First Assignment

By Mary Snyder

CIA analyst Alex Everett wasn't expecting to uncover the compelling facts he stumbled upon during a covert assignment. But he quickly learned that his superiors weren't expecting it either—they had assigned Alex to lead the investigation into the triple murder because he had little field experience. And they counted on that inexperience to keep him from uncovering what really happened. With his CIA bosses' access to the most sophisticated technology in the world, Alex attempts to hide his discoveries from them. He struggles to fit the pieces together—a tortured Marine in the Middle East, an egotistical conservative U.S. president, a senator with a dirty little secret, enormous amounts of laundered money, and the CIA stalking one of their most experienced agents. The more Alex uncovers, the more certain he is who is ultimately responsible, but clear incriminating evidence is elusive. The twists and turns in this espionage and politically liberal thriller will keep you guessing until the surprising, final twist. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Snyder
• Release date: Aug 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218060350

Book preview

1.

October

---

TOM DIDN’T KNOW WHERE HE WAS, and he didn’t care. It was barely 6 a.m. as he paused to lean against a tree and soak in the vibrant colors of the fall leaves. Twenty yards ahead, barely visible against a backdrop of ash trees, was a young buck, muscular yet lean. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, then the deer darted off. Hearing the faint burble of a stream, Tom resumed walking, following the sound.

As far as he could tell, he was alone in the woods. But he had an instinct for danger, and he felt uneasy. Zipping the collar of his jacket as high as it would go, he turned slowly but saw nothing but trees.

Suddenly excruciating pain seared his ankle, and he heard a hideous cracking sound. There was an ugly shriek—it was his own voice! He had stepped into a bear trap. The pain intensified as he jerked his leg with force. He crumpled to the ground.

Tom opened his swollen eyes as far as he could. His ankle throbbed, the back of his head pounded, and his body hurt all over. He was spread out on the floor of a cold concrete cell. Sunlight shone through a small window, but thick iron bars cut through its brightness. Scanning the room through puffy eyes, he spotted a basin on the floor near him and a rusty bucket in a corner. The stench of human waste told him the bucket served as the bathroom.

So, you are awake? asked a gentle male voice with a Middle Eastern accent. You were dreaming.

Tom turned his head slightly in the direction of the voice. Here, you drink.

The man in a soiled white headscarf moved closer. Then, as he helped Tom raise his head to drink from the basin, a black mustache, beard, and kind brown eyes came into focus. Tom winced from the pressure of the man’s hand on the back of his head.

Sorry, he said. You have a nasty bump.

Even with the pain, the water felt refreshing as it trickled down Tom’s throat and dripped from his bloody, split lip onto his unshaven chin.

Thank you, Tom could barely whisper.

You are not good, I think. Your ankle is not good either.

Tom looked up at the man again. I’ve seen you before. Who are you? He whispered.

I am Amin. I have been in this cell with you for maybe three weeks.

Oh, yes, Amin, Tom mumbled.

Tom looked down at his aching foot. He could see it was twisted and at a strange angle. Blood had seeped through the rag that bound it. His jeans were filthy, and his blue plaid shirt was torn and stiff with dried blood.

What happened? Tom whispered.

Guards here have not been nice to you. You have had many beatings.

Oh, yes, yes.

Tom moaned and shivered as he began to remember. Amin picked up an old thin blanket from the floor and covered him.

Then came the metallic sound of a heavy door opening. Men were laughing and coming closer to the cell. Tom closed his swollen eyes. He hoped he appeared unconscious.

The men stopped in front of the cell. One of them shouted something to Amin in Arabic through the metal bars. Then the other guard spoke. His voice sounded familiar—rough and raspy—and it sickened Tom. He would never forget that hideous voice.

Tom didn’t dare move as he listened to Amin’s reply in Arabic. The raspy voice yelled back. Tom didn’t dare move. He swallowed over and over, trying to keep down the bile rising in his throat. He heard the cell door open, a fist hitting bone and flesh, and a body hitting the floor—Amin’s body. Then Tom felt a sharp, excruciating kick to his ribs. He gasped. His arm automatically tried to cover his side to protect it, but another kick came before he could act. Then another kick connected right into his shoulder.

Please, no, Tom muttered.

Mr. CIA agent, you will never forget me, promised that cruel, ugly voice. There were more brutal kicks. When he kicked Tom’s injured ankle, the pain shot up his leg and body like a penetrating electrical shock. He screamed and groaned as tears ran down his puffy cheeks. That was the last thing Tom remembered as he passed out again.

Amin laid curled up on the cold floor across the cell, blood trickling from his nose and split lip. He watched helplessly as Tom’s limp body endured another brutal beating.

**********

President McMillan, you’ve had enough, said Chief of Staff Dennis Eckert. You’re getting drunk. You know what happens when you get drunk.

I know, I know, but tell me a safer place to get drunk than during the annual National Security Gala. No media, no cameras, no wife, and I’m with the best secret-keepers in the world! His words were slurred and he spoke more loudly than usual.

But Mr. President…

Come on, Dennis. I haven’t done this in weeks. I deserve to party a little now and then. Anyway, they love me, and they love me even more when I’m a little loose. He grabbed another glass of champagne from a tray as a waiter walked by.

U.S. President Ronald McMillan had insisted they invite the field staff this year so they could also unwind in this safe setting. Tonight, more than 400 people were in attendance—most of whom the president did not know.

