Kill Shot

Chapter 7
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

THOMAS Stansfield was accustomed to working Saturdays. The world did not stop for the deputy director of Operations for the CIA to rest so he worked six and a half days a week. He was, however, not accustomed to being rousted by the secretary of state at four in the morning on a Saturday. Even so, he kept his cool as the secretary told him the news of a dead Libyan diplomat in Paris. He also managed to patiently listen as the secretary made some extremely wild and uninformed accusations. Stansfield assured him the CIA had nothing to do with whatever it was that had happened in Paris, and before hanging up, he promised America's top diplomat that he would have some answers by noon.

By 8:00 a.m., Stansfield was ensconced in the Situation Room at the White House with most of the National Security Council. With the president off playing golf in Maryland and the vice president AWOL, Secretary of State Franklin Wilson led the meeting. After two hours of idle conjecture, and a lot of bluster about putting pressure on Israel, Stansfield finally managed to break away from the meeting.

With the morning already half gone, Stansfield was irritated that he didn't have a single salient fact. The questions were piling up, and he knew if he was going to get some answers, he would need to escape this meeting of Washington's power elite and have a much-needed discussion with one of his junior operatives and an old colleague who had better be waiting in his office back at Langley.

Stansfield found Irene Kennedy sitting in his small lobby and signaled for her to follow him into his soundproofed office. In his eternally composed way, Stansfield motioned for Kennedy to sit in one of the chairs opposite his desk and then asked, "Where is Stan?"

Kennedy shrugged. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. "He wandered off a while ago. Said he needed to talk to someone."

Stansfield unbuttoned his gray suit coat, took it off, and draped it over the back of his leather office chair. He was annoyed that Stan Hurley was loose in the building, but he didn't let it show. They had a long, colorful history together and Stansfield was intimately familiar with the man's abilities as well as his weaknesses. There were some very good reasons why Stansfield had turned him into a private contractor a few years ago. Chief among them was that Hurley was completely tone deaf when it came to the internal politics of Langley. He was like a child who simply couldn't resist touching the paint when the sign clearly said, "Wet paint. Do not touch." In the ordered, uptight halls of Langley, he was a disaster waiting to happen.

Stansfield looked at his Timex watch and decided he would give Hurley five minutes before he sent someone looking for him. Turning his thoughts to the matter of most concern, he asked, "Our young friend . . . has he checked in?"

Kennedy knew Stansfield's office was swept for listening devices on a daily basis, but these conversations always made her nervous. "No."

"Any idea why?"

"I would prefer not to jump to any conclusions until we know more."

Stansfield looked at her with his gray eyes, waiting patiently for her to say more. The look on his face was one that was familiar to all who worked for him. He paid his people for their intellect and their opinions, not to play it safe until the answer was obvious. "I know he's still relatively new . . . but I assume you properly impressed on him the need to check in."

"I did, and although he may be new compared to some of the other people around here, in one year's time he's racked up more real field experience than any other ten operatives combined."

Reading between the lines, Stansfield understood that by practical field experience, she meant kills. "Has he ever failed to check in before?"

Kennedy considered the question for a moment, but then the door opened and Stan Hurley walked in. He was wearing a boxy-fitting blue suit, white shirt, and no tie. His mustache was trimmed short but he'd skipped the razor this morning, so he had scruffy stubble that looked like it could be used to sand wood. Stansfield, knowing Hurley's uncouth side better than most, was impressed that he'd actually bothered with the suit at all.

"Sorry I'm late," Hurley announced with a basso voice that he'd developed from years of smoking, drinking, and yelling.

"What have you been up to?" Stansfield asked with sincere curiosity.

"Just checking in on a few old friends."

"Do I want to know who?"

Hurley flashed him a lopsided grin and said, "Boss, you've got more important things to worry about."

Stansfield would find out later. For now they had to figure out what had happened in Paris, and to what extent they might be exposed. Keeping his eyes on Hurley, he asked, "Any word on what happened last night?"

"Nine bodies. Libyan oil minister and a prostitute were gunned down along with his four-person security detail."

The deputy director of Operations gave a slight nod. He'd already confirmed as much.

