The Blown Whistle

II of CIA
Leo Croix
3rd Man Publications (2020)

Rating: *****
CIA, politics, sex, national security,
Tags:
abuse of power, whistleblower

Tasked with protecting an Agency whistleblower who informed on

the White House and exposed presidential wrongdoing, Kevin Mada,
the CIA’s stalwart Director of Security, must navigate a minefield of
political schemes and venal ambitions, from without and from within,
while fulfilling his larger mission of protecting the Agency itself, and
ultimately, the United States of America, from all enemies, foreign
and domestic!

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 THE
BLOWN
WHISTLE
A CIA Novella

Leo Croix
Copyright © 2020 by Leo Croix
3rd Man Publications

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be re-

produced in any form or by any means without the
prior written consent of the Publisher. This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination, or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual per-
sons, living or dead, or institutions or events, is en-
tirely coincidental. (And you just try to prove other-
wise!)
 ChanWell Series
Principal Target
Cloak & Stagger Extreme Prejudice ChanWell
Hired Guns
[a]
Diplomatic Target

Birmingham’s Best Bodyguard Series

Compulsive
Criminal
Inactive?
Vicious
Deadline
Extraction
Purity
Reciprocity
Blackball
Retrograde
Fearless
Rogue
The Undercover Groomsman Glock Smoke: A Derrick
Olin Anthology
Traffic(k)
Faithful
Dangerous Liaison Mercenary
Witness
The Asset
[b]
Critical Action

[c]
Danny Monk Series
ABI Monk
[d]
SBI Monk
 Hawk Series
Blood Debts
[e]
Spenser is Missing

[f]
CIA Series
PUSHBACK
The Blown Whistle
[g]
Other Works
[h]
Star Trek: Counterbalance

About the author: Since the age of 13 Stellen (Leo) has

written hundreds of short stories, novelettes, novellas,
and novels. When not writing he works as a private secu‐
rity consultant. He is an avid reader of fiction and lover
of movies from the 1970s.

https://payhip.com/StellenQxz
For the professionals who hold the politicians ac-
countable while keeping their oath to the constitu-
tion and bearing true faith and allegiance to the
PEOPLE whom they serve!
The Blown Whistle
 Chapter 1

CIA HEADQUARTERS
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
2142 HOURS

