Five hours later, Ed Rance glanced at the spot on his wrist where his Panerai would have normally sat. But his watch and phone were still in the leaden box outside the SCIF.
Sheffield, the gray-haired general counsel, caught him doing it. “In a hurry, Ed?”
The CIA division chief had been busy performing calculations of driving times between Langley, the city, and his home in Silver Spring. Yes, he thought. I am in a goddamned hurry. By his math, in order to slip into bed next to his wife at a reasonable hour, say ten thirty, he’d need to be on the road by six.
But outwardly, he’d been aiming for stolidity. “Of course not,” he said, dropping his wrist below the table. “We have to do this right.”
Sheffield nodded briefly before canting over a document with striped classification markings, initialing various lines. “This is a highly unusual situation,” the lawyer added. He spun the document toward Rance and looked up. “How’s it look to you?”
Rance barely read it as his eyes went the length of the three pages. “Yup, all good.”
“Okay. Then here, take this.” Sheffield handed him a lapel microphone. There was a video camera at the end of the table. “Technically we should probably get the signature of a Congressional oversight staffer for a reinstatement like this, just to cover ourselves. But that’ll take too long. We’ll have to settle for the director.” Sheffield grinned. Lawyer humor.
“Right,” said Rance, absently drumming his fingers on the table.
They were in Sheffield’s conference room, a SCIF reserved for the attorney’s personal use. Even by CIA standards, the lawyers had more secrets than anyone else.
Rance wanted to check his phone to see if maybe Genevieve had called, but the damn thing was forty feet away. Feigning a stretch so he could catch a fleeting glimpse of the clock over the door, he thought her plane should have landed by now.
“Okay, let’s get started.”
Sheffield flipped a switch. A red light blinked and then remained steady. The unblinking lens above it watched ominously, a HAL 9000 redux.
The lawyer recited a formal introduction of their names, the time, the date, the subject of the interview. He gave several classification warnings, noting that they would be discussing SCI code-word-access programs called Broadsword and Active Archer.
Formalities done, he looked directly at Rance, his eyes as expressionless as the camera behind him. “For the record, Mr. Rance, please give me the history of your interactions with former CIA Special Activities operative John Dale, suspended case officer nine-eight-one-one-two.”
Now that the tape was rolling, Rance’s mind kicked into gear. “Sure,” he started slowly, running the angles. “John Dale was assigned to me as an operational clandestine case officer in February 2012, when I was deputy chief of station, Baghdad. He was detailed to me from Ground Branch on an ad hoc basis for an active operation.”
“Right. What operation was that?”
“It was called Broadsword.”
Sheffield said into the microphone, “For the record, Operation Broadsword is no longer an ongoing concern. It remains classified SCI code-word access, refer to case number one-five-seven-one.” He nodded back to Rance. “Mr. Rance, please state the nature of Broadsword and Dale’s role in it.”
“Sure. The objective of Broadsword was to infiltrate ISIS cells in eastern Syria and Iraqi Kurdistan. We were to establish contact with Syrians that we could turn as assets and gather intelligence on ISIS.”
“Why was John Dale assigned to it? How was he qualified? What was his role?”
Rance cleared his throat elaborately to buy some time. He started to say something, checked himself, and then started over. “John Dale worked with CIA Special Activities Ground Branch to lead renditions of suspected ISIS members. Because the Jihadists were usually far from the front lines in Syria, Dale and his Special Activities team were embedded with friendly Syrian Kurds so that any attempted attacks on suspected terrorists could not be traced back to the US military, which we believed would force them to change tactics.”
“Right. And what was the success rate of John Dale’s team as part of Broadsword?”
“Mixed. His team eliminated five suspected cell members over the course of about six months, but we never took down a primary cell. On his last mission in August of 2012, Dale was captured by ISIS forces in an operation near Mosul. Five days after his capture, he escaped and we recovered him.”
Sheffield nodded. He knew the story. Everyone above a certain pay grade knew the story. But he needed it for the tape. He glanced at a paper clipped to a manila file, then turned back to Rance.
“Mr. Rance, John Dale’s record shows that he was recruited into the Agency in 2004, direct from the Navy, where he served as an intelligence officer. As his former managing case officer, can you describe his qualifications and training while at CIA?”
Rance nodded. On safer ground now, he spoke quickly. “Dale’s early work was as a recruiter for Iranian agents at a Canadian university. His mother was an Iranian refugee if I recall. After Canada he applied for additional Ground Branch operations training. I think he spent about five years on and off in the Middle East with the counterterrorism division before being transferred to me as part of Broadsword.”
“Why did you select him for Broadsword?”
“Because he was at least conversationally proficient in Farsi. Iranian intelligence was active in the region, so we thought Farsi would be useful. I, along with others, including Deputy Director Dorsey, believed John’s tactical and language skills would be valuable contributions to the effort.”
“So you thought he was uniquely qualified? Particularly well suited for the role?”
