Wingate’s car stopped in front of a three-story redbrick town house that was squeezed between two similar homes on a quiet side street in a wealthy residential area of Alexandria, Virginia. Carl walked up a short flight of stone steps to the front door. Before he could ring the bell Enrique opened the door.
“Nice to see you again,” Enrique said before leading Carl down a dimly lit hall to a spacious dining room that was brightly illuminated by a crystal chandelier. A long antique dining table covered with white linen dominated the room. Twelve antique high-backed chairs were arranged around the table, but there were only two table settings.
Carl walked around the room, studying it as he had been trained to study any environment in which he found himself. He stopped when he got to an oak sideboard, above which hung a portrait of a somber, bewigged eighteenth-century male. A door opened behind him, and he turned to find Morris Wingate striding toward him dressed in a charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, white silk shirt, and wine-red tie. Wingate’s shoes were polished and his skin was deeply tanned.
“You look great, Carl. I was right, the military agrees with you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sit down. I’m glad you could come.”
Carl hadn’t realized that he had a choice. “How did you know I’d be in D.C.?” he asked.
Wingate smiled enigmatically. “Being the head of an intelligence agency has its uses.”
A servant entered and ladled lobster bisque from a silver tureen.
“How is Vanessa?” Carl asked as soon as the servant left.
“Fine,” Wingate answered. “She’s near the top of her class and she’s made the tennis team.”
Carl sensed that he was not getting the full story. “Will she be home for the summer?”
“I’m not sure. She’s been talking about Europe. Some program the university has in Paris. But tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Carl gave the General a sanitized version of his army experience.
“I’ve been to Airborne and Special Forces training and I’m at Fort Bragg now,” he concluded as the servant entered wheeling a dining cart. The servant cleared the soup plates and placed a serving of beef Wellington in front of Carl and his host. Carl had never eaten lobster bisque or beef Wellington before, and the meal was delicious, but a simple home-cooked meal would have been fabulous after months of army chow.
“The last time we talked, you were reluctant to join the army. How do you feel now?” Wingate asked.
The truth was that Carl’s training and his experiences made him feel special. He could do things that none of his classmates at St. Martin’s could do and he’d had experiences that few St. Martin’s boys would ever have. He was confident that he could survive anywhere and could kill if he had to. That was heady stuff for someone still in his teens.
“I’m satisfied with my choice, sir,” Carl answered.
“Have you been in combat yet?”
“No, sir,” Carl answered without hesitation. He had anticipated the question.
“I heard that you’ve been in North Vietnam,” the General stated quietly.
“You’ve been misinformed,” Carl answered, looking the General in the eye and holding the older man’s gaze until Wingate smiled and looked away.
Wingate took an object out of his pocket and laid it on the table. He pushed it over to Carl. It was Carpenter’s dog tags. Carl felt himself choke up with emotion but his features did not betray his feelings for his fallen comrade.
“You’ve done very well, Carl. Far better than even I anticipated.”
Carl ran his thumb across the raised lettering and remembered Carpenter falling and the red stain that had spread across his neck.
“I’m afraid I…” Carl started, a catch in his voice betraying the lie. Wingate cut him off with a raised hand.
“Your target was a downed navy plane carrying top-secret electronic equipment. The team leader was Paul Molineaux. You had two casualties. Do I have to go on or are you convinced that I know all about your mission?”
Carl didn’t answer.
“I’ve been in the military for a good part of my life and I’ve served with many men. As young as you are, as new as you are, you are among the finest soldiers that I have ever known.”
Carl’s chest swelled with pride.
“I have a proposition for you,” the General went on. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure to accept my offer. However, I do need your promise that you will never repeat what we discuss to anyone, under any circumstances.
“Good,” Wingate said as soon as Carl nodded. “You know that I’m the head of the Agency for Intelligence Data Coordination. My agency has as its documented function the collection and coordination of intelligence data from other intelligence agencies. The AIDC charter does not include a provision for active intelligence gathering. On paper, the AIDC has no operatives.”
Wingate paused to make sure that Carl was following him.
“What I have told you so far is public knowledge, but there are aspects of the agency that neither the public nor the vast majority of the government, including employees of the agency, knows about. Working within the agency under my direction are a small group of highly trained individuals who perform services for this country of highly unusual and, on occasion, officially illegal nature.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What does ‘officially illegal’ mean?”
“Against the laws of the United States,” Wingate answered firmly. “The Unit operates internationally and domestically. No records are kept of our operations and all orders are verbal. The members of the Unit don’t know the identity of the other members, and they usually carry out missions as individuals. If a mission requires support personnel we use Special Forces with the Unit member representing himself to be Special Forces.”
“I’m confused, sir. Are these men CIA or military intelligence or…”
“These men do not exist, Carl.”
Carl cocked his head and stared at Wingate. “Where do their orders come from?”
“You don’t need to know that, but I can assure you that all orders are legitimate and decisions are made at the highest levels of government. I will also tell you that neither the CIA nor any branch of the military knows of the existence of this Unit.”
“Then how do you get the support of Special Forces?”
“I speak of the CIA and the military as organizations. These organizations are not aware of the existence of the Unit. However, there are a few-a very few-individuals within these organizations who are in positions of command and know that we exist. These individuals are able to supply our needs.”
Wingate waited a beat. Then he looked Carl in the eye. “I want you to join us. Your professional skills are exceptional; you have high intelligence and strength of character. I spotted your potential soon after I met you. I take a certain amount of pride in the fact that you have far exceeded my expectations, a pride that could be no greater if you were my son.”
Carl was stunned. He had always been a loner, and the sense of mystery surrounding this invisible team of elite soldiers appealed to him. He was also overcome by Wingate’s praise. What worried him was that he only had Wingate’s assurance that the actions of the Unit were legitimate, even when its members violated the law.
“What if I decline, sir?”
“The work we perform is too sensitive to entrust to any but volunteers.”
“Can I have some time to think this over?”
“Of course.” Wingate took a business card out of his pocket. “Call me when you’ve reached a decision. If you accept, simply tell me that you’ll be in town soon and would like to have dinner. I’ll arrange for weekend leave.”
The General changed the topic of conversation and called for an after-dinner drink. Carl declined but accepted a cup of coffee. He wanted to be clearheaded. Half an hour later he was in the backseat of the General’s town car on the way to the airport. Carl did not sleep during the flight back to Fort Bragg.