Blowback, page 3
CHAPTER 9
NOA HIMEL LETS the president’s words sink in for a moment before replying, still wondering what odd circumstances of life have brought her here, her first time meeting the president.
She’s originally from Tel Aviv, moving at age five with her family to New York City when her corporate banker mother got a great job offer. Dad is a graphic artist, and she’s their only child. After she graduated with a master’s degree in international relations from Columbia, her uncle Benny flew in from Israel to congratulate her and recommend that she talk to an old friend of his in Virginia about a job.
That led to two developments: getting employed by the CIA, and confirming the family rumors that Uncle Benny worked for Mossad.
The Agency was still “old boy” in that a lot of managers thought women recruits should go to desk and analysis jobs, but at the time Noa thought, Screw that shit—she wasn’t spending the rest of her life in a cubicle. She went for the Directorate of Operations and got in, not afraid to ask tough questions along the way.
Like right now.
“Sir … with all due respect, you know we can’t operate in the United States,” Noa says. “It’s against the CIA’s charter. Congress and their oversight … they would never allow it.”
His eyes flash for a hot second. “You think I don’t know that, Noa?”
Noa knows he’s quite aware of that, given his background as a former Army general, the secretary of defense, the CIA director, and a two-term congressman from California before he won the White House.
“Sir,” she says, “that’s what I meant by ‘all due respect.’ You have the authority to have the Agency conduct overseas operations and missions, but inside the United States … it can’t be done.”
“Nice observation, Noa, but it will be done,” he replies. “I’ve issued a presidential finding regarding the temporary deployment of CIA assets within the United States, and my attorney general has signed off on it. You and Liam have no worries about doing anything illegal. It’ll be on the books … though I’ll be the one keeping the books, of course.”
Noa waits for Liam to speak, but he’s keeping his mouth shut and his opinions to himself, usually a wise career move at the CIA. He’s dressed well and has a nice-looking face and light-brown hair, but he sits oddly, like he’d rather be standing armed in a desert somewhere. Besides, she thinks, he’s former Army, meaning in most circumstances, when receiving an oddball order like this, his instinct will be to salute first and ask no questions.
But Noa sees things differently. Working in the Agency means both competing in the field and dealing with the bureaucratic infighting that comes with every large organization, but she feels like President Barrett is the proverbial bull in a china shop, asking her to come along for the ride.
A thrill for sure, but to what end? she thinks.
“Sir,” she says—thinking if she’s going to commit career suicide, why not do it in style?—“don’t you think the respective intelligence committees in Congress are going to raise hell over your finding?”
His smile seems to be made of steel. “The Intelligence Authorization Act allows the president to proceed without official notification to Congress if I inform them in a ‘timely manner.’ That’s up for me to define, isn’t it? ‘Timely manner’?”
Next to her Liam bestirs himself and says, “Absolutely, sir.”
Damn Army vet, she thinks.
Barrett seems happy that Liam has spoken and says, “The time of nations and organized terrorist groups fighting other nations in the open is long gone. Now they conceal themselves, depending on our adherence to the rule of law and due process not to respond. Our enemies are activists, now more than ever. We have to be activists in return. Now I want to tell you why I selected you, what I expect of you, and why I decided to brief the two of you together.”
He stares at Noa, and she feels uneasy. The president has never married, has borne himself like a “warrior monk,” similar to famed Marine general James Mattis. He’s totally dedicated to the United States and its defense, yet he has that “thing” that some former presidents had, including JFK, Johnson, and Clinton. When one is in their presence, one takes notice.
Noa also takes notice of an edge to the president’s look, like he is sizing her up, and she isn’t sure if it’s her experience or appearance he is evaluating.
The president says, “In my time at the CIA, I knew where the deadwood was located and that there were open cases involving possible Agency traitors that dragged on for years. But I couldn’t do anything about it, due to politics. The director serves at the pleasure of the president, and back then, the president didn’t have the nerve to do what had to be done, no matter how many times I briefed her. That stops now. Noa, you’re going to have my full authority to clean house at the Agency. I’m going to chop up all the deadwood into very small pieces that will never be found again.”
Noa says, “But Director Fenway—”
He snaps, “Acting Director Milton Fenway, if you please. No disrespect to your boss, but I’ve told him what I’ve planned and he’s on board. Don’t worry about him.”
She thinks she sees Liam give a slight nod to the president. Poor Acting Director Fenway. A few months ago, the president had nominated a smart hard-charger—Hannah Abrams, a former deputy director—who was known at the Agency as a top-notch street woman operating in what was called the “night soil circuit,” meaning she took every overseas assignment available, even the worst of the worst. Most in the Directorate of Operations are looking forward to Abrams taking command of the Agency, but her nomination is still being held up in the Senate for some obscure political reason.
Until that logjam is broken, Milton Fenway is the acting director, and he comes from the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology, meaning he is experienced in various aspects of those technical means of gathering intelligence—SIGINT and ELINT—but not HUMINT, human intelligence. The men and women who work undercover around the world, rightly or wrongly, think they are the tip of the spear for the Agency and have no respect for the man.