Eckert observed the 52-year-old president as he interacted with FBI Director Fred Jackson and CIA Director Edmond Metcalf. But Eckert was getting worried. The president was loose-lipped anyway, but it was inevitable when he drank. He would exaggerate and outright lie about his accomplishments and often blurt out sensitive or even classified information. Eckert knew the president did it to bolster his ego, which seemed insatiable. He was simply an exceedingly insecure man—more concerned with his image than the impact of his words and actions on others. And, really, McMillan was lucky to be president at all. He had won the electoral college, but not the popular vote. But the president had a loyal base of supporters. That kept most members of Congress from his party in line. They rarely dared to disagree with him since he was also good at intimidation. Personally, Dennis Eckert disliked the man, but worshiped his politics.

Dennis, how are you?

Eckert spun around as he was tapped on the shoulder by a colleague. He exchanged pleasantries with her for several moments, but Dennis was distracted. He wanted to get back to observing McMillan, so he waved at an acquaintance to join them. Then, skillfully excusing himself from the conversation, Dennis turned just in time to see CIA Director Metcalf introduce the president to an unfamiliar man. They exhibited animated gestures and facial expressions as McMillan, Metcalf, and the stranger talked. Metcalf then walked away while the guest and the president kept visiting and laughing.

After a few minutes, the president and the man walked to a more secluded area of the room, where it appeared their conversation turned serious. A few guests hesitantly approached the two men, attempting to speak with the president, but McMillan politely dismissed them.

Metcalf was conversing with his deputy director when Dennis approached him.

Excuse me, Edmond, but who’s President McMillan talking to?

The alcohol had loosened Metcalf up as well. He responded in an atypical cheerful manner. Oh, that’s one of our field agents. He’s one of the best— Gregory Karnes.

**********

A hand behind Tom’s upper back gently lifted his head off the thin mattress. Tom jerked, No! he said weakly.

It’s okay, Mister. It’s Amin. He gave Tom a sip of water. Tom could barely speak. His throat was dry and there was pain throughout his body.

Oww, he groaned.

You’ve been unconscious for many hours. They’ve beaten you again. Worse than ever.

Tom’s ankle burned as if it was on fire. He had never felt such pain and throbbing. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest felt like it was in a vise grip. His head ached too. He winced in pain, moaning.

Take it easy, Mister. You have many injuries.

Tom. My name is Tom, he whispered.

2.

November

---

Damn, Metcalf thought. The fucking president would be in shit up to his eyeballs if it weren’t for me saving his ass. I should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep his drunken mouth shut. That was the mother of all his loose tongue antics. If Gregory ever blabs regarding what the president told him at the gala, there will be hell to pay.

CIA Director Metcalf slammed his phone down. He tried to reassure himself since Karnes was one of their top CIA field agents. But Metcalf knew he would be the one scapegoated if Karnes ever revealed what the president had told him. Metcalf had already kicked himself black and blue for being so loyal and getting involved in the president’s mess as deeply as he had.

Metcalf’s chair squeaked under his weight as he leaned back, thinking. Then, finally, he swung it around and looked out his fifth-floor window from CIA headquarters. He could see the Potomac River from his office. As he gazed out, his mind momentarily wandered, recalling boat rides on the river with his wife. He loved that view and missed her.

Damn, he said, spinning his chair back around. He didn’t have time to think about that right now. There were other problems to solve. He ran his hand over his balding head, staring absentmindedly at his computer screen. There was the mounting problem in Minneapolis, but that would have to wait, he concluded. For now, he needed to focus on his other whopping problem—the Marine in Kleebistan.

**********

Amin looked at Tom’s face—a swollen and bloody mess. Then he combed Tom’s damp hair with his fingers. Earlier, they had used waterboarding on him again. Amin gently wiped around Tom’s cuts. He had briefly seen Tom before the beatings and torture began. This nice-looking young American had light brown hair and a darker beard that now framed a virtually unrecognizable face. He moistened the cloth again and wiped Tom’s eyes, hoping that it would give him some comfort.

It’s over. There are new guards. They are bringing supplies so I can take care of you, said Amin. The evil one won’t be back.

Thank you, Tom mumbled to his blurry caretaker as he welcomed the feeling of falling back into unconsciousness.

Amin guessed this badly beaten man was barely 21 years old.

**********

Metcalf had worked directly with one of the agency psychologists to choose a naïve Marine with a loner-type profile for the Kleebistan mission. Now the kid had been captured and was being tortured. Metcalf knew they would kill him if they got the information they sought. He picked up his landline and dialed an extension.

Rebecca, can you come in here, please?

In a moment, there was a knock at his door, and a woman in her early 40s entered Metcalf’s office. A navy-colored jacket and skirt disguised her round figure.

What can I do for you, Director Metcalf? she asked, sweeping numerous strands of unkempt reddish hair behind her ear.

I need you to get in touch with the public affairs people. They should prepare a press release if we get word about the captured Marine in Kleebistan.

Sir?

Yes. I expect they’ll kill him, and I want that to hit the media as soon as it happens. We’ll need a little public outcry and anger at that fucking dictator. He let out a sigh. Unfortunately, the Marine will be another casualty of this dispute. These things just happen sometimes, you know.

Rebecca furrowed her brow, not wholly understanding but asking no more questions. After four years as a CIA field agent, she’d landed in this role as Metcalf’s right hand. It suited her better. Her competence and relationships across the agency made Metcalf’s life easier and earned his appreciation. In the three-and-a-half years they’d worked together, Rebecca had been consistently loyal, but she was rarely intimidated by Metcalf—although her quiet, unassuming manner might cause an observer to think otherwise.

