Page 70 of Denied Access
“I’ll give you three reasons. One, witnesses heard the gunmanspeak English with an American accent.” The president held up a slender index finger. “Two, the target was on your kill list. Three, the bodyguard and terrorist were both dispatched with head shots via a suppressed Beretta pistol. Sound familiar?”
It did.
“I can understand how your British counterpart might find such an incident distasteful,” Stansfield said, “but I’m still not clear why he called you. Youssef bin Muhammad was a man who lived by the sword and he died the way such men often do—violently. What would prompt the PM to leap to the conclusion that an American covert operative was responsible?”
Stansfield had a feeling that he already knew the answer. A feeling that turned more toward a certainty when the president flushed and looked down at his desk.
“Sir, did you tell the British about Orion?” Stansfield said.
He asked the question softly and without judgment. As if he were a parent attempting to solicit a confession from a misbehaving child rather than the director of the CIA speaking to the leader of the free world. Though the answer was plainly written in the red hue coloring the president’s cheeks, Stansfield needed to hear him say the words. If he truly had put untold lives in danger, Stansfield wanted his commander in chief to feel the weight of his actions.
“Not explicitly. Everyone knew that someone had been killing terrorists. That’s part of what got us into trouble in Paris. My British counterpart raised concerns about the circumstances surrounding Paul Cooke’s death. I assuaged them.”
Only a lifetime of handling assets allowed Stansfield to keep his rage from showing. “May I ask about the exact nature of the prime minister’s concerns and precisely how you assuaged them?”
Anger battled with embarrassment on the president’s face. When it came to conversations with foreign powers, the nation’s unitary executive was on his most secure footing from a constitutional perspective. Other than the voting public, there was no one the president answeredto in this regard, least of all the interim director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
In theory.
In practice, the president had asked Stansfield to accept the role of director and weather the storm spawned by Paul Cooke’s duplicity. Stansfield had pointedly not sought the job, and he was not one of the president’s acolytes. Political winds changed direction on a dime, and tomorrow the calculus might be different, but today the situation was clear. The president needed Stansfield, which meant he had to answer Stansfield’s questions.
Even if he didn’t want to.
“Dead bodies have been piling up all over Europe for the last year. There hasn’t been any collateral damage so far, but as the Israelis found out after Munich, nobody’s perfect. The prime minister wanted me to know that while he was supportive of the program’s goal, he also wanted my assurance that assassinations would not take place on British soil. He was in a precarious spot politically and the opposition party could use the killings to erode his governing coalition. He was prepared to offer certain… enticements if I guaranteed that we would keep the nasty business out of his backyard.”
Stansfield was tempted to ask about those enticements, but didn’t. Heads of state were politicians and trading favors was in their blood. Besides, he had his boss on the ropes and didn’t want to squander the opportunity by switching topics. “How did he know it was us?”
The president shrugged. “It wasn’t them and it wasn’t the Israelis. That doesn’t leave too many other options.”
“So you gave away Orion?”
Stansfield almost whispered the words, but the president still flinched.
“I did not give away anything. Not that I need to explain myself, but the United Kingdom is our oldest and most reliable ally. The special relationship that exists between our two nations is built on trust, transparency, and shared aspirations. Did I read the British prime ministerin on the specifics of a code-word-level classified operation? Of course not. But I did offer him assurances that no assassinations would be conducted on British soil. Assurances in exchange for domestic concessions. Assurances that now appear to have been worthless. So I’m going to ask you a final time—are we behind the shootings in London?”
Stansfield wanted to reply with an adamant no. Orion operatives did not freelance or prosecute targets at their own discretion. Killings were confined to a predetermined list and were supported by agency logistical teams that laid the groundwork for the assassination. Orion team members were not permitted to identify, stalk, and prosecute a target without their handler’s approval.
At least that was the official line.
“Sir, when you asked me to take over as DCI, I agreed to do so with one caveat. I would never tell you what you wanted to hear instead of what you needed to hear regardless of the political or personal cost. I can tell you unequivocally that I did not authorize an operation on British soil, but I cannot say with the same amount of certainty that one wasn’t conducted. Yet. I’ll have an answer for you as soon as possible, but I need to run a few traps first.”
“As soon as possible better be before the end of the day. I owe the PM a call.”
“Understood. Is there anything else?”
“I hope to God you’re right, Thomas. If not, I’d expect the handful of voices currently calling for the CIA to be defunded to become a full-fledged chorus. If both Democrats and Republicans start singing from the same song sheet, the agency will be in real trouble.”
Stansfield nodded and then headed for the door.
He wanted to argue that point with the president, but didn’t.
His boss was right.
CHAPTER 38
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
DOyou need help?”
