CHAPTER 65

THE ROYAL JORDANIAN AIRLINES flight left Erbil at 4: 00 a. m., which meant that both Reece and Freddy hadn’t slept a wink all night.

Shouldn’t a possibly imminent terrorist attack qualify them for a Gulfstream? Reece wondered.

Their diplomatic passports got them through the check-in process quickly, neither had checked a bag. The guns all stayed behind, making Reece feel naked, even in jeans and a dress shirt with suit coat. The business-class seats on the Airbus 319 were comfortable, but Reece’s sleep was soon interrupted by their approach in Amman, where they would have three hours to kill until their Frankfurt flight.

They drank coffee and put a serious dent in the Royal Jordanian Lounge’s breakfast spread before boarding the late-morning flight to Frankfurt. Located in Germany’s fifth largest city, Frankfurt Airport was Europe’s hub to the Middle East, and had certainly seen its share of American trigger-pullers and spooks pass through over the years. Reece got a few more hours of sleep on the next flight and was starting to feel almost human again when they touched down in London.

Another four-hour layover, another airport lounge, another pot of coffee. At least this airport had an international bookstore with some interesting titles. Reece always enjoyed perusing international bookstores, as he often found interesting military nonfiction written by Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and South Africans. In this particular bookstore he found a copy of Three Sips of Gin, by Tim Bax, about the Selous Scouts and pseudoterrorist operations in Rhodesia.

Catchy title, Reece thought.

They boarded the United 777 at 4: 30 p. m. local and found their seats for the nine-hour flight to Dulles. Reece read his new book, dozed off a few times, and switched back and forth among the cable news channels available on the in-flight monitor, hoping subconsciously that he might catch a glimpse of his favorite journalist.

The sky stayed in a perpetual state of sundown as they flew west across the time zones, nighttime teasing but never quite falling. The big Boeing touched down right on schedule at 8: 05 p. m., startling Reece out of his slumber. He was more than ready to get off the plane after nearly two days of constant travel. Fortunately, their business-class seats put them near the exit.

Reece was expecting to ride on one of Dulles’s Chrysler-built “mobile lounges, ” the obsolete aircraft boarding buses that looked like something devised on a 1950s-era drawing board as “the future of passenger comfort. ” Instead they docked at a jet bridge at C Concourse that dumped the passengers directly into a Federal Inspection Station, where bored but alert U. S. Customs and Border Protection officers were waiting in their dark blue uniforms. A man with a clean-shaven head and an ID lanyard hanging outside his light gray suit was standing off to one side as the bleary-eyed returning tourists and stoic business travelers shuffled off the aircraft. Freddy spotted him and gave him a quick wave, showing the man both of their credentials. The slightly portly man motioned for them to follow and he swiped his ID card and punched a four-digit code into a nondescript doorway that led to an elevator.

If this was some type of trick to get Reece back to the United States so that he could be arrested, this was where it would go down. Their path allowed them to bypass Passport Control and Customs as their escort showed them to an uncrowded stop on the airport’s AeroTrain. Moments later they were walking through Dulles’s unique concrete-and-glass wing-shaped terminal, another relic of Draperesque 1950s design.

I guess I really am a free man.

It was late enough that the legendary D. C. area traffic was light, especially heading toward the city. Their CIA driver didn’t say a word as he negotiated the route. Reece was amazed by all the new tech- and defense-related office buildings that lined the Dulles Toll Road; this area had been built up significantly since his last visit.

It was strange being back home; Reece felt like he was getting away with something. He’d pocketed a pack of gum from a 7-Eleven as a kid, the only time he’d ever stolen anything in his life; this feeling was oddly similar.

The Tysons Corner Hilton was their destination for the night and both Reece and Freddy, whose bodies were operating on the assumption that it was long past midnight, opted to skip dinner and head to bed. Thanks to the time difference, Reece was wide awake at just after 4: 00 a. m. and couldn’t make himself go back to sleep. He hadn’t packed workout clothes or athletic shoes, so he made do in his room wearing the T-shirt and boxer briefs he’d slept in. After a few minutes of stretching, he knocked out a hundred burpees, leaving him soaked in sweat. It felt good to move. Fitness is perishable.

He watched cable news with the volume low, all the channels obsessed with a tropical wave off the coast of Africa that they expected to become a hurricane. Meteorologists clad in raincoats bearing the logo of their respective networks had been pre-positioned all over the Caribbean, waiting to report on the storm’s violence that was still days away. Outside of terror attacks, bad weather seemed to be the only thing that tore people away from television’s many streaming services and back to watching the news. The networks responded by hyping up every storm as if it were “the next big one. ” Reece turned off the giant LCD screen and hit the shower.

He and Freddy were both downstairs and waiting when the hotel’s restaurant opened for breakfast at 6: 00 a. m., the normally scraggly operators looking almost dapper in their business suits. Neither man said much, as what occupied their minds wasn’t something that they could discuss in public. They did make sure to get the U. S. government’s money’s worth from the twenty-six-dollar breakfast buffet.

Their ride pulled up just before 8: 00 a. m., and the traffic was at its peak as they made the short drive through McLean to their destination. They were cleared through the security gate, the black Tahoe stopping in front of the six-story George Bush Center for Intelligence. Reece wasn’t impressed by much, but he was wide-eyed as they approached the entrance to the “old” building, which was completed in 1961. As they made their way past the doors and through the electronic security turnstiles, Reece spotted something in the lobby and asked Freddy to stop for a moment.

On a wall of white Alabama marble were 129 stars, flanked by the flags of the nation and the Agency. Each star carved into the wall stood in silent testimony of a CIA officer or contractor killed in action.

Reece read the inscription:

IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS

OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES

IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY

A black goatskin book sat in a glass case below the stars, listing the names of ninety-one of the slain officers: the remaining names still classified. His eyes took in locations and dates from Vietnam, Bosnia, Somalia, El Salvador, Ethiopia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Two had even been killed when a Pakistani national opened fire at the line of cars waiting to enter headquarters in 1993. He saw the names of Glen Doherty and Ty Woods, men he’d known in the SEAL Teams who had died defending the U. S. consulate in Benghazi, and of XXXXX XXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXX XX XXXX XX XX. He searched for his friend XXX, killed by an EFP doing Agency work XXXXXXXXXXXXXX just after Reece had left the unit, but didn’t see it. Along with thirty-seven others XXX’s star still kept its secret.

Reece looked at all the names of those killed in 2003. The one he was searching for had only a simple star followed by a blank space where the name should have been. He took a moment to reflect, to remember. Then, exhaling deeply, he turned to Freddy, who gave him an understanding nod before leading him to the elevators.

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