Okay, sir. I’ll tell them to get on it.

Rebecca, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You know how much I trust you.

I know, sir. I take my job and the responsibilities you’ve given me seriously.

Metcalf nodded, then asked, What about family? He doesn’t have a wife, as I recall.

The Marine? That’s right. Just his mother and a few distant relatives. Remember, his mother was notified by the military about four weeks ago that he’d been killed by an IED in Afghanistan, as you requested.

Metcalf looked down at his computer screen and read for a moment. Hmm. I hadn’t read that before about him. He’s from Minneapolis. Strange coincidence.

Coincidence, sir?

He didn’t bother to look up. Well, there’s another problem I’m dealing with up there.

What’s that, sir?

It’s a long story. Victor Bergman is handling that part of it. You have enough on your plate. He looked back at his computer screen.

Okay, sir. Rebecca turned to leave, then stopped. Ah, Mr. Metcalf, are you okay with me coming in a little late tomorrow? I’m going to assist with another case that involves handwriting analysis and expert testimony.

Yes. Fine, he said without looking up.

3.

December

---

Days had turned into weeks, and Tom was awake for more extended periods. Occasionally, he would hear Amin’s voice telling him to drink. Water would trickle into Tom’s mouth, and he would swallow. Sometimes Amin would put a small piece of wet bread or other soft food into his mouth, and Tom would eat it. He even remembered Amin positioning a metal container underneath him so he could relieve himself.

As his pain began to ease, Tom could focus more on his situation—how it started and how he got to where he was now.

At 22 years old, Tom had been more than a little surprised to learn CIA Director Edmond Metcalf wanted to meet with him personally about a special assignment. Metcalf had gone through military channels and requested a Marine for this special assignment. He wanted someone who was quick thinking, articulate, and physically and mentally tough. And someone who also had extensive weapons knowledge. Tom possessed those traits, Metcalf had told him. Kleebistan President Kafeel Nazari was financing terrorist groups like Al Qaeda, Al Shabab, and ISIS. He exploited his people and tortured or murdered anyone suspected of opposing him. Tom’s mission was to finalize the purchase of weapons and get them into the hands of Kleebistan freedom fighters as they prepared to overthrow the tyrant and establish a fledgling democracy. He would then train a number of the fighters on the use of the weapons. That group would, in turn, train the others.

Once Metcalf explained the mission, Tom agreed to the assignment without hesitation. He simply felt honored at being asked to help his country and aid democracy. He was a patriot and understood the word duty.

Tom completed training at CIA headquarters in four weeks—far less than usual. He was needed right away. He went through intense days of briefings, training exercises, tutoring, and more weapons training. One exceptionally experienced field agent mentored him. He gave Tom many tips—not just on surviving a mission but completing it. In case of capture, he was honest with Tom about the potential of interrogation by torture and explained techniques for withstanding it. Although Tom paid close attention to everything he was taught, he never allowed himself to entertain the possibility of capture.

Now, Tom thought back. The techniques he had been taught probably kept him sane—and alive. It was remarkable how helpful it was to brand pain as a friend, and he repeatedly had mental conversations with his pain. As he focused on his breathing during the sessions, Tom constantly reminded himself who he was.

If captured by the Kleebistan government, Tom had been warned the CIA would deny any association with him since this was something the United States Government could not be involved in publicly. He would receive no help from anyone in the agency. Also, the military would notify his loved ones he had been killed by unfriendly fire in a military operation in Afghanistan. They explained that was standard operating procedure for this type of assignment. Death was easier to explain than capture and, surprisingly, easier for loved ones to accept. If captured, he was to stick to his story of being a Marine spending a few days of leave in Kleebistan.

Several Kleebistan soldiers appeared as Tom was crossing the street to meet his contact at a quiet restaurant in Carpoon, the capital of Kleebistan. He was arrested with no explanation. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back as he was blindfolded, gagged, and thrown into the back of a truck. He was viciously kicked and repeatedly punched.

Tom’s next memories were waking up in his cold, dark cell and enduring regular torture sessions. Besides beatings and whippings, there was also waterboarding, which was the most terrifying. Tom felt like he was drowning and blacked out more than once, waking up on the floor vomiting and coughing up water. But Amin was always there afterward to comfort him as best he could.

Throughout the interrogation sessions, his captors repeatedly accused Tom of being there to assassinate their country’s president, and they wanted him to admit it—and admit he was CIA. He came close to breaking many times, but did not. And that feat, he was sure, is what saved his life. Once he admitted it, they would, no doubt, have killed him just as his mentor at Langley had warned. However, Tom’s will to live outlasted his need to have the torture stop. Yes, pain had become his friend.

The questions of how or why he was captured constantly nagged at him. Someone had leaked his CIA affiliation to the Kleebistan government. But whoever leaked the information didn’t disclose Tom’s true mission or else didn’t know what it was. He wasn’t there to kill their president. He was there to help the rebels obtain weapons.

**********

Tom was able to sit up now. Amin had crudely set his ankle while Tom was unconscious. He then immobilized it with two pieces of wood and fragments of cloth wrapped snugly around them.

