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  To the Superpatriots in my life: my wife of thirty-five years, Corinne, whose love for me and our family is and always has been unwavering; to my daughter, Alison, and son, Wayne, who will always be my greatest source of intense pride; and to my mom, Dean, whose love and drive instilled in me at a very early age, “I can do it,” and my father, Wayne, whose courage, strength, and conviction I continue to draw upon today.

  —WS

  To Nobuko, Erin, Colin, and Chuck

  —MG

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We would like to thank the following people for their enthusiastic support, superior talents, and unbridled energy: Brendan Deneen; Peter Rubie; Lt. Gen. Tom McInerney; Lt. Col. William V. (Bill) Cowan; Mario Acevedo; Mark Stevens; Kerry Patton; Keith Urbahn; Jed Babbin; Carrie Nyman; Dave Payne; Gerald R. Molen; Clare Lopez; Judge Andrew Napolitano; and all of Wayne’s buddies of the U.S. Air Force Special Tactics Squadrons, the 1st SFOD-D, and the CIA. This book would not have been possible without every single one of you.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  With regards to certain CIA designations, we chose to use “Directorate of Operations,” “Deputy Director of Operations,” and the acronyms “DO” and “DDO” instead of the current “National Clandestine Service” and “Deputy Director of NCS” to create continuity for the reader and an ease of understanding of the CIA hierarchy during the years Mr. Simmons was active in the Agency.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Authors’ Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Also by Mark Graham

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  WASHINGTON—DAY ONE

  I pulled into the parking lot of the Georgetown dock and saw a double-decker river taxi overflowing with people getting ready to leave. I peeked at my watch. Two minutes. I found a short-term parking space, threw on the parking brake, and jogged to the ticket counter looking the part of a businessman on the verge of missing an afternoon meeting.

  The guy at the ticket counter had seen plenty of guys like me, so he had my ticket ready and was holding up ten fingers. I handed him a ten, nodded my thanks, and headed down the ramp. The gate was already closed, but the attendant saw me coming.

  “Just in time.” He put a crack in the gate, and I slid through.

  “Thanks for waiting,” I said, even though I knew he hadn’t.

  The Cherry Blossom looked like an old-time riverboat scudding down the Mississippi, the paddle wheel churning off the stern, spray gently showering the deck. I walked through the lower deck as the boat headed downriver. An eclectic gaggle of tourists crowded along the filigree railing as their guide’s voice rang out over the loudspeaker.

  I looked for disinterested parties. I looked for a sidelong glance. I looked for a man dressed like a librarian or an accountant. I climbed the stairs to the second deck. The view improved, and I ignored it completely. A man in a tweed coat with a neck scarf tucked under his chin stood alone off the stern end, watching the paddle wheel turn. It was probably by chance that he was stationed next to the American flag dancing in the breeze, but I kind of doubted it.

  “You look cold,” I said, standing next to him.

  “When you’re seventy-six you’ll be cold pretty much every minute of every day, too,” Mr. Elliot said. I’d always called him Mr. Elliot. I always would.

  “Then why the hell did you pick a water taxi in the middle of the Potomac for a get-together? I kind of miss our room in the Holiday Inn.”

  He stared at me with blue eyes as challenging and icy as they’d been during our first meeting nearly thirty-five years earlier. His grin had taken on an ironic twist over the years, and I suppose that was inevitable given the business we were in. “A room at the Holiday Inn costs money. A senior’s pass gets me a view of the river for five bucks.”

  “I paid ten,” I said.

  “Your time will come, kid.”

  He’d aged, to be sure, but the fire was still there. How many people could you say you trusted with your life? Well, with Dad dead and gone I was down to one. And here he stood. I could only hope that he felt the same.

  “So. The White House chief of staff and a three-star in the same room,” he said with a chuckle. “Bet that lunch was a barrel of laughs.”

  He was talking about an impromptu and rather extraordinary get-together at the Old Ebbitt Grill with my longtime friend Lieutenant General Thomas Rutledge and a political animal named Landon Fry, only the most powerful man in the country save the president himself. I didn’t like politicians. Fry was no exception. “I had the Monte Carlo, the general had a Cobb salad. Fry probably munched on the silverware.”

  Mr. Elliot chuckled again. “You always have the Monte Carlo.” He drew his coat tightly around him and stared at the water churning below us. “They didn’t give you the details, of course.”

  “They used The Twelver in the same sentence with critical mass and catastrophe, so I assume I’m going in headfirst,” I replied.

  The Twelver. That’s all the general had needed to say. “The Twelver” was a two-word reference to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran’s president and the Agency’s least-favorite person. The Twelvers were the largest Shiite Muslim group in Iran. They believed the Twelve Imams to be the spiritual and political successors to Muhammad. It was an extraordinarily powerful position, because the Prophet’s successor was thought to be infallible. It was no secret that Ahmadinejad fancied himself the Twelfth Imam, even if few others did.

