The smile faded, and he saw his reflection change in the port-side window. As Cullen White, he had made mistakes. That was the cold, hard truth, and though he had tried to run from his past, he had never been able to leave it behind. Over the years he had tried to console himself with the fact that he had been young, that there was no way he could have seen what was coming. But he had never really been able to convince himself. Nor had he been able to convince his immediate supervisors. As far as they were concerned, his age was no excuse for what he had done, or rather, for what he had failed to prevent, and they had reacted accordingly. He’d been with the Operations Directorate for less than a year when Jonathan Harper, the DDO at the time, had brought him back to Langley to ask for his resignation in person. That was in ’96, a few months after the incident that marked the end of his career with the Central Intelligence Agency.
The ensuing years had seen him drift from one meaningless government job to the next. After his embarrassing departure from the DO, he was shuttled over to State, where he worked as a passport specialist at the Washington Passport Agency, a consular officer in Gabon, and a cultural attache in Dubai. Those were just a few of the figurehead titles they had seen fit to saddle him with. Middle-management roles in thankless posts, the career path to nowhere-to becoming another Reynolds. White knew they would have loved to cut him loose completely, but it was a risk they couldn’t afford to take.
He never asked why they had kept him close, mainly because he didn’t need to. Despite his short-lived association with the Agency, he had seen and heard a great deal-much more than he should have, given his age and rank. It would be just as dangerous for them as it would be for him if the truth came out. But they had learned from their earlier mistakes. He was never again placed in a position of authority or given any real responsibility. Nor was there any chance of his security clearance being reinstated, and while his promotions arrived on schedule, his workload did not reflect his seniority. Nor did his staff. In his thirteen years with the State Department, he had never had more than three people working under him. At least to his way of thinking, that spoke volumes about the contempt his superiors felt for him.
At first, he had tried to make the best of it. He had sought in vain for some way to redeem himself, but nothing he did seemed to make a difference. As the years rolled past, his bitterness had gradually seeped to the surface. Much of his rage was focused on the people who’d sold him down the river, his former employers at Langley-and for good reason. After all, there was no question that they were the ones at fault.
He’d been twenty-three at the time, just six months out of the Career Training Program at Camp Peary. Twenty-three years old. Even now White had to shake his head at the sheer stupidity of it. There was no way he should have been given the responsibility they’d thrust upon him. But they’d done it regardless, and in retrospect, it was easy to see what a bad decision that had been. Even he could admit as much, though it pained him to do so…
Catching himself, he grimaced and shifted his eyes away from the window. He did not want to dwell on the past. It had no bearing on what he was doing now, and besides, he was not the same man he had been back then. He had been immature and ill equipped for the work he was tasked with, but those days were over. Ironically, his work with the State Department-which was meant to be more of a punishment than anything else-had provided him with many of the skills he’d lacked as a young operations officer with the CIA.
The three years he’d spent in Jordan had given him rudimentary Arabic, which he later improved on, and an endless stream of embassy functions in half a dozen countries throughout Africa and the Middle East had taught him about the dark side of diplomacy. He’d learned how to spot the intelligence officers posing as minor functionaries, and an interview with a stunning female reporter from Khoa Ditore — a supposedly independent newspaper in Kosovo-had shown him just how far the host government was sometimes willing to go to recruit a source, even someone as lowly placed as himself. He could still picture the reporter’s silky black hair, blood-red lips and full, perfectly formed breasts. He remembered the way she had leaned forward to give him a glimpse of her cleavage, the smell of her perfume as she whispered her proposition an inch from his ear.
White had possessed photographic recall since he was a child, and even now, eight years later, the memory was still enough to bring about a physical reaction. And that was the memory alone; confronted with the real thing, he had not been able to resist the temptation. He had told her what she wanted to know, and she had rewarded him with the best sex of his life, right there on the ratty couch in his small corner office.
The memory brought a smile to his face. White still wondered how she might have reacted when she learned that he’d made it all up, but he didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt. She had tried to manipulate him, and he had simply reversed the process. That was the name of the game. It was also the most important thing he’d learned during his time overseas-namely, how to manipulate people. He’d learned how to determine what they wanted, which told him in turn how to get what he wanted. The trick, he’d discovered, was simply listening. Listening to their problems, hopes, fears, and desires. It was amazing what people would say when given the chance, even at an embassy function, where they were surrounded by their countrymen and more than a few of their own intelligence officers, many of whom would gladly kill the loose-lipped official for speaking out of turn.
Cullen White had quickly seen the value of his ability to draw people in and secure their trust, even if he didn’t understand where it came from, and he’d done his best to use it to his advantage. At first, he had passed everything on to the CIA, mainly because he didn’t see any alternative. That was back when he still believed in the possibility of redemption. Later, when he realized they would never take him back, he still took notes and retained what he knew, but he no longer shared his insider knowledge…at least not until his posting to Liberia.
That was when he had first met Joel Stralen, the man who had vowed to help resurrect White’s moribund career. He was one of the few men with the power not only to make that kind of promise but to actually follow through on it. And in the years that followed, he proved true to his word.
Although it had been a decade since their first encounter, White could remember that meeting in its entirety. At the time, Stralen was a brigadier general in the DIA and the commander of the Directorate for Human Intelligence. As such, he was the primary liaison between the DIA and the CIA, as well as the head of the Defense Attache System, the DOD program that provides military and civilian attaches to hundreds of offices around the world. White had been getting ready to leave for the day when he turned to find the general standing in the doorway to his tiny office. Stralen quietly asked him for a few minutes of his time, and White, assuming he’d done something wrong, reluctantly agreed. Five minutes later, over stale coffee in the ground-floor cafeteria, he learned the real reason for Stralen’s visit.
It was the fall of 2000, and the UN Security Council was a body divided. Three of the permanent members-the Americans, the French, and the British-were in favor of imposing limited sanctions on the Republic of Liberia, while the other two-the Chinese and the Russians-were opposed. A similar measure had already been passed with respect to Sierra Leone. Security Council Resolution 1806 had placed an eighteen-month restriction on the export of so-called “blood diamonds” from the West African nation, the site of a decade-long civil war between the sitting government and the Revolutionary United Front. The RUF was a powerful dissident group funded primarily through the sale of black-market diamonds in Western Europe. Those sales were worth an