The two men talked during their waking hours. They shared stories about their families, places they’d been, and religion. Tom told Amin about his childhood, in which his biological father had no part. He shared his favorite memories of time spent with his mother, like going to the state fair and eating anything and everything on a stick; and witnessing the fascinating spectacle of farm animals giving birth. He and his mother would spend hours assembling jigsaw puzzles, his favorite being a puzzle of Superman dressed in his red and blue tights and cape. His beloved childhood book was Huckleberry Finn, and his mother must have read it to him ten times. Tom’s stepfather had been killed in a car accident the year before, and, although he was never close to his stepfather, his death was hard on his mother. That caused him to worry more about her.

Amin had five children, and he shared stories that revealed their unique personalities. Tom came to feel as though he knew each one. He had a beautiful artist wife who supported the family by selling paintings to tourists. But tourism had dropped off dramatically amid growing unrest in the country. Amin also educated Tom about Islam and shared his thoughts on why some had become radicalized and were hateful of Americans. But what they didn’t talk about was as apparent as what they did. There was never talk of why Tom was thrown in prison or any detailed talk about the Kleebistan government. However, Amin did share with Tom why he had been arrested. He had been caught trying to steal food to feed his family.

**********

The guards, talking in loud excited voices, stumbled down the dingy hall and stopped in front of the cell. They were drunk again and shouting at Amin in Arabic. Tom could understand just a few words: CIA and president.

Tom had no time to react as one of the guards carelessly pulled out his gun and shot it in Amin’s direction. A soft groan followed the bang. Blood oozed through Amin’s dirty white shirt on the back of his left shoulder. Amin staggered but remained standing. The guard was laughing. The second guard also had his gun out now, waving it around. Then, gruffly, he stopped waving it and slowly lifted it, his trembling hand aiming at Amin.

Tom had grown stronger but could not move quickly and was still unable to bear weight on his right ankle. His first instinct was to throw his body at Amin’s knees and knock him down to help him avoid another bullet. But, as he raised himself on one elbow, there were more gunshots. This time they were not from the guards.

The main door into the cell area crashed open. A man came running in, shouting at the guards in Arabic. No longer interested in Amin, the guards shouted back. A deafening explosion followed rapid gunfire outside, then another blast sounded. Gunfire erupted down the hall from their cell. The guard aiming at Amin seconds earlier was hit by a bullet and staggered backward before dropping. The second guard turned to run but was also struck by the gunfire. Tom looked up at Amin, who stood with his back against the cement cell wall, red blood trickling from his fingertips onto the cold gray floor.

Several men carrying rifles came rushing toward their cell. One pulled keys off a soldier who lay bleeding on the floor and unlocked the cell door. Amin shouted at one of the rescuers in Arabic, pointing at Tom and his foot. The rescuer hastily turned and ran. Another approached Amin to look at his bleeding shoulder, but Amin spoke firmly and gestured for him to back away.

The first rescuer abruptly returned with a wooden plank. He shouted instructions to others, and three of them approached Tom. Tom was startled and looked over at Amin with a questioning gaze.

They are here to help—let them!

The two men roughly loaded Tom onto the plank and carried him out of the dingy cell. He couldn’t help but cry out as his ravaged body bounced against the plank. Amin followed close behind.

The men maneuvered Tom adeptly through a set of doors and up some stairs. He could see bodies along the darkened hallway as they weaved through ricocheting bullets. They burst into the light of day and the bright sunlight blinded Tom. He couldn’t see anything but heard gunfire as it continued. He grasped the sides of the wooden stretcher as they shoved it into the back of what seemed to be a military truck. Men crawled in beside him. They smelled like his Marine buddies after a long day of vigorous drills.

Tom heard Amin’s voice near him, and he was giving orders now. Tom sat up on one elbow as his body bounced and jerked. Then, as his vision cleared, Tom could see through the swirling dust the prison building getting smaller and smaller.

**********

Tom awoke to a new type of pain in his ankle. His chest and head still hurt, but that pain was different too. He turned his head slightly towards the sound of footsteps and realized he was lying in an actual bed with a real mattress. A blurred face looked down at him. It was the face of an older man, but it was not Amin.

Where am I? asked Tom.

You’re safe in our compound, said the man. He spoke English clearly with barely an accent, Tom noticed.

What compound? Who are you?

I am Dr. Madeeha. I am a friend of Amin’s. Do you remember Amin?

Amin? Yes. Of course. Tom paused. How long have I been here?

Just under 24 hours. You came in last evening.

My ankle hurts, he groaned. He lifted his head and looked down at his foot, but the movement hurt his chest, and he groaned again.

You lie back down. You have injuries, but they are healing. I operated on your ankle last night. I had an easy job. Amin did a good job of setting it.

Tom nodded.

The anesthesia has worn off. I’m going to give you something for pain.

Dr. Madeeha held a syringe and inserted it into Tom’s IV line.

You rest now.

The door creaked open, and Amin entered. His arm was in a sling.

Oh, my friend, you are awake, Amin spoke softly as he approached Tom’s bed. How do you feel?

Tom looked up and tried to smile. Was I run over by a train?

Maybe that would have caused fewer injuries, Amin said, smiling.

Even with his grogginess, Tom couldn’t help but notice that Amin’s English was different. He had less of an accent, and his pronunciation of words was more precise.

Are you okay? Tom mumbled. He was feeling the effect of the medication the doctor had just given him.

I’m fine, Amin replied.

The doctor spoke up. You’ll be fine too, but you need time to heal. You have some broken ribs and facial fractures. And, of course, your ankle. There are multiple lacerations on your face and back and lots of deep bruises. You are getting nutrition through your IV, so what you need to do now is sleep.

