CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Brendan slid into his seat next to Baxter in the secure conference room and accepted a stack of three dossiers from his former boss.
“Here’s the guys you’re going to meet,” Baxter said. “Good operators, but private companies sometimes have lower standards on behavior, so calibrate your expectations.”
“Well, I guess once you’re no longer an officer, you don’t need to do the gentleman part either,” Brendan replied.
Baxter gave a short laugh and shot an inquiring look at the videoteleconference technician.
“Still waiting on the team from Brazil, sir.”
“All right, just put up the other two teams for now,” Baxter said. “If the third team shows up, you can patch them in.”
The screen lit up with two faces. Brendan shuffled the dossiers so the order of the files matched the lineup on the screen.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said a square-jawed black man. Nigel Okumbe, his file read. Former Delta Force operator.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” Baxter said. “We’re waiting on one more to join us, if you can stand by for a few minutes.”
The second man nodded but said nothing. Brendan checked his file. Soohan Kim, former SEAL.
“I assume you’re waiting for Dickie Davis, sir?” said Nigel. “I heard he was your man in South America. If I know Dickie—and I do—he’s knee deep in some—”
The third screen lit up and a red-haired man with white, freckled skin appeared. “Aw, fuck you, Nigel. I thought I was going to work with some quality contractors this time.”
Brendan started to smile, but a look at Baxter told him his boss did not find Davis’s banter amusing. He scanned the file on Richard Davis. Washed out of Air Force Combat Controller training, left the service after four years to join the former Blackwater group. Investigated for excessive use of force in Iraq, but no charges filed. A note at the bottom of his file listed BASE jumping and free-diving as his hobbies. An adrenaline junkie.
Baxter cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, let’s start again. Now that your teams are in position, we’ll have a weekly meeting to update you with any new intel on Roshed. To my right is your briefer today, Captain Brendan McHugh. Brendan has had personal experience with Roshed. If we get immediate actionable intelligence, he will get it to you via secure comms.”
Brendan picked up the briefing. “Roshed’s last known location was Africa and we believe he still maintains a strong network there. He also has ties with Hezbollah, so we’ve placed another team in Lebanon. Our analysis shows Roshed has been hiding out in North Korea, acting as a special projects man for the Kim Jong-un regime. In this capacity, he travels outside the DPRK. That’s where you come in.”
“So why am I fucking off down here in South America then?” Davis said.
Brendan frowned. “In the mission briefing material provided to your company, it says that Roshed has family in northern Argentina. Two kids.”
“No wife?”
Nigel rolled his eyes, and Brendan gritted his teeth. “Wife was killed when the Iranians tried to roll him up a few years back.”
“Oh,” Davis said.
“We’ve got continuous surveillance on all modes of transit exiting North Korea. If we pick him up on the outside, we will task one of your teams to go after him.”
Baxter broke in, clearly annoyed by Davis’s lack of preparation. “I want to make one thing clear. This is a kill mission, but we require positive proof of Roshed’s death before payment is made. You have biometric kits. We require pictures, DNA, fingerprints, the whole shebang. It’s all in the kit, so no mistakes.”
All three nodded.
Davis spoke up. “So that’s it? We’re just going to sit and hope he comes out of his hidey-hole?”
Brendan could feel Baxter bristling again.
“This is not Pakistan and Osama bin Laden,” Brendan said, working to keep the irritation out of his tone. “There’s no way we could do a clean op in North Korea. They’re nuclear-capable now and the Supreme Leader is bold enough to threaten to pop one off if he thinks he’s being attacked.”
Davis shook his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Brian.”
“Brendan.”
“Whatever. Listen, we hold the keys to the kingdom. Let’s make him come to us.”
Brendan and Baxter exchanged glances. Baxter’s dark skin was flushed with anger.
Davis held up his palms to the camera. “Hear me out here, Baxter. We have his kids, right?”
“We’re not using his children as bait,” Baxter replied.
“Not what I’m talking about,” Davis said. “What if we picked up some random North Korean diplomat”—he waggled his fingers as air quotes—“and rough him up a little. Then we tell him to deliver a message to the Supreme Leader’s pet that we’re coming for his kids.”
“Too risky,” Baxter said. “We would be letting the regime know that we’ve located Roshed.”
“We don’t even know if he cares about his kids anymore,” Brendan said.
Nigel broke in. “Wait a minute, Brendan. Your intel package says he sends flowers to his wife’s grave every year on the anniversary of her death, right? That doesn’t sound like a man who’s given up his family. Isn’t it at least worth a shot? It might flush him out in a way that we can use to our advantage.”
“I’m not authorizing you to use a man’s children as bait!” Baxter said.
Davis gave an exaggerated wink at the camera. “Got it, boss. We are directed to sit like good little boys and wait for an international terrorist to come to our town.”
Nigel and Kim stayed silent.
“Dammit, Davis, you listen to me—”
“Easy, Baxter, I’m just messing with you.” Davis’s tone was not convincing.
As they ended the call, Brendan noticed that Baxter was gripping the edge of the table.