Andrew Britton - The Exile

“Not a problem, sir. What can I do for you?”

The CIA officer took note of the man’s voice. It was calm, cool, and slightly curious, which presented him with a problem. Clearly, Sadowski had no idea who he really was, and judging by his clipped tone, he wasn’t eager to do any favors for a mid-level budget manager.

Technically, the man’s ignorance was good news. This was how it was supposed to be. The identity of the CIA’s station chief was a closely held secret in any embassy. Normally, it would have come as a relief to know that his cover had withstood intense scrutiny from within, but the secrecy wouldn’t help him here. He needed answers, but he had almost no leverage with which to extract them. Holland instinctively knew that he might have to make a professional sacrifice to get them, and if that was the case, he might be getting back to Jen and Jake much sooner than he had anticipated.

And that, he silently acknowledged, would not be a bad thing at all. “Sergeant Sadowski, I understand that you were on duty in Post One this afternoon. From zero six hundred to fourteen hundred hours. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

Holland noted the wariness in the other man’s voice. “Between, let’s say, twelve hundred hours and the end of your shift, did you have any visitors? Anyone outside your chain of command?”

There was a tense pause, and the station chief knew he had pushed it too far. “Mr. Holland, I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. And frankly, I don’t see how it concerns you.”

“I’ll tell you what, Sergeant-”

“Sir, I can’t-”

“No, just listen,” Holland said quickly. “According to your information, I am the budget manager for DISAM here in Khartoum. That is what you’ve been told, right?”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Holland knew he had gotten it right. “Well, I’m telling you right now, that is not the reality. I do not work for that organization.”

There was a brief, speculative pause. “So who do you work for, Mr. Holland?”

“I heard you were a smart man, Sergeant. I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.”

Another long silence ensued. Holland, listening to the sound of the other man breathing over the line, could almost sense the moment that Sadowski caught on. By his rough count, it took less than thirty seconds.

“I’m going to need some proof of what you’re saying, sir, before I tell you anything. And that’s assuming I even can.”

“Look…” Holland didn’t want to get into it over the phone. “Do you know where I’m located?”

“Yes,” Sadowski replied. “Fourth floor, room four-oh-two.”

Holland wasn’t surprised to hear that the man already knew where his office was. At least once a month, the Marine Security Guards conducted a series of drills known as “Reacts”-which was short for Reaction. Each React started with a simulated emergency, such as a fire, a bomb threat, or a riot outside the embassy. From there, the MSG gathered in the designated React Room, a storage area for weapons, communications equipment, and other essential gear, where they received their orders directly from the detachment commander. As the man in charge of those drills, it was only natural that Sadowski would know the embassy’s layout like the back of his hand.

“I’m up here now,” Holland continued. “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind stopping by for a few minutes. I promise you, it won’t be a waste of your time.”

There was a brief pause as the other man considered, and the station chief found himself holding his breath. Finally, Sadowski said, “I’ll see you in five minutes.”

Holland exhaled slowly in relief. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

The line went dead, and Holland hung up the phone. As he stood there in the dark, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just made a serious error in judgment. Essentially, he had told the marine sergeant the truth: that he was the ranking CIA officer at the embassy. Not in so many words, of course, but the implication was clear, and a man with Sadowski’s experience wasn’t likely to miss the underlying message. Now he knew what only five other men at the embassy knew, including the four case officers who reported directly to Holland. It was the kind of information that hundreds, if not thousands, of Arab fundamentalists across the country would gladly kill for.

Holland shook off the lingering doubt. He had just committed an unforgivable sin in the eyes of his employers, but somehow, he knew that he’d done the right thing. He couldn’t explain how he knew, but the identity of the man on the steps was worth the professional sacrifice. He was sure of it. And if it turned out that he was wrong, so be it. He’d made a calculated wager. Staff Sergeant Daniel Sadowski was a U.S. Marine who had served his country with distinction for years on end, not a gossiping secretary or some shifty, back-alley merchant in the city bazaar. Holland’s true position at the embassy was as safe with him as it was with anyone else, including Holland’s own subordinates.

Turning on his desktop lamp, he crossed to a large Gardall safe in the corner of the room. Crouching before it, he punched in a ten-digit code. The LED light to the right of the keypad turned green. He turned the handle and pulled open the heavy steel door. Inside there were two shelves. The bottom shelf held nothing but files, each of which was labeled with the appropriate security classification. The two objects he needed were on the top shelf. He had not touched either since he had arrived in Sudan eight months earlier. Grabbing them both, Holland closed the safe and locked it once more.

Just as he finished doing so, there was a knock on the door behind him. Getting back to his feet, he crossed the room, placing both objects on the edge of his desk along the way. He opened the door and recognized Sadowski on sight. The twenty-seven-year-old marine was a shade over six feet tall, with a wrestler’s physique, flat green eyes, and hair clipped so short it was impossible to tell what color it was. He was wearing civilian clothes-khakis, a checked flannel shirt, and steel-toed boots-but it was what he held in his right hand that caught Holland’s attention. It was a plastic shopping bag, weighed down in the middle. From the way he was holding it, it was impossible for Holland to determine the contents.

He extended a hand, and Sadowski switched the shopping bag to his left before they shook. Holland pretended not to notice. “Thank you for coming, Sergeant. Come on in.”

Holland stepped back to give him room, and Sadowski crossed the threshold, looking around as he entered the room. For the most part, there wasn’t much to see, which was exactly how Holland wanted it. The office was larger than most, but as spare as a janitor’s. It contained nothing but a desk, a file cabinet, the safe, a few chairs, a couch, and a bookshelf lined with the standard foreign policy textbooks. There were a few motivational posters on the wall to round out the bland decor. It was everything one would expect from a mid-level public servant. The only things that didn’t seem to fit were the items Holland had retrieved from his safe. Sadowski, a trained soldier, spotted them instantly. The first item elicited no reaction, but when he saw the gun, a Heckler amp; Koch USP Expert, a slight frown spread over his face.

After closing and locking his door, Holland crossed to his desk and picked up the gun. Sadowski tensed, but Holland merely held it out for him to take, butt first. The marine sergeant, after a second’s hesitation, accepted the weapon, dropped the magazine, and checked the chamber reflexively.

“It’s clear,” Holland assured him.

As Sadowski reinserted the empty magazine, Holland picked up the second item on his desk, the credentials that marked him as an active field officer-GS-13, step 6-in the Central Intelligence Agency. He held out the plastic ID card. Sadowski stared at him for a moment, then set down the gun and accepted the proffered identification. His eyes flicked over it for a minute, as though he knew what to look for. Then he handed it back. Following Holland’s lead, he took a seat in front of the desk and placed the plastic bag by his right foot.