Tom’s speech began to slur. What about…

Amin interrupted. There will be plenty of time later to ask all your questions.

Okay, Tom mumbled. He didn’t care anymore as he fell into a deep, welcome sleep.

4.

Tuesday, January 15

5:00 a.m.

---

Well, what do we have here so damn early in the morning? asked Detective John Pearson. His eyes were still puffy from his sudden and unwelcome wake-up call a half-hour earlier.

An apparent double homicide, sir, said the police officer.

Minneapolis police officers had already stretched yellow crime-scene ribbon across the hallway leading down to the offices and patient rooms of the Obstetrical Clinic and Birthing Center. John ducked under the tape and, at his age and weight, that wasn’t an easy move. It was even more difficult in his bulky winter jacket. The officer led him through the door into the clinic suite—the largest suite in the professional building. They walked through the reception area and past two exam rooms to a large office with George L. Rolland, MD written on the nameplate. A woman in a green coat stood looking at the lifeless body inside. Her expression changed to pleasant recognition when she saw Pearson enter the room.

John! she said as she walked over to him. It’s been a while. She held out her arms, and they fondly embraced.

John had worked with Dr. Carol Morrison, Medical Examiner for Hennepin County, on numerous cases. But he knew her best because of his friendship with her late husband. Her husband was much younger than John, but the two men became particularly close after getting acquainted at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting years earlier.

Carol turned and gestured to the floor.

Here’s the doctor’s body. There’s also a woman dead in a room down the hall. I haven’t had a chance to look closely at either of them yet.

John squatted down and tried to inspect the bullet wound in the man’s chest. Shot at close range, he said.

Carol brushed back several strands of her brown curly hair and knelt beside him. And maybe more than once.

She put on a pair of gloves and pulled back the hole in his jacket. There’s a lot of blood. I’ll have to get his jacket and other clothes off to be sure.

John stood up, snatching the chiming cell phone out of his pocket, and took several steps back. Detective Pearson, he said. Moments later, he approached Carol again. Looks like we have to quit what we’re doing. The FBI is taking the lead on this one.

She stood up. Oh. Did they tell you why?

They believe this is part of some interstate criminal activity.

Do we know when they’ll get here?

It’ll be a couple of hours at least, said Pearson. They have an agent flying up from Miami to help out. It’ll be Jake Matthews from the local office and the Miami guy.

Jake? I haven’t seen him in a long time either. She paused and looked down at the body again. I suppose that means I can’t remove the bodies.

Right. You better not.

Carol kneeled back down and inspected the doctor’s body more closely. Then she returned to the medical supply room where the woman’s body lay. A few minutes later, she emerged from down the hall.

John, this is strange, she said, removing her gloves. What?

"I estimate the woman in the back has been dead for more than four hours.

But the man—the doctor—has been dead for just over an hour."

Pearson’s thick, gray eyebrows came together. Well, what the hell? Carol shrugged her shoulders.

I’m going back to my office, Carol said, but I opened the windows in the supply room. Will you open that one? She pointed at the window above the doctor’s body. No telling how long it will be before we can remove them.

Sure, said Pearson. I’ll snoop around here a little more and talk to security. I’ll meet you back here later. Pearson turned and addressed the two police officers next to him. Stay here and keep the crime scene secure until the FBI arrives. Don’t touch anything.

Carol made her way outside and across the icy parking lot to her car. At age 38, she was one of the youngest county medical examiners in the country. And although the work was difficult at times, she treated each body with reverence and respect. Each had been a living person at one time, loved by others. Her examinations absorbed her to the point where she often lost track of time. And these days, she was grateful for that.

She pulled her hat over her ears and tugged at her collar. She’d lost weight in recent weeks and always seemed to feel cold. While letting the engine warm up, Carol looked at herself in the visor mirror. She had always been attractive, she had been told, but stress was taking a toll. Her skin sagged slightly over her cheekbones, and her once-sparkling brown eyes looked dull. Lately, she didn’t take the time to put on makeup, not even concealer, to camouflage the puffy bags under her eyes. Maybe she should start doing that. She shivered as she put her car in gear.

**********

CIA Deputy Director Victor Bergman was still sleepy when he knocked on Metcalf’s door. He’d come into work early today, but, as usual, his boss was already in his office. At 55, Bergman had been the deputy director for ten years and reported to Metcalf for the last three years. Small in stature and a follower by nature, Bergman both admired and occasionally feared Metcalf—who was shrewd, smart, and always thinking ahead. If anything went wrong in an operation, Metcalf tended to take it out on the messenger, and often that was Bergman. Bergman would do his best to ensure this operation went smoothly so he would not have to deal with Metcalf’s anger.

Who is it? His boss’s voice was firm.

Bergman.

Just a minute.

Bergman smirked as he clutched his tablet computer. Even with that tough image, Metcalf did not want to be caught smoking.

Before his wife died, Metcalf had promised her that he would quit. Perhaps he had stopped for a while. But these days, anyone who worked around him knew Metcalf smoked. Bergman surmised this was as close as Metcalf could get to keeping his promise.

Come on in, Metcalf barked.

Bergman entered Metcalf’s massive office, still contemplating his 6’4" boss.

