For that kind of discernment he relied on case officers like Stucky, the backbone of the Operations Directorate. Spy and agent are widely misused terms, as both refer to controlled intelligence sources, not the people like Stucky who did the controlling. In the intelligence community there is no greater insult than calling a case officer an agent.
After finding himself ousted from the Army just three months short of his twenty years, Stucky was hired by the CIA for paramilitary operations, but when they started steering away from “active field measures,” instead of finding himself terminated, Stucky was promoted. His superiors found he had a knack for controlling people in hairy situations.
Over the years Stucky made the conversion from knuckle dragger to case officer, to Near East (NE) operations deputy, then to NE division chief. He was a natural at office politics and had good instincts about how far and with whom he could push. Around superiors who held a more tolerant view of homosexuality, Stucky was careful to avoid using phrases such as ass bandit or rump ranger. In the company of women, especially since the introduction of stricter harassment rules, Stucky did not discuss their anatomy or in what fashion he wished to fondle it. It was all about knowing where — and how elastic — the line was.
As a soldier, the routine and regimen of army life suited Stucky. His lackluster people skills notwithstanding, he earned a reputation for ramrodding tough jobs. Subordinates followed him not out of respect but out of fear. They were simply too afraid to go against him.
Stucky knew he’d found his home when he stepped through the doors of the south Detroit army recruiting office at the age of eighteen. He’d been a bully in high school, and he was a bully in boot camp. Surrounded by young men frightened by the harshness of basic training, Stucky thrived. Even at that early age, he knew that when you’re at your lowest, it feels good to belong to a group and to make others feel worse than you.
His first tour in the highlands of Vietnam proved two things: One, Stucky was cool under fire; and two, Stucky liked hurting people. The first quality made him a perfect sergeant, and the last quality was largely overlooked. In the middle of a firefight, when your biggest concern was being overrun, a creature like Stucky improved the odds dramatically.
Though Stucky’s moderate success with the CIA would later have the Personnel Directorate scratching its collective head, he was in fact currently running SYMMETRY, one of the CIA’s two most critical ongoing operations.
He plopped down in his chair, searched his drawer for a bottle of aspirin, and downed four of them dry. The secure phone rang. He snatched it up. “Stucky.”
“Uh, Peterson here, sir. He’s called back — on protocol, this time. I’ll hang up, there’ll be a series of tone bursts, then—”
“Yeah, yeah. Put it through.”
As advertised, Stucky heard a tone burst as the call went through the electronic scrubbers. Then a voice: “Hello? Hello?”
Stucky checked his watch; duration for landline calls was ninety seconds. “Three, this is Limestone. You have a report?”
“Yes, yes. I—” There was the crackle of automatic weapons in the background. “Marcus is gone, Limestone. They took him.”
“Who took him? When?”
“It was last night — no, this morning, about three hours ago. He missed our meet, so I went to find him.”
“Goddamn it!”
“Yes, I know, but I was worried. I went to his apartment. They put him in a car and drove away.”
“Give me details.” The man did so. “Do you know this group?” asked Stucky.
“No. What should I do? I’m afraid. Should I—”
“Don’t do anything, you understand? Nothing! If you have any meetings set, wave them off. Pretend none of it exists. You understand?”
“Yes, but what do I do?”
“You’re not listening!” Stucky glanced at his watch: twenty seconds to go. “Go about your business. Whatever you normally do during the day, do that. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Where you’re calling from… Is it safe?”
“In this city? It is as good a place as any.”
“Fine. Call back at this time two days from now. I’ll be waiting.”
“Two days from now, this time. Understood.”
Stucky hung up, thought for a moment, then redialed. “Peterson, get me the DDO on the secure line.”
3
Director of Central Intelligence Dick Mason forced a smile on his face and waited for the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee to finish his question. Not much of a question, Mason thought. Senator Herbert J. Smith did not ask questions; Senator Herbert J. Smith made speeches that just happened to have question marks tacked to their tails.
“And so, Mr. Director, my question to you is: What tangible progress in your so-called war on state-sponsored terrorism can you show this committee?”
Mason held his smile but didn’t answer, knowing Smith — the master of “porcupine power” on the Hill — wasn’t quite done. Smith didn’t seem to realize this was a closed hearing; there were no media to impress.
“We all know about the supposed Tehran/Damascus/ Khartoum/Tripoli connection, and these governments’ support of terrorism. What we don’t know is what exactly the CIA, under your leadership, and at the direction of the president, has done about it. On behalf of the citizens of this country, I would like to know what we have gotten for the hundreds of millions of dollars you’ve spent.”
Mason cleared his throat. “That is your question, Senator?”
“Indeed it is.”
“In general terms—”
“I’m not interested in general terms, Mr. Mason. You—”
“As I understand it, sir, my deputy of operations is scheduled to appear here tomorrow. He’ll be able to provide you with more specific details about the scope of our operations. That’s not why I’m here today. My answer to your last question, then, is quite simple: money.”
“Money?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve a better grasp of how funds are transferred from sponsor governments to the command structures of terrorist groups. Money is the key. We can’t dampen a terrorist’s fervor; we can’t cut off their source of training; and we can’t hope diplomatic measures will curtail covert support of these groups.”
Mason paused to take a sip of water. God, he hated these things. He sounded like a goddamned sound bite from C-SPAN.
“What we can do, however, is attack their pocketbook. As the U.S. and other Western nations strengthen their defenses against terrorism, terrorists have to work that much harder. They can’t do this — not at sustained levels — without capital.
“While the four biggest sponsors are not necessarily dependent on foreign trade and inclusion in world economic communities, all are beginning to feel the pinch of living on the fringes. They may talk about neither wanting nor needing any part of Western progress and values, but the story on the street is quite different.”
Smith said, “Are you telling us, Mr. Director, these countries care what the rest of the world thinks, that their feelings are hurt because they don’t get to play with the big kids?”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’ll give you an example. In the past three years alone, while Syria has balked at the peace process and has continued to support terrorism — especially in Lebanon — the United States, along with Canada and the United Kingdom, have all but stopped buying Syrian products such as manganese, chrome, and phosphates. This alone has cost Syria hundreds of millions of dollars — money President Assad doesn’t have to spend keeping his country militarized.