“Yes, but that’s beside the point.”
“Then, Tim, just what is the point? Why am I here?”
Wright closed the binder and gave Swanson a kindly look that a teacher would show a child who was slow to pick up on the lesson. “Mickey Castillo is killed during a CIA operation. We can presume that Nicky Marks, whom the agency also used on occasion, attacked Castillo’s grave. In turn, Marks is identified by you, Kyle Swanson, another CIA special operator. To say that Atkins wants to know more about this situation would be somewhat of an understatement.”
Swanson remained cool. “I’m a shooter, Tim. I deal only in high-value targets who pose a direct threat to the United States of America and believe they’re beyond our reach. I’m neither an investigator nor an espionage agent.”
Wright got to his feet and put his hands in his pockets. Grandfather, lecturing. “Consider it this way, Kyle. On some unknown day in the future, you may be sitting in a congressional hearing room having to answer questions about this under oath. We will cover it up, but nothing is airtight. There are legions of snoops and spies and leakers and hackers and conspiracy weirdos and oversight committee members who are always out there chewing our asses, and one of them may find this trail. Then they’ll all want TV time and will sell the information to prove they have the balls to attack us. By then, you had better know some answers, don’t you think?”
Swanson had the sudden feeling that he had entered some twilight danger zone, on a path that was dark and shadowy. He had no illusion about what he had just learned: the CIA would feed him to the wolves in a heartbeat. “I’ll talk to Marty when I get back to Washington,” he said, rising from his chair.
“Do that. You’re booked to leave here tomorrow morning,” Wright said. “Marty will give you the full file on Nicky Marks.” He extended his hand, shook with Swanson, then walked out.
Mrs. Johnson walked in, somehow having been silently signaled that the meeting was over. She said goodbye and, in a softer voice, added, “A car is waiting to take you to your hotel for the night. Please don’t dally about with this assignment, Mr. Swanson. We can all hear a clock ticking.”
3
Swanson canceled the hotel booking and directed the driver to go to the Four Seasons hotel in the Paseo de la Reforma. He was glad that his cover job didn’t require him to be poor. Money had advantages. He used his cell phone to check into the posh hotel, and put the charge on the Excalibur Industries credit card, an American Express Centurion.
Once in the suite, he stripped down, showered, and pulled on a soft robe, then called room service to get his clothes cleaned and pressed and back to him by six o’clock the next morning. Looking over the menu, he ordered a steak, rare, with potatoes and vegetables. “Add a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and bring up a bucket of ice, too,” he said. That should take care of his overnight stay. Now, for the hard part. He dialed Coastie.
Her voice was strained. Yes, she said, she understood that he couldn’t make the round trip in a single day, only to then turn around and fly to Washington. Some places, such as San Luis de la Paz, are just hard to reach. No, Mama wasn’t improving. The blow to her head was serious and the doctor wanted to get her to a hospital. Yes, they were safe. The ranch looked like an armed camp.
“How about you? Are you all right?”
“No, I am most certainly not all right,” she snapped, her temper rising. “My husband is dead and his grave has been desecrated. Mama is in a bad way, and I feel helpless and crushed. Why aren’t you here with me, Kyle? You’re supposed to be my friend.” The voice rose louder, then she broke off into sobs.
He looked through the big window out toward the purple mountains as he listened to her weep. “I am your friend, Beth. You know that. You need some time to deal with your grief and take care of Mama Castillo. And I haven’t forgotten what you said.”
“I want back in.”
“I’ll be straight with you, Coastie. Keep in mind that this is an unsecure connection. You’re way out of shape after three years of marriage and a life of ease. There’s no way you could go into the field yet, so if you’re serious you have to start a hard PT program and knock off some weight.”
“Are you saying I’m fat? I run a mile and work out every day!”
“Not nearly good enough, and you know it. Then get your shooting eye back.”
“I can outshoot you right now,” she said, fighting.
“This is not a contest between the two of us, Coastie. If everything comes together, and you clear the physical conditioning and a round of psychiatric exams, and if the organization decides it even wants you, then maybe you can come back. Big maybe, girl.”
There was silence, and a deep inhalation of breath. “How long would it take, Kyle?”
“At least a year.” He hated doing this. This wasn’t the sort of support that a knight in shining armor gave a maiden in distress. This also was no fairy tale, and life wasn’t fair. “That would be the official deal, so don’t say you haven’t been warned.”
“It sucks.” Her growing anger was palpable before she caught what he had said. “The official deal? Are you thinking of something else?”
Ever since his briefing that afternoon, Swanson had been unable to shake the feeling of how alone he really was within the CIA. All special operators were the same in that respect, close to no one and far from God. Unknown bureaucrats would turn on them without a second thought if it was deemed convenient. Their loyalty was to the country and the company, not the individual. He often thought of the old Jabberwock poem about a beast with jaws that bite and claws that catch. He would sound paranoid if he tried to explain it, but facing unknown terrors all by himself had always been a hard, twisting road. He trusted Coastie to remain alongside him if the Jabberwock, the Jubjub bird, or even the frumious Bandersnatch came lurking.
Kyle kept his voice even. “How about this? You stay down here with Mama as long as you need. Then you come up and work directly for me at Excalibur. I think we can have you ready in three months. You interested?”
Beth soaked up the surprise and replied, “Yes, of course.”
“Okay, then. Give Mama my best, and we’ll stay in close touch. A final question, Coastie. Was Mickey on the payroll of that other outfit that I work for? Careful how you answer.”
She thought about it. “He worked with a lot of similar organizations, mostly coordinating efforts, but with your company he actually did some specific tasks now and again. He never gave me details.”
Damn. So Mickey was a spook, too. “Keep your head down and your marines close until you leave. Stay strong on the emotional front, too. Time will help.”
“It’s hard, Kyle. I miss Mickey so much. I can’t just sleep and cry all the time.”
“I know. We’ll talk later.” He ended the call, satisfied at having bought another three months before he had to make a final decision.
The memorial to America’s third president, Thomas Jefferson, was waterfront property on the National Mall, and a favorite meeting spot for the director of intelligence, the number two man of the Central Intelligence Agency. The Mall was anchored by the needle obelisk of the Washington Monument at one end and the domed Capitol building at the other, with a brooding, iconic Abraham Lincoln dominating the panorama. People by the thousands strolled the Mall daily from one end to the other, but few broke away to trek the mile from the White House to visit Mr. Jefferson’s five-ton statue in the neoclassical memorial on the southern bank of the Tidal Basin that was fed by the waters of the Potomac River.