, and moccasins. He seemed conscious of every move he made.
“Thanks,” said George, still trying to control his breathing. He took a large sip of water.
“Look, Ramos,” said Dayton, back in his seat. “We know you’re good. We’ve seen your efficiency reports. You’re one of the best. We also think you were unfairly treated. We’re looking for someone like you. Someone with the experience you’ve had, the ability to give and take orders. Some one who will be loyal to the president above all. You will have to organize and oversee difficult missions. They may involve skirting normal rules and regulations, but they will have to be carried out for our country’s security.” He gazed again directly at George. “Could you handle that?”
George took another drink of water and cleared his throat. “Sir, my father was in the Bay of Pigs invasion. He was captured on the beach and spent three years in a Cuban prison, but he never gave up. When he heard what happened to me, how I was punished, it broke his heart, literally. I would like nothing better than to be able to serve my country again and to serve the president. It would be an enormous honor. Believe me. I would be forever grateful to you and to the president.”
“You know, I believe you would,” said Dayton. “Consider yourself hired.”
The same day that President Stokes moved into the White House, George Ramos moved into his new office at the newly minted ELO. His major duty was to supervise domestic security and monitor threats to the president that went beyond the purview of the FBI or the Secret Service. It was understood that might entail offensive operations that could not be legally carried out by normal U.S. forces.
It was also understood that the president was never to be explicitly informed of such operations. “In the unlikely event of any investigation or inquiry,” Dayton ordered, “there must be a mile-thick wall of deniability between the Oval Office and the actions of your team.”
The water boarding and murder of Brian Hunt had, of course, been one of those missions. With the silencing of Hunt and the suicide of Steve Penn, the threat from any remaining members of the CIA’s Russian hacking team seemed to have subsided.
But this morning Cliff Dayton had called George at home on his mobile.
“Ramos, a heads up, the president asked during his briefing this morning about whatever became of those CIA agents who’d investigated the so-called Russian hacking. I told him it was all under control as you assured me it was. But you know how paranoid the boss can be. Get back to me so I can close the books on this.”
“Consider it done, sir,” said Ramos. He immediately ordered his assistant to track down Captain Swanson and have her report soonest to his office. She arrived a little after 10:00 a.m.
“Send her right in,” said George. Captain Swanson, like all the members the S Team, wore no uniform or insignia of command. She was dressed in a black pantsuit, with a white blouse, that didn’t emphasize but also didn’t hide her curves. Still, she moved with an erect military bearing, a no-nonsense manner about her.
“Good morning, sir,” she said precisely, refraining from any salute.
The first time he’d seen Swanson’s startling green eyes, Ramos had been aroused. It was only when she twisted to consult a file in her attaché case, that he was confronted with the stark red scar disfiguring her right cheek. That apparently turned off most people. For Ramos, however, it was a definite turn-on. This morning he wondered again what she might be like in bed, then immediately banished the thought: any advances on a female subordinate would be fatal to his resuscitated career. Plus, his performance was once again on the line because the president himself was concerned. Ramos gestured for Swanson to take the chair across from him.
She sat crossed her legs and looked at him expectantly
“It’s about the Penn case,” he said.
“I just did an update four days ago,” she said. “A month after his disappearance.”
“I need to run through it with you.”
“Any particular reason, sir?”
“The president brought it up in the morning briefing.”
“Any idea why?”
He had no idea why, but he didn’t like the way this woman subordinate felt she had the right to probe.
“Just answer my questions, captain.” He drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Yes, sir.” Her lips tightened.
He read from the paper in front of him. “First, your bottom line is that you’d like to keep the investigation open.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is that, captain? Penn quit his job, wrote a suicide note, and sold off all his belongings, etcetera. It’s true that his body was never found. But there’s a lot of ocean out there, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir. But if Penn wanted to kill himself, why go all the way to Cape Cod to do it? Why make sure the body can never be recovered? Maybe because there is no body.”
George continued, “You also say there is not a trace of him on any surveillance reports. The agency provided a recording of his voice to the NSA. They put him on high-priority search, but have picked up nothing – zilch – anywhere. Also, you say absolutely nothing has been turned up from a face recognition search: CTV images, drones, overhead reconnaissance. Nothing.”
“Correct, sir.”
“And the other two agents Penn was close to. They’ve both quit the agency, but that’s not at all surprising. There was no future for them there and they knew it. You say they’ve set up elsewhere on their own.” He continued reading from her report, “Sarah Levin. Still lives in Virginia but has a small office in D.C., on New Jersey Avenue. Consulting in her specialty: machine learning, also teaching and doing independent research for a paper for MIT. Plays cello with a local chamber music group. What’s the paper for MIT?”
“Just more about a new development in deep learning,” said the captain.
“Nothing to do with the White House? The Russians?”
“No, sir, definitely not.”
“Any Russians in her chamber music group?”
“No, sir.”
“Sex life?”
Jean’s lips tightened. “She’s gay.”
“Hah,” George snorted. “Would’ve bet on it. Playing around or a regular partner?”
“Living with Sylvia Hendrix, big time gay rights activist.”
George pursed his lips. “OK. Charlie Doyle has his own cyber security company in London. Consulting for wealthy clients in the Gulf. Seems to be doing very well. Already helping to coach a local British basketball team.”
“Yes, sir, we actually thought he might go back to the dark side, hacking for personal profit. So far no sign of that.”
“He also nothing to do with the White House, Russians, etcetera?”
“No, sir, not that we know of.”
“So, again, nothing to do with what interests us.” He put down her report and glared at her, his brow furrowed. “Bottom line, Captain, this all looks pretty tame. I’d like to be able to send word to the president this thing’s wrapped up.”
“Yes, sir,” she sat expressionlessly.
George suddenly brought his fist down on his desk. “But goddamn it, captain. That’s not your conclusion. You’re saying we should stay on top of them, keep the taps going, and keep looking for Penn. You don’t seem to realize we’ve got plenty of other stuff on our plate.”
“Just a feeling I have, sir.”
“A feeling?”
Impassive, she met his gaze. “It’s all too neat, sir.”
He looked at her. She was one tough broad, he knew from her record: massive injuries in some attack on a firebase near Kabul. After she recovered, she was just as fierce. When she’d been given the order to finish off Hunt, she’d done it without flinching. This was not someone who would be pushed around.