After five seconds had passed, the metallic lock released and a green light flashed above the door. DeSantos walked in, ignoring the high definition screens, electronic charts, maps, and monitoring devices. The room lighting was muted, and a medium-size, oval conference table sat back from the two computerized “tech walls,” as they were called. The deep blue industrial carpet added to the darkness, as if by design. Cool air streaming in through the ceiling panels provided a continuous white-noise background and offset the intense heat radiating from the plethora of electrical equipment that lined the room.
DeSantos sat down on one of the firm, blue ergonomic chairs and tossed his attaché case on the conference table where his partner, Brian Archer, was seated. Archer, rail thin with a military-style crew cut, was focused on one of the many flat panel screens, where a taped news report was playing.
“This our new assignment?” DeSantos asked with a slight Latin American accent.
Archer leaned forward in his chair. “Shh.”
DeSantos removed his glasses and pecked at a few pieces of dust, then replaced the spectacles on his nose. “You couldn’t wait till I got here?”
Archer reached for the television remote and hit PAUSE. The image froze on the news reporter, a twenty-something GQ man primped and primed for the camera.
“You’re late. Should have been here on time. I can’t talk to you and review this material at the same time.”
Archer hit PLAY and the frozen image jerked back to life. “… and after six long years,” the reporter said as he glanced over his shoulder at a federal penitentiary in the distant background, “in approximately fifty-eight minutes, Anthony Scarponi, the most prolific hit man in U.S. history, will walk out of this prison.”
“Can we back up a second, Brian?”
Archer looked at DeSantos and frowned. He hit the POWER button on the remote and folded his arms across his chest. “Fine, let’s back up.”
“Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“If you’d been on time—”
“Fuck it. I’m here. Brief me.”
Archer shook his head, then swiveled in his chair and lifted a folder that rested near his left elbow on the conference table. “You’re such an asshole sometimes, you know that?”
“According to my wife, it’s most of the time.”
“I don’t know why Maggie puts up with you.” Archer spread an accordion folder and pulled out a manila file. He opened it and swung it around to face his partner. “Hector DeSantos, meet Anthony Scarponi, international assassin.” A five-by-seven, black-and-white mug shot stared back at DeSantos.
“Wasn’t this guy one of us?”
“In the broad sense. Specifically, a CIA operative stationed in the Far East, first in China, then the USSR. We had a number of intelligence breaches in the eighties. One of them compromised Scarponi’s cover and exposed him as an operative.”
“Ames?”
“A little early, but possible.”
DeSantos instantly zeroed in on the Aldrich Ames spy case of 1994, when a key CIA analyst, the head of the Soviet counterintelligence branch, was convicted of having sold sensitive national security information to the Soviets over a period of nearly ten years, including the names of CIA operatives stationed overseas. Most of the compromised spies were executed, while a handful simply disappeared.
“But they didn’t kill Scarponi,” DeSantos said. He pulled the file closer to him.
“No. They had better plans for him.”
DeSantos looked up, his eyebrows knitted tightly together. “Better plans?”
“It appears they drugged him pretty extensively. There’s nothing in our file about it, but I did some digging. I think they did some heavy mind-control shit on him.”
DeSantos looked back at the paperwork. “There’s nothing in the file?”
“Looks like it’s been cleansed.”
“But why?”
Archer shrugged. “Obviously, there’s something in there no one wants anyone to know about.”
“We’re not just anyone. Besides, how the hell do they expect us to do our job when they don’t give us full disclosure?”
“Knox said this one goes all the way to the secretary of defense.”
DeSantos shook his head. “You’d think they’d know they could trust us after we pulled Lynch’s ass out of the fire two years ago. Wasn’t that enough to prove we’re all on the same side?”
“Nobody’s on the same side,” Archer said. “That’s the fucking problem.” He swiveled his chair and rolled it over to the wall of computers. “Let’s see what Sally tells us.”
“Jesus, Brian, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
Archer entered an ID and password, then hit ENTER. “I already did some exploration in the database before you got here.”
“I promise not to be late next time.”
Archer snorted as he continued to strike keys. “You’ll be late. It’s your way, you can’t help yourself.”
“You’re beginning to sound more and more like Maggie every day.”
“Being partners with you is just like being married, without the sex.”
“Hey, Maggie and I have great sex.”
“That’s why she stays with you. I don’t have that incentive. Keep that in mind,” Archer said with a wry smile.
A beep followed a fingerprint scan, at which point they were granted access. Archer struck a few keys and a large blue-and-gold CIA logo filled the screen. “Welcome to the CIA ISO CSS intelligence database,” Archer said. “As if we didn’t have enough acronyms in government…”
“I thought you gave up hacking.”
“Hacking implies something illegal. I’m just… looking around.”
“Browsing.”
“Exactly.” Archer struck a few keys and a photograph of a much younger Anthony Scarponi appeared on the screen. “Guy’s file from eighteen years ago. Started as an analyst specializing in Asia and the USSR, then was granted operative status five years later,” he said, reading from the screen.
“Whose password and ID are you using?”
“I don’t know. Knox supplied it. Someone he said we can trust. They tied my fingerprints in with the pass codes.”
DeSantos shook his head. “I still think this could come back to bite us in the ass if we’re not careful.”
“Then we’ll watch our back,” Archer said slowly as he scanned the dossier in front of him.
“You were right,” DeSantos said, pointing to the screen.
“About what?”
“The drugging.” DeSantos’s finger moved across the text. “Scarponi’s whereabouts were unaccounted for sometime after 1982, but he was located by a small group of Delta Force ops that went in to find our missing people. He was sighted on a Chinese research compound in 1984. The Mao Institute. Our ops were unable to approach him.” DeSantos looked over at Archer. “Knox was in charge of the inquiry on that mission.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it.”
“Mao Institute,” Archer said. “That’s the one that’s doing biological weapons research?”
“Among other things.”
“Wonder where that leads,” Archer said.
“Right to the secretary of defense, I believe is what you were told.”
Archer gave DeSantos a sideways glance, then turned back to the monitor.
“Maybe this is our answer,” DeSantos said, reading from the screen. “Knox headed up a covert international task force that was assembled to identify and locate the assassin known as the Viper. In 1991, Knox’s task force identified the Viper as being ex-operative Anthony Scarponi. He assigned a former SEAL, FBI agent Harper Payne—”
Just then, the blue NSA eagle crest filled the screen, followed by large red letters: “INFOSEC password has expired.” The monitor flashed, and the CIA logo reappeared.