Keith Thomson - Twice a Spy

Frank stayed mum.

Walt made one of his usual series of gestures: Sit back down on the sofa. Let Frank tie you up again. Let him reapply the duct tape . He punctuated each with a shake of the Walther as if to add, Or you know what .

She complied.

For now.

What the hell have you stepped in? Stanley asked himself again and again during the nightlong flight from Nice to Washington. The cable he’d received, minutes after spiriting Ali Abdullah over the border to Italy, said little more than REPORT TO HQS ASAP.

The sun had yet to appear over McLean, Virginia, when Stanley swung his rental car off a still-quiet George Washington Memorial Parkway onto the heavily tree-lined Route 123. In the darkness he nearly mistook the agency’s driveway for the look-alike service road. A sign that was not obscured by a low-hanging bough might have helped. The location of the Central Intelligence Agency wasn’t secret after all; tour bus guides pointed the place out. In many ways, he thought, this was a metaphor for the system. A second cup of coffee and he might stand a chance of puzzling out how exactly. But for now, exhaustion made it feel as if poured cement were hardening in his eye sockets.

When he had stepped into the headquarters building as a rookie, he was dazzled by the grand, white marble lobby with its famous eagle seal spanning the floor. He was stirred by the stars, carved into the marble wall on the right, anonymously commemorating the men and women who’d given their lives in the service of the agency. As he proceeded from the security portals to the elevators, there was a bit of march in his gait.

This morning, the same lobby conjured an aging bus terminal, over-polished to compensate for wear. He shuffled to the elevators; the ten-minute trek from the parking lot against a gelid southeaster had left the hip feeling full of icicles.

Stepping out of the Europe division’s hallmark Union Jack-blue elevator doors on the fourth floor, he was met by Caldwell “Chip” Eskridge. The Europe division chief engulfed Stanley’s right hand with both of his own. “Welcome home, tiger.”

“Good to see you,” Stanley lied.

Fifty-one years old, the sinewy Eskridge tipped the scale at a pound or two more than he had as the Yale crew team’s heavyweight stroke. With his crisp woolen suit, power suspenders, and slicked-back hair, he was the portrait of a bank chairman. His dynamic presentations on the Hill were videotaped and shown within the agency for instructional purposes. Although he had a battalion of deputies and administrative assistants, he did things like this, coming to greet guests of lesser rank. In conversation, he never failed to look people in the eyes, appearing to hang on their every word. If any one quality had accounted for his rise through the ranks, though, it was his ability to avoid flaps, or, better, to defuse them.

For exactly that reason, acid had been bubbling in Stanley’s stomach for the past ten hours. He feared that Eskridge, acting to preempt the Cap Ferrat Flap of 2010, would dispatch him to the CIA’s Anchorage bureau for the remainder of his career. Or fire him, a worse punishment since it would deny him his retirement benefits.

“How about we go to the conference room?” Eskridge asked.

As if Stanley could disagree.

Before he could reply at all, Eskridge had shifted into high gear. Trying to ignore the stabbing in his hip, Stanley hurried after him. The long corridor was like that of any white-shoe office suite and wouldn’t rate comment except by someone desperate to break the silence.

“Everything looks the same,” Stanley said.

Eskridge waved him to a conference room.

As Stanley hobbled through the door, applause washed over him.

He took in ten men and women standing around the conference table, all longtime colleagues of his. Eighty-something-year-old Archie Snow, Eskridge’s predecessor as Europe division chief, stepped forward, handing Stanley a framed document and an envelope.

“Congrats, kid,” Snow said.

The frame contained a certificate of distinction awarded to William Christopher Stanley Jr., “In recognition of outstanding performance of duty in the service of the United States of America.” Which was as much specificity as Stanley had ever seen on a CIA award. The envelope contained a cashier’s check for $2,500.

Stanley would have been elated if not for his certainty that the meeting was about something else. Convincing him that crucial business mandated an all-night flight just so his old cronies could throw him a surprise party definitely wasn’t company style.

Each of the cronies congratulated him, meanwhile demolishing a tray of breakfast pastries. Then they filed out, leaving just Eskridge, who said, “As you’ve likely surmised, the award presentation was cover.”

Stanley’s stomach acid erupted. “I guess I won’t be buying that new stationary bike.”

Eskridge smiled. “Actually, the award itself is real. The certificate will have to be vaulted here, of course, but the check ought to clear, so buy away.”

“To perpetuate the cover?”

“You made the right call in France. A commendable job, really. Also I needed an excuse to get you here. ” He waved at the ceiling, where tiles were suspended from a sheet of Plexiglas that continued down the wall, disappearing behind mahogany wall paneling and continuing under the floor, forming a Plexiglas room within the room, capable of locking in sound waves. “Wondering why, by any chance?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“There’s going to be a senior operations officer opening in London next year. It’s yours if you want it.”

The only post superior to Paris was London, where, in deference to the British intelligence agencies MI5 and MI6, the CIA’s mantra was “Stand bloody down!” Over the past few months Stanley had lobbied for a two-year Blighty hitch to wind up his service. Now he braced for the price.

“There’s a temp job I’m hoping you’ll accept first,” Eskridge said.

The agency wasn’t the military; Stanley could turn down a dangerous assignment. The consequence of doing so, however, could be three years in Antarctica. Which beat death. So he was left to determine how risky the “temp job” was.

Eskridge sat down heavily at the far side of the conference table. “This is the part where you promise not to breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you, so help you Godhra.”

Godhra, a small city in northwestern India, was home to a secret CIA prison. Time there would be worse than any of the scenarios Stanley had considered, death included.

Two hours into the seven-hour flight, the Gulfstream roared-presumably-above a glossy navy-blue Atlantic. Exceptional insulation made it a toss-up as to which was louder, Charlie thought, the jet engines or Drummond’s light snoring from across the aisle. Their seats, like the three others, were not mere seats, but overstuffed leather recliners. Compared with this, commercial airline first class was the F train.

Charlie read a sports magazine. Or, more accurately, he held a sports magazine. He kept wondering what would become of Alice should he fail to deliver the ADM.

For the first time since takeoff, Bream glanced back from the cockpit, taking in the sleeping Drummond. “Sorry there’s no in-flight movie,” the pilot said to Charlie. “Heckuva bar, though.” He aimed a thumb at the rear of the cabin.

He seemed bored, or at least inclined to chat, which dovetailed nicely with Charlie’s hope of learning whatever he could about him.

“This is a sweet ride,” Charlie said.