McLean, VA
11:09 PM Tuesday, January 13
The awe of walking into the CIA headquarters for work on her first day had been daunting, and the feeling hadn’t subsided in the ten years since. However, entering the epicenter of national intelligence in the middle of the night with a foreign liability on the loose—it was straight-up ominous.
Neither Brynn nor Riley spoke as they made their way to the Directorate of Analysis section on the north side of the complex. Normally, sunlight lit up the space through thirty-foot glass panels, but in the dead of night the hum of fluorescents overhead only added to the unnerving feeling she couldn’t shake.
The Muslim Brotherhood?
How had she missed such a crucial piece of information? Riad’s distant connection to one of Egypt’s biggest terrorist organizations would have barred him from being considered for her program. Had his relation been overlooked or purposely omitted—hidden?
On the elevator, Brynn mentally flipped through the last two years. The Diplomatic Intra-Agency Cooperation program had been her brainchild. Leading a joint effort with America’s allies to proactively prevent and defend against terrorism on a global level was the only way Brynn could see the hope of a future without fear of someone opening fire at a concert, church, or school.
This program was important to her, and she’d been extra thorough, knowing her boss, CIA Director of Analysis Frank Peterson, had gone the extra mile to make it happen. Some in the agency had doubts and didn’t hesitate to express their concerns over her ability to coordinate and run such a program. It was unfortunate, but many still held old-fashioned opinions about equality in the workplace. Brynn was grateful Frank didn’t subscribe to the antiquated bias. It also helped that he had three grown daughters, so he understood the challenges women faced. And that made this situation all the worse.
Brynn wanted to make him proud, but had she been so eager in her attempt to prove herself capable that she pushed her team to work too hard or too fast and they’d missed this? They’d been so focused, she’d been so foc—
Unease knotted the muscles in her shoulders. Brynn’s focus had shifted when her father passed away eight months ago. Her mother’s death had been unexpected. Her father’s had left her unprepared. The sudden loss affected Brynn to her core. The CIA gave her leave to take care of the arrangements, but after her mother’s heart attack, her father had made sure everything was in place so Brynn wouldn’t need to worry. There wasn’t to be any fanfare or memorial. Her father didn’t want that. Most of Brynn’s extended family lived in upstate New York and sent their regards while Brynn stood alone in the rain watching her father being buried.
She was all alone.
A fact she didn’t need or want to dwell on, so she remained at work, turning her grief into purpose as she concentrated on her program. Had that adversely affected her work? Or was the oversight due to her desperation to put her career back on track?
Riley cleared his throat quietly next to her, and Brynn realized he was holding the elevator door open. They walked down the long hall, past empty workstations that would be buzzing with activity in just a few short hours. Stopping at the director’s door, Riley gave her a look she was sure he meant to be reassuring, but there was a measure of concern in his expression.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” she said before knocking softly on the office door. She took in a deep breath, preparing herself for what was coming and knowing full well she’d need more than luck on her side.
“Come in.”
As she entered, the stale scent of burned coffee met her along with the sharp gaze of Director Peterson, who was standing in the middle of his office. For a man in his late sixties, Director Peterson was still in better shape than most men half his age. It was like he’d bullied his own body into submission, not allowing nature to turn it soft.
Rolling her shoulders back, she stepped farther into the office and paused when she caught sight of another man sitting in one of the chairs across from Peterson’s desk. In a tailored charcoal-gray suit, the man didn’t rise from his chair but simply gave her a cursory once-over. Brynn did the same. The man had to be about ten or fifteen years younger than Peterson, definitely fit given the cut of his suit. His graying hair was an inch or so longer on the top than the buzzed sides, giving him a stylish GQ look. Behind black square-framed glasses, blue eyes were still appraising her.
Brynn shifted, glancing down at her worn jeans peeking out from beneath her coat. Her fingers moved to the stray strands of blonde hair falling out of the knot she’d tied it into at the coffee shop. “Sir, I can wait outside until you’re finished.”
“No need, Taylor.” Peterson walked around his desk and sat. He motioned for Brynn to take the second chair next to the man. “This is Thomas Walsh, director of SNAP.”
SNAP?
“I’m sure Riley briefed you about Riad’s connection to the Muslim Brotherhood—”
“Distant connection,” Brynn said without thinking. Hard lines creased Peterson’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sir, but I think it’s an important distinction as we assess the situation.”
“The situation”—Peterson’s voice carried in the room—“is that we have an intelligence officer from a foreign country unaccounted for somewhere in our nation’s capital. Which means we need to consider Riad a threat to our national security—”
“Sir, I ran extensive checks into the DI-AC candidates’ backgrounds.” Brynn’s cheeks burned at her second outburst, but she continued. “Multiple ones. Each member of the program came here because they believe in order to defeat terrorism, our countries must be united and work together. I’ve had the opportunity to work closely with Remon Riad these last few weeks, and nothing about his personality or demeanor in class alerted me to him being a threat or disingenuous.”
Except . . . Riad’s favor echoed in her head like an alarm warning her she might be wrong.
Peterson sighed. “On any given day, this entire building is filled with people trained to appear genuine. It’s our job to make someone believe what we want them to believe. You can call it diplomatic cooperation, but the truth is that we had fourteen spies from seven countries sitting in a conference room trained to do exactly what we do, except now one is missing and could be minutes away from executing the next 9/11.”
