Devolis lay in the prone position slightly ahead of the others, the muzzle of his rifle pointed at his sector of the jungle, his heart beating a bit faster but under control. The goggles turned the dark night into a glowing green, white and black landscape. Lying completely still, the lieutenant squinted his eyes in an attempt to pierce the wall of vegetation in front of him. After he’d given it a good look he took his right finger off the trigger and pointed toward the jungle twice. Ten feet to Devolis’s right, Scooter Mason, his point man, popped up and scampered off toward the jungle in a low crouch, his weapon at his shoulder ready to fire. Devolis took a second to check their flanks and looked down the beach in both directions.
That was when it happened. A three-round burst that shattered the still night. Three loud distinctive cracks that Devolis instantly knew came from a weapon that didn’t belong to any of his men. As Devolis swung his head around he saw Scooter falling to the ground and then the jungle in front of them erupted in a fusillade of gunfire. Bright muzzle flashes came from everywhere. A bullet whistled past the young lieutenant’s head and the sand in front of him began to dance as rounds thudded into the beach. In return, the squad let loose with everything they had. Each man hosed down his sector, focusing on the bright muzzle flashes of the enemy.
Devolis unloaded his first thirty-round magazine and ejected it. While fishing for a fresh magazine, he yelled into his lip mike, “Victor Five, this is Romeo! I need an immediate evac!” Devolis rammed home the fresh magazine and chambered a round. A muzzle flash erupted at one o’clock and he sent a three-round burst right back down its throat.
“Say again, Romeo” came the reply back over Devolis’s earpiece.
Devolis continued to fire and shouted, “We are taking heavy fire! We have at least one man down and we need an immediate evac! Bring it right in on the beach!”
An earnest voice crackled back over the radio, “We’re on the way.”
Devolis knew the rest of the team had heard his call for an evacuation over their headsets. They had covered it thoroughly in the premission briefing. The Mark V was to circle back after it dropped them off and take up station a mile and a half off the beach in case they were needed. It was a standard mission precaution, but one that no one thought they’d need tonight. As Devolis returned fire, he loudly cursed the people back in Washington. They’d walked right into an ambush and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how it had happened.
“Guys, give me a sit rep, by the numbers.” Devolis continued to fire while his men sounded off one by one. Only five men checked in. Devolis knew Scooter was down and that left only one other. “Irv, talk to me.” Devolis repeated the request, then looked to his left. He could see Irv’s prone figure, but there was no movement. “Listen up!” His shout was interrupted by several loud explosions as one of his men fired his M203 40mm grenade launcher into the jungle. “Gooch, put some smoke into their position. The boat will be here any second. When the big fifties start to rake the jungle we move. I’ll grab Irv. Gooch, can you get to Scooter?”
“Affirmative.”
Devolis tore off his night vision goggles, reached for an M-18 smoke grenade and pulled the pin. Rolling onto one side, he lobbed the can of soup upwind from their position. The grenade rolled across the sand and began to hiss its white cover. Slowly the fog worked its way back down the beach. Devolis knew the boat had to be near and started his crawl toward Irv. He had to get to him. No one could be left behind. When he was just a few feet away from his friend a bullet found him. It slammed into his right leg. Through gritted teeth Devolis let out a muffled scream and a slew of profanities. The pain had been so complete he wondered briefly if his leg had been blown off. He looked over his shoulder to reassure himself that it was still attached.
He reached Irv just as the battle reached a new crescendo. The big .50-caliber machine guns of the Mark V tore into the jungle with vicious force. Shredded leaves rained down, branches snapped free, trunks absorbed the big rounds with cracking moans and thuds and then the 40mm grenade launcher let loose with a salvo of explosions. The enemy’s guns all but stopped as they dove for cover.
Devolis called out his friend’s name and reached out for his shoulder. When he turned him over all he saw was a lifeless face staring blankly at the night sky, his jaw open and loose. A bullet had struck him in the forehead and a mixture of sand and blood covered one side of his face. Devolis froze briefly in sorrow as the finality of the moment hit home and then a line of bullets popped in the sand just in front of him. A voice inside told him to get to the water. Now was not the time to mourn his friend’s death. Devolis grabbed Irv’s H harness and began dragging him toward the safety of the sea. As he struggled with the lifeless body and only one good leg, he called for his team to report in.
While they did, he reached the warm salty water and looked over at the rubber raft. It was too shot up to bother recovering. He continued to move away from the shore, pulling his friend with him as the salt water began to bite at the bullet hole in his leg. He gave the team orders to abandon the raft and swim out for pickup. Devolis stopped in about five feet of water and waited for each team member to pass. The Mark V continued to rake the beach with its big .50-caliber machine guns until the enemy fire was reduced to a few sporadic shots. Devolis side-stroked with all his might, clutching his dead friend as they moved farther and farther away from the shore. As he neared the safety of the boat, he blocked out the agonizing pain and tried to understand how they could possibly have walked into an ambush.
