Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

“And they have a mole,” Ding said, restating Mary Pat Foley’s larger concern. “Will CROSSTIE’s initial cables to his chain of command compromise him at all?”

“Remains to be seen,” Clark said. “The boss believes his identity has been compartmented enough to keep him in the black. But we have to be careful. Without knowing the mole’s identity and level of access, we can’t be certain what he or she knows.”

“Does it sound like she has any suspects?” Adara asked from her spot at Caruso’s side. She’d been coddling him from the moment they got back to the hotel.

Clark gave her a knowing nod. “At this point, I imagine they suspect everyone.”

11

Monica Hendricks stood barefoot on a padded office chair, her lips pursed around a mouthful of tenpenny nails. Like most of the bean counters in government buildings around the world, the powers that be at CIA paid an inordinate amount of attention to little things, like the tiny holes left by hanging framed plaques, certificates, and photographs on an employee’s I-love-me wall. A certain type of hanger was mandated, or … Monica didn’t exactly know the consequences, but she suspected it would entail either a firing squad or a flurry of e-mails from admin weenie bosses to operational bosses—who had, by virtue of their jobs, become admin weenies themselves. Hanging anything with something as large as a tenpenny nail was strictly verboten. Monica smiled, dabbing a bit of Colgate toothpaste into the tenpenny holes to cover her treachery. She was on her way out the door, anyway—the admin weenies would have to run fast if they wanted to catch her now.

Known for being a snappy dresser, Hendricks wore faded jeans and a Georgetown sweatshirt today. The Agency had a robust program to help see people through the transition to the private sector, help them understand that they are still relevant when they turn in their parking pass and building ID. It was a big step, leaving all this behind, and like most people who’d worked anywhere for as long as she had, she’d spent her last day reminiscing about her career, with colleagues and in her head. That reminiscing was doubly important now, because there was a lot she would never be able to talk about once she stepped out the door.

Fifty was young to be retiring from the CIA. Armed federal law enforcement agents had to pull the plug at fifty-seven. CIA officers didn’t hit their sell-by date until they were sixty. Even then, they could come back as contractors to teach. By fifty you’d paid your dues. You’d just begun to untie the Gordian knot that was the Central Intelligence Agency. The best promotions came around fifty, when they still had ten good years to wring out of your soul. Everyone on the Asia desk thought she was making the biggest mistake of her life. She’d served in leadership positions in the headquarters and the field, including chief of station, and was on the short list for several plum promotions to the seventh floor. For the last three years, virtually every iota of intelligence regarding China had crossed her desk or the desks of those who worked for her. Some even thought she had a shot at deputy director if she played her cards right.

But she wasn’t much of a cardplayer.

She missed the field to be sure, and lamented the “mom body” that came with sitting behind a desk—and her affinity for daily lattes from the Starbucks in the CIA food court. She wasn’t particularly out of shape, but she wasn’t in shape, either. Monica had never been the stereotypical slender female operator of the Hollywood spy genre. She’d been a bit on the chunky side when she was recruited. She was worried at first, but made it through The Farm fine, realizing quickly that a few extra pounds of fighting weight made defensive tactics easier to handle. She knew her way around firearms but rarely carried one, though her husband and two sons routinely chided her for not doing so for her own protection. Her adult sons had both known she was a CIA officer from the time they were in high school—old enough to keep a secret—and still they believed there was more gunplay in the life of an intelligence officer than there actually was. Both seemed to think that every CIA officer, including their mother, was a part of the ground branch—the paramilitary guys that the world equated with the CIA overseas. It made her smile. While the Russians, Chi-Comms, Iranians, and jihadis were all watching the bearded white guys who ate barbed wire for breakfast, the slightly chunky black woman slipped by unnoticed.

It was good work, but twenty-six years was enough. Now she was going to give back, to teach high school. Her friends with teenagers joked that she was leaving intelligence work to go into law enforcement.

Hendricks’s family was accustomed to service. Her husband taught history at Georgetown. Her eldest son was an officer in the Army, in his final year of residency to become a trauma surgeon at Fort Sam Houston. Her youngest was in his second year with the Secret Service, stationed in the Seattle Field Office.

She’d grown up in a middle-class home outside Dallas, where her father was an engineer designing integrated circuits for Texas Instruments. She’d been a child at the end of the Civil Rights movement. Her parents kept themselves to themselves for the most part and were not politically active. She graduated high school in the late eighties with a handful of token minorities in her senior class—the doctor from India’s kid, some Hispanic families. Monica had balked when her mother insisted she take a second language but found she had a knack for Spanish—the only language besides Latin offered by her high school. She took it all four years—and Latin, too, because the puzzles the languages provided seemed to fit well with the way her brain worked. She had plenty of kids to practice her Spanish with, but there were few kids like her. Reggie Good, the fastest wide receiver on the football team, was black, and in a Texas high school, football transcended color—up to a point. There were a few unwritten rules. She was a popular academic kid. Pretty, but not skinny enough to be a cheerleader. She could go out with virtually any boy in the school, no matter the color, so long as it was nothing serious. Reggie could date her, and possibly a couple of the Hispanic girls, but the line against him dating white girls was clearly drawn.

He wasn’t that good at football.

There was never any violence as far as Monica knew, but there was an undercurrent, easy enough to feel when she was old enough to know what to look for. It bugged the hell out of her.

Monica left home at eighteen with a full-ride academic scholarship to the University of Texas at Austin and a righteous chip on her shoulder. She let her hair grow out into her natural Afro and became active in the Black Student Alliance as well as a Black Action Movement that modeled itself after the U of Michigan protests. But she was never so active as to fall behind on her studies. Her freshman Spanish professor bumped her to upper-level classes and hired her as his TA. She suspected he might have a thing for roundish black girls, but he turned out to be happily married, and was simply astounded at her ability with languages. One of her roommates was from Taiwan and spoke very little English. Monica made a deal that she’d help her with English if she’d teach her Mandarin. She majored in history but minored in languages and went on to pursue a master’s with an added teaching certificate in history and social studies. She wanted to do something worthwhile. Something that could make a difference. Teaching seemed to fit that bill.

Then, near the end of her first year of grad school, a smiling brunette with piercing amber eyes sat down with her in the J2 food court across from Jesta’ Pizza. She was a few years older, early thirties, maybe. At first Monica had thought she was a professor just looking for a place to sit. But there were plenty of empty tables.