I watched as Wakefield crossed the floor and retook her seat before speaking.
“That prior relationship, coupled with what I told you Leecy overheard Agent Porter say, plus what I got out of Briggs Smith – it all confirms your data mining hits on INESCO.”
Leecy interrupted me.
“If the two guys that broke into our home didn’t know us personally, then someone else told them about us. I see now. Individually, the pieces of data collected point nowhere, but taken collectively, they mean whoever is behind this knows about us. Knows about our family. There has to be an insider.”
“And those two guys, Smotherman and Pickett,” Valerie said, “they don’t know us or anything about us. During our interview in Park City, I told FBI Agent Porter that Pickett worked at INESCO, but as a low-level compounder in the rubber division. Pickett wouldn’t have had any knowledge of what INESCO’s doing in R&D, or of our family’s products, new or old. So your conclusion, Agent Wakefield, is there has to be someone else at INESCO involved. But who?” Valerie turned to face me. “Is the mole the mystery partner Briggs Smith told you about, Ron? Or someone else?”
“Before we start down the mystery partner road,” Wakefield broke in, “let’s talk about the FBI agents you met in Park City: Porter, Briggs Smith, and Travis Smith. There’s no record of FBI agents by any of those names.”
“I’m not surprised the Smiths are fake, but I was convinced Porter was the real deal,” Valerie said.
“So was I,” I said. “I pegged them as ex-Army Rangers. But I thought Porter was legit FBI.”
“Neither Travis nor Briggs Smith is FBI,” Wakefield said, “but working off of Ron’s intuition about the men, we found something. Briggs Smith is a former Army Ranger. He was honorably discharged last May. We found no record of him after May 2012, though. Nor any record of the one calling himself Travis. Like Porter, the one called Travis doesn’t exist in any database anywhere. Agent Moore took personal charge of the search after my conversation with Ron last night and hasn’t turned up anything,” Wakefield said.
We were all silent for a few moments; then Tammy gave us one of her million dollar smiles.
“We need a little break, and I’ll bet you’re all pretty hungry. I’ll order up some lunch and while we eat I can answer some of your questions about your father, Leecy.”
Then turning as she stood to leave the room, she spoke directly to Valerie.
“And I haven’t forgotten about you, dear. I’ll have an answer for you before our meeting is over.”
Lunch consisted of room service sandwiches and salads. It was food, and we were hungry, so we ate. I was thinking about the intention behind Wakefield’s performance this morning. The little mind game dance she’d danced with my daughter. A long time ago, I’d been the one eagerly answering her questions, connecting the dots for her and reminding her where she left off in a conversation, only to discover later it was how Wakefield judged people. To what end now, I wondered. I hoped she wasn’t about to tell Valerie the price for helping us was our first born, because Valerie might kill her.
Leecy was the first to break the silence. “Okay, what can you tell me about my dad and his time with the CIA?”
Wakefield didn’t suppress the smile that crept across her face this time. I could tell my old friend liked what she saw in Leecy. That made me nervous, but I tried to remain calm.
“Well, let me think a moment. There are things, regardless of the agreement you signed earlier, that I cannot discuss.” The connecting door opened behind Wakefield, and she turned to see who was entering the room unexpectedly.
“Yes, Tom?”
Agent Moore said, “Oh, I heard talking and assumed the meeting was starting up again, and you had indicated you wanted my input this afternoon.”
“No, no, we’re just chatting. But come join us,” Wakefield said. “You might appreciate this.”
Agent Moore sat in one of the chairs positioned at the end of the couch occupied by Wakefield. He tried to mask his eye movements by ducking his head as he sat, but I could see he was checking each of us closely. I was finished eating and decided to stand and retake my position at the windows. I was more comfortable where I could see the entirety of the room. I made eye contact with Valerie and we spoke to each other through the glance. She looked briefly in Moore’s direction and then back at me with a slight turn of her head, indicating that she didn’t think he was the mystery man. I’d reached the opposite conclusion shortly after I met him, simply because my gut told me to believe it. I had no evidence to support my feeling, but it was there nonetheless.