Formerly a ruthless L. A. street gang member, Metcalf had escaped that life by joining the Army at 18. He’d done two tours in Vietnam with the Special Forces before landing at the CIA as an agent. He was still as strong and fit as any young recruit. Besides that, Metcalf was cunning—always ensuring his ass was covered.

Sit down.

Bergman seated himself in one of the oversized chairs at a round conference table. He observed a slight fog of cigarette smoke being sucked into the air cleaner on the corner of Metcalf’s desk.

Metcalf looked up. I talked to Fred Jackson at the FBI. He said the Bureau would help us with Operation Caged Fox. But he insisted that two local FBI agents also be put on the case. Hopefully, that won’t complicate matters.

It shouldn’t, said Bergman, nodding his head. Would you have guessed 25 years ago the CIA and the FBI would cooperate like this on a case?

There have been stranger bedfellows, as they say, but I can’t think of any just now. Metcalf chuckled. I didn’t tell Jackson everything, but I told him enough. I’ve also talked to the FBI regional director in Minneapolis. I know something about him that he wouldn’t want to have shared, so he’ll be in a cooperative mood.

Sir?

You should be able to guess, Victor.

Bergman raised his eyebrows and nodded in understanding.

Anyway, the rationale for sending someone up is solid since the Minneapolis FBI office has been short-staffed anyway, said Metcalf. The story we used is that the Miami office is sending an agent to take the lead in the investigation because of the staffing shortage there.

I’ll add that to the briefing we’re putting together.

Metcalf picked up a piece of paper on his desk and repositioned it. Are they dead?

Bergman nodded. Two of them. The third we’ll have to track down. She’s probably still at home. Our asset is not concerned about that, though.

Metcalf stood up. Fine. It’s a shame, but that situation was getting worrisome. He walked over to the table and sat down near Bergman. Who did you find to do the investigation?

Bergman opened his tablet and tapped the screen. I found someone suitable, I think. His name is Alex Everett. An analyst. Thirty-nine years old, and he’s originally from the Midwest. He works under…

The Midwest? Metcalf interrupted. Good God! Is everybody from the Midwest these days?

Who else is from the Midwest, sir?

Never mind. Go on, said Metcalf.

Well, he works out of the Miami office. Reports to Elliot Lynch and has been in the field to assist with cases just a couple of times.

Elliot Lynch? He’s one hell-of-a capable man.

Yes, said Bergman. He says Everett is looking for more responsibility and wants to be in the field. He follows orders and seldom questions them. Rather humble. The guy sounds quite naïve about the agency, although he’s been with us for 11 years.

Hmm. What else?

Well, there’s a downside about him, sir. In his psychological testing, he scored high in the area of engagement, meaning he is sociable and quite likable. Also, he is exceptionally bright—one of the highest IQs we have among our analysts. And he excels at problem-solving.

"Smart? And good at solving problems? We don’t need a problem-solver up there. We don’t want a problem-solver up there, god damnit!"

Yes, I know, sir. I talked to the psychologist about the assignment and explained that to her. She believes he has some qualities that will more than balance that out. He doesn’t question authority, so he’s easily redirected if given an order. Also quite sensitive—sensitive emotionally, I mean. She said we have to firmly challenge what he’s doing if he strays off course, and he’ll go back in the direction we steer him.

Good. And what did you tell Elliot?

Just what we talked about. I told him one Gregory Karnes had gone rogue. That he has been helping support terrorist activities, and he murdered two of our informants in Minneapolis. Told him we needed an investigator to work undercover with the FBI to flush him out so we can catch him.

Did you explain why we picked this Everett fellow?

Yes. I stressed that Everett’s personality traits fit the profile perfectly as to the type of person we need.

Okay. What else? Metcalf asked. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

Well, Elliot did say he thought Everett could be in over his head on this, so that kind of clinched it for me—that Everett is our man, I mean. Bergman paused. Elliot likes him, though. He likes him a lot.

Well, liking someone can be dangerous. We can’t afford it in this place. Elliot knows that. Metcalf stood up and turned to look out the window, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It’s unfortunate, but if we have to lose one or two more because of this situation, that’s what has to happen. It’s necessary.

Yes, I know, sir. I just thought you should know about Elliot. He seems to have taken Alex Everett under his wing.

Metcalf turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Bergman. How old did you say he is?

Thirty-nine.

Family?

Bergman looked down at his tablet again. Let’s see… he’s divorced. His parents are dead, and he has one brother he rarely communicates with. They haven’t gotten along since their parents died.

All right, then. Metcalf returned to his desk. He sounds fine—more than fine. Excellent work on such short notice, Victor.

Thank you, sir.

Now, how are we going to get to Karnes so he knows about this Everett fellow?

We’ll leak it through our Somali network in Minneapolis. It won’t be a problem.

Fine. Just make sure there are no fuck-ups, Victor. We can’t afford any.

I’ve got everything ready to go. Just give me the word.

Do it, Victor.

Yes, sir. Bergman stood up.

Wait. What about the briefing for Everett? Metcalf asked. What are you telling him?

Well, as I said, I’m having staff put together some detailed information about Karnes. I’ll be reviewing it shortly before we upload it.

Give Elliot Lynch a summary of it too. Maybe that will help him feel better about the assignment. Metcalf paused. I assume you’ll be keeping track of Everett.

Yes. I’m handling it myself. I’ll be checking in with him regularly.

Don’t be easy on him, like the testing showed. We don’t want him digging into the case.

Yes, sir, I know.

How about surveillance?

We’re using the standard means we use with our other field agents.

