Chapter 34
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
ON the whole, Thomas Stansfield enjoyed being the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
He’d never sought the job in the way in which the agency careerists often eschewed field positions for headquarters tours in the name of politicking for their next role.
Even so, he was still grateful for the opportunity to lead the organization to which he’d devoted the entirety of his adult life.
From fighting alongside partisans during World War II, to combating the spread of communism in Asia, to thwarting Soviet plans to expand into Central America and Cuba, Stansfield had served across nearly every operational theater that fell under the CIA’s and OSS’s domain.
As a career intelligence officer and consummate field man, he understood the agency he led as well as or better than any of his predecessors.
For the most part, his years of service were beneficial to his new role.
He didn’t need to be spun up on what the agency actually did any more than he needed a slew of administrators to explain how things in DC worked or where the bodies were buried.
But there was one aspect of being director he didn’t enjoy.
Reaching out to allies for assistance.
“Director Stansfield? Director Simmonds is on the phone, sir.”
Stansfield glanced from the notes he’d scribbled on a yellow legal pad to his long-serving assistant, Meg.
When it came to the chaotic ebbs and flows that passed for business as usual on the agency’s seventh floor, Meg was a steady Eddie.
She did her job well and didn’t allow her proximity to power to translate into an inflated sense of self-importance.
That said, his assistant was still human, and though she was an island of calm, the stress of such a unique job still left its mark, if one knew what to look for.
“Thank you, Meg,” Stansfield said, noting the fine wrinkles between his assistant’s eyes.
Meg was an excellent barometer of his moods, and when he was particularly anxious about something, he would often see his stress manifested on her face.
“I’ll take the call here. Please see that I’m not disturbed unless it’s the president. ”
“Of course, sir.” Meg softly pulled the door closed behind her.
Stansfield looked at the phone centered on his desk and took a deep breath. Then he lifted the handset and put it to his ear.
“Mark, how are you this morning?”
“Fantastic, old friend. How does the new office suit you?”
Stansfield eyed his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time.
Though the director’s space was much larger than his previous office, his minimalist style of decorating made them indistinguishable.
This job had never been about the office of director, either literally or figuratively.
Stansfield was in his seventies, and this was his career’s final act.
Where before, he’d helped correct the CIA’s course with gentle nudges, now he had the helm and could set the course himself.
But with the joys of captaining this ship came the responsibilities of avoiding the hidden shoals eager to tear his agency’s keel asunder.
Shoals like this conversation.
“It’s the honor of a lifetime. I’m sure you feel the same way about leading your organization.”
Like Stansfield, Simmonds wasn’t a political appointee.
He’d begun his career at MI6 as an agent runner and had come up through the ranks the old-fashioned way—by demonstrating competence and achieving results.
Unfortunately, this is where the similarities between the two ended.
While Stansfield intended his time as director to be his final curtain call, he had a feeling Simmonds saw his tenure as something else.
A launchpad.
“Of course, of course. Queen and country and all of that. Now, I know you’re not much for small talk, so let’s get to it, shall we? Why is America’s top spy ringing me?”
Stansfield’s lips twisted into a smile. Mark might have grand plans that would begin in Parliament and potentially culminate with a residence at 10 Downing Street, but at least the man was open about his ambition.
Stansfield could work with that.
Hopefully.
“I could use a little help,” Stansfield said.
“Sorry, old boy, but I’m afraid my stock-picking abilities aren’t what they used to be.”
Simmonds was a career spy, but his record wasn’t without blemish.
Or perhaps the correct way of looking at the situation was that his record wasn’t without blemish because he was a career spy.
Those who colored between the lines typically didn’t flourish in the profession of espionage.
Stansfield’s blemishes were operational in nature—liberties taken with taskings, decisions to run off-the-books assets, and the occasional participation in patently illegal initiatives like the Orion program.
Mark’s purported vices fell into a different category.
Financial.
While his bank account and financial disclosures were squeaky clean, his wife’s stock portfolio managed returns that were, in a word, improbable.
The formal investigation launched before Simmonds had assumed his post had cleared the spy of wrongdoing, but had done nothing to staunch the rumors.
In classic Simmonds fashion, rather than attempting to refute the tabloids, he’d leaned into his public image.
Stansfield gave a polite chuckle before replying. “While I appreciate the disclaimer, I had something else in mind. Something that might leverage your experience during the Troubles.”
He could feel the change in the spymaster’s attitude even through the telephone line.
The Troubles, as the conflict in Northern Ireland had come to be known, had been transformative to the British psyche and a watershed moment for the practice of integrating intelligence and special operations to combat terrorism.
MI5 and MI6 worked hand in glove with the Special Air Service, or SAS, to target and disrupt the Irish Republican Army and its various paramilitary offshoots throughout Northern Ireland and in particular in what was known as “bandit country.” As part of this wholistic strategy, SAS operatives went undercover to penetrate IRA cells using legends and intelligence generated by MI6 and MI5.
As a newly minted agent runner working in Belfast, Simmonds had been in the thick of it.
“I’m listening,” Simmonds said.
“I have an asset who needs a backstopped legend in Iraq. The sort of cover that will endear the asset to the right sorts of people.”
“Which people precisely, old chap? Lots of rabble-rousers operating in that corner of the world.”