“Why are you guys in a hotel?” Leecy suddenly asked. “Why aren’t you set up in some old vacant building or CIA black site somewhere in the city?”
Wakefield laughed.
“Because this isn’t a movie and we aren’t on TV. We need power for our equipment. We need to be able to access the Internet and the data storage facilities. We can’t do that from a vacant building that doesn’t have electricity. The CIA doesn’t maintain operational black sites around the country like office space or underground bunkers. When we’re in the field, the idea is to blend in and become part of our surroundings. This hotel serves our needs in the most efficient and cost-effective way. We use their electricity; we access the information we need over their phone and cable lines – after running basic encryption software and maybe boosting the signal a bit. We’re just another small business group in one of the hotel’s medium-sized suites.”
“Okay, that makes sense, but what about the maid service? You know, the housekeeping staff?”
“We’re registered as foreign dignitaries. We explained that our country’s customs do not allow strangers to access our rooms while we’re occupying them.”
“That’s it? That’s all you had to say to be left alone?”
“Yes. Requests like that are made daily all over the world; it’s very common.”
I listened to the conversation and heard what was being said, but watched Agent Moore very carefully. I thought he might give himself away but I had to admit, he wasn’t registering any of my red flags. Maybe my gut was wrong. I let it go and looked out the window, and saw something very interesting: I saw him staring at my back. He had avoided all eye contact with me while I faced the room. Maybe I wasn’t crazy.
“Satisfied, dear?” I heard Wakefield ask Leecy.
“Hey, it is what it is, right? So tell me about my dad.”
I could see Wakefield in the reflection of the window. She turned her head in my direction and said, “I was against the recruitment of your father into the agency.”
“What? I mean why?” Leecy asked.
“I was in charge of training new recruits at the CIA Farm in 1996. ‘The Farm’ is what we call our training facility in Williamsburg, Virginia. People often think it’s in Langley, but it’s not. I know I look older than your father, but he and I are the same age. When he was recruited into the agency, I thought he was just too old. Most of our recruits come to us in their mid-to early twenties; your father was almost thirty. So in my infinite wisdom, I tried to make him resign his offer of employment. In other words, I wanted to make him quit.”
“I take it that didn’t go as planned,” Leecy said.
“No,” Wakefield said, “it didn’t.”
“What happened?”
“I told your father I was going to prove he was too old.”
I watched as Wakefield paused in her telling of the story. I knew the next few minutes would be hard on her, but she didn’t hesitate long before continuing.
“Your father was recommended to the CIA by his Commanding Officer from the Army. Granger’s CO said he was of ‘unlimited potential.’ He came to the agency, as most recruits do, with multiple college degrees in business and international finance, as you may be aware. He was the eldest of the class of 1996 by six years. I was in my new position in charge of all recruits at the Farm, and rather full of myself. I didn’t want any recruit making me look bad. So with my intentions clearly stated, and your father aware of them, training began.
“Granger shot well enough to qualify at the range, but he wasn’t the best with a gun in his hands. He passed all the physical and mental testing with – and I remember how much I hated seeing it at the time – way above average scores. In fact, his scores on those tests were leading the class. Looking back, I should’ve accepted your father fully at that time. He was outperforming all other recruits overall, but I didn’t accept him. I was determined to prove I was right.”
I turned to face the room.
“She’s leaving out that I had a chip on my shoulder. I had something to prove. And, well, Wakefield gave me someone to prove it to other than myself. I remember when she told me she thought I was too old to be there. Do you remember what I said to you?”
“Certainly I do. You said, and I quote, ‘I’m the best candidate in the room. You’ll see.’ And you were right. It became very clear how right your father was once combat training started. Your father doesn’t need a gun or a weapon of any kind, because what he is, or was, spectacular at is hand-to-hand combat.”
“It’s true, then,” Leecy interrupted. “What you said to Ranger Smith in our kitchen about your CIA file?”
“Just listen to Tammy,” I answered.
“I don’t know what he’s told you or what you’ve heard, but I can assure you there hasn’t been an agent since your father’s time capable of doing what your father did back then.”
