Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (4 page)

With Jack by her side, Vanessa faced the largest monitor and—via live feed from Headquarters—the Agency’s clandestine services deputy director of operations, Phillip Hawkins. She took a deep breath to help steady herself and focus.

“Hell of a mess,” the DDO said grimly. At 0715 hours EST, his day was young, his pale green Charvet shirt still crisp and buttoned at the collar, ivory Hermès tie knotted perfectly in a half-Windsor. He said, “I thought we were done losing assets in the field.”

Vanessa heard the pointed accusation in his voice and knew he was directing it at her. So did Jack, who shifted his posture in discomfort. She felt hollowed out and sick to her stomach. “I thought we were done, too,” she said, meeting the DDO’s ice-blue eyes and refusing to blink.

“It’s a troubling pattern,” he said. After seconds that felt like minutes, the DDO turned his attention away from Vanessa and back to Jack to say, “But thank God you two are safe and both in one piece.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack said; he had manners to go with his Texas
drawl, and Vanessa echoed his formal response. She still felt the bulletlike intensity of the DDO’s eyes, could almost smell his signature cologne—Clive Christian 1872—to her the scent of power and control. She was simultaneously in awe and wary of him.

In stark contrast, she pictured Chris Arvanitis, with his eternal buzz cut and his silver-rimmed glasses, somewhere in Athens at midday; no doubt slightly rumpled in his usual white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and dark slacks—a look not unlike that of waiters and busboys at better establishments. Probably smelling faintly of Old Spice, burnt coffee, long hours, and hard work.

She would need his backing on just about everything that would be decided over the next twelve to twenty-four hours. Since leaving the jet boat a little more than ninety minutes ago, she’d framed her next steps: work every asset and every possible lead to find Farid Hasser—and get his intel on the missing nuclear prototype.

“Do we have Chris linked in on this yet?” she asked, eyes on the DDO.

“Working on that link to Athens right now,” Hays called out from behind his laptop.

“Get him on as soon as you can,” the DDO said. “Until you do, let’s use our time—even as we are aware we can’t guarantee complete discretion in these circumstances.”

Meaning that when they spoke they were speaking to the French as well. Even though Hays had neutralized one bug, no one assumed that the safe house was bug-free.

The DDO said, “I’ve just finished speaking with the director of DCRI, Michel Bonnay, who is being cooperative, considering that
our
operation endangered one of their most prized national treasures.”

Vanessa was well aware that the DDO had served as COS Paris some years before. He knew the joys and frustrations of working with the French.

“They have a decontamination unit on-site just in case,” the DDO
continued. “We’re offering personnel and resources in exchange for shared data on the second device, the RDD, as that data comes in. You will have to do your job with full awareness that the French need to feel they are lead on this. That calls for a certain amount of delicacy . . .”

Vanessa nodded and Jack said, “Absolutely.”

“Can one of you bring me up to speed?”

As Jack quickly recapped the sequence of events over the past few hours for the DDO, Vanessa heard the distinctive bleep of an incoming message on her laptop. She’d left it open and almost within reach on the end table next to the couch. She eased herself down to sitting and clicked her keyboard.

A message from Chris in Greece, sent less than a minute earlier:

Shit so sorry put u on this. U ok?

He’d assigned her this op against his better judgment and only because Farid had insisted he meet with Vanessa when he made contact ten days earlier.

Vanessa tapped out a rapid-fire one-finger e-mail back to Chris:

I’m on to stay now!

The silence in the room registered and Vanessa blinked up at the monitor. With the DDO’s eyes burning through her, she took a shallow breath and met his laser gaze. “Of course, sir, delicacy . . . that’s a given.”

“I hope so.” He sounded completely unconvinced. “And perhaps you can give us your full attention now?”

She nodded, feeling like she had been caught passing a note in seventh grade.

“Because we’re on French soil, they will be heading up the joint
CIA-DCRI response effort—specifically, Team Viper will be headed by their director of ops, Marcel Fournier. I know everyone involved will grant him full cooperation.”

For an instant, Vanessa’s spirits flagged. Fournier—the man she’d almost assaulted on the boat—would be in charge of Team Viper.
Good job, Vanessa! Screw it up from the very beginning.
She shook off the momentary doubt. For his part, he should have identified himself immediately.

“I’m sorry, but why aren’t we lead?” Vanessa asked, not entirely clear on the politics of it all. She always felt like bureaucracy got in the way.

She glanced down to check the latest feeds on her laptop display—so far, no one claiming responsibility, no identity on the bomber. “This was our op,” she murmured.

“I just answered that question,” the DDO said sharply. “I hope you do a better job of listening to their head of ops . . .”