“Yes. Well, myself and Deputy Director Dorsey thought so.”
“Did you have any hesitation before assigning him to Broadsword?”
“Yes.”
Sheffield looked at him, surprised. He arched his eyebrows as if to say, Well?
Rance continued. “My hesitation was that he had a reputation for being hard to control. He was also married to another case officer, Meredith Morris-Dale, who was stationed here at Langley. They had a young daughter. Given the dangerous and occasionally autonomous nature of John’s assignment, I didn’t want a case officer that could become emotionally unstable.”
“I see. And did you voice these concerns to Deputy Director Dorsey?”
Rance hesitated. Careful. “I . . . may have. It’s been several years. Knowing what I know now, I regret not having done so more forcefully at the time.”
“Right. But in the end, you accepted Dale into your operation.”
“Along with the concurrence of others, yes. As I said earlier, he had a unique background for what we needed. I’d also add that the operation had been cleared by National Command Authority with some urgency.” Rance wasn’t about to let the bastards who might come after him one day for Broadsword pretend it had all been his idea alone.
“How did John Dale’s career with the Agency end?”
“Dale was captured by an ISIS unit operating near Mosul. After analyzing his escape and debriefing him, we couldn’t rule out the possibility he’d been turned, and initiated a preliminary inquiry report.”
“Turned by ISIS? Is Mr. Dale a Muslim?”
“Not that I know of. But I can’t rule it out.”
“Why did you think he had been turned after only five days?”
“He’d been independent and invisible to us for more than eight months, living among Kurds, targeting Syrian or Iraqi contacts for solicitations of agency. In so doing, we believed he may have developed . . . sympathies . . . a distaste for his mission. We assessed that this confusion of loyalty may have had something to do with his escape.”
“What evidence did you have to support the initiation of an inquiry?”
“After his capture, we obtained drone footage of his quote-unquote escape. In the drone video, he’s seen conversing with a hostile. They wave to each other before John walks off to be picked up by friendly forces.”
Sheffield looked at a legal pad, made a note. He said into the camera, “Reference case file nine-five-six-five-zero dated August tenth, 2012, preliminary inquiry submission six-seven-two-one.” He turned back to Rance. “Did the inquiry expose the identity of this hostile that he waved to?”
“No. Mr. Dale wouldn’t reveal anything about him. He only acknowledged that he was a fellow captive and that they had worked together on an escape plan. But the suspected hostile wore clothing more typically identified with ISIS members. He was also clearly of ethnic Middle Eastern origin.”
“What happened then?”
Rance sighed, thinking of the time. He could have strangled Sheffield for his thoroughness. “Under questioning, we felt that Dale had, in fact, become emotionally unstable, just as I had thought. His wife, a fellow officer with unique insights into his state of mind, concurred. Dale leveled some accusations against the Agency—unsettling accusations, baseless. But unable to support these, he walked out, resigned, refused to cooperate. With the inquiry still pending, we tagged him as a possible compromise. We suspended his career with conditions, which remain in effect. But we took no . . . punitive action, given his service.”
“What are the conditions of Mr. Dale’s suspension?”
“We’ve taken his passport. He has to report in from time to time on his whereabouts. Otherwise he is free to live his life as he chooses. And, of course, live up to his confidentiality obligations.”
“Since you are the division chief for Counterproliferation, Mr. Dale’s suspension continues based on your recommendation. For the record, Mr. Rance, why do you recommend reactivating him for assignment to Active Archer, which is, after all, a Counterproliferation operation?”
“For the record, General Counsel Sheffield, I am acting on the orders of Deputy Director Dorsey. Director Dorsey has asked that we reactivate John Dale because he has been requested by a specific asset with whom he appears to have a unique relationship. The deputy director sees the reactivation of Dale as unfortunate but necessary.”
“Understood. And so your next action is to reinstate him on your authority?”
“No. Case Officer Meredith Morris-Dale is to evaluate his fitness for duty and, if suitable, recruit him back with limited duty for Active Archer—on Director Dorsey’s authority.” Rance crossed his legs, quietly congratulating himself on the nuance.
After rattling off the reference numbers for Active Archer, Sheffield punched a button and stopped the recording. “Good. That should do it. I’ll have this officially transcribed so you can countersign it. If you see anything you don’t like, you can rewatch the tape for accuracy. But let me be clear. Until the director endorses with his signature, you can’t take any action toward Dale.”
Rance turned to glance at the clock again. “Is it okay with you if all of that goes down tomorrow? Nothing is going to happen before then. I really do need to run. You know, the wife . . .”
“Sure,” said Sheffield, grinning.
Rance unclipped the microphone from his lapel and pushed through the SCIF exit like a man released from jail. He retrieved his watch and phone from Sheffield’s secretary and hustled down the elevator to his office. Barely breaking stride, he let his secretary know he was leaving and would be incommunicado at the gym for the next couple of hours. He hurried to his BMW in the parking garage.