Those final words sent a jab of pain slicing through her, and it must’ve shown on her face because the hardened edges of Peterson’s face softened a fraction. Brynn’s father had been a firefighter in New York on that fateful day. His station responded minutes before the first tower collapsed, raining down concrete, metal, and debris that pinned her father to the ground for hours. The terrorism that day ended her father’s career and put her on the irrevocable path to never let it happen again.
“Which is exactly what my team will work to avoid,” Director Walsh said, his voice level. Brynn turned to him. “Next week, President Allen will be flying to Cairo to open Wadi Basaela, the first American military installation in Egypt’s history. The majority of the country understands our presence will continue to bring stability along with an improvement to the economy through jobs and the pledge of billions in aid. However, some are resistant to President Talaat’s cooperation with President Allen and are becoming active in voicing their opposition. Riad’s sudden disappearance is a liability to our national security.”
Brynn processed the weight of this information. “With all due respect, Director Walsh, I’ve been analyzing and profiling terrorists for the last ten years, and my assessment of Riad as a well-respected Egyptian citizen who has selflessly served his country for the majority of his life does not fit the profile of someone plotting to destroy it.”
“Ms. Taylor, your insight into Riad’s behavior will be valuable to us in the coming days, but we cannot fail to assume the potential threat this poses under the circumstances.”
“Us?”
“Starting tonight”—Peterson spoke on an exhale—“the investigation into Remon Riad’s disappearance is being handed over to Director Walsh and his team.”
The punch of his words sucked the breath right out of her lungs. She was being fired. Brynn fought to control her emotions. Ten years in the agency sacrificing everything to do her part and stop terrorism, and now it was over?
Director Walsh leaned across the space between them and held out a business card. “Tomorrow morning you’ll be reporting here.”
She read the card.
Strategic Neutralization and Protection Agency
Floor 8 Acacia Bldg.
“What?” Her question came out as a squeak. Clearing her throat, she looked at Peterson. “I don’t understand. I’m not fired?”
“No.” But there was an unmistakable warning in Peterson’s tone that said she was lucky that wasn’t the case. At least not yet. “You’re being assigned to assist SNAP in the apprehension of Remon Riad.”
She was being assigned? To SNAP? “Sir, shouldn’t I remain here? If the assumption is that Riad is a threat, then—”
“With cases of national security, we are to assume the worst-case scenario, Ms. Taylor.” Director Walsh pushed his glasses up his nose. “Until proven otherwise.” His attention cut to Peterson. “Who are you sending to Egypt?”
“Officer Joel Riley. His travel arrangements are being prepared as we speak.” Peterson scooted closer to his desk and began typing at his keyboard. “He’ll be on the first flight leaving tomorrow. 0700. Boots on the ground 1900 Egypt time. He’ll check in with the station chief when he arrives, and until then we’ve already got a team on-site working intel.”
Brynn blinked. They were sending Riley? “Excuse me, sir, but shouldn’t I be the one going to Egypt?”
“Riley has worked Egypt before, and unfortunately, given the current climate there . . .” Peterson looked at her. “You’re a Caucasian female with blue eyes and blonde hair. You’ll stick out like a fly on a wedding cake.”
Oh. He was right, of course. Riley was pretty much the opposite of her with his olive complexion and brown hair and eyes. He was also male, an important fact given Egypt’s culture. But still, that didn’t make the sting of being unable to do her job any less painful.
Turning to Director Walsh, she gathered her nerve. “So, I’ll be running the investigation stateside?”
“As you know, the CIA is limited in its authority to operate within the US. Your role on my team will be that of CIA liaison, a position we identify as special missions manager.”
Liaison. It didn’t matter what fancy name they called it, Brynn knew exactly what it meant. She was being stripped of control. She’d rather be fired.
“Sir”—Brynn shifted in her chair and locked eyes with Peterson—“I won’t rest until Riad is found and secured and we have answers.” She held up the card. “But I don’t need to work with some strategic agency to do that. I want to work here, with people I know and trust.”
Peterson held her gaze for several long seconds before releasing a sigh. “You don’t have a choice. This goes above my pay grade.” His eyes bore into her. “And before you even ask, it’s above the CIA director’s pay grade as well.”
“I’m sure you don’t need to be reminded what’s at stake here.”
Her fingers curled around the edge of the business card. She was sure Director Walsh hadn’t meant for it to come off as patronizing, but it had. Of course she knew what was at stake—and it wasn’t just her career.
The safety of the American people—the security of America, herself—was at risk. If Riad was dirty . . . if he came here because of some plot, then any fallout would land squarely on her shoulders. Brynn’s hands fisted as she thought back on the acts of terrorism committed on American soil and how the people demanded, rightfully so, answers to how agencies designed to protect America had missed the warnings. They wanted someone to blame. If she was wrong about Riad, her name would become synonymous with whatever disaster he was planning.
“No, sir.” The muscles in her shoulders tightened as she straightened. “I’ll be reporting to you?”
There was something, an uncertainty or concern, in Director Walsh’s blue eyes that sent a wave of nervousness through Brynn. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Peterson gave her a quick dismissal and Brynn swiftly exited the office, closing the door behind her. Forcing breath back into her lungs, she took a moment, standing there in the hub of CIA intelligence, to figure out how in the matter of what—an hour?—her career was on the verge of crashing around her.
“Ms. Taylor, may I ask a favor?” Those words were going to haunt Brynn. The urgency of discovering what Riad needed and how or if it was connected to his disappearance pushed her in the direction of her office instead of home. She sent a message to Riley letting him know she’d get a driver to take her back to her place and not to wait for her. It was going to be a long night, but if she’d missed something, she prayed she’d have the chance to figure it out before it was too late.