“Sorry to interrupt—” It was Chris, his face and torso wavering into focus on the second large monitor. He did look a bit rumpled, and his silver-framed glasses gave off a glint of light. “I’m waiting to fly out of Athens, should be in Paris by late this afternoon or early evening.”

Vanessa exhaled, extremely grateful to see him—and almost instantly she could feel his dark eyes assessing, evaluating.

“Have you both received medical treatment?” he asked.

“We didn’t need it,” Jack answered. “But the French got a dosimeter reading on both of us, checking for exposure, and we’re clean.”

“Good.” Chris nodded. Although his response was understated, his relief was evident. “I know it’s too soon to ask, but do we have any analysis yet on the RDD?”

Out of camera range, Hays shook his head and Jack said, “Nothing yet, except that the danger of contamination is nil because the bomb failed to detonate.”

Chris asked, “You have any idea what happened out there today?”

Vanessa knew that was her question to answer. She set her laptop aside and stood; the only woman in the room, she couldn’t afford to let her guard down or be accused of being “too emotional.” She needed to exude confidence she didn’t feel. “We’re running images of the suicide bomber through facial-recognition software to see if we can ID him.” The image of the young bomber flashed in front of her eyes: the walk, the clothes, the look—almost but not quite Farid.

“Whoever he was, he was not my asset.” She took a quick breath.

Chris frowned. “We all know what that means: Your asset may be in the hands of whoever sent the suicide bomber.”

For a moment no one spoke. Vanessa’s stomach lurched.
Again? Another asset?

Swallowing hard, she said, “Farid’s always given me solid intel, it’s always been corroborated. He was meeting me today at great risk to himself. He works as a courier in Bhoot’s network—specifically, as part of the link from western Europe, through Dubai, to Tehran. Two years ago he ferried transactions between Bhoot and Dieter Schoeman, the South African proliferator who is currently serving fifteen years at London’s super-max, Belmarsh.”

She shifted weight from foot to foot restlessly. “He was going to give me something to substantiate what our analysts have been piecing together—that Bhoot had a miniaturized nuclear prototype smuggled out of his secret facility in Iran just weeks before the bombing.”

The DDO spoke up sharply: “So we have no idea what kind of damage this nuclear prototype is capable of?”

“No,” Vanessa said. “Except Farid was willing to risk his life to get me the intel. And now I need to—we need to do everything we can to find him and to find out who’s behind this and exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Do we know why Bhoot smuggled a weapon out of a facility that
he’d funded in cooperation with the Iranians?” The DDO’s frustration turned his voice raw.

It was Chris who responded first: “Was he double-crossing the Iranians, or did they move the weapon because they had a buyer?” He shrugged. “We don’t know the answers to those questions, but Vanessa has been lead on tracking them down.” His eyes met hers now and he said, “Obviously, Vanessa, much has happened, but it’s clear we need you on this response team.”

She nodded, grateful for his support. She’d been half afraid that her NOC status would preclude her participation on the team. Typically, the CIA dreaded sharing a NOC with any foreign service.

“Was
today
the work of Bhoot?” the DDO asked.

“Yes . . .” Vanessa said. But she heard the hesitation in her voice. Even as focused as she was on capturing Bhoot, as much as she wanted to say absolutely that he was behind the attack, she couldn’t ignore her doubts. She knew her tendency toward obsession when it came to Bhoot—she couldn’t let that throw her off track. “But I don’t know for certain.”

“Yes or you don’t know?”

“If this is Bhoot’s work, if he’s willing to risk this exposure in order to avenge our attack on Iran, I don’t understand why he didn’t inflict more damage. What’s the payoff for him? It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Vanessa tapped her bare feet against the Persian rug. She rubbed her palms restlessly against the hips of her jeans. She said, “What can you tell me about their chief of ops—you said his name is Fournier? He’ll head up the team?”

The DDO straightened his tie; it was already perfect. “Marcel and I brushed shoulders during my time in Paris. He made his way up through the ranks, against the odds. He’s not the usual Sciences Po elite type. He’s tough and he’s smart—and a bit of a cowboy. But
when you meet him, don’t let that give you the idea he’ll tolerate free-thinkers on his team—he will not.”

Vanessa nodded—no way she would let on that she’d already had her first introduction to Marcel Fournier and that it hadn’t gone so well. If the DDO found out, he could pull her from the team.

A sharp cough from Hays, his signal to interrupt: “Sorry, we have a new link coming in on this call.”

