Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition) Read online

  Not wanting to spend his life behind a desk studying satellite photos, counting tanks and missiles, he left DIA and, now fluent in Russian thanks to the Defense Language Institute, was welcomed at the Farm, as Camp Peary was known, where new recruits underwent training in tradecraft, self-defense, and spotting, recruiting, and handling agents.

  His first overseas tour was in Pakistan, toward the end of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, providing aid to the Afghan mujahedeen. He did so well there that, after the Cold War, Langley kept him in the region. He was in Nagorno-Karabakh with non-official cover during the war between Armenia and Azerbaijan. He helped rig elections and buy politicians in Georgia. He’d made covert forays into Afghanistan to spy on bin Laden and provide weapons and cash to the Northern Alliance, and futilely warned his superiors back home about the threat posed by a group called al-Qaeda. After 9/11, he spent the better part of eight years on the front lines of Afghanistan and Pakistan.

  During this time, Cramer made a number of close contacts amongst diplomats, military and intelligence officers, and assorted community and tribal leaders, who had become close personal friends. That was the way to acquire first-rate intelligence, the kind you couldn’t get from reading people’s e-mail and looking at satellite photos.

  Once, he’d convinced a Kazakh army colonel to hand over a brand-new T-91, Russia’s latest tank model, and it cost CIA’s bean-counters nothing more than a few cheap dinners and several bottles of vodka. Langley was grateful for the tank, but they reprimanded Cramer for buying alcohol on the Agency’s expense account and expected him to save every receipt.

  Cramer understood Dushanbe was his last field assignment before retirement.

  After this tour, once he was recalled to Langley, there would be nowhere to go from here, other than perhaps a job as an instructor at the Farm. He had no interest in ending an otherwise productive and rewarding career by recounting everything he knew to some young, naïve recruits, most of whom would never even serve overseas or recruit agents or have to utilize anything they’d been taught. Most would digitally push papers and drink coffee and work a nine-to-five shift, and then return to their middle-class homes in the surrounding suburbs around Langley and DC.

  The only alternative was likely some menial position, like special adviser to the deputy director on Central Asian affairs, and an office where he would be kept out-of-sight and out-of-trouble, forgotten. They’d never make him a division or desk chief. Those lofty positions went to professional careerists who wrote the right reports and provided favorable analysis that towed the Company line and who sported Ivy League class rings.

  Cramer’s predecessor had been recalled to Langley following a small sex scandal involving himself and a secretary on the ambassador’s staff and reports of alcohol and substance abuse. If the story hadn’t made the papers and cable news, where the word “rape” had been thrown around rather flagrantly in the interests of sensationalism, then Langley probably would have ignored the problem and allowed things to continue as they were. Dushanbe station hadn’t produced any worthwhile intelligence, but it was quiet and didn’t create any ripples in the water, which was a job well done, as far as the Seventh Floor was concerned.

  And Cramer probably would have already been forced back to Virginia had this backwater post not suddenly become available and presented the director of the National Clandestine Service (D/NCS) a suitable post to dump him and keep him out of the way for a couple years, while also turning around this little station in a vital region.

  Tajikistan, and Central Asia as a whole, was becoming increasingly important to American interests. The well-intentioned but often short sighted D/NCS wanted to take the opportunity to put an experienced and veteran intelligence officer at the helm of Dushanbe station. D/NCS pulled rank and gone over the head of Cramer’s immediate superior, the Central Eurasia Division chief, to give him the job.

  Truth was, D/NCS did Cramer a favor by putting him in Dushanbe, keeping him in the field a little while longer and convincing the Seventh Floor that they needed an old pro like Cramer to turn-around one of the Agency’s smallest stations that continuously offered piss-poor performance and intelligence product.

  And Cramer had so far been immensely successful, exceeding all of Langley’s low expectations over the past three years. Regardless of personal animosities and burnt-out cynicism, when Cramer was presented with a job, he did it well and went all out, giving it everything he had.

  He wasn’t some chief of station who left his office only to attend diplomatic cocktail receptions and barred his officers from recruiting locals as agents, so as not to offend the host government. It often put him at odds with the ambassador, but Cramer was one of those rare station chiefs who expected his officers to actively engage in the business of espionage and take risks, and he led by example.

  In Dushanbe, Cramer immediately brought in veteran case officers, with whom he had previously worked in Europe and Central Asia. He re-organized the small station from the bottom up, expanding the staff from three case officers to five. Under Cramer’s stewardship, they established a small but valuable network of highly placed agents, including a couple rare and oh-so valuable Russians and even a high ranking Chinese trade official.

  Under Cramer’s predecessor, most of Dushanbe station’s intelligence came from official meetings and briefings with the Tajik Defense and Interior Ministries or GKNB, or even local newspapers, nothing of any relevance or usefulness that told the White House what was really happening inside the country. Now the station regularly provided the White House with first-rate product on the workings of the Tajik government and economic and political conditions within the country.

  But nothing ever stays the same.

  In three months, Cramer’s stint was up, and he’d sit down before D/NCS’s desk, where he’d get a pat on the back and be sent unceremoniously out the door.