3
The man sat on the backseat of a power launch, his oil-black hair blowing in the wind like a lion’s mane as the boat sped away from the Monte Carlo dock. The sun was climbing into the bright blue Mediterranean sky. It looked to be another perfect day in the playland of the ultrarich. The passenger’s dark skin was offset by a loose-fitting white shirt and a pair of black Ray·Ban sunglasses. He looked like something out of a travel magazine with his arms stretched across the back of the white leather seat and the sun shining down on his chiseled face, a postcard, if you will, for how to get away from the everyday grind of life. For the passenger sitting in the back of the launch, however, this little sojourn out to sea would be anything but relaxing. He was not getting away from the everyday grind, he was heading directly into it. He was on his way to pay a visit to a man he disliked intensely. And to make matters worse, the visit was not his idea. It was a command performance.
The handsome man went by the name of David. No last name, just David. It wasn’t his real name, but one that he had adopted years ago, while he’d attended university in America. It was a name that suited him well in a profession that called for striking just the right balance between anonymity and panache. David was a survivor. He had grown up in an environment that bred violence and hatred, and had somehow managed to master both at an early age. Controlling his emotions instead of being driven by them was what allowed David to pick his way through the minefield of his youth and set a course for greatness. And now at the relatively young age of thirty-four he was poised to change the world. If only the man he was going to see would leave him alone, he could put the final pieces of his plan into place.
David looked over the windscreen of the launch at the massive yacht anchored out at the far environs of the harbor and sighed. In David’s mind the yacht and its owner were almost indistinguishable. Both were huge, both demanded to be noticed by all who slipped into their sphere and both needed a crew of tireless workers to keep them afloat. There were days when David wondered if he could turn back the clock and start over, would he have chosen someone else to be his benefactor? He traveled a great deal, and in his line of work, if you could call it that, taking notes was a very bad idea, so he constantly mulled over his previous decisions and how they would affect his next move. Every flight and train ride was an endless scrolling through of what-ifs and whos.
At some point, though, it was all moot. He was too far into it now to change horses. Prince Omar
was his partner, and at the end of the day David had to begrudgingly admit that the man had held up his end of the bargain, at least financially. As the ostentatious yacht loomed larger with each passing second, David once again had the uneasy sensation that he was being pulled into the prince’s orbit against his wishes. The man was like an illicit drug. In small doses he was tempting and beguiling, but if not monitored, his excesses could rot your body and your soul to the core.
As the launch pulled up alongside the massive 315-foot yacht, the sun was blocked out, its warmth dissipating in the cool morning air. David glanced down and noticed goose bumps on his arm. He hoped this was merely a result of the change in temperature and not an omen of bad things to come. The prince had requested that David join him for lunch and drinks at two that afternoon, but David wasn’t about to waste an entire day in Monaco. There was far too much to be done. The prince would not be happy, but at this point in the game there wasn’t a lot he could do other than stamp his feet and protest.
Before the launch came to a stop, David shoved a hundred euros into the driver’s shirt pocket and leapt onto the stern deck. He landed gracefully and immediately noticed five white garbage bags filled with the waste from last night’s party. Even in the cool morning air he could smell wine and beer and God knows what else leaking from the bags. The prince would be in rough shape.
A voice sounded from somewhere above. “You’re early.”
David recognized the French-accented English of the prince’s chief minion and said, “Sorry, Devon.” Looking up, he saw the prince’s assistant, Devon LeClair, and next to him, the prince’s ever-present Chinese bodyguard, Chung.
Devon looked down at him with an irritated frown. “You’re going to have to wait, you know.”
David started up the ladder, keeping his eye on Devon. Dressed in a suit and holding his leather encased Palm Pilot he looked more like a cruise director than quite possibly the highest paid executive assistant in the world.
David smiled and said, “You’re looking well this morning, Devon.” He clapped the prince’s assistant on the shoulder and added, “I trust you didn’t take part in last night’s activities.”
With a dramatic roll of the eyes, Devon replied, “Never. Someone has to stay sober enough to make sure this enterprise stays afloat.”
“True enough.” David almost asked how the party went and then thought better of it. If he hung around long enough the prince would probably force him to sit through a private viewing of the debauchery that had most certainly been recorded for posterity.
“Will you be staying with us long?” The prince’s assistant had his pen poised over his now open Palm Pilot, ready to go to work.
“No, I’m sorry.” David always treated Devon with great respect and care. As the gatekeeper to the prince, he was someone you wanted on your side.
“Well, you’re going to have to wait quite a while for His Highness to awake. The sun was starting to come up when he finally called it a night.”
David pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and checked his Rolex. It was a quarter past nine. “Devon, I’m sorry, but I can’t wait. He ordered me to show up today, and to be truthful, I didn’t even have time for that.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I really can’t afford to sit around all day and wait for him to sleep off last night’s hangover.”
The thin Frenchman closed his Palm Pilot and looked at David pensively through his silver-rimmed oval spectacles. “He will not be happy.”