I want more than that on this Everett fellow, said Metcalf. Put extra surveillance on him. Level M.

Sir? Level M? Bergman was surprised. Level Maximum involved significantly more technology.

Yes. Do it.

All right, sir. I’d better get going then.

Yes. Keep moving this thing along, Victor. He looked up at his clock. The two in Minneapolis were killed about two hours ago, right?

Victor nodded. The asset sent word they were both dead. Like I said, the third one is presumably still at home. We’re awaiting a more detailed report.

Have the bodies been discovered yet?

Yes. Just before I came in here.

Okay. Send him to Minneapolis in one of our private jets, Metcalf said. Yes, sir.

You handle the rest of the details, Victor.

Yes, I will. Bergman closed his tablet.

And Victor, if it doesn’t work and that poor son-of-a-bitch Everett gets himself killed, start thinking about a Plan B. I will too. We have to catch Karnes!

Yes, sir. I understand. Bergman stood up. Is there anything else, sir?

No. Get going, Victor.

As Bergman opened the door to leave, he nearly bumped into Rebecca.

Oh, Rebecca. Good morning,

Good morning, Mr. Bergman. She entered Metcalf’s office, closing the door behind her.

Director Metcalf, the Marine in Kleebistan has been killed, she said, sounding troubled.

What? Are we sure?

Yes. There was an escape attempt a few weeks ago. Several people were killed. Our agent on the ground checked in just a few minutes ago with the communique.

Why weren’t we notified about this when it happened?

Our contact said he’s had to lay low for some time because of the military situation over there.

"Okay. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter when it happened, just that it did.

We can still act on it. Put a call into President McMillan for me, please."

Yes, sir, Rebecca said. She walked out, thinking about her beloved father.

She was barely 10 years old when he was killed in Operation Desert Storm.

5.

7:00 a.m.

---

Alex Everett reclined his seat as he situated himself in the CIA jet. He looked at the switches for the lights, intercom, temperature, drop-down screen, seat heater, massager, interactive maps, and more. Alex had seen a lot of technology since being hired by the CIA 11 years ago, but he could still be awed by it.

He tried to relax, loosening his tie. He hated wearing a suit and tie but needed to look exceptionally respectable today. Everything had happened so quickly, and he’d been given less than an hour to gather things together for this assignment. He felt like he was still rushing.

This was Alex’s first official field assignment as the lead investigator. He’d helped in the field before, but nothing like this. He had to admit it was exhilarating. It is what he had been eager to do for a long time.

Alex brought his seat upright for takeoff, appreciating the ample legroom for his six-foot frame. He looked out, seeing his reflection clearly in the window. His dark hair, part of his Mexican heritage, was a bit longer than he liked, but he could get it cut in Minneapolis. Rubbing his thumb and finger over his mustache, he was glad he hadn’t shaved it off. January in Minnesota—it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra fur.

Miami disappeared behind him. It was a clear day, and he could barely distinguish where the blue-green ocean ended and the sky began. He took it all in as he always did.

He was the only passenger on the plush private jet. There were eight roomy single seats, each with a large flat-screen monitor. Alcohol, caviar, smoked salmon, and more were stocked in a refrigerator beside him. He shook his head, smiling. Pretzels and peanuts would suit him just fine.

Peering out the window, he considered his assignment and the responsibility that went with it. At least he had two FBI agents assigned to help him. One was an experienced field agent, and the other was an expert in computer technology and investigation. The two were told that Alex was also FBI—helping on this case because of their staff shortage in Minneapolis.

Alex’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

Agent Everett, I have your breakfast. The flight attendant carried a tray of eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, juice, fresh fruit, and coffee.

Oh, my goodness. Thank you.

Anything else for you right now?

Oh no, ma’am, this is more than enough.

Just hit the call button if you need anything. I’m right around the corner. She gave him a toothy smile.

As Alex ate, he considered his situation. If his mother could see him now, Alex knew she would be proud. He thought about her on the farm in North Dakota where he’d grown up. His mother had raised him to be polite, compassionate, and kind. He’d chosen a career in criminal justice to help people. Help victims.

Now he had the chance to do something. There had been a double murder of CIA informants in Minneapolis. His superiors had gathered enough information to be certain one of their agents had committed the murders. His name was Gregory Karnes. The agency concluded some weeks earlier that the agent had experienced a mental breakdown and had gone rogue. Then he fell off the grid. Besides committing these murders, he was supporting terrorist plots against the U.S.

His boss and close friend, Elliot Lynch, had briefed Alex earlier. He explained that Alex was selected for the assignment because of his intelligence and excellent instincts. He was told the job would consist primarily of investigation. The two FBI agents assigned to work with him needed to trust him—and that trust needed to develop quickly. They would not know he was CIA, and, in fact, the CIA was violating its charter by working on a domestic matter. But the case had international tentacles, and—due to the unusual circumstances—top brass in both agencies had approved this highly irregular and covert collaboration.

Elliot had tactfully expressed concern to Alex, questioning whether he was ready to be the lead investigator with so little field experience. And, despite his attempt at a neutral demeanor, Elliot also questioned the assertions about Karnes. He’d worked closely with Karnes on an assignment a few years earlier and couldn’t see him as a murderer or a traitor who would cooperate with terrorists. Karnes had been in the military himself and had fought anti-American extremists. He had buddies killed at the hands of them in Afghanistan. But Elliot quickly added that maybe Karnes had changed. He knew of two once-dedicated agents who had become traitors. Between the job’s extreme psychological and physical stress and the lure of vast amounts of money, they’d been enticed to become double agents working against the United States.