“Hezbollah.”
“Interesting. And why can’t your esteemed organization handle this?”
Stansfield sighed.
There was nothing a spy hated more than exposing to a rival intelligence organization the limits of their service.
It was one thing to ask for help with a joint operation.
This was often done as a way to share resources and risks while maximizing the return on the operational investment.
But it was another thing altogether to admit that your intelligence service lacked the means to pull off an operation.
Besides giving another nation a look at the most sensitive and sought-after coin of the realm—sources and methods—you provided them with something far worse.
Leverage.
“This needs to be separate from anything my Iraq people are working,” Stansfield said. “A simple firewall won’t suffice. I need this operation to exist in an entirely different universe.”
“That’s quite the conundrum, old boy,” Simmonds said.
“The lessons we learned in Northern Ireland about building effective legends and runing agents were almost as valuable as the intelligence we gleaned. Perhaps more so. If I had built something comparable in the Middle East, that effort would represent my service’s crown jewels.
This isn’t something you just share with a friend, no matter how politely they frame the request.”
And there it was.
The ask.
“Couldn’t agree more,” Stansfield said, “which is why I’d propose the sharing of something of equal value. The raw data derived by our NSA signal intercepts from a region of your choice perhaps?”
Laughter cackled from the handset. “Come now, friend. Let’s not begin this potentially lucrative partnership by insulting each other. If you want to see mine, show me yours.”
Stansfield frowned. “What did you have in mind?”
“There seems to be a particular malady that’s affecting terrorists and their ilk across the Fertile Crescent and Europe.
A malady that causes otherwise healthy men to drop dead from lead poisoning.
And by lead, I mean a bullet in their skull.
Word has it you might know something about the origins of this dreadful disease. ”
Stansfield had figured this was where Simmonds would end up.
While it irritated him that the head of a foreign intelligence service knew more about the Orion program than members of his own government, he took a bit of comfort that the CIA was not to blame.
In the way of politicians, the president had made a unilateral decision to confirm the program’s existence to his British counterpart.
In a development that anyone who had been in the espionage business longer than a day could have foreseen, this revelation had almost immediately bitten him in the ass.
A Russian assassin had murdered British citizens in London in a way meant to implicate the Orion program and thereby drive a wedge into the special relationship enjoyed by the UK and their American cousins.
Thanks in no small part to the efforts of Kennedy, Hurley, and Rapp, the president was able to prove the hit wasn’t the work of a sloppy Orion operative, but by then the damage was done.
The British knew about the program.
It was only a matter of time before their knowledge became a request for access.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Listen, Thomas, I know you’re in a bit of a pickle, but you called me, remember? I’m not asking for details. Whoever you have managing your endeavor is doing a bang-up job of taking out the trash. I have no intention of getting in their way.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To join the fun. Your shooters have managed to put down targets previously considered untouchable. Just as importantly, these killings were done with a scalpel rather than a machete. With a notable exception or two, terrorists were dispatched with zero collateral damage and no one the wiser. Top work, that. In the spirit of mutual cooperation, we’ve identified a few hard-to-reach targets of our own. I’d like to add them to your list.”
“Define few,” Stansfield said, rubbing his forehead.
“Certainly, old friend. Just as soon as you define how in depth a legend your asset needs. I’m sure you know that the more chits we have to call in and assets we need to expose for your request, the more costly it is in operational terms. Some of our agents who will be required to vouch for your chap are decades in the making.
But of course, I’m willing to do whatever’s required for our friends on the other side of the Atlantic.
We’re the very definition of team players, us. ”
“One target,” Stansfield said, “and access to the intelligence take.”
“Five, we share the intelligence take, and conduct a formal debrief. Here.”
“I have heard the weather in London is lovely this time of year. Two targets, we share the intelligence take, we debrief in London, but the information stays with you. I mean it, Mark. If this program existed, it would be one of our most closely guarded secrets.”
“I think I preferred your predecessor, Thomas. He never turned discussions between friends into haggling for a Persian rug in a Turkish bazaar.”
“He also never even considered what we are about to do. Success begets success. This joint operation could lead to other, more lucrative opportunities. Don’t get greedy, Mark. Take the offer.”
Another dry chuckle echoed down the line. “That’s what I love about you Yanks. Never one to let old-world sensibilities cloud clarity. Damn the torpedoes and all that. Okay, Thomas, you have a deal. But the first coordination meeting takes place here, at Vauxhall. Say one week’s time?”
“Afraid not,” Stansfield said. “Our asset is already en route to meet his MI6 counterpart in Turkey.”
“Bloody hell, Thomas! What if I’d said no? And who said anything about Turkey?”
“But you didn’t say no. As for Turkey, we both know you’d want to meet in a third-party country that’s far enough from the theater of operations to avoid scrutiny, but still close enough to offer a safe haven to the type of miscreants our asset needs to associate with. Turkey seemed like a safe bet.”
“Have I told you that I preferred your predecessor?”
Stansfield laughed. “Thank you for the help, Mark. Truly.”
“Be careful what you wish for, old boy. I’ll be in touch with the details.”
Simmonds ended the call.
Stansfield considered his phone for a minute and then pressed the intercom button. “Meg—please get me Irene. We have an operation to plan.”