  “You’ll go in headfirst and without a net,” Mr. Elliott corrected.

  “So what’s new?”

  Mr. Elliot turned and faced me, gimlet eyes burning, dead serious. I’d seen that look a hundred times before, and it always meant the same thing: showtime.

  My longtime case officer said, “You’re back on the clock. Headed for the badlands. Boots on the ground.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “You know we don’t call a guy out of retirement unless no one else can do the job, Jake,” Mr. Elliot said plainly. Then he got down to business. “Your mission is to develop indisputable intel proving that Iran has nukes and the launch capabilities to use them. We also want you to provide coordinates to support military strikes and covert assassinations inside that country. And you have two weeks max to do it.”

  I wanted to say, Oh, is that all? No sweat. But I didn’t, of course. Mr. Elliot did not appreciate sarcasm. I started doing the math: two days to prep, eight days on the ground, and four days for the inevitable c
omplications.

  No sweat.

  Mr. Elliot fished a pack of Chesterfields from his coat pocket, shook a cigarette out despite a NO SMOKING sign not twenty feet away, and used an old Zippo to light it. He smoked, and I watched the water. A gentle wake crested behind the boat, but I could just barely hear it over the riverboat’s engine. I heard voices, laughter, and footsteps as excited tourists moved to the starboard side of the boat. I followed their movement. The George Washington Monument pierced the air like a giant spike. The dome of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial seemed to hover like a flying saucer above columns of snow-white marble.

  That’s how people reacted when they came to D.C. They saw the White House and the Library of Congress. They stared into Lincoln’s eyes and marveled at the names on the Vietnam Memorial. They gazed into the Reflecting Pool and tipped their heads to the sea of white at Arlington Cemetery. And they felt something. These were the symbols of their country, and they felt something. Pride, freedom, security. Who knew? But it was my job to protect that something. And if it meant a black op in the heart of most dangerous country on earth, well, so be it.

  “I’ll need the MEK,” I said. The Mujahedin-e Khalq was Iran’s most powerful antigovernment group. They would do anything to topple the current regime. I knew their leadership as well as anyone in the Agency. I didn’t trust them any more than they trusted me. If I could aid in their movement, they would allow themselves to be used. “Which means starting in Paris.”

  “Good. Because we have a little problem in Paris that needs taking care of.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this, not with a two-week-timetable already staring me in the face. “So? Lay it on me.”

  “There’s a leak.” His voice was a half-octave lower than it had been three seconds ago. “It begins with a member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and ends with a French drug dealer who’s decided to try his hand at extortion. And so far he’s been damn successful. The leak needs to disappear, Jake. Your mission depends on it.”

  He turned and looked across the water. I stared at the side of his face and said, “Details?”

  “You’ll have them before you leave.” Mr. Elliot used a polished leather shoe to put out his cigarette. Now he vouchsafed me a look that was just this side of sympathy. “I know what you’re thinking. What about the senator? A rat sitting on one of the most powerful committees in the government. Who silences him?”

  “And?”

  “I’ll take care of it. You put your guy in Paris out of business, and I’ll put mine out here.” He fished out another smoke.

  “Thought you were quitting,” I said.

  “That was before they dragged my favorite operative out of his rocking chair, and I had to take up my babysitting duties again.” He grinned. The grin turned into a snakebitten chuckle. I may have been fifty-six, but I still looked forty-five—that being my own humble opinion, of course. Well, maybe if the lighting was just right. I could still dead lift five hundred pounds and run a marathon in five hours. What was all this about a rocking chair? “Okay, granted, you still look like you’ve got a couple of miles left in the tank.”

  “Helluva compliment. Thanks a bunch.” I gripped the railing as the riverboat inched toward the dock at Alexandria. “Any more surprises?”

  “The DDO will be sitting in on your meeting tomorrow at the Pentagon. Be nice. You’re going to need him,” Mr. Elliot advised.

  The Agency’s deputy director of operations was a politician through and through, but nothing went down without his approval. I would need him: Mr. Elliot was right about that. But he was just part of the op. I would run him just like I did every other asset, as if he were a blink of an eye away from slitting my throat. I said, “How much will he know?”

  “He’ll know the op, but he won’t like it.” Mr. Elliot slipped a hand into his coat pocket and came away with a disposable phone in his palm. When the riverboat lurched to a halt, he grabbed my arm for balance, and the phone slid into my hand. The exchange was so quick and seamless that it reminded me of the old days. “It’s good for three calls.”

  I looked into his eyes. He had something else to tell me, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I made it easy for him. “And…?”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “I’ve made contact with the Russians in Saint Petersburg,” he said.

  The Russians in Saint Petersburg. That could mean only one thing: the Russian mafia. I was right. Not pretty at all. In fact, downright ugly.

  I turned to go. “This your stop?”

