Cold Shot (6 page)

“You’d never have survived in the Navy,” Cooke mused. “It was good to see you again this morning, Kyra.” She poured her own cup, then seated herself at the head of the table.

“It had been a while, ma’am.” More than a year, she realized. She knew Cooke and Jon made excuses to see each other on occasion, though not as often as either would prefer.

“You can stop with the ‘ma’am,’” Cooke ordered.

“My apologies, ma’am. It’s not optional. Southern upbringing.”

Cooke shook her head, took her first sip, then set the mug on the coaster. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Kyra pressed a button on the touch controller and a video feed appeared on the conference room monitor. Then she pulled a photograph out of a folder and held it out. Cooke accepted the paper, never moving her gaze from the screen. “I spent last night in the Ops Center with their IMINT team and we found this at 0330. That’s our best candidate for the
Markarid
. We can’t really confirm it’s her . . . hard to see the name on the side of the hull when you’re looking straight down and they probably changed it anyway,” she said, deadpan. “But she’s missing a raft from the starboard side.”

Cooke’s head turned at that bit of news. “Nice call,” she offered. “What happened there?” She pointed at a spot on the photograph.

Kyra pressed a button and the satellite video magnified by a factor of two. “It’s hard to tell. It looks like she suffered some kind of explosive damage to the superstructure, more than the crew could fix at sea. They covered it over with tarps and moved some cargo containers around to prevent anyone from getting a look at sea level. We’re just guessing at that but I think it’s a pretty good guess. The imagery analysts tell me that’s fresh paint higher up, above the tarp . . . probably to cover some scorch marks. They also tell me there’s not much aboard any legitimate cargo vessel that could tear up a hull like that . . . the worst thing they usually carry is fossil fuels, which would just burn the paint, not tear up the metal unless they did something spectacularly stupid.”

“If they hosted a firefight, somebody might’ve gotten a bit happy with the high explosives,” Cooke answered.

“That’s what Jon thought when he saw it,” Kyra conceded. “But it would take something bigger than a grenade to do that—” she said, pointing at the ship’s damaged island. “At least an RPG round. I guess Jon has seen a few go off.” She’d asked him for the particulars but the man had demurred.

“Where is she now?” Cooke asked. “Where are we looking?”

“Southwest of Grenada, almost due north of Caracas. She’s inside Venezuela’s coastal waters on a west-by-southwest heading. Extend the line and it looks like her port of call will be Puerto Cabello. If that’s right, she’ll dock by noon tomorrow. Drescher has asked the National Reconnaissance Office to keep a bird on her and let us know if she changes course, but they’re not in a hurry to retask a satellite just to prove Jon’s theory.”

“I’m sure,” Cooke said. There had been an unhappy note in the younger woman’s voice. The director looked up from her coffee. “So what’s on your mind?”

“I’m thinking maybe we could get coverage the old-fashioned way?”

“We should send someone down there?” Cooke offered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you volunteering?” Cooke asked her.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t willing to do it,” Kyra finally answered after a second’s pause.

“There’s a difference between ‘wanting’ and ‘willing.’ Which is it?” Kyra pondered that for several seconds, long enough for the silence itself to tell Cooke that the younger woman wasn’t sure. “Kyra, why are you still in the Red Cell?” the director finally asked.

“Ma’am?” The question had left her off balance.

Cooke stared at the younger woman long enough to make sure she had her full attention. “You weren’t thrilled about becoming an analyst when I first assigned you to the Red Cell last year. The last time we talked down at the Farm, you weren’t even sure you wanted to stay at the Agency. But you’re still here and you’re still working with Jon. I’m the CIA director, so I don’t have career conversations with people at your level as a general rule. But you have two Intelligence Stars, both of which you earned within six months after you came on duty, and I’m pretty sure that’s never happened before, so I’m making an exception. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’re a very good analyst but you proved that you can be a better case officer and I don’t want you working in a job where you’re performing below your talents. People who do that usually just drag down their unit before they finally quit. So, again, why are you still in the Red Cell?”