The president adds, “There are also safe houses for the Chinese and Russians located across the country. We know where most of them are located. We leave them alone because we don’t want to cause a stir or embarrass the Chinese or Russians, or because we don’t have the evidence to prosecute them. To hell with that. Those houses are going to be taken out, and the foreign agents within are going to disappear.”
Noa is silent for a few seconds.
What did the president just say?
“Disappear”?
CHAPTER 10
NOA THINKS THAT if she doesn’t get a good answer right now, she’s getting up and leaving.
“‘Disappear’?” she asks. “Sir?”
He smiles. “I don’t mean like the Argentine Army did back in their ‘Dirty War,’ tossing arrestees out of helicopters over the South Atlantic. No, ‘disappear’ to a facility where they won’t have access to the Constitution and American lawyers. They’re here illegally, they’re conducting war against the United States, and they will be treated accordingly.”
He shifts his attention to Liam, and Noa feels a sense of relief, that the force of the man’s personality—like the beam of a high-powered searchlight—is now pointed at someone else. She’s still processing what’s been assigned to her by the president.
Domestic work, she thinks. The legal and institutional handcuffs put on by Barrett’s predecessors and Congress have just been slipped off.
One hell of an opportunity.
Sure, she thinks, an opportunity to really hit hard at some bad actors out there, or an opportunity to be humiliated, arrested, and stripped of my pension if this turns into another Iran–Contra disaster.
Noa wants to make a difference in the world by being in the Agency, and the president has just given her a golden ticket to do so.
President Barrett is talking a good talk, but will that be enough once the bodies start piling up?
“There are terrorist cells, hackers, and bot farms controlled by the Iranians, Chinese, and Russians, and there are hackers-for-hire across the globe,” the president says. “They attack us day and night via cyberspace or in the real world. We don’t retaliate appropriately because we don’t want to escalate the situation, or because we’re not one hundred percent sure of a target, or because we don’t want to stoop to their level. That stops today. You’re going to get a team together of people from the intelligence and military communities. From there, overseas you’ll go. These farms, cells, and other structures … you know what Rome did to Carthage?”
“Yes, sir,” Liam says. “Once Rome finally conquered Carthage, they destroyed every building and salted the earth around the ruins so nothing would ever grow there again. And that’s exactly what happened.”
The president nods. “I want them gone. Gone so hard that whoever survives won’t go back to a computer keyboard or an AK-47 ever again.”
Liam says, “If I may, it sounds risky, sir.”
“Of course it’s risky,” he says. “Fortune favors the bold, correct? And it’s time for us to be bold. I’ll give you both twenty-four hours to pick your teams and then come back here tomorrow. We’ll go over your candidates, and then we’ll discuss logistics and support. And when it comes to support, you’ll have everything you need, with just one phone call or text. As commander in chief, I can get any branch of the military to assist you under any circumstances.”
The president leans back into the couch. “I’ve followed both of your careers over the years. You have the intelligence, toughness, experience, and … well, the perfect background and history of heartbreak to do what must be done. Any questions?”
Dozens of them, Noa thinks, but she doesn’t want to speak first.
She feels she’s spoken enough, and even though she has misgivings about what’s being offered to her, she is also relishing the thought of taking the fight to enemies who have set up camp within the nation’s borders.
Let Liam take the lead.
But Liam refuses to do so.
“No, sir,” he says. “I’m good.”
Noa says, “I’m good as well.”
President Barrett nods with satisfaction.
“Get out, get to work, and I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be supplying you both with an initial set of targets, complete with locations and defenses.” He adds a chilly smile. “I’ll also supply the salt.”
CHAPTER 11
A FEW MINUTES after Liam Grey and Noa Himel depart, President Keegan Barrett reviews his schedule for the day when the door to his office opens and Carlton Pope walks in. On the official White House organization chart, he’s listed as a “special assistant to the president,” which covers a lot of ground, water, and sky—exactly what Barrett wants.
Pope is stocky, heavyset, with a type of blocky body that makes Savile Row tailors toss up their respective hands in despair while trying to tailor a suit to fit. His prematurely gray hair is trimmed short, and his nose is round and misshapen, from a long-ago break that never properly healed.
He takes a seat in front of Barrett. Except for the Secret Service, Pope is the only one allowed to come into Barrett’s office without knocking first. Even Barrett’s chief of staff, Quinn Lawrence, isn’t allowed here without a warning phone call.
Pope says, “Well?”
Barrett says, “I think they’ll work out. They’re young, experienced, and dedicated.”
Pope smirks, and Barrett allows him that one look. Years ago, when Barrett was in the Army and on a still-classified mission to Serbia, Barrett had saved this man’s career and life, and in the ensuing years, Pope has diligently worked to pay back that debt.
Barrett always relies on the loyalty of others and is glad to pay it back.