  “Nah. I bought a round trip.”

  “A round trip for five bucks!” I caught his eye one last time. “I gotta give the AARP credit.”

  Last I saw him, he was lighting another cigarette with his Zippo, and it did my heart good to know that he had my back again.

  I went in search of a taxi. Everything from this moment on was a full-blown black op.

  CHAPTER 2

  WASHINGTON—DAY TWO

  The deputy director of operations of the CIA was three or four years Mr. Elliot’s junior but looked at least ten years younger. His name was Otto Wiseman. He and Mr. Elliot were contemporaries, straight out of the Helms era, when nothing in our business mattered more than HUMINT, a less-than-inspiring moniker for the most important tool a man in my position would ever use: human intelligence.

  It’s pretty straightforward: HUMINT is the kind of intel that’s collected by human sources—guys like me—and provided by other human sources.

  During my years in the Agency, that source of intel could have been anyone, from an arms dealer in Honduras to a drug runner in Key West, a broken-down call girl in Washington, D.C., to a money-laundering financier in New York. It didn’t matter where the intel came from. It mattered only if Mr. Elliot and his team could use it to put down a drug ring in Florida or take out a black marketer in Jersey; target a terrorist cell in Alexandria or a meth lab in Alabama. We’d done it all during my rather auspicious tenure as an outside paramilitary operative.

  Officially, HUMINT was a product of conversations or interrogations with persons of interest. Very civilized. Yeah, right. Unofficially, it was most often a product of deceit, cunning, or treachery. How else were you going to get what you needed from a narco-terrorist with the endearing habit of slicing up his own people with a butcher knife, just to make a point? Walk up and ask him whether he was in possession of two tons of marijuana or a hundred pounds of uncut heroin and would he mind giving up the location? Better to convince him that his drugs didn’t compare to your drugs and set him up for a raid by a bunch of DEA guys with MAC-11s and body armor. I never knew how my intel was used. I only knew when the dirt balls I’d been setting up weren’t there anymore.

  HUMINT requires boots on the ground. There is nothing more effective in gathering relevant and pertinent intel. Too bad fashion got in the way back in the early 1980s, when satellites became all the rage and people actually started to believe that you could spot a bad guy from 150 miles in the air. No more Cold War, no more need for HUMINT. At least that’s what the politicians thought. Too bad the end of the Cold War hadn’t signaled an end to people who wanted to destroy America.

  Come 9/11 and the reality of satellite intelligence gathering hit us square in the face. Without the HUMINT to back up our love of technology, we weren’t going to win any kind of war, much less a war on terrorism.

  Being contemporaries didn’t make Mr. Elliot and DDO Wiseman two peas in a pod. Wiseman was a politician. He had an agenda, and it wasn’t always in line with that of the guys in the field. As a matter of fact, he’d have let me burn in a second if it had served his precious agenda.

  The DDO reminded me of my eighth-grade math teacher, Mr. Boggs. They were both short, wiry men with skin pulled so tight over their cheeks that I swear you could see the bone punching through. Unlike Mr. Boggs, DDO Wiseman sported a military buzz haircut and a suit tailored in Hong Kong.
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br />   “I’m being straight. I don’t like the op,” he said to me. He paced. General Tom Rutledge and I sat. There was an oval table between us, good for a dozen or more people and typical of Pentagon furnishings. It was just the three of us and a pot of coffee. A leather briefcase contained my travel papers, three completely untraceable passports—those were the DDO’s words—and money.

  The travel papers I needed. You didn’t hitch a ride with an air force jet without papers. The “completely untraceable passports” would go into the trash the minute I reached Paris. When DDO Wiseman said “completely untraceable,” he meant by everyone except him and his band of European field operatives. No, thank you. I’d already placed a call to a Parisian associate from days gone by, and the passports he’d promised me would truly be untraceable. Sorry, Mr. Wiseman, but you’re not the one guy in the room that I trust.

  “What’s to like,” I said to him. “It’s essentially a suicide mission.”

  “Exactly. So maybe what I mean is I don’t like the odds of the op. That sound more realistic?” He looked from me to the general. Tom was like a stone-cold statue: he could have had pigeons perched on his shoulders and never moved a muscle. The DDO could rant and rave all he wanted; the mission was a lock. The sooner the meeting was over, the better. “I want every detail of your plan, Conlan. I can’t protect you and I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. The DDO probably didn’t hate my guts, but he hated not knowing who I really was or what I had really done for the Agency for twenty-seven years. And what he probably hated even more was the certainty that I had run the kind of black ops that he had only dreamed of running, even while he turned his nose up at outside undercover guys like me. That’s what you did when you spent your career shining a seat with your ass: you talked down to the guys in the trenches.

  Not me. I had total respect for the deputy director of operations of the CIA. I had total respect for how a guy in his position could torch a mission—even one as vital as this one—just to show how much power he wielded.