Kyra felt her cheeks flush. She hadn’t expected the CIA director to be quite so honest or blunt. She exhaled, a long, slow breath. “I can speak freely, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been a case officer. In my first two field assignments, I got shot, assaulted, chased, and almost caught shrapnel from an antiship missile that would’ve hit the
Abraham Lincoln
very close to where I was standing if the CWIS gun hadn’t shot it down. I admit, I don’t want to spend my life behind a desk but every field op I’ve run came
this
close to getting me captured. That’s not really what I signed up for. I thought I’d be working a cover job at an embassy or as a NOC, attending conferences, meeting with assets. I didn’t expect people to try to kill me quite so often.”

Cooke nodded. “I do understand that. I know those stars didn’t come easy.” The director stopped talking and Kyra waited for her to start again. The silence dragged out and became painful. Finally she spoke. “You know, when the World Trade Center came down, it became obvious that we couldn’t go after terrorists and tyrants the same way we did the Soviets, but we couldn’t change overnight and a fair number of people around here fought it when we started. For a long time we were too dependent on case officers who still wanted to work the cocktail circuits and meet with assets in hotel rooms over crab and caviar. Change isn’t just hard, it’s painful, and we’re still not there.” Cooke stopped for a moment, embarrassed just a little by the passion in her voice. Then she looked the younger woman square in her green eyes. “I don’t mean to preach to you but we don’t just need people who can work the streets, we need people who can work the street and the
bush
. Different worlds, different tradecraft. You proved in Caracas and Beijing that you can work the street. And your file says you can work the bush—your Farm instructors still can’t figure out how you got away from the dogs during Hell Week. And a case officer who can do analysis too? That’s just gold. You’ve shown everyone that you’re up to it. We need people like you out there.”

Kyra fumbled for a response and no good one came. “Have you had this conversation with Jon, ma’am?” she finally asked, deflecting.

That stopped Cooke in her tracks. “Why do you ask?”

“First, because he won’t like it, you approving me for a field assignment, even if it’s temporary,” Kyra said. “‘This is not a good idea,’ and all that.”

Oh,
Cooke realized.
Have I had this conversation about
you
with him.
“That sounds like him,” she agreed. “I can handle Jon. I presume there’s a ‘second’ to come after that ‘first’?”

“Ma’am, I know you two are friends.” Kyra actually knew better than that but didn’t want to be too bold. “I’ve shared an office with him for over a year and sometimes I feel like I barely know him. I know he’s spent time in the field. He knew his way around the
Lincoln
like he’s spent serious time at sea. But he gave up the field for a desk and never talks about why. He’s an amazing analyst. He has a Galileo and a Langer Award . . . I’ve seem them. But he’s one of the most disliked people in the building and he could be doing a lot more than he is. You said you don’t want me working a job where I’m performing below my talents. What happened to him?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. He was forward deployed to Iraq during the war, but he never talks about that with me. He came back, joined the Red Cell and never left, even when everyone else did,” Cooke offered.

“He could do more,” Kyra said.

“Yes, he could,” Cooke agreed. “But right now we’re talking about you, not him. Do you
want
to go? Do you want to be an operator or an analyst?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore, ma’am. And I’m not sure how to find out.”

“You know how,” Cooke told her. “Your suggestion that we put someone on the ground is accepted. You’ve worked in Caracas so I’m sure the new station chief will be happy to see you come even if it’s only for a few weeks. She’s shorthanded right now anyway. Take the initiative. Get to Puerto Cabello, find some safe spot to hole up with line of sight on the dock, and report back what you see. I think the mission will be fairly low risk.”

“‘Low risk’ is a relative term.”

“True. But risk is the business, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kyra stood to leave.

“When you get back, you tell me what you want. If you want to be a case officer or an operator, I’ll make it happen for you. If not, I’m sure Jon would be happy to keep you . . . as happy as he ever gets about anything. You remember the first three rules from case-officer school?” Cooke asked.

“‘Don’t get killed. Don’t get caught. Bring home the intel.’”

