After Harrison explained he would have no choice but to report future incidents, Mixell’s response had been short.
I got it, buddy.
Looking back on the exchange, it was clear that Mixell believed no one would turn him in. SEALs were a tight-knit fraternity, men who had each other’s back. While that was true, what was also clear to Harrison after the third time was that these weren’t unfortunate incidents occurring in the heat of the moment — events Mixell would learn from and avoid in the future. It was a pattern, and he wasn’t going to stop. It had been a difficult and agonizing decision, but after talking things over with the other SEALs in their unit, Harrison had turned Mixell in.
A burst of background noise in the analysis facility caught Harrison’s attention. He looked up from his computer again. Analysts and supervisors were studying one of the displays; a grainy image of men and women exiting what looked like an airport gate. One man, taller than the rest and Caucasian, stood out from the mostly Middle Eastern passengers. The video froze on a frame with the man in the center. It was Mixell.
Kendall arrived a few minutes later, stopping by Harrison’s workstation. “We got a hit,” she said. “Mixell’s been spotted in Damascus. Even better, the lead is only a day old. If Mixell’s doing business in the city, he’s likely still there. It looks like you’re heading to Syria; Khalila is on her way here.”
While they waited, Harrison’s thoughts turned to the second item missing from Mixell’s file. Before he’d been turned in, Mixell was supposedly engaged to a stripper — his soul mate, he called her, but he’d otherwise been close-lipped about the relationship. Harrison figured that if they could track down Mixell’s former fiancée, perhaps she could shed light on his plans, or even where they could find him if he returned to the United States. He passed the information to Kendall as Khalila entered the facility and stopped beside them.
“Engaged to a stripper?” Kendall asked. “Anything else, as in useful? Like her name, what club she worked at, or even what city?”
Harrison shook his head. “That’s all I got.”
Kendall added a note to her smartphone. “I’ll have someone connect with Mixell’s prison cell mates. He spent eight years behind bars with nothing better to do than pine after his soul mate,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll bet he poured his heart out to someone.”
Khalila folded her arms across her chest and gave Kendall an expectant look. “Are you done with him?”
“He’s all yours.”
Khalila turned to Harrison. “Get your gear. We’re leaving for Damascus.”
17
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Jake Harrison leaned back in his leather seat as the Dassault Falcon executive jet lifted off from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, banking eastward toward the Atlantic Ocean. Configured to transport a dozen passengers, it carried only Khalila and Harrison today, along with a CIA case officer named Asad Durrani, a naturalized citizen whose family had immigrated to America from Pakistan when Durrani was a child. This was the first time Harrison had met the man, but it was obvious that Khalila had worked with him before.
Durrani pulled three manila envelopes from his briefcase and handed one to Harrison. “This contains your alias identification documents.”
Harrison examined the contents: a birth certificate, Social Security card, driver’s license, passport, and credit cards issued under his alias.
“Dan Connolly?”
Durrani handed an empty envelope for Harrison to deposit his true identification and credit cards, which Durrani sealed and placed in his briefcase.
The second packet he handed to Harrison was labeled Background, which contained a thick printout of his fake personal history: hometown, friends, education, employment history, and residences. The third packet was labeled Cover, which contained information on his current employment in Bluestone Security, a CIA-owned company engaged in legitimate business dealings as well as government-funded weapon sales to approved organizations and countries. Harrison was the new assistant director of procurement, en route to Damascus in search of a supply of cheap and untraceable weapons from various foreign manufacturers — whatever suited Bluestone’s customer’s desires.
Regarding Khalila’s cover, she explained that she was a translator contracted to Bluestone Security and other companies in need of a Middle Eastern or South/Central-Asian linguist. There were hundreds of languages spoken throughout the region, with twenty-four different ones in Syria alone.
When she mentioned Syria, Harrison’s thoughts shifted to the pending mission.
“What’s the plan?”
Khalila answered, “Word on the street in Damascus is that there’s been an expensive weapon procurement. My bet is Mixell is involved, and we’ll start there. I’ve set up a meeting with a weapons dealer who frequently sells to Westerners. He’s probably not the right guy, since he typically deals with inexpensive firearms, but he may know who made the deal.”
As Harrison prepared to study his alias and background material, he wondered how it was going to work — how receptive would a Syrian weapons dealer be to doing business with someone who was clearly Western and likely an American?
“I admit that I don’t know much about spying, but I thought we’re supposed to blend in, obtaining the information we need clandestinely. I stick out like a sore thumb — I’m a tall Caucasian — and you obviously work for the CIA, traipsing in and out of headquarters in Langley. I assume some of the Middle Eastern organizations you interface with have the ability to figure that out. How does all this work?”
“You being Caucasian is not always a liability,” Khalila answered. “In fact, for our current assignment, it’s an asset.” When Harrison gave her a confused look, she explained. “You have to analyze things from the perspective of the people you’re engaging. For example, if you’re trying to strike a deal with a Bedouin tribal chief or perhaps an illegal weapons dealer, he’s going to avoid meeting with someone who looks like him, a man who could be a rival out to kill him. He’ll more readily meet with a stereotypical American — a tall, clean-cut Caucasian. Your appearance generates a measure of trust that otherwise wouldn’t exist.
“Regarding my presence at Langley, being contracted to the CIA is part of my cover.” Khalila glanced at Durrani before continuing. “If I were a typical woman, how do you think your average Middle Eastern male would treat me? We’re talking about societies where women are considered property, where in some countries women aren’t even allowed to drive, and where they need a man’s permission to get married, travel abroad, apply for a passport, or even to open a bank account. How many high-level business meetings do you think I’d be invited to, and how much sensitive information do you think I’d be able to glean from my interactions?
“On the other hand, working for the CIA as a translator opens doors. I have valuable information — insight into who the CIA sources are, both prisoners and agents, and what information has been divulged. That makes me a valuable asset for numerous Middle Eastern organizations and governments. Of course, the information I’m allowed to provide is carefully selected by the Directorate of Analysis, allowing me to divulge enough information to prove my bona fides, but nothing that would significantly jeopardize American interests.”