As he and Elliot wrapped up the briefing, Elliot encouraged him to size up the situation for himself and not blindly accept everything he was being told. And, although he wasn’t officially in the loop on this assignment, Elliot suggested Alex check in with him occasionally for guidance and support.

**********

A high stone wall encircled the compound but there was several feet of open area between the living quarters and the fortification. When Tom looked out, he could see the blue sky and a few fruit trees near the front entrance. Although he was again confined, this was undeniably better than the small, dark cell he’d been locked in for those countless weeks. He wondered when Amin would return. He’d been gone for many days.

Amin’s wife, Bushra, and their children lived in the compound along with several guards. Others cared for the grounds and did the cooking and cleaning. Tom felt he knew Bushra and their children from the moment he met them because of the stories Amin had told him in prison.

Bushra was attentive to Tom and checked on him often, ensuring he had whatever he needed. They often chatted about the United States, where she had been educated, and stayed on safe topics like national parks or U.S. history. Amin was a lucky man, but Bushra was also fortunate.

There were no computers or phones in the compound. Whoever these people were, they took no chances with communications being traced. They did have one television that received two English-speaking stations. At least he could keep up with some news and entertain himself with a movie now and then.

Tom used books as weights to rebuild his strength and frequently walked the compound. He still had a significant limp, but his ankle was improving, and his visible wounds were healing. Here, Tom had nutritious food and a shower. Yes, he was feeling quite well physically, but his recovery mentally would take significantly longer.

Questions haunted Tom constantly. Why was he arrested? How did they know he was CIA? Just a handful of people at CIA headquarters knew he was in Kleebistan. Who leaked it? Why did they believe he was there to assassinate their president? None of it made any sense.

**********

Alex unbuckled his seat belt, grabbed his laptop and coffee, and walked back towards a large oak conference table. The chairs looked even more comfortable than the seat he had just vacated. He examined the many electronic controls embedded in the conference table and couldn’t resist trying them out. Some activated equipment for presentations and video conferences; others adjusted the lighting and temperature; another summoned a heavy screen that created a soundproof barrier around the room. There was also high-security phone access. Alex stopped playing with the controls when he heard footsteps.

Anything I can get for you now, Mr. Everett? the flight attendant asked. Well, I wouldn’t mind some more coffee if you have some made.

Oh, I’d be happy to. She hurried off, pleased to have something to do.

Alex opened his laptop and booted it up.

The attendant promptly returned with a steaming cup of fresh coffee. Anything else? She beamed with anticipation.

Do you know how long it will be before we land?

It is a two-hour and twenty-minute flight. She looked up at the clock on the wall. You have about an hour and forty-five minutes before you’ll have to take your seat. That will be close to 8:00 a.m. central time.

Thank you.

Are you going to work back here?

Yes, ma’am. Is that okay?

Oh, yes. She stood for a moment. You know there is a small exercise room in the back of the plane.

Really? I may use it if I have time. Thanks.

She turned to leave and stopped again. Ah, would you like a cigar? We have Cubans.

No, thanks. Really. I will let you know if I need anything. He was beginning to feel sorry for her.

Okay, she said, disappointed as she sauntered away.

Alex let out a sigh and opened his computer. He began the involved process of accessing the detailed information about his assignment. He was directed to a file entitled Operation Caged Fox, and began to read.

The FBI and CIA initiated a joint operation two years ago to follow up on several intelligence leads. It involved Somali immigrants. The intelligence was considered credible since it had been acquired through the extensive phone- monitoring program conducted by the National Security Agency.

Minneapolis had the largest Somali population in the U.S. They had sought asylum after the outbreak of civil war in Somalia. Most of these immigrants were hard-working, law-abiding people, grateful to be in this country. Many hoped to return home someday, but most wanted to become U.S. citizens. But a few members of this Somali community had less-than-peaceful intentions.

Intelligence indicated that a cell of terrorists with close ties to al Shabab was organizing more attacks on U.S. soil of a magnitude that would make 9-11 look like a minor plane crash. Loyal followers of Al Qaeda also supported the plot and were highly motivated ever since Navy Seals killed Osama bin Laden years earlier. Young recruits from the Somali community in Minneapolis were targeted for indoctrination. They were being sent to Somalia for radicalization and instruction at a training camp. Their leaders planned to send the recruits back to the U.S. to implement the planned terror attacks.

CIA Agent Gregory Karnes and an FBI agent, both Black men, had been assigned to work undercover and infiltrate this cell in Minneapolis. Karnes was to gradually demonstrate his radicalization so that he would be sent to one of the training camps in Somalia. The FBI agent was to work with the cell locally and continue to gather intelligence. Unfortunately, the FBI agent was killed during the operation when he was suspected of being a mole. But Karnes earned the trust of the local group. Besides being good at what he did, Karnes raised money for the group by selling illegal drugs on the streets of Minneapolis—drugs kindly provided by the CIA.

Top-level officials of the two agencies agreed that Karnes should continue the assignment alone, even though the operation's domestic aspects were the FBI’s responsibility. There was too much at stake to pull the CIA agent.

Alex contemplated what he had read as he paused to look out the window. Had Karnes really turned against his own country to support this radical Islamic group? And, if so, why? The plot grew more complex as Alex