Cooke raised her coffee mug. “Go thou and do likewise.” Kyra nodded and left the room. Cooke took a sip from her coffee mug and realized that it had gone cold.

•    •    •

Despite standing orders to the contrary, Cooke’s secretary almost stopped Jon dead at the door. Cooke had told her executive assistant that she’d summoned the Red Cell chief but agitated men didn’t get past the front desk as a general rule and the secretary had a button on her desk connected to the security station around the corner to enforce that policy. She let him in but not without a warning stare.

Cooke was sitting on her couch when Jon stomped into the office. He didn’t bother to look at her or to close the door behind himself. The secretary, a woman of good sense, reached in and did it for him.

“What do you think—?” he started.

Cooke cut him off. “Whatever you’re about to say, you’re out of line.” It came out a bit quieter than she had intended but had the desired effect, mostly. Jon stopped short, saying nothing. He turned away from her and stared out the windows. Already, this meeting felt different and Cooke didn’t like it.

“I’m so glad to see my opinion matters to you,” he said.

“This isn’t about your opinion,” she corrected him. “You’re mad that I approved Kyra going to Venezuela.”

•    •    •

“The Venezuelans almost killed her the first time she was there so you’ll forgive me if that doesn’t seem like a bright idea. We don’t usually send people back into countries where they ran into that kind of trouble.”

“Whether it seems smart to you or not is irrelevant, Jon. I’m the one whose opinion matters here. I’m the CIA director, in case you’d forgotten,” she reminded him. “I don’t have to discuss my ideas with you before I present them to anyone. But she volunteered, in case she didn’t mention it—”

“She did.”

Good for her,
Cooke thought. Cooke had never thought Kyra was a coward. “A successful field op could get her career back on track.”

“And why would choosing to be analyst be considered ‘off track’?” He was angrier than she’d ever seen him. This was not going like she’d expected . . . too much on the defensive. Jon had never been this aggressive with her.

A soft answer turneth away wrath . . .
where had she heard that? “She could be the best case officer of her generation. She could be running the Clandestine Service by middle age but not if she stays down in the Red Cell,” Cooke said. “And that wasn’t fair. I’ve never pushed you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”

“And I’m doing fine.”

“By your standards, Jon, not by mine,” she said. “And not by a lot of other people’s here on the seventh floor.”

“I’m the one whose opinion matters there.”

Cooke winced, hearing her own words turned on her. That was a first between them. “You don’t think she can handle it?”

“I think this is a terrible way to find out. The failure mode on this could get real ugly, real fast—”

“It’s a straightforward surveillance op,” she protested. “Minimal risk—”

“There’s no such thing as ‘minimal risk’ in field ops. We’re kidding ourselves to think we can even quantify risk,” he retorted, cutting her off. “But I thought you respected me more than this,” he said. His voice had an edge that was both sad and sharp.

“My respect for you has nothing to do with this. It’s not personal,” Cooke assured him. She stood and walked over to him, closer than was professional, but the door was closed. She stared straight into his eyes to make the point.

“If you’re determined to send her, she shouldn’t go alone.”

Cooke pulled back, surprised.
Are you asking to go?
Suddenly the operation seemed more dangerous than before. “You don’t do field work anymore.”

He answered nothing. Cooke tried to read him but he’d retreated into himself, which usually meant he wanted something he wasn’t willing to ask for. She held her silence, giving him the chance to finally open himself to her, but she’d seen this play before. As always, she was the one to finally break the silence.
Another missed chance,
she thought. “Jon, the
Markarid
was your theory. I was hoping you’d come with me to the White House—”

“I don’t care about the White House,” he said, ignoring the professional temptation. “I’ve been there, I’ve briefed presidents and I don’t care if I ever do it again, much less with this one,” he replied, his voice heavy with contempt.

Cooke nodded slowly. “Caracas station is gutted right now. The SEBIN tore the entire operation open last year and we had to pull almost everyone out. We’ve been sending people in slowly but it’s not even a skeleton crew. I’ll call the chief of station down there. She’s new to the place, but I can set things up,” she said in surrender.