Clare watched the news unfold in fascination as TV trucks outside Hollenbrook’s Los Angeles mansion relayed live feeds of Lauren arriving in a black SUV. Her father held her and talked briefly with a TV reporter and promised a press conference later in the day.
No one knew how she had been rescued; the Mexican government said it had played no role but were glad that she was free, the FBI said it didn’t have anything to do with the development. Through her network, Clare knew a ranch house had been discovered in Sonora with several dead men in it. ‘That cartel’s lost its best shooters in one night,’ the head of the Mexican special forces told her. ‘Maybe Hollenbrook hired the best mercenaries.’
TV anchormen and women brought talking heads together and filled airtime with pointless speculation, waiting for the press conference. Clare made several calls and spoke to various people in the country; no mercenaries seemed to have been recruited for the rescue. She had a hunch while waiting for Hollenbrook to appear on screen. She spoke to some of Carter’s clients, one of whom confirmed he hadn’t seen the former soldier for months. She finally called Hollenbrook himself and when he came online, introduced herself and congratulated him.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he responded, mystified. ‘I already got a call from the President’s Chief of Staff. I wasn’t expecting another call from the White House.’
She spun him a story about the war on drugs, cartel activity, and how she was helping formulate a new strategy to deal with gangs. She knew he didn’t buy it, but she didn’t care. ‘Who rescued your daughter, sir?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say. They’re the kind of people who value their privacy. I’m sure you understand that,’ he replied warily. ‘All I can say is I owe those involved a debt of gratitude which I can never repay.’
The press conference was similarly anti-climactic. Hollenbrook refused to reveal the rescuers’ identities despite repeated questioning. He thanked the rescuers, thanked the media for their interest, and was hustled away by his people.
General Klouse called her in the evening with the first positive news. ‘It’s got the signs of your man. He has done it before. I was speaking to some generals in the Pentagon and one of them briefed me on a rescue mission in Panama. Our ambassador’s daughter had been abducted by gunmen who were threatening to execute her. Carter went in with two other Delta operatives, and in the final stages of the assault, was alone. In Mogadishu he took down Jama, a warlord. He has the track record.’
Clare knew about Jama from Carter’s files, but Panama was news to her. She questioned Klouse at length and hung up, after promising to meet him the next day to discuss Agency matters.
She was early to the meeting and waited in the exclusive members-only club in Georgetown, going through various intelligence reports till the general arrived. The club was run by a former White House staffer who had installed the best security and vetting procedures; his clientele needed a safe environment to meet, away from the prying eyes of the media. Its members included several former presidents, congressmen and senators, and several Pentagon generals. Not many knew Clare even in that rarefied environment, which suited her just fine. She paid no attention to the server who placed a tray with fine-bone china in it and served her a cup of tea.
‘You got your agents, ma’am?’
Clare looked up dumbfounded to see Carter, the server, rearrange the tray and occupy the seat opposite her. She looked around half-expecting to see her protection detail rush in…or maybe a trail of bodies.
‘No one’s dead, ma’am. Not even injured,’ he read her thoughts and smiled slightly. He was utterly relaxed, dressed in a formal shirt and trousers, his black shoes gleaming, and didn’t seem to be awed by a former president seated a few feet away.
She took a deep breath and composed herself. ‘Not yet. The one I want, declined my offer.’
‘Maybe you should ask again.’
She stared at him, not believing her ears. ‘What changed your mind?’
He broke away from her eyes and glanced at the muted TV on a wall that was replaying Hollenbrook’s press conference. ‘Maybe I want to do what’s right,’ he said tersely and didn’t elaborate.
‘There are conditions,’ he warned her when she leaned forward in excitement.
‘Name them.’
‘I want total freedom in recruiting the operatives. I will select them myself. I don’t want any interference from anyone.’
‘Done, though I will want to see them before they come onboard.’
‘I will source our gear. Everything that we need, will be picked by me or by my crew.’
‘No problem.’
‘We won’t work for you. We’ll have no connection to you.’
She blinked, trying to figure out what he meant. ‘Explain.’
‘We’ll work for the consulting business. We’ll rebrand that if we have to, but that’ll be a real business based out of New York, with genuine clients. We’ll work with our clients when we are in-between.’ He raised an eyebrow to see if Clare had understood.
She had. In-between was when there were no active missions.
‘We’ll need access to facilities to train, but I or my crew will arrange that. I have contacts. They’ll have their network, we’ll tap into those. All we’ll want from you is the intel, the missions, and the juice.’ Juice, his word for the clout she wielded. She liked it. Juice.
She leaned back, steepling her fingers as her mind raced. Zero admin. Total deniability. Sure, the details need to fleshed out, but it’ll work.
‘Welcome aboard,’ she told him and with that the Agency was reborn.
They didn’t shake hands nor did they drink in celebration. They dived into the details, discussing various elements, and drew up a to-do list. He rose when they had finished, but she waved him down.
‘You’ll work on that?’
‘Yes, ma’am. But there’s something more important than this list.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I need to find an intel guy.’
‘I can get you a list–’
He shook his head, ‘You’re forgetting our arrangement. I know who I want. I’ll have to convince him, however. I wasn’t very cooperative when he reached out to me a while back.’
Zeb wanted Broker. He had followed the intelligence analyst’s career over the years and knew he had left the Army and had gone into private practice. He briefed oil companies on geo-political events and their likely impact. Politicians came to him for his expertise on various geographies. Police forces hired him as a consultant and he was a frequent visitor to the FBI’s Hoover building in DC. Large corporations hired him to report back on competitor activity.