By six thirty he was speeding out the HQS exit gate toward I-66 through Arlington, on his way to DC. He received a text and, risking collision, glanced down to read it. Genevieve had already checked in. Room 505. God, even the number sounded sexy.
As he was entering the freeway ramp, he inwardly rejoiced at the sparse traffic. He headed to the left lane and sped to seventy-five, one eye monitoring the rearview for cops. But just as he slipped into a reverie of the evening ahead, he had an abruptly uncomfortable thought. He’d forgotten to set up Meredith’s travel so that she could get out to see John Dale and sign him on to Archer. He’d promised an Agency jet out of Andrews to make it happen quick. That had been Dorsey’s idea.
But now, he realized with growing alarm, it would be too late, since it required multiple signatures. Rance didn’t have the clout to scramble an Agency Gulfstream on his own authority; he sure as hell wasn’t going to bother his superior with this kind of minor detail after hours. Thinking it over, he decided to do what most bosses do: make it a subordinate’s problem.
Meredith could figure out a commercial flight on her own. Not much of a security risk anyway. Wouldn’t it make sense that a co-parent would make the occasional trip out West to see the father? Not a stretch at all. Problem solved, he thought.
He needed to call Meredith to get her moving, but didn’t have the inclination to open the encryption app required for a secure call. That would require him to enter a lengthy complicated code and his fingerprint for two-factor authentication. He wasn’t about to slow down, not even a little bit. Instead he dialed her in the clear, listening to her phone ringing through the Bluetooth. Voice mail. Good enough.
“Hi, Meredith, it’s Ed. About that flight out to see your husband. I wasn’t able to line up a company plane after all, so probably best if you just fly commercial to Seattle. Sorry for the change of plans. Time is of the essence. Also . . . no phones, obviously. Need you to speak to him in person only about . . . that thing. I trust your judgment. Please report back in after you’ve made contact. Oh—and why don’t you say hello to John for me?”
He smiled at that last bit, knowing that John Dale was most definitely not an Ed Rance fan.
There, he thought. He sped up to eighty.
Less than an hour later, he was hammering on the door of room 505 of the Hay-Adams Hotel. Genevieve Lund opened the door with a drink in her hand. She wore a short dress that sent his heart rate to three digits.
Handing over a cut-crystal glass, she ushered him in, explaining that she had a meeting with the Office of Maritime Security tomorrow to defend the legality of a Panamanian flagged ship owned by a certain client that had never once been to Panama, not even the canal. After the morning meeting she was to whisk right back to London. Could he believe it?
He couldn’t, but at the same time, he didn’t care. They’d met in London six weeks earlier when Rance had been on a tour through the Agency’s European field ops. She was an executive with a shipping insurance company called Stoke Park, tasked with external government relationships. As a safety precaution, Rance had run a quiet background check on her. But given his intentions, he’d done it back channel with an underling as a discreet favor, without the full force of Agency investigators. She’d been born in Finland, emigrated young to England, had an economics degree from Newcastle. He’d had another case officer make a few quiet inquiries in the UK. She’d come up clean. Good enough.
Now, as she stood before him, the only thing his addled mind processed was that he had only a couple of hours to play with between work and home. Why on earth was she using some of that up by making him endure a drink? Were they really going to sit and talk about their respective workdays like some old married couple in Baltimore?
“Come on,” she said, pressing the glass into his hand. “A splash of bourbon will do us both some good.”
The Finnish-English accent was a nuclear turn-on. Particularly that tendency to drag out certain words. His face was hot.
Fine. He would have the drink. One.
He sat back in the plush club chair and crossed his legs, his foot bobbing.
She noticed it. “You seem anxious, darling. Rough day? I’m the one who’s just crossed the Atlantic and is still living on Greenwich Mean Time. I’m near stupefied. Is everything okay on your end?”
He’d made Genevieve believe he was a long-suffering civil servant in some boring branch of the State Department. “Yes,” he said, “everything’s fine. It’s just been an unusually hectic day, what with your hard Brexit and all.” He smiled winsomely.
She returned it. “Oh, do tell me your opinion on our hard Brexit. Old Bo-Jo does have balls, doesn’t he?”
He spoke through his grinning teeth. “Must we?”
“Finish your drink,” she said, laughing, toying with him. “You’re staring at me like you’re going to eat me whole.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he returned. Fuck it. He tossed off the bourbon in one gulp and stood, loosening his tie. He couldn’t take it anymore.
Later, his naked body lay sideways across the tousled sheets. He was snoring.
Genevieve Lund skillfully slid out from under him. The athletic thirty-four-year-old blonde found Rance’s suit jacket lying across the suite’s white velvet sofa. She slid her hand through the silken lining, past the Zegna label, and located the phone in the breast pocket. Naked from head to toe, she slipped around the corner into the bathroom, out of sight, but with the door still open, cupping the phone in her hands.