He says, “All right, you ignorant peasant, pack that smirk away. Because of bad movies and past history, most people don’t realize that the CIA attracts the best and brightest, who’ll go to the extremes to perform their mission. It’s not the pay that drives them, and it’s sure as hell not the publicity. They do it because they’re dedicated to the Agency and this country.”
Pope says, “All right, I’ll take back the smirk. They both seem experienced … and that Noa.” He smiles. “A real looker.”
“Glad you noticed.”
“But sir … this is one hell of a risky venture.”
“One that’s worth it,” he says, feeling reflective. “In my years at the Pentagon, at Langley, and in Congress, I had this … understanding of what threats our nation faces. But to get the right people to listen to you and act … it never could happen. Politics, inertia, bureaucracy. Now that I’m here, that’s going to change. I’m finally in a position to make it happen.”
“But …”
Barrett glances down at his schedule. If this keeps up, he’s going to be late for a coffee-and-Danish visit with the Senate majority leader and his staff downstairs in his private dining room. He needs to keep his relationship with that fool steady for as long as possible, before the hammer falls.
The president says, “I think you’re about to ask me, ‘But what if they don’t work out? Have a change of heart? Decide to go confess all to the Washington Post?’”
“That’s what I was thinking, yes, sir.”
One of the many attributes that Barrett likes about his special assistant is his blunt way of talking and getting things done, and all without any attendant publicity. He’s never had his photo in the Post or on the various news sites and blogs and prefers to work in the shadows.
Which is part of Pope’s unofficial job description.
Barrett says, “If that happens, they’ll be replaced. There are twenty-two thousand employees of the CIA. I’m sure we can find two other dedicated individuals.”
Pope gets up from his chair. “Replaced or disappeared?”
Barrett says, “Whichever works.”
CHAPTER 12
CARLTON POPE, SPECIAL assistant to the president, smiles with satisfaction as he walks downstairs back to his office, on the first floor and next to the Oval Office, its proximity marking his real power behind the throne here in the White House.
He’s come a long way from his nearly deserted hometown back in Oregon, where the forest industry had collapsed due to imports from China, and new rules and regulations issued by distant, faceless bureaucrats who cared more about some stupid owl than real people with real problems. The economy in that crappy town was empty for guys like him and his classmates, high school graduates who weren’t going to college.
Selling meth, OD’ing on opioids, and getting busted for petty crime was the most popular path.
Pope had picked another one.
The Army.
He almost deserted a few times but he found a home in the military police—what a joke!—and things had been going okay some years back until he got caught up in a mess in Kosovo. Other times and places it wouldn’t have been a big deal, just tuning up a prisoner who wouldn’t talk about the ratlines up in the mountains that were protecting Serb paramilitaries.
But his luck being his luck, the prisoner checked out, and Pope was facing serious prison time at Leavenworth, until a colonel he barely knew visited him in the brig.
The colonel didn’t waste time. “I’m going places, and I need a guy with a hard mind and hard heart at my side. Are you that guy, Sergeant Pope? No time for questions or debate. Say ‘yes’ and your charges get broomed.”
Of course he had said yes, the first time he had spoken to Keegan Barrett, and Barrett had kept his promise. Pope had followed him all the way to here, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, working with him and for him as a consultant during his time at the Pentagon, Langley, and Capitol Hill.
And here he is, number two guy in America—forget the veep, he has real power and authority in this White House, especially for the important weeks ahead—and only one thing troubles him as he nods in satisfaction at the administrative staff sitting outside of his office.
He goes in, shuts the door, sits in his comfortable chair, admires his fine office with all the power and authority contained within. Not bad for a near high-school dropout, most of whose class members are either serving time or lying in cold graves up in the Northwest.
But that’s not what bothers him.
It’s the president.
Lately, he’s been …
Stop, he tells himself.
He won’t allow himself to go down that path.
There’s a lot to be done between now and that day Barrett has planned for the world, and he will not—and cannot—be distracted.
He picks up his phone, gets to work.
CHAPTER 13
IT’S NEARLY ELEVEN p.m. and Liam Grey is at the Tuckerman Roadhouse outside of Langley, Virginia, finishing up a hot roast beef sandwich, homemade fries, and a draft Sam Adams beer, when he spots a familiar face at the other end of the bar. Nearly sixteen hours have passed since this morning’s meeting with the president but he still feels wired and alert. He drops three ten-dollar bills on the mahogany bar and picks up his beer, to see if the woman down there feels the same.
Noa Himel sees him approaching and lifts a glass of clear liquid in salute, and he returns the gesture. She has on blue jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt, and as he gets near, he leans in and over the noise of the customers, says, “Want to find someplace private?”
“Sure, if there is such a place.”
Noa picks up her drink and he maneuvers her to the rear of the tavern. This roadhouse is off the beaten path for most tourists and is a popular after-hours destination for military and civilian workers from the Pentagon, as well as those working for the Agency. One of the old-timers who had mentored Liam at the Farm told tales of how decades ago, off-duty workers would go to bars wearing Company lanyards around their necks, badges hidden in their shirt pockets. A way of concealing your true employment but quietly demonstrating your importance.
