Leesburg, Virginia
Retired CIA director Ed Foley stood at the kitchen counter fussing over a cup of Earl Grey tea and musing about what his wife was up to, when his phone rang. A hell of a boring life for a man accustomed to living in the shadows and operating under Moscow Rules.
Both operations officers for the CIA—much of their careers in denied areas—Ed and Mary Pat Foley had spent the better part of their forty-plus years of marriage wondering what the other one was up to. Both their stars had risen quickly in the Agency, him being promoted to chief of station in Moscow relatively early in his career, her running a number of noteworthy—and dangerous—ops in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. She spoke Russian like a native. The CIA sure as hell leveraged that to the hilt. Sometimes, when she was angry or sullen, usually about something idiotic Ed had done, she could have been mistaken for a Russian—slow to smile and even slower to laugh. But when she did laugh, Mary Pat Kaminsky was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
The life they’d led certainly took a toll on a young couple, frequent moves halfway around the world from parents and grandparents, new schools for the kids, the constant brooding danger. The worst for Ed was the secrecy. Their boys thought he and Mary Pat were cultural attachés until they were in high school. Often, in those early salad days, operational security meant they couldn’t even divulge certain specifics of their assignments to each other. Later, the big brains at Langley realized they could wield the Foleys as one weapon, a power couple. It did something to a marriage when you knew that an audio recording of the moment one of your kids was conceived was on tape in some KGB vault.
Now he was retired—and Mary Pat had reached the pinnacle of her career. She was good at her job. The best Ed had ever seen. And still he worried every time she stepped out the door, even with her steely-eyed Secret Service detail.
If she’d been home, where he could see her and know that she was safe, Ed Foley would have just let the damn phone ring.
Leaning over the counter, he adjusted his glasses so he could read the caller ID before he answered. It was a 305 number he didn’t recognize, a Florida area code. Probably spam . . . But his tea needed to steep a little longer anyway.
“Hello.”
Foley waited a beat, thumb hovering over the end button. He’d resolved long before to hang up on any call if he didn’t hear a human voice in the first three seconds.
“Am I speaking to the notorious B.S. Foley?”
Foley hadn’t heard that nickname in forever. And even then, from only a handful of people who were with him when he slipped and fell in a snot-slick mound of bat guano during a rainy operation in Mexico. Foley recognized the voice at once as Randell Green, a career intelligence officer he’d worked with many times over the years.
“Randell,” Foley said. The sound of his name churned up a torrent of memories. “Great to hear from you. You sort of dropped off the map, bud.”
“Yeah, well,” Green said. “Old habits . . .”
“How’s Paula?”
“No idea,” Green said, without offering further explanation. A hell of a lot went unsaid with most retired operations officers, especially if they were clandestine up to the bitter end, but Randell took taciturn to an entirely different level. It was your job as the other half of the conversation to put the pieces together—a maddening trait in a husband to be sure, but a good quality to have in a spy. Foley couldn’t help but smile at his old friend’s eccentricities.
Green was easily the most observant person Foley had ever met. His true photographic memory was a blessing or a curse, depending on your point of view. It made him a prime candidate to run reconnaissance missions. Absolutely nothing got by him. The problem was that once an image got into his brain, it camped out there for good. Reviewing the vast catalog of information stored in his head left Green little time for exchanging pleasantries. He was always friendly, kindhearted even, but not a conversationalist.
One thing was certain, Randell Green didn’t just ring you up to chat about the time of day. If he took the time to actually pick up the phone and call, he had something very important on his mind.
“Looks like you’re in Florida,” Foley said. “Judging from your cell number. I’m sure that’s nicer than it is here this time of year.”
“Florida phone,” Green said. “My wife and I moved to Panama four years ago.”
Foley started to say something else about Paula, but then realized what his old friend had just said.
“Hold on. You’re in Panama? Right now?” A cold dread washed over him.
“I am,” Green said. “We’re in Punta Pacifica, where a bunch of the expats live. Comparatively inexpensive living, good people. Just don’t tell anybody. We don’t want it to turn into another damned Costa Rica. Anyway, this is probably nothing. I’ve been out of the business so long my mind is playing tricks on me.”
“Okay . . . ?” Foley pushed aside the cup of Earl Grey and listened while he poured a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge. “What do you mean ‘playing tricks’?”
“I’m seeing lots of new faces around here,” Green said. “People who don’t belong.”
“Don’t belong how?”
“Well,” Green said. “You’re gonna think I’ve lost my mind, but merc types, shooters, young mafia dons. You know, the whole rogues’ gallery, like when we were in Moscow and a new gang of Bratva moved into an area. You know the look. Men who have carried a pistol their entire life, been shot at—shot even—and come out the other side. The kind with a shitload of swagger, much of it earned the hard way. There was a guy at the market a couple of days ago that had arms dealer written all over him.”
“I get what you mean,” Foley said.
These were the kind of wild imaginings that most anyone would blow off if they didn’t know Green or hadn’t actually observed firsthand how gifted he was. “I’m telling you, Ed, something’s going on down here. I just can’t put my finger on exactly what it is just yet.”
“What does your gut say?” Foley asked.
“I’m not sure,” Green said. “Maybe muscle for a new crime family moving in. Drugs, guns, money, human cargo, you name it, it comes through Panama.”
Foley looked at his watch. The trip wasn’t a secret by now.
“Mary Pat’s in Panama,” he said.
The line fell silent for a time, then Green said, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“No,” Foley said. “I’ll give her a call and bring her up to speed on your observations. She’ll be grateful to get the insight, I’m sure. It may be a piece to a larger puzzle retired peons like you and me don’t get to be privy to anymore.”
“Could be,” Green said. “You know the ‘little green men’ Russia sends into countries they want to infiltrate in Eastern Europe?”
“Of course,” Foley said.
“Well,” Green mused. “This is like that, but Latin American . . . and maybe even a few Russians. I shit you not, Eddie. Something is about to go down. I can’t say what or where, but . . . I know I sound crazy . . .” He paused, breathing heavily. Thinking. “Look, I’m sorry to spin you up with Mary Pat down here. Forget I called. I’m just an old man struggling to stay relevant.”
“That’s rich,” Foley said. “You’re still relevant enough that I’m about to call the director of national intelligence as soon as I hang up.”
“Thank you, Ed,” Green said. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing, but maybe it’ll give her some added intel. Oh, and by the way, I’m catching holy hell from Paula for making you think we’re divorced. She’s sitting on the couch beside me.”
Foley chuckled. “Good to hear. Now I better call Mary Pat with your intel.”
“Such as it is,” Green said.
“Come see us in Leesburg,” Foley said, already thinking about how he was going to word this to Mary Pat.