“Times change,” I said. “It’s all computers and smartphones now, with databases and keyword searches. The world is a different place. Your agents need to be a different breed of agents than I was.”
“Did you finally give up, and accept Dad was the best in your class?”
“Not exactly. No, what I did was ask Granger to teach his fighting style to the class and the teachers. I told him to share his talents so the CIA could incorporate the new technique into future training class’s combat sessions.”
“What did he do?”
“Your father refused. He just said no. And no explanation. This infuriated and embarrassed me. So, I decided to teach Granger a lesson and break him.”
“Break him?” Leecy said. “Good luck with that.”
“True enough. I brought men in from every special military force under the guise of guest combat technique trainer. Force Recon Marines, Navy SEALS, Delta Force operators, and Rangers. Big, small, fast, strong, young, old – it didn’t matter. Then I watched as he waded into each opponent individually, and then two, three, even four opponents at once attacked him and were all soundly defeated. Granger put seven men in the hospital during a two-week span. He would have killed them all had it been a real combat situation. I finally realized the only thing that could stop your father was a bullet.”
“Wow, Dad was a badass just like,” Leecy stopped herself from saying something she shouldn’t. “What happened next?”
I could see that both Wakefield and Moore had caught Leecy’s almost slip of the tongue about her mother’s past. Sure, Wakefield knew about Val, but Tom Moore didn’t, and we didn’t know Agent Moore. Leecy was astute enough to realize that. But neither pressed her for more information.
“Your father was made that class’s NOC, or the agent to assume the non-official cover. He was sent around the world for the next six years to do what it seemed he was born to do. The CIA hasn’t had an operative like your father since he assumed inactive status in 2003. Your father was without question the agency’s most effective operator at that time, and he probably could still be.”
I was about to object, but Moore surprised the room by speaking for the first time since he took his seat.
“This is the guy all recruits are required to study in initial training. I don’t mean to sound surprised, but it’s safe to say your reputation creates a larger than life image. I thought you would be bigger, and look more like an Indian,” Agent Moore said.
I laughed.
“I think that was the plan from the beginning, Agent Moore. The reputation is what others think you are, and it’s sometimes just as important as the man it represents. I think the CIA worked very hard to cultivate that reputation for me.” Then addressing Wakefield, I said, “I didn’t know my mission file was classroom fodder.”
“Not exactly. Your wild Indian persona and its cultivation are course study requirements as an example of the lengths taken to create effective covers for our spies,” Wakefield said. “‘The Art of Building a Legend’ is the name of the class.”
I noticed Valerie was watching Moore now. I saw her left index finger extended on her left thigh. She saw me looking at her, and tapped her finger once, indicating one red flag. But which one, I wondered. I ran through my checklist and couldn’t come up with an answer. Valerie’s intuition was a finely-tuned instrument unlike any I’d ever seen. I trusted her implicitly. Maybe she didn’t like the way he said what he said. Whatever the reason was, my gut and her intuition were now on the same page.
Wakefield was talking again. “After your father’s training class graduated and he had left the Farm, I got curious about his background and put several agents to work on his family tree. I wanted to know everything there was to know about him. And with the resources of the federal government behind me, do you know what they uncovered?”
“What?” Leecy asked.
“A Native American bloodline stretching back to the late 1700’s. This was before the Comanche moved east to Kansas and Texas. Before they broke away from the Shoshone Indians.”
“Yeah, I know all that stuff. What’s the big deal?” Leecy asked.
“Really? Did you know the CIA determined which tribe’s blood flows through your and your father’s veins?”
“If you say it’s Apache that will be another thing you got wrong about my dad.”
Wakefield appeared stunned and looked at me.
“Geronimo, Cochise and Parker all rolled up into one. That’s what we’ve thought for decades. And your kid is telling me we got it wrong.”
“You got it half right. My great uncle was Comanche,” I said.
“So, the rumors floating around the agency since the mid-1990’s about the guy that used the Indian war chants before killing his targets are true!” Moore blurted. “You’re that guy?”