“I know he won’t, and you can blame it all on me.” David could see Devon was on the fence. “If you would like, I will go wake him up, but I absolutely can’t afford to waste the day away waiting for him.” He watched as Devon’s eyes quickly scanned him from head to toe and then looked over at Chung, who shook his head. There was no way the man charged with keeping the prince alive was going to let this particular guest enter the prince’s inner sanctum unannounced, for David was a man with many talents.
As he turned to go, the ever-efficient assistant said, “I will see what I can do. In the meantime, are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
Pointing up he said, “I will have breakfast prepared for you on the aft sundeck.” With a curt nod the assistant turned and disappeared into the ship leaving David and Chung alone with one of their uncomfortable moments of silence; the assassin and the bodyguard.
4
A small table lamp was the only illumination in the large corner office of the building. It was past ten in the evening and all but a few of the thousands of bureaucrats who toiled there had gone home. The black-clad security staff patrolled the hallways and the woods outside, as they did twenty-four hours a day every day of the year. There were no holidays in the business of protecting secrets.
For the woman charged with protecting those secrets, and stealing those of her adversaries, it was a never-ending circle of suspicion. On this particular night an unshakable sense of foreboding enveloped her as she looked out over the dark landscape that surrounded the massive office complex. Nightfall had crept across the countryside, bringing to a close another day and with it more worries. She sat in her office on the top floor of one of the world’s most notorious organizations, and pondered a multitude of potential threats.
They were not imaginary, exaggerated or petty. Dr. Irene Kennedy knew better than anyone the lethal nature of her foe. She had seen it with her own eyes. She had watched the tide of fanaticism swell over the last thirty years, watched it roll toward America’s shores like an increasingly ominous storm. She had been Churchillian in her warnings about the growing threat, but her dire predictions had fallen on deaf ears.
The people she answered to were infinitely more concerned with the issues that dominate the political discourse of a peacetime democracy. No one wanted to deal with, or even hear about, an apocalyptic threat. They were more concerned with triangulating issues and with weakening their opponents through real or imagined scandals. She was even called an alarmist by some, but through it all she stayed the course.
It was an irony that didn’t sit well with her, that many of the same senators and congressmen who labeled her an alarmist were the same ones who were now calling for her resignation. Some had even suggested that the CIA should be put out to pasture like some old plow horse that had served its purpose, but was no longer capable of doing its job.
The storm that she had predicted, however, was upon them, and the professional politicians who had ignored her warnings, and frustrated her actions at every turn, were not about to take an ounce of the blame. This unique breed of human was utterly incapable of accepting responsibility for any past mistakes, unless they wrapped it first in a well-timed act of contrition that would gain them sympathy.
Fortunately for Kennedy there were a few honorable senators and congressmen on the Hill who shared her commitment and concern. These were men and women who had been with her every step of the way as she attempted to change policies and operational procedures in order to prepare for the coming threat. They and the president had come to her defense and stymied a plan to have her removed as the director of the CIA.
Now it was time to play catch-up. In the glow of the desk lamp Dr. Irene Kennedy looked down at the transcripts before her and was sickened by what she read. It wasn’t in her personality to get angry; she had divorced intellect from emotion a long time ago. She was simply pained. Men had died. Good men with families and children and mothers and fathers, and they had died because people who should know better couldn’t grasp the importance of operational security. Even worse, they couldn’t even keep a simple secret for just twenty-four hours.
Even after September 11 they lacked the commitment to protect their country. People simply didn’t understand how serious the task before them was. Intelligent, educated people put the politics of their various agencies before operational security and because of it two men were dead, an entire operation involving hundreds of soldiers, marines, aviators, airmen and sailors was called off and
a family of innocent Americans were still trapped in a hell that no adult, let alone child, should have to suffer through.
The entire episode was a monumental security failure and Kennedy had decided enough was enough. She would not lose her cool and begin screaming for people’s scalps. That was not the way she’d been taught to perform her duties. She had been trained by one of the best. Thomas Stansfield, the now deceased director of the CIA, was fond of saying that a master spy should be a closed book unless it wished to be opened. A day did not pass that his advice went unheeded.
Before her were two red folders. The one on her left consisted of e-mail intercepts between a high-ranking State Department official and an overseas ambassador. It also contained some transcripts of phone conversations and other intelligence data. The folder on the right was much thicker. It contained bank records from the last several years for a variety of accounts spread around the Pacific, an in-depth biography of the person in question, and satellite images and intercepts. Both folders held clear and convincing evidence that certain individuals, at home and abroad, were guilty of compromising the hostage rescue in the Philippines.
In years past, this was the type of information the CIA would have quietly disseminated to a few select individuals around Washington. Since no administration liked scandal, that’s where it would have ended. A few wrists would have been slapped. Some people might have been reassigned to less desirable posts or asked to retire early or find a job in the private sector, but rarely was anyone really made an example of.
This time it would be different. Kennedy was adamant about what needed to be done. The file on her left was going to be handled very publicly. When the press found out, the two bureaucrats involved were going to get a nonlethal dose of what those SEALs faced when they hit the beach over in the Philippines. They would be met with a landslide of lights and cameras, and where the cameras were in Washington, you could always count on politicians to show up.