David Lindsey - The Face of the Assassin

Gordon wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was getting an edgy feeling that they were headed toward one of Kevern’s more creative enterprises. Kevern was famous in special operations for designing and executing impossible schemes that paid off beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. He had engineered some legendary operations. At the same time, when one of these things went awry, someone higher up always had his head handed to him on a platter for having authorized the scheme. But somehow, Kevern always survived.

The reality was that managers and administrators could always be replaced. They came and went with inevitable regularity, like the changing seasons. But a creative operations officer who was also meticulous was a rare commodity, and every intelligence agency had to have a few men like Kevern, men who didn’t mind playing the role of Satan in the complex moral drama of clandestine operations.

“We’d already documented everyone in the cell,” Kevern said. “Even the Korean guards they’d hired to provide them with protection and freedom of movement in Tepito.”

Kevern tossed a glance at the television, as if reminding Gordon of what he’d just seen.

“Those were Mondragon’s men who made the raid and shot the video. We got the whole fuckin’ cell, roots and all.”

Gordon couldn’t get his breath. Good God. Even in this new terrorist-harried environment that allowed more lenient uses of lethal force, it was a dumbfounding act of preemption for an American officer to arrange the slaughter of cell members who weren’t even remotely important enough to be on the Directorate of Operation’s high-value target list, along with a roomful of men who were nothing more than hired local gang members. And all of this done without any directive from the DO. It was a totally independent act.

Kevern must have seen the look on Gordon’s face.

“Just a second, Gordy. Listen to me here.”

Kevern was the only person on earth who called him Gordy. It was a shrewd mixture of good ol’ boy camaraderie and subtle derision, the difference at any given moment depending on Kevern’s nuanced manner.

“Now listen, okay?” Kevern repeated. “By killing these assholes and taking the money and the drugs, we made it look like one of Baida’s drug deals had gone sour. That’s what Baida heard from the security guy he sent up to Mexico City to find out why he wasn’t hearing anything from Khalil’s cell.

“Postmortem: Baida writes that cell off to the cost of doing business. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a total wash. And, because there’s no communication between Baida’s cells, each one locked down, totally independent except for communication to and from Baida himself, Baida never learned that Jude was a spy. Khalil sure as hell didn’t report it to him. He was trying to cover it up. So as far as Baida’s concerned, Jude’s still clean.

“But Baida’s worried: Where’s Jude? He hasn’t heard anything from Jude. Not a damn thing. Baida made four calls to Jude’s dedicated cell number in the five or six days following the Tepito massacre. He wants him. He wants Jude’s underground route north. The story on the street is mixed. Some say Jude was killed in the raid. Some say-a rumor we started ourselves-no, he’s laying low until he figures out what the hell happened that night. Baida’s investigator takes this mixed report back to him in the Triple Border.”

Kevern stopped and looked at Gordon like a challenging professor looks at his brightest student, waiting for him to see the answer ahead of the rest of the class.

“I don’t get it, Lex.”

Kevern smiled. “That’s the brilliant thing about this, Gordy. Neither will Baida.”

Kevern got to his feet and went to the battered suitcase lying on the bed. He lifted a pile of clothes and pulled out a folder, then went back and tossed it into Gordon’s lap.

Gordon saw the red border on the folder and the solid red pyramid next to the name tab. It was the coding emblem for a new category of CIA operations officer, one that was closely held by the CIA’s security system. Jude Lerner was one of the few officers whose 201 file bore the red pyramid and who also had a separate red-stripe file with a “Sequestered” limited-access classification.

But Gordon still didn’t see what was coming, and Kevern could see it on his face.

“You know what’s in his file, don’t you?” Kevern asked.

“I know my people, Lex.”

Kevern returned to his chair and fell into it with a grunt. He watched Gordon as he opened the folder and numbly began paging through it. It didn’t take him long. Kevern had red-flagged the relevant document and had paper-clipped a sheet of handwritten notes to it. Gordon didn’t even have to read the notes.

He looked up at Kevern, who wore a deadpan expression.

“You’re out of your skull,” Gordon said.

“Nice choice of words,” Kevern grunted.

“What the fuck have you done?” Gordon asked.

“I want two things from you,” Kevern said. “I want you to hold with the story that Baida’s cell went down in a drug hit.” His eyes were leveled on Gordon. “And I want you to get me clearance for the Bern operation. I’m already way down the road on this one, and we’re just about ready to jump. I want you to make it okay.”

By seven o’clock the next morning, Bern was sweating heavily. Wearing only shorts and tennis shoes, he climbed over the rocks on the shoreline below the house, lugging heavy stones into a growing pile where he was preparing the foundation for a concrete quay at the water’s edge. He had been toiling on the project every morning for two months, getting up at dawn to work for a couple of hours before showering and having breakfast.

By eight o’clock, he was at his drawing board, laying down the first contour lines of a sketch of what Becca Haber hoped would prove to be a picture of her husband’s face. A little after ten o’clock, Alice and her mother arrived.

“Hey, Paul,” Dana said from the head of the stairs in the studio as the two of them came in.

“Morning!” Alice said brightly, leaving her mother and taking the stairs two at a time as she breezed past Bern on her way to the glass wall overlooking the lake. She stepped outside and leaned her elbows on the railing of the deck to watch a couple of sailboats just emerging from around the point as they left the marina.

Bern met Dana at the bottom of the steps and kissed her on the cheek.

“Wow, you smell good,” he said.

“New stuff.” She smiled.

“It gets my thumbs up,” he said. “Cup of coffee?”

“No thanks. I just wanted to say hello. The last couple of times I’ve dropped Alice off, I’ve just waved from the car. We haven’t talked all week. You doing okay?”

“Sure, fine. Listen, yesterday when you picked up Alice, did she seem a little out of sorts?”

“Yeah, I noticed that. But gosh, Paul, you know, I’ve gotten so that I take most of the surprises from her in my stride. The abnormal has become normal around our house.” She smiled ruefully, looking at Alice outside on the deck. Then she shifted her attention back to Bern. “Why, something happen?”

He told her about Alice’s exasperation with Becca Haber, and they both laughed about it.

Dana Lau was a handsome woman, the only Chinese news anchor in the South when she met Philip in Atlanta. Bern and Tess got to know her while she and Philip were still dating, and it was the beginning of a friendship that never looked back. When Alice came, it was like having their own daughter, and it even seemed to bring them all closer together.

As Alice reached middle school, she and her friends began having slumber parties at Bern’s house. Tess would take them to movies, grill burgers in the evenings on the terrace, and cook popcorn for their all-night gigglefests. They swam and played around on the little sailboat that Bern bought for them and kept in the cove. Tess adored the girls and always got a kick out of watching them stumbling through adolescence. And they all loved Aunt Tess.