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THOMAS Stansfield was accustomed to working Saturdays. The world did not stop for the deputy director of Operations for the CIA to rest so he worked six and a half days a week. He was, however, not accustomed to being rousted by the secretary of state at four in the morning on a Saturday. Even so, he kept his cool as the secretary told him the news of a dead Libyan diplomat in Paris. He also managed to patiently listen as the secretary made some extremely wild and uninformed accusations. Stansfield assured him the CIA had nothing to do with whatever it was that had happened in Paris, and before hanging up, he promised America’s top diplomat that he would have some answers by noon.
By 8:00 a.m., Stansfield was ensconced in the Situation Room at the White House with most of the National Security Council. With the president off playing golf in Maryland and the vice president AWOL, Secretary of State Franklin Wilson led the meeting. After two hours of idle conjecture, and a lot of bluster about putting pressure on Israel, Stansfield finally managed to break away from the meeting.
With the morning already half gone, Stansfield was irritated that he didn’t have a single salient fact. The questions were piling up, and he knew if he was going to get some answers, he would need to escape this meeting of Washington’s power elite and have a much-needed discussion with one of his junior operatives and an old colleague who had better be waiting in his office back at Langley.
Stansfield found Irene Kennedy sitting in his small lobby and signaled for her to follow him into his soundproofed office. In his eternally composed way, Stansfield motioned for Kennedy to sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk and then asked, “Where is Stan?”
Kennedy shrugged. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. “He wandered off a while ago. Said he needed to talk to someone.”
Stansfield unbuttoned his gray suit coat, took it off, and draped it over the back of his leather office chair. He was annoyed that Stan Hurley was loose in the building, but he didn’t let it show. They had a long, colorful history together and Stansfield was intimately familiar with the man’s abilities as well as his weaknesses. There were some very good reasons why Stansfield had turned him into a private contractor a few years ago. Chief among them was that Hurley was completely tone deaf when it came to the internal politics of Langley. He was like a child who simply couldn’t resist touching the paint when the sign clearly said, “Wet paint. Do not touch.” In the ordered, uptight halls of Langley, he was a disaster waiting to happen.
Stansfield looked at his Timex watch and decided he would give Hurley five minutes before he sent someone looking for him. Turning his thoughts to the matter of most concern, he asked, “Our young friend . . . has he checked in?”
Kennedy knew Stansfield’s office was swept for listening devices on a daily basis, but these conversations always made her nervous. “No.”
“Any idea why?”
“I would prefer not to jump to any conclusions until we know more.”
Stansfield looked at her with his gray eyes, waiting patiently for her to say more. The look on his face was one that was familiar to all who worked for him. He paid his people for their intellect and their opinions, not to play it safe until the answer was obvious. “I know he’s still relatively new . . . but I assume you properly impressed on him the need to check in.”
“I did, and although he may be new compared to some of the other people around here, in one year’s time he’s racked up more real field experience than any other ten operatives combined.”
Reading between the lines, Stansfield understood that by practical field experience, she meant kills. “Has he ever failed to check in before?”
Kennedy considered the question for a moment, but then the door opened and Stan Hurley walked in. He was wearing a boxy-fitting blue suit, white shirt, and no tie. His mustache was trimmed short but he’d skipped the razor this morning, so he had scruffy stubble that looked like it could be used to sand wood. Stansfield, knowing Hurley’s uncouth side better than most, was impressed that he’d actually bothered with the suit at all.
“Sorry I’m late,” Hurley announced with a basso voice that he’d developed from years of smoking, drinking, and yelling.
“What have you been up to?” Stansfield asked with sincere curiosity.
“Just checking in on a few old friends.”
“Do I want to know who?”
Hurley flashed him a lopsided grin and said, “Boss, you’ve got more important things to worry about.”
Stansfield would find out later. For now they had to figure out what had happened in Paris, and to what extent they might be exposed. Keeping his eyes on Hurley, he asked, “Any word on what happened last night?”
“Nine bodies. Libyan oil minister and a prostitute were gunned down along with his four-person security detail.”
The deputy director of Operations gave a slight nod. He’d already confirmed as much.
“There were also three innocent civilians.” Hurley leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stroked his mustache with both hands and folded them under his chin. The man seemed to be in perpetual motion. Even at fifty-three, he had a youthful energy about him.
“Three innocents?” Stansfield asked, betraying his surprise with only an arched brow. He turned to Kennedy. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” Kennedy answered honestly.
“Two hotel guests,” Hurley added, “just down the hall from Tarek’s room, and then a kitchen boy in the back alley.”
“Nine bodies,” Stansfield repeated, still surprised by the number.
“That’s right,” Hurley said as if it was no big deal.
“Any chance one of these bodies is the man we’re looking for?” Stansfield asked.
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