Broker’s office was in downtown Manhattan and on his return from DC, Zeb started with the simplest of approaches, a phone call. The call went to Broker’s voicemail and after leaving a message, Zeb waited. He waited for two days and then decided to meet him in person.
Meeting Broker was easier said than done. He was seldom alone and usually had a female companion on his arm. He deployed counter-surveillance tactics when he was by himself and doubled up frequently or randomly changed directions when on foot or driving. Zeb posted a card to him with a need to meet line and scribbled his number. His phone didn’t ring.
After a week of following the analyst, Zeb had enough. He went into a bar where Broker was holding court and observed him for a while from afar. Broker cut a dashing figure with his immaculate attire and tall frame. His blond hair was artfully styled, and was just that one inch longer giving him a Corporate? Me? look. His naturally gregarious nature drew people to him and four men and two women hung onto every word of his in the bar.
Broker threw his head back once and roared in laughter. The smile didn’t die nor did his eyes flicker when they rested on Zeb. An hour passed, still Broker made no move to end his party and join the waiting man. Zeb gave it another hour and then gatecrashed. ‘Sorry, folks, I need to talk to Broker.’
‘Whoa,’ a red-faced man in the group rounded on Zeb. ‘Back off, buddy, this is a private party.’
‘It’s over.’
Red Face saw something in Zeb’s eyes and mumbled a few choice curses and walked away, dragging along another friend. Broker watched for a moment and then held his hands up in surrender. He shrugged apologetically and smiled at those still at the bar. ‘Sorry, folks, duty calls.’
‘You got my messages?’ Zeb asked him when they were alone.
‘Yeah.’
‘Can we talk?’
‘We are talking.’
‘I get it; you are upset that I didn’t meet you after Mogadishu. That was a long time back. That’s some chip you’re still carrying on your shoulder.’
A muscle on Broker’s face twitched and his jaws clenched and relaxed. He looked straight ahead and downed his beer in a gulp, without speaking. Zeb let him be and ordered a drink for himself while his companion dealt with whatever was going through his mind.
‘You’re right.’ Broker voice was contrite when he broke the silence. ‘I tried to thank you. My ego couldn’t take it that you rebuffed me. As you say, it’s history.’
He held out his hand and Zeb gripped it.
‘Can we talk someplace private?’ Zeb asked him.
Broker looked at the bartender, ‘Jose, that private room you have, it’s available?’
Jose looked on a screen, punched a few keys, and waved them towards the end of the room. ‘It is, now.’
Broker sank into an armchair in the small room that a had a couple more chairs and a small table. It was meant for private meetings or for card games among friends. He flashed a smile at Zeb and crossed his legs. ‘So what’s so important that you had to break up my party?’
‘I need you.’
Broker stretched and yawned when he walked out of the bar and stood on the sidewalk. Zeb had left a few minutes earlier after the two had spent several hours in deep discussion. Zeb, it was Zeb now, not Carter anymore, had explained about the Agency and its purpose. He didn’t bring up confidentiality or need to know or any of the oaths that Broker had taken while serving his country.
Broker looked in the direction Zeb had gone, but the night had swallowed him. He trusted me. Broker had listened in silence at Zeb’s plans, about Clare, and his initial skepticism had given way to interest. He knew I was bored. The money’s good in the private sector, but I don’t do this for money.
Broker had kept tabs on Zeb, too. He has suspicions about the former Delta operative’s side jobs. Heck, he was reasonably sure that it was Zeb who had rescued Lauren Hollenbrook and at one point during the evening, had asked him outright.
‘Yeah,’ Zeb had answered simply. No denial. No embellishment. No details. It was enough for Broker, it showed that Zeb trusted him fully, and from then on, he was in.
Zeb Carter wants me, he told the listening night, and a deep warmth spread through him. If Zeb Carter needs me, I will be there. I will join him in the Agency. I won’t even need to fold my business. It will merge with his. Those consulting services will be our cover.
Zeb called Clare the next day as she was heading to the White House. ‘We’ve got Broker. I know the other operatives I want. I am sure they’ll sign on, too.’ ‘They’ll drop whatever they are doing, and join you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I asked, ma’am.’
There was no boastfulness in his voice. No ego. It was a simple statement of fact and brought to her mind something General Klouse had said when she had mentioned Carter’s name. ‘There’s a kind of soldier who will place duty above all else. Carter’s one of those.’ I guess Broker and the other operatives Carter has in mind, are cut from that same cloth.
His voice cut short her musing and for the first time since meeting him, she heard a smile in his voice. ‘We are in business, ma’am.’
Clare hung up and looked out unseeingly as her car drove past the National Mall, the imposing Lincoln Memorial, and the Washington Monument and slowed to enter the White House’s gates. Having Broker was important, as important as having Zeb.
A good analyst improved a mission’s probability of success multi-fold. Broker wasn’t just a good analyst, he was the best. General Klouse had confirmed that. He had been excited on hearing Broker’s name and had exclaimed, ‘Clare if you have Carter and Broker in your team, you’re already on a winning streak.’
She discussed various matters with the President and as she rose to leave, she told him, ‘We’re in business, sir.’
He understood in a flash. He smiled widely, the same smile that had won him millions of hearts and minds and votes, up and down the country, and had charmed billions across the world. The smile lingered for a while and disappeared, leaving his face somber.
‘Fantastic. Don’t let me down.’
‘We won’t, sir.’
And she hadn’t. Zeb Carter hadn’t. Not even once.