A face materialized on screen and Vanessa found herself staring at an extremely displeased Allen Jeffreys, deputy national security advisor, his square features and clenched jaw hardened, while the corners of his oddly soft mouth pulled down sharply. Given his position, she wondered how he had ended up on this call, especially at this very early stage of the response . . . it struck her as odd.

“Sorry to come in late,” he said. “But I’ve been in meetings with the president, who considers this top priority for our resources. But first, I’m sure Phillip has expressed our relief that you’re safe.”

“Yes, sir, we are,” Jack said. “Thank you.”

“The president has asked for a briefing from me after this call. How much do we already know?” he asked, and Vanessa could almost swear he was singling her out. He said, “To me, this is probably the doing of your so-called Bhoot. And it seems he went to a hell of a lot of trouble to mess with your operation—and to create Sturm und Drang. Why the hell haven’t we killed that son of a bitch yet?”

Vanessa stifled her first impulse to take a step back because it almost felt as if Jeffreys had entered the room physically. She could not completely suppress her instinctive dislike of the man. “Is that a question?” Vanessa knew she was overstepping boundaries, but she didn’t care.

Someone inhaled sharply—it might have been Jack.

Jeffreys’s lower lip on the left side of his mouth curled under and Vanessa actually saw his pupils contract. “I am asking you if you
believe Bhoot ordered this attack. You were there, it was your operation, I assume you have an opinion that may carry
some
modicum of substance.”

She took a deep breath, weighing her next words carefully and stalling—praying Chris or the DDO would interrupt. “My sense is that Bhoot is—could be involved but—”

“Don’t worry, Jeffreys.”

It was the DDO interjecting, and Vanessa was grateful, relieved even, that he had cut her off.

She knew as well as anyone that it was highly unusual for someone of Jeffreys’s stature—such an overtly political player—to insert himself into the specifics of an active intelligence operation. Was the White House driving this hands-on oversight? The National Security Council? Who wanted Jeffreys so involved, and why?

“We will give you a complete briefing,” the DDO continued briskly, “when we gather enough of the threads together so we’re not wasting your valuable time.”

The DDO ended the call smoothly. “Thank you for this quick update. Now we all have responsibilities, places to be.”

Translation:
Find Farid Hasser and the missing nuclear device—and do it yesterday.

Everyone’s screen went black.

Just then Hays, staring at his open laptop, uttered a sharp expletive. The color drained from his face.

He picked up the computer and carried it with him the few meters to the coffee table, where he almost dropped it in front of Vanessa. “This just came up on Twitter and YouTube—they’re calling themselves True Jihad.”

Hays darted back to his other computer to make certain Headquarters knew about the new development and to link them in. In Washington, Athens, and Paris they were all watching the same video unfold.

Both Jack and Vanessa stared at the screen, horrified. She struggled to make sense of the images: a young man on his knees facing the video camera. His arms appeared to be tied behind his shirtless back. His head was bowed, but the bruises and bloody contusions on his face and chest were visible enough. And after a few seconds, he
raised his head slightly to look at the camera, and Vanessa saw it was Farid Hasser.

God, no . . .

She could barely breathe.

Someone else—unidentifiable behind a black hood and a heavy oversized flak jacket—stepped into partial view. The camera pulled back just enough to show a crude banner on a bare wall: The writing was Arabic.

When the hooded person raised a gun in one gloved hand and pressed the muzzle to Farid’s head, Vanessa did stop breathing. A male voice speaking Arabic came muffled through the hood.

Farid flinched and his gaze found the camera for just a few seconds, long enough for Vanessa to see the flat stare of a man stripped of his spirit. A man who knew his fate.

A low moan escaped her throat, but she was only conscious of the crude sound coming from the video. She recoiled but forced herself not to look away when the hooded man fired point-blank into Farid’s left temple.

She stared vacantly at the spray of blood, Farid slumping forward—the horror registering silently, internally.

Every phone in the safe house began to ring, and the noise hurtled Vanessa from stupefying shock to the present. Next to her, Jack had buried his face in his hands. Sweat slicked Vanessa’s palms, her heart was beginning to race, thoughts accelerating, too—she recognized the symptoms—
she couldn’t afford to panic—

“Merde . . .”

Vanessa’s head jerked up at the sound of the new voice.

Marcel Fournier stood in the arch of the foyer, his expression grim and his dark, heavy-lidded eyes narrowed on Vanessa. He shrugged as if remembering something inconsequential and pulled a badge from his pocket.

“Marcel Fournier, DCRI,” he said curtly, lines etched deeply across his forehead. He jerked his chin toward the final frozen images of the video on the screen.

“The Arabic words you heard right before the execution . . .” he said. “I can give you a crude translation: ‘Payback for U.S. bombs in Iran.’”