"There were also three innocent civilians." Hurley leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stroked his mustache with both hands and folded them under his chin. The man seemed to be in perpetual motion. Even at fifty-three, he had a youthful energy about him.

"Three innocents?" Stansfield asked, betraying his surprise with only an arched brow. He turned to Kennedy. "Did you know about this?"

"No," Kennedy answered honestly.

"Two hotel guests," Hurley added, "just down the hall from Tarek's room, and then a kitchen boy in the back alley."

"Nine bodies," Stansfield repeated, still surprised by the number.

"That's right," Hurley said as if it was no big deal.

"Any chance one of these bodies is the man we're looking for?" Stansfield asked.

"It doesn't sound like it."

Kennedy turned in her chair to face Hurley. "Where'd you get this information?"

"Listen here, Missy," Hurley snarled, "I wasn't the one who planned this half-assed op."

"Let's hear it," Kennedy said with a confrontational edge in her voice.

"Hear what?"

"How the great Stan Hurley would have done it differently."

"For starters I would have never sent him in alone."

"That's pretty much all we've done for the last nine months and he's been pretty successful . . . a hell of a lot more successful than you and your boys have been the last couple years."

"You can bitch all you want, but I warned you. You gave that boy way too long a leash."

Stansfield was not in the mood to referee another argument between these two, so he cleared his throat and asked, "Who's your source?"

"Don't worry about my source. He's impeccable."

"All the same," Stansfield said, "I'd like to know."

Hurley put on an irritated face. He'd known Stansfield for three decades and he knew by the arch of his damn right eyebrow when there was no sense in trying to put him off. "An editor at one of the major dailies over there. She says the press is all over this thing."

Kennedy noted that he'd originally referred to his source as a he. The man was always thinking of ways to throw you off.

"Is this the she I'm thinking of?" Stansfield asked.

Hurley knew how proper his old friend was, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to say openly what he was really asking. "You mean the editor from Le Monde I used to sleep with?"

Stansfield nodded.

"That would be her."

"And how do we know that she has her facts straight? We can assume they have it right on Tarek and the prostitute. What about the other seven bodies?"

"She already has names on all of them. The police have asked her not to release them until they can notify families, but none of the names I was given popped."

"So we can assume he's alive," Kennedy said, with just a hint of relief in her voice.

"And that he f*cked up, big-time!" Hurley said, not giving her an inch.

"We don't know that," Kennedy retorted, addressing Stansfield instead of Hurley. She had known both of these men since birth. Her father had worked with them out of this very building. She was perhaps the only person at Langley under the age of thirty who would dare disagree with them. Stansfield admired her for it, while Hurley thought she should keep her mouth shut until she'd served at least a decade.

"What we know," Hurley said, his voice growing in intensity, "is that innocents are off limits. That is the unbreakable rule."

"That means a lot coming from you," Kennedy said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means."

"No, I don't."

"Uncle Stan," she said in a voice devoid of affection, "you've based your entire career on breaking the rules, and I think the reason he pisses you off is that he's a constant reminder that you are getting old and he's better than you were at your best."

Stansfield knew the words hurt his old friend, and he also knew there was a great deal of truth to them. Most of this was beside the point, however. They needed to focus on the problem at hand. "I want both of you to listen to me. We don't know what happened over there, and as we've all learned before, it's a dangerous thing to rush to conclusions."

"I'll tell you what's dangerous," Hurley snapped, still smarting from Kennedy's comments. "Letting a f*cking untrained dog off the leash. Letting him basically run himself without any proper handling. That's what's dangerous." Hurley leaned back, shaking his head. "I've been warning you two about him from day one."

Kennedy turned and gave him an icy stare. "I assume you're referring to the same dog who risked his life to save your ungrateful, stubborn ass in Beirut?"

Stansfield desperately wished these two could work out some truce, but according to Dr. Lewis, there were no signs of things cooling down between them. He listened to them argue back and forth for a half minute and then said, "Are you two done?" He gave them a moment to absorb the fact that he was sick of listening to them and then said, "Does either of you have any useful information that you could give me?"

"I sent some assets over this morning. First flight out. They'll start poking around and see what they can find out."

