“I would, thank you,” Kyra said.
“I assume you want to go back to the NCS?” Cooke asked.
“To be honest, ma’am, I don’t know if I want to stay at all,” the younger woman replied.
“You should. You have a talent for the work,” Cooke admitted. “We’d approve you for a post overseas, and Micheal Rhead will be gone by the time we sign the paperwork.”
“It’s not the work, ma’am. I don’t know if I can stand the politics,” Kyra said. “These politicians would run over their mothers to get in front of a camera, and we have to trust them to make decisions about whether our assets live or die?”
“Stuart made the right choice,” Cooke said.
“The DNI didn’t,” Kyra said. “And Stuart picked him in the first place.”
“Rhead is an aberration. And as presidents go, Stuart understands our business better than most,” Barron said. “He told Rhead to resign for ‘personal reasons.’ That ought to tell you something about what he thinks about our business.”
“What would you have done if Stuart had ordered you to leave Pioneer in place?” Kyra asked.
“I would have given the order to exfiltrate him anyway,” Cooke said without hesitation. “And then I would have resigned and gone home and waited for the FBI to come arrest me. You haven’t been in the business long enough to see that most assets are amoral. Rhead was right about that. They use us as much as we use them. They have their rewards and most of them aren’t worth your loyalty. But Pioneer is a rare exception, and when you come across one of those, you take care of him.”
“And you?” Kyra asked Barron. “What would you have done?”
He pointed at Cooke. “Same as her,” he said. “Actually, I threatened to do it.”
“He did,” Cooke admitted. “There is a time to fall on your sword, but now isn’t it, and if you quit, I think you’ll regret it. Anyway, I hope this will help change your mind.” Cooke handed her drink to Barron, opened the messenger bag she had slung over her shoulder, and extracted a pair of hinged cherrywood boxes. She opened the first, pulled a printed card from her pocket, and turned to Jonathan. “Jonathan Burke, for performance of outstanding services or for achievement of a distinctly exceptional nature in a duty or responsibility, I present you with the Distinguished Intelligence Medal.” She put the card inside the case, closed it, and offered it to the analyst.
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, taking the wooden box.
“Winning the award is more important, but you know there’s money attached to that, right?” Cooke asked.
Jonathan smiled. “I do. And who says winning the award is more important?”
“Ah, the mercenary analyst. A dying breed,” Cooke said. She opened the second box and read off the card inside. “Kyra Stryker, for a voluntary act of courage performed under hazardous conditions, for outstanding achievements and services rendered with distinction under conditions of grave risk, I present you with the Intelligence Star.” She replaced the card and delivered the award to its owner. “There’s another one of those waiting for you back at headquarters. We couldn’t give you one for Venezuela as long as Rhead was around, but Clark here took care of business after the resignation hit the president’s desk.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kyra said, taking the cherrywood box. She opened it. The bronze coin inside was stamped with an eagle’s head in profile atop a sunburst over a five-point star, with the words “Central Intelligence Agency” and “For Valor” written around the circumference. She didn’t say anything, instead running her fingers over the metal. Then she closed her eyes. A warm feeling rose up inside her chest and she felt tension drain out of her shoulders.
“You won’t be able to tell anyone about that,” Barron said. “Not until Pioneer’s file is declassified, anyway. You’ll be an old woman when that happens. Sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Kyra said. She closed the box. “But we just lost our best asset in Beijing. The Chinese are starting to test their capabilities. It’s a bad time to have intelligence gaps on their intentions.”
“We have more assets. There are always more,” Cooke told her.
Kyra looked down at Pioneer, sitting in the sand, eyes closed, and wondered what he was thinking. “Not like him.”
“Sure there are,” Jonathan countered. “Plenty of people want to change the world for all the right reasons. Just have to find them.”
Cooke looked at Jonathan, surprised. “You’re going soft.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to be the one who had to go looking for them.”
“You were right,” she said. “You really are an acquired taste.”
“And yet, you still haven’t fired me,” he observed.
Smiling, Cooke leaned in close and nudged him hard. And Jonathan finally smiled back.
Cooke turned Kyra. “No need to hide you anymore. Two Intelligence Stars in three months. I think with that on your record, you can pick your assignment. What do you want to do?”
It took the younger woman a few moments to settle on her answer. “I want to finish the mission,” she said, nodding toward Pioneer. Kyra stepped forward and walked down the sandy shore.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My wife Janna, who decided that the Exceptional Performance Award money would be better spent on a laptop for writing than on paying down student loans and who played single mother far too many nights while I learned how to write a novel the hard way.
My parents, Carl and Lynne Henshaw, for their love and support; I miss you, Dad. My siblings Glen, Neal, and Susan (herself, a fine writer) for their patience with my incessant prattling about the book.
“Uncle” Paul, “Aunt” Sally, and Zach Stewart, who always believed that it could be done and that I could do it; and Amy Dunafin and Glenda Mora, who thought years ago that an awkward, skinny kid just might be able to write a book someday. Everyone should have such friends.
Flint Dille, Sam Sarkar, and Nick Brondo for taking my writing more seriously than I took it myself; and Ken Freimann and Jason Yarn, my literary agent, for putting all the wheels in motion. Rachel Hanig, my friend, for years of support, who has shared in many of my professional successes and been patient with me when she didn’t have to be.
The Touchstone Team — Lauren Spiegel, my editor, for her wise suggestions and guidance; Lisa Healy, my copy editor, who saved me from many an embarrassing gaffe; and Cherlynne Li and Ervin Serrano who created that marvelous cover for the book.
Keith Blount and his Literature & Latte Team, for creating Scrivener, the app that ended four years of pain trying to write a novel with a word processor. A writer who’s trying to draft a novel without using Scrivener is probably a masochist.
The members of the CIA Red Cell who taught me the ropes, and who are some of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life — Bob, Paul, Dave, Tom, Donna, Harry, and Vincent.
And the other Agency officers who I’ve worked with, honorable public servants and good people all, who are dedicated to protecting a nation and do a fine job of it — Tom, Steve, Ken, Brad, Jennifer, Mike, Norm, Mali for helping with the Chinese language, and all the rest too numerous to list.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARK HENSHAW is a graduate of Brigham Young University and a decorated CIA analyst with more than eleven years of service. In 2007, Henshaw won the Director of National Intelligence Galileo Award for innovation in intelligence analysis. A former member of the CIA’s Red Cell think tank, Henshaw lives with his family in Leesburg, Virginia.