Chapter Seven

 

 

Ottawa, Canada

December 1, 11:50 a.m.

 

It had been quite a busy morning for Justin, even though he was back in Ottawa, and it was one of his non-operational days.

He woke up at 6:00 and went for his five-mile run along the Ottawa River. He had stuck to his rigid schedule of running every single day, provided he was not in an authorized or unauthorized covert operation. It was around twenty-five degrees, and small flakes of snow were his constant companions through the woods and parks. It was still dark, as the sun was not going to rise until almost half past seven, so Justin stayed mostly on the dimly-lit trails and paths. He came to a set of deer tracks on the freshly-fallen snow and kept his eyes open, but saw no bucks or does. On the way back, he came across a flock of magpies, their raucous cackling filling the cold air.

Justin rushed through a hasty breakfast with Anna—who was a nervous wreck because of a major presentation she was delivering that morning in a crucial stakeholders’ meeting. He tried to assure her she was going to do well, and the meeting would go without a glitch, but Anna was still anxious. They made plans to meet for a nice supper and try to unwind at the end of their busy day.

The briefing with Carrie and McClain on the authorized kill in Bosnia and Herzegovina went better than Justin had anticipated. True to his nature, McClain asked a million questions to clarify certain aspects of the operation rather than to criticize small details. He informed Justin and Carrie that the Bosnian police had combed the area around the scene and had discovered the sniper rifle and the machine guns used in the ambush. They had no fingerprints, and the investigation seemed to have stalled. The Bosnian police had sought the help of Interpol, but McClain was not expecting any breakthroughs. A couple of local gangs had claimed the hit as one carried out for revenge, to beef up their ruthless profiles and scare the competition. In a matter of days, the story would start to be forgotten and collect dust in the police archives as the understaffed department focused its attention on another investigation.

Justin spent the next hour reviewing the files on Moore and Podolsky and the operations they had overseen. Between the two of them, they had worked for the NCS for over half a century. Still, there was not much information in the files because of the secret nature of their positions and the clandestine profile of their organization.

The NCS was one of the four directorates of the CIA, and its objective was to collect HUMINT, human intelligence, through covert operations. To accomplish that mission, the NCS undertook a vast number of complicated missions, mostly in hostile territories, the deadliest terrorist-infested areas of the world. In the harshest of conditions, under a complete veil of secrecy, those missions were carried out by the toughest of the NCS field operatives.

Podolsky had gradually climbed through the ranks of the most secretive branch of the CIA, while Moore had made quite a considerable jump after Adams’s resignation. Her position as Deputy Director of the NCS placed her just below the Director, Mitch Flynn, who ran the NCS as a quasi-independent agency, following the sentiments of a powerful group of US senators who had his back. NCS operations officers and paramilitary operations officers infiltrated a country, collected the necessary intelligence by any and all means, neutralized anyone and everyone who may have caught a scent of their operation, and did not give a damn about the fallout, if there ever were any fallout.

At around 11:30, Justin stopped by McClain’s office on the fourth floor of the CIS headquarters. He knocked on the door and waited for his boss to call him to come in.

“Hello, sir.” Justin stood in the doorway.

“Come in. Take a seat and give me a couple of minutes,” McClain said.

He was concentrating on his tablet, set on a small stand on his large, dark oak desk, the centerpiece of his office.

Justin sat in one of the black leather chairs across from McClain’s desk. He looked at the magnificent views of the Ottawa skyline and a lush park outside two floor-to-ceiling windows. McClain could not care less about the views. He was not here to enjoy those views, but to make sure Canadians and others were not blown to pieces while walking around and enjoying them.

“There, I’m done.” McClain tapped a couple of buttons on his tablet and put it away in a desk drawer. “We can now go to our lunch.”

Justin followed his boss down the hall. McClain was a head taller than Justin, who stood at five feet ten inches. McClain was in a great shape for a man in his late forties. Age seemed to have forgotten him but for two slight wrinkles on his forehead and a slight crouch. His hair was thinning, and it had begun to turn ashen.

Justin was leaner than McClain, but not very muscular. He had dark olive skin and raven, wavy hair, big black eyes, and a large, thick nose, all inherited from his Italian mother. His personality, with an unpredictable, flaring temper, came from his Scottish father.