"Good," Stansfield told Hurley. "I want you to get over there, too, and make sure we keep a tight lid on this thing. Find out what is going on and bring him in."

"That's my job, sir," Kennedy protested. "I'm his handler."

Stansfield shook his head. "You're too official, and you don't have Stan's contacts. I need you here."

Kennedy turned to Hurley, her eyes narrowing in distrust. "Who did you send over this morning?"

"A couple of my guys."

"Who, Stan?"

"Don't worry," Hurley said out of the side of his mouth. "I know how to handle my people."

Kennedy studied him for a moment and asked, "Did you send Victor?"

"What does it matter if I did?"

Kennedy turned her attention back to Stansfield. "If you've read my man's jacket, you know he and Victor have an explosive past."

"This is getting old." Hurley shook his head. "I'm sick of being second-guessed."

Kennedy kept her eyes on Stansfield. "If he gets a whiff of Victor and his thugs things will end badly."

"You're overreacting," Hurley grumbled.

"Ask Tom," Kennedy said, referring to Dr. Lewis. "He'll give you an honest assessment."

Stansfield nodded. "I will, but in the meantime I need you two to find out as much as you can about what happened last night." He motioned with a flick of his hand that they were done.

Kennedy stood. "I understand that this looks bad, sir, but there's a lot we don't know."

"I'll grant you that, but what we do know is not good . . . nine bodies, at least four of them innocent bystanders." The veteran spy shook his head. "This was supposed to be a surgical strike. The target, and as few bodyguards as possible, and that was it. No innocent bystanders. The rules were very clear."

"I know, sir, but there could be an explanation."

The problem, as Stansfield understood it, was that an explanation could be next to worthless at this point, but there was no sense in hammering the handler. He'd knowingly gone along with deploying Rapp despite repeated concerns raised by Stan Hurley. "Anything is possible, but we are in the answer business, and I need some answers."

Hurley stood. "Don't worry, I'll bring him in."

"None of your cowboy bullshit, Stan. I want him back here in one piece."

Hurley left without saying another word. After a few seconds, Kennedy started for the door.

Stansfield, looking at some papers on his desk, ruminated, "There's a chance we misjudged him."

Kennedy stopped abruptly, composed herself, and turned slowly to look back across the sterile office at the man she respected above all others. The disappointment on her face was obvious. "I don't believe I did, sir. The rest of you may have . . . and still are. He has performed beyond anyone's wildest expectations, and at the first sign of trouble you all assume he blew it."

"I haven't jumped to any conclusions. I simply expect my operatives to check in. Especially when their ops end badly." Stansfield picked up a file and said, "I've warned you before . . . don't let your feelings cloud your judgment in these matters. Follow Stan's lead on this and it will all work out." Stansfield opened the file, signaling that the meeting was over.

Kennedy's frustration boiled over. "Maybe you should have this same talk with Stan."

"Excuse me?" he asked, looking over the top of his glasses. Kennedy's father had been a colleague of Stansfield's, and more important, a good friend. He had tragically met his death overseas, and because of that, Stansfield had always felt protective of Kennedy. He understood that he had become a father figure to her, and he welcomed that, but at the same time, he was aware that he was sometimes a bit over-protective of her. Maybe that had led him to think her less capable than some of the others.

"You tell me not to allow my feelings to cloud my judgment . . . what about Stan? He's had it in for Mitch since day one. Mitch even saved his life and the mean old cuss can't say so much as thank you."

Stansfield removed his glasses. "I am well aware of Stan's shortcomings. And trust me when I tell you, he and I have discussed them at length."

"The problem, sir, is that he sees too much of himself in Mitch and it drives him nuts that he can't control him."

Stansfield couldn't disagree. Dr. Lewis had alluded to this very problem in several of his reports. In a soothing voice he said, "Irene, we prepare for the worst on something like this, and the truth is everything will more than likely turn out fine."

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"I know you don't like the way Stan deals with things, but he does have a very good record of delivering. If he's alive, Stan will bring him in."

"I don't think so," she said in a distant voice. "If you want to bring him in, I'm the one to do it. If you want more bodies, then send Stan and his goons over there to try to collect him. Mark my words, sir, it won't end well."