  Shortly after 1:00PM, the flip phone sitting on Cramer’s desk vibrated. It was a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell purchased locally. Tajikistan had surprisingly vibrant cell phone coverage, supported by a Kazakhstan-launched satellite and supplemented by European satellites. The phone was undeclared to the Agency and the embassy. His possession of it violated numerous security protocols.

  Cramer grabbed the phone and looked at the number. It was the call he’d been expecting since early morning, when he’d sent Wilkes to meet CERTITUDE in Khorugh. He flipped the phone open, thumbed the “send” button, and said, “Yes?”

  He listened for several seconds before ending the call.

  Then, he selected and dialed another number from his contacts. The phone rang three times before being picked up. “I’m leaving now,” Cramer announced in flawless Russian and hit “end.”

  Other than the clothes on his back, he carried only $10,000 cash in $100 dollar bills in two sealed envelopes stuffed in his pockets and a Beretta 92FS in a holster concealed beneath his suede jacket. It would have been nice to bring along a couple changes of clothes and other items, but being seen leaving the embassy with a case, or bag or having items missing from his office or personal apartment, would raise questions.

  There was little for him to leave behind anyway, just some clothes, books, and files. He was never one to accumulate useless possessions and was not prone to placing sentimental value on material objects, so he owned nothing that was not necessary and could not be easily replaced. There was nothing that could compromise him. He’d already carefully destroyed those few relevant files or notes. He excelled at discretion and covering his tracks.

  Cramer headed out the door of his office, through the CIA section’s cipher lock door, down the empty hallway, and to the staircase. He descended the stairs to the ground floor and went down another hallway. He passed a young woman he recognized from the ambassador’s staff and nodded his head politely and said hello as he passed her. Half a minute later, he was through a set of heavy double doors and across the main lobby.

  He proceeded through Post One, the s
ecurity checkpoint at the front of the building, manned by the local Marine Security Group detachment. One of the uniformed marines on duty recognized him and wished him a pleasant afternoon. Cramer nodded his thanks and smiled curtly, but said nothing, as he walked past the marine and stepped outside into the dry, warm air.

  Although appearing rushed and unsociable, this was not at all unusual for Cramer. He was known to be brusque and rarely, if ever, stopped to make idle small-talk with the other embassy staff. Some station chiefs were social butterflies, in part to help maintain their cover and remove any mystery about what it was they did at the embassy, since secrecy invariably resulted in water cooler and urinal gossip. Others, like Cramer, maintained their privacy and cared little for what others in the building speculated or said.

  Outside, on Rudaki Avenue, Cramer hailed a cab and gave the driver his destination.

  It didn’t matter if any of the marines saw him enter the cab or in what direction it then proceeded to travel. Some point soon, there would invariably be an investigation into the day’s events, and the marines would be questioned and would report that they saw Cramer leave the embassy at 2:34PM. It would be noted in the marine security detachment’s log, and the surveillance cameras would confirm this. And when the investigators searched his office and personal residence, going through his safe, file cabinets, and hard drive, they would learn he had been on his way to meet CK/SCINIPH—the CK digraph denoted that the agent was Russian.

  Invariably, GKNB would be brought into the fold and put on his trail, but he was confident it would be too, little too late. He’d likely be out of the country soon enough. He was taking an enormous risk, operating unilaterally, but at this point he couldn’t trust any of his colleagues from Dushanbe station or any of the agents in his network. Not after what had happened with Wilkes. He didn’t know how far this went.

  Except SCINIPH. He was the only one Cramer trusted.

  Cramer questioned, not for the first time, how it came to this and at what point everything went wrong. He didn’t follow the train of thought, though. He’d already made his decision, and there was no going back now.

  At least the tension of waiting all afternoon for the phone call had subsided, replaced with the confidence that it was done and he was on his way out of here. He turned his mind toward more pleasant thoughts, such as where he would retire to when this mess was all over. He considered the south of France or perhaps the Costa del Sol of Spain as likely spots.

  For the last four years, home had been a cheap apartment outside Alexandria, for the brief periods of time he found himself grounded, between overseas assignments or tours. His ex-wife had taken his Alexandria townhouse following the divorce settlement. He was still paying the mortgage on it, plus the college tuition costs of a spoiled, self-absorbed twenty year old daughter he had not spoken to in over a year.

  There was nothing for him back home, and home itself was a strange concept to him, one that never had any particular relevance to him. He had spent most of his life in different places, often different countries, for up to a year at a time. He felt like he had little to lose, and it made it easier to accept the risks he now took.

  The taxi stopped outside of a squalid, four story apartment building.

  Cramer handed the driver a wad of cash. He tipped him well, but not so well as to be remembered later, and quickly exited the car. As he approached the front entrance of the building, the cab was already gone.

  Cramer used the spare key he’d been given to enter the building. There was no one else in sight, and he took the stairs to the third floor.

  SCINIPH wanted to have this meeting in private and had told Cramer that this was a secure location. Cramer surmised that it was a Russian safe house.

  Following the instructions given him, Cramer reached a heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway. Using his key, he entered the corner apartment without knocking.

  It was dark inside, with the shades drawn over the windows.

