A young trainee raised his hand. “Hold on a second, sir. Can anybody today mount operations with the same sophistication of the Soviets?”
“The French, the Germans—”
“But those are our—”
“Allies? No such thing, not when it comes to espionage. It goes on everywhere, all the time. Allies simply aren’t as likely to act as vigorously against one another, that’s all. Sophistication is nothing more than training, creativity, and resources. Those things don’t go away. There’ll always be someone with a need, and someone willing to supply it.”
“You’re talking about freelance espionage, aren’t you?”
“Could be. Look at all the weapons scientists that found themselves out of work after the Soviet Union collapsed. We were — still are, in fact — trying to figure what they’re doing. Same deal with all those KGB boys and their Czech and Bulgarian counterparts. Some are working in factories making shoelaces. Some aren’t.”
Another trainee raised his hand. “Sir, I know this is off the subject, but I was wondering if you might… I mean, we’d be interested to hear about the Vorsalov case.”
That caught Latham by surprise. He hadn’t thought about that for… How long? A whole week? He paused, took a sip of water. “Maybe next time. You’re right, though, it’s a good, uh… case study.” On just how quick a rookie agent can die, right, Charlie?
Suddenly he felt like a hypocrite, standing there as a supposed expert when just a decade ago an agent not much older than these kids died in his arms. And it had been his fault. What could he tell them? Even if you run a flawless op, track down and corner Russia’s most dangerous KGB illegal, you can still lose.
He hadn’t expected the Russian to bolt, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to kill to get away. It just wasn’t done — or so the rules went. That was crap then, and it’s crap now, thought Latham. He should have known better.
He glanced at his watch. “I want you to think about something for next time. On the robbery side, banks can be held up only a certain number of ways; serial killers usually stick to predicted profiles. But CE and I is a fluid business. The threat never goes away. It might mutate — tactics or allegiances or goals might change — but it’s always there. Where there are secrets, there’ll be people who want them and will do anything to get them. Okay, see you next time.”
Latham watched the students file out, then walked to the window and looked out. “Demons, Charlie,” he muttered.
In a bungalow overlooking the island’s Southern shore, the man resealed the false bottom of the suitcase and carefully repacked the clothes. He could hear her in the bathroom, humming as she finished putting on her makeup. Once satisfied the case was ready, he returned it to the bed and sat down beside it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
She came out of the bathroom, placed her kit in the bag, then closed it. She leaned over and kissed him. “I wish you could come,” she said.
“As do I. As soon as I finish my business, I will join you.” He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip. “I think I’ll have a hard time waiting.”
She giggled. “Hard? Did you say hard?”
He kissed her again. “Don’t tempt me. You’ll miss your flight.”
She was a pretty woman, if slightly overweight, and he’d had no trouble orchestrating their whirlwind romance. To his practiced eye, she was the perfect target: Just the right mix of low self-esteem and neediness. All it had taken was some attention and well-rehearsed passion.
There had been a surprise with this one, however. In the past he’d been able to use the skills with a certain detachment, not unlike the skill a golfer uses to assess a putting green. But this time… He couldn’t put his finger on it. He wrote if off to weariness. He needed rest.
The woman stroked his shirtfront. “We have time….”
“When I’m with you, there is never enough time. Now go, before I lose control.”
She beamed. “All right. You’ll call me with your flight number?”
“Of course.”
He hefted the green checkered suitcase off the bed, guided her to the front door, and opened it A yellow taxi waited at the end of the path.
They embraced again. Her eyes were wet, and he dabbed them with his handkerchief. Abruptly, the feeling returned. What is this? he thought. She is nothing. A tool, nothing more. Get on with it!
He walked her to the cab, put her bag in the trunk, and closed the car door behind her. “I already miss you,” she murmured.
“Travel safe.” He patted the taxi’s roof, and it pulled away.
Bound and blindfolded, Marcus felt himself shoved from behind. He fell to his knees. The floor was made of stone, damp and cold. He could feel the chill seeping into his bare feet.
They led him down some steps, then turned left at the bottom. Now he could hear water lapping. He caught the smell of tar and rotting wood. Docks, he thought. Where, though? It could be anywhere in the city — anywhere in the country, for that matter. His heart sank. How were they going to rescue him if they didn’t know where he was?
Another turn. Down another corridor, this one longer. He heard a crackling noise to the left. It sounded like a welder’s torch. An acrid stench filled the air. A man’s scream echoed down the corridor. Oh, God, oh God…
He was jerked to a stop. He felt cold steel at his throat. The blade paused, then ripped downward, cutting away his shirt and pants. The blindfold was torn away, and he was shoved forward. The door slammed behind him.
Marcus blinked his eyes clear and found himself standing in a windowless stone cell.
4
Tanner showered, ordered coffee from room service, and sat on his balcony. The day was sunny and warm with a slight breeze. He had half an hour before breakfast with Camille, and there was a lot to think about.
Lying in bed the night before, images of the shooting kept-playing in his mind. Umako Ohira. Irrational as it was, Tanner couldn’t help feeling he’d failed the man. In those brief seconds before the fatal shot had come, could he have done something different?
The figure below his window was also a curiosity. It could have been anyone — hotel staff, a guest — but long ago he’d developed a healthy suspicion of coincidence. This counted, he felt.
Though now a civilian, Tanner had spent almost a third of his life in the U.S. military. After graduating from the University of Colorado, he enrolled in Navy Officer Candidate School, after which came four years in the Naval Special Warfare community, followed by four more years with SEAL Team Six, the Navy’s counterterrorist group, and a final four attached to a multiservice hybrid experiment called the Intelligence Support Activity Group, or ISAG.
In the inner circles of the Pentagon, ISAG members had been called “the new breed of elite warrior/spies,” the world’s elite special operators. Their training made them unsurpassed in unconventional warfare and covert intelligence gathering deep inside contested territory, in myriad cultures, environments, and situations. Two years after Tanner left ISAG, it was disbanded, a victim of a budgetary turf war between the Pentagon and the CIA. He’d been one of only sixty graduates.
After resigning his commission, Tanner forced himself to take a sabbatical. He’d forgotten what it felt like to simply do nothing — to just be. No training, no midnight planes bound for cold waters or humid jungles. It took him most of that year to realize he would never be happy in a nine-to-five job. Luckily, it never came to that.