McClain drove his white Porsche Cayenne SUV, and they found a parking spot on the second level of a parking garage on Clarence Street. Justin glanced at the watchtower clock on top of the Empire Grill restaurant in the heart of the Byward Market. It showed eleven fifty-five. They were right on time.

Raffaello’s was two blocks away. The sidewalks were clear of the snow, but still slippery in some spots. The freezing wind had picked up, and Justin felt its sharp bite on his face. He tilted his head to the left, to escape the wind gusts’ bitter lashes.

A young brunette hostess in a short, black dress greeted them as they entered the restaurant. She helped them with their coats after McClain took out his thick, passport-sized wallet. She checked their reservation before leading them to their table, downstairs in an arched cellar. Hushed conversations came from a dozen or so patrons sitting around elegantly set tables. Black sconces along the beige stone walls cast a dim glow in the cellar. Most of the features of the patrons were indistinguishable, as the shadows hid their faces.

Their table was beyond an arched entrance, separated by a wooden door from the rest of the cellar. The hostess knocked, waited a couple of seconds, then opened the door. The private room had two tables, but only one was in use. A man and a woman stood up as McClain and Justin entered in.

McClain said, “Ms. Moore, my name is James McClain. Pleased to meet you. This is Justin Hall from my division.”

“It’s great to meet you, James. Do you mind if I call you James?” Her voice was warm and frank as she shook McClain’s hand.

McClain shrugged. “No, I don’t mind. And I can call you Margaret?”

“No, my mother calls me Margaret. Friends call me Maggie.”

“All right, Maggie.”

Friends already? Justin wondered. He stretched out his hand. Maggie’s handshake was strong. She gave him a bright smile.

“Justin. A pleasure, ma’am,” he said.

“Maggie.” Her voice carried a slight hint of irritation, losing some of the initial warmth.

“Yes, Maggie.”

She pointed to the man across the table. “This is Aaron Podolsky, our new Associate Deputy Director of Operations.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Aaron, who shook hands first with McClain and then with Justin.

Maggie returned to her seat, with Aaron to her right. McClain sat across from Maggie, and Justin took the last remaining seat.

The hostess waited until they had sat down, then said, “Toby will be with you in a minute. He’ll be your server today.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said on everyone’s behalf and smiled at the hostess.

After the hostess had closed the door behind her, Maggie said, “Gentlemen, I’m glad you agreed to meet with us today. The relationship between our two agencies has been quite strained, especially over the recent months. It’s my objective to improve our communications, our intelligence exchange, and our ties. I’d like us to start with a clean slate.” She spoke slowly, but firmly, her blue eyes attentive, focused mostly on McClain, but also glancing at times at Justin.

She continued, “Not just because our political masters have requested it, but because it is good, good for our work and for our countries. We share a long common border and the same strong goal for our citizens to enjoy their lives without worrying about terrorist attacks, planes flying into buildings, or car bombings.”

McClain nodded. “I agree. It has been difficult to coordinate our approaches, even though we fight the same enemy.”

“Exactly,” Maggie said. “We shouldn’t be fighting among ourselves as well.”

Justin studied her face. She had a narrow forehead and her hairline was low. Her short pixie haircut made her look younger than her fifty-two years. Her hair had recently been dyed black, with not a single gray root. Her blue eyes were small, but warm, the crow’s feet around them almost negligible. She had a small nose as well, thin lips, and a nicely carved dimpled chin.

“Mistakes were made in the past, mostly by my predecessor. I intend to correct them.”

Maggie stopped and nodded as if to emphasize her point.

McClain said, “We could have handled a situation or two differently.”

Justin was not sure his boss truly meant his words, but they made sense in this new spirit of cooperation with the CIA. But Maggie sounded genuine and seemed truly eager to repair the damage caused by previous scandals. But how will this work if they are asking us for a favor?

He gave Aaron a quick glance. The man had an Ivy League haircut and his blonde hair was parted to the left, with a few unruly bangs. His face was rugged and he sported a small goatee. He had gray eyes and a sharp nose. Aaron was in his early forties, a tall man, with big shoulders and strong arms.

There was a light rap on the door, and a waiter entered quietly. He apologized for the interruption, welcomed them to the restaurant, and offered to take their drink orders.

Maggie and Aaron ordered Perrier sparkling water. McClain took a Schweppes ginger ale and Justin lemon water. They also ordered four coffees. It was a business lunch and they were going to stick to business.