  SCINIPH waited, seated in an armchair, smoking a cigarette.

  But Cramer hadn’t expected the other three men in the apartment.

  One, he recognized at once from his description and the numerous stories he’d heard. The man’s strong Slavic features, shaved head, and the small shaded tattoo of a spider crudely rendered on the left side of his neck were immediately distinctive features.

  The presence of the other two men—Uzbeks—reinforced the uneasy knot in the pit of his stomach. He recognized one of the Uzbeks from GKNB counterterrorism files.

  THREE

  Virginia

  Avery was halfway through the movement of his fourth repetition when the cell phone on the table across the room rang. He swore softly, at once furious at the break in his concentration. His arms stopped in place for an instant, his first instinct to lower the weights, but then he inhaled deep and resumed shoulder-pressing the pair of seventy-five pound dumbbells over his head. Lowering the weights slowly and deliberately, he released the air from his lungs. He did this one more time, after which he was incapable of performing a seventh rep.

  The ringing continued. There was only one person who would call him on this phone. Calls were infrequent, but he still always kept the phone fully charged with the volume up and within reach at all times of the day, every day, wherever he went. He dropped the dumbbells onto the rubber matted floor on either side of the inclined bench. His heart pounded. His chest rose and fell with each breath. A burning line ran down the inside of each of his deltoids, and his triceps bulged.

  He took four steps across the spare bedroom he’d converted into a weight room, grabbed the phone with his right hand and, without glancing down to see the caller, thumbed “answer” on the touch screen, while taking the towel in his opposite hand to wipe up the sweat dripping from his face.

  “Hello,” he said in between intakes of air.

  “Avery, how are you?” The familiar voice was laced with a barely discernable southern drawl. It was the first voice Avery had heard in four days, felt longer though, since he’d gone to Quantico earlier that week to put rounds down range with a buddy from DEA.

  “I’m doing well, thank you.”

  “There’s a job for you. I’ll see you at one; my office. Be ready to travel.”

  The call ended.

  Avery set the phone back down and guzzled water from a plastic bottle. He took half a moment to collect his thoughts, re-focus his mind, and returned to the weights. He needed to do three more sets before completing this week’s shoulder work-out. It looked like he no longer needed to consider tomorrow’s legs work-out, which suited him just fine.

  He’d been training, preparing, and waiting for this call for the last fifteen weeks, since returning from the last job. The last week in particular he’d started to grow anxious and impatient, eager for something new on which to focus his mind and take him away from here. He wondered where it was this time, but it didn’t matter. He went where he was needed.

  It might be a week between jobs, might be a month, Avery never knew, but whenever Matt Culler called him, he was grateful for it. He often thought where he’d be without Matt’s jobs, and the answer presented a singularly bleak, empty alternative to his existence.

  ___

  Four hours later, Avery passed through the metal detector and turnstiles, and checked in at the security desk in the foyer of the Original Headquarters Building of the George Bush Center for Intelligence. The security officer had Avery empty his pockets and relieved him of his cell phone. Cell phones and electronic devices were strictly prohibited here. Avery was then given a green badge, the one worn by private contractors while at CIA headquarters. The electronic chip in the badge allowed security to track his movement anywhere on the premises and restricted his access to certain areas. Avery had no doubt security would keep tabs on him. Many still considered him unwelcome here, and he was sure his name was flagged. Security would search him again on his way out, to make sure he hadn’t managed to swipe a USB drive or st
uff classified documents down his pants, both of which people have been caught doing in the past.

  Avery declined an escort—he knew the way. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and passed through the glass-ceilinged entry corridor into the New Headquarters Building, a six story glass building built into the hills behind the Original Headquarters Building in the 1980s. Along the way, he was passed twice by uniformed security officers, which he didn’t for a second think was coincidence.

  It had been a two and a half hour drive from his cabin in the backwoods of West Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. He did seventy most of the way on the interstate in his Jeep Cherokee, slowing only when his radar detector chirped, alerting him to the presence of a nearby State trooper or a speed trap. His Jeep sat now in the parking lot, with his gear and a weeks’ worth of clothing stashed in the back.

  Although he welcomed the prospect of a job, he always hated coming to headquarters. He felt uncomfortable and out of place here. When he was on the regular payroll, he’d always spent most of his time in the gym or the library. The atmosphere and layout felt too much like a university campus. An apt comparison, he felt, given the fact that most of the staff here were young, right out of school, and spent most of their day writing and reading reports, far removed from the realities of the outside world.

  Wearing rumpled jeans and a black t-shirt that looked like it had been through the wash too many times, Avery stood out amongst the professionally dressed staff. Passing them in the corridors, they looked straight ahead with an air of busy superiority and didn’t even acknowledge him with eye contact, or they gave him sideways glances as he passed them.

  Avery checked in with the secretary manning a desk in the fifth floor office suite where Culler worked. She buzzed Culler, and a second later, Avery heard the release of the lock from inside the office. Like all offices, entry to Culler’s was granted through a tiny vestibule that lay between two sets of doors. This was to prevent anyone walking by outside from catching a glimpse inside an office where classified materials were kept or seeing who was visiting a particular office when the door was open as someone entered or left.