Despite the lateness of the hour, Grace Tunny-Baxter’s personal as-

sistant was still at his desk in her outer office. She hated that, but
knew he wouldn’t leave until she did. She also hated the fact that her
security detail had to remain in the building while she was here in-
stead of going home to their families, but right now this is where she
had to be because this was her fiefdom, her center or power, at least
for the moment, until the political winds shifted against her. And at
least while she was Director of the United States Central Intelligence
Agency (still colloquially referred to by insiders as The DCI), she
had a solemn duty to perform, and here tonight, she would do that.
The intercom buzzed and brought the Director out of her mind
and back to the present. It was her assistant, Taylor.
“Director, he’s here,” Taylor said in his usual crisp tone, despite
the hour and no matter how long he had been on duty. About six-
teen hours already today.
“Thank you, Taylor,” Tunny-Baxter said, leaning forward and
pressing the intercom button. “Please let him come right in.”
She released the button, took a deep breath, then pushed up from
her desk in her seventh floor office in the Original Headquarters
Building (OHB) at the complex now officially known as the George
Herbert Walker Bush Intelligence Center. Two seconds later there
was a sharp double knock and one of the double oak doors opened.
“Come in, Kevin,” she said to the early fifties black man in the
doorway. “Please, and thank you for coming over here this late. I’m
sorry to tear you away from your family tonight.”
“Not a problem, Director,” said Kevin Mada as he walked in and
shut the door behind him. “One kid’s been out on her own for a cou-
ple years now, the other had a date tonight, and Angie is working on
a project in her home-office. I was just going to sit in the den and
read until bedtime.”
The DCI smiled and came around the desk, taking her Director of
Security by the arm and leading him to the sitting area to the left of
the desk, a black leather sofa and matching wing chairs. She sat on
the sofa and nodded that he should do the same.
Kevin could tell the Director was out of sorts, and he was pretty
sure he knew why. All one had to do was turn on the news every day,
if they were masochists, and in about five seconds they would un-
derstand why anyone in Washington, especially someone in the po-
sition of a political appointee in the current White House adminis-
tration, would be antsy. But Director Tunny-Baxter was a tough
cookie, too, and understood her position and her duty, and no mat-
ter what else was going on, she would always stay true to the values
that had guided her life these past sixty-three years.
Kevin settled and waited, and after a minute, Grace Tunny-Baxter
turned to him and smiled.
“Angie was just promoted at work, right? The Bryce Group?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s now Managing Director for all their Interna-
tional Operations. A boatload of responsibility, but if anyone can
handle it, my wife can. I have no doubt of that. Her staff has in-
creased by fifty percent, too, and right now she’s working hard al-
most every day. Once she gets it sorted she can ease up. And imme-
diately following that, I plan to take her away for a long weekend
somewhere with a really nice spa.”
The Director smiled again.
“In addition to being an excellent Director of Security, you appear
to be an excellent husband as well, Kevin. I may have to set up a
lunch between you and my mister.”
They both chuckled and then Tunny-Baxter waved a hand. “Just
kidding. George is a wonderful husband, albeit a little absentminded
sometimes. Been a long while since he surprised me with a long
weekend at a spa. But anyway…”
Suddenly the Director’s mood turned serious and her eyes bore di-
rectly in on Kevin’s.
“Kevin, I need you to do something for me,” she began. “And I
need you to handle it personally. This is going to be a limited details
and limited access operation. Others below you will have to be in-
volved, but a good deal of what is really going on will have to be kept
from them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said without hesitation. This despite not know-
ing what the Director was about to order him to do. He’d been in the
CIA for thirty years and had made it to senior middle management
(despite his best efforts to the contrary), and was no stranger to
partially in the dark operations. Sometimes completely in it.
Tunny-Baxter continued.
“I should first tell you that as we speak, in my conference room
waiting are the Inspector General, Imelda Friedman, and the Gen-
eral Counsel, Antonio Strauss. In a little while I will ask them to
come in. Regulations require that they be present before I can pro-
vide some information to you. The reason why will become clear
shortly.”
Now Kevin’s curiosity was really piqued, but he retained his calm
composure as Tunny-Baxter went on.
“You are no doubt aware of the political situation in Washington
right now. The current impeachment investigation against the presi-
dent for abuse of power in regards to what some have termed a
rogue foreign policy for personal political gain.”
Kevin nodded.
Tunny-Baxter sighed.
“You are probably also aware that this all got going following a
whistleblower complaint to the Inspector General of the Intelligence
Community that the White House and Department of Justice ini-
tially tried to stop from getting to Congress.”
Another head nod.
“And the speculation that the whistleblower is a member of this
agency.”
“Yes,” Kevin finally spoke.
Tunny-Baxter took a breath, released it slowly, glanced away
briefly.
“Officially nothing has been confirmed regarding the identity or
the employment of the whistleblower,” she said slowly, looking at
him once again. “But I am now going to confirm one thing to you.
The whistleblower is a member of the Agency.”
Suddenly Kevin’s pulse beat just a little bit quicker, and for some
odd reason, on the inside he was actually smiling, feeling just a tiny
bit of pride.
The Director continued.
INSTEAD OF INVITING THE IG and GC into her office, Director
Tunny-Baxter and Kevin joined them in the small conference room
attached to her office suite. Kevin was well familiar with the two
watchdogs of his agency and had worked closely with both of them
on more than one occasion. Both were in business attire and looked
fresh, as if they had been at home as well when summoned and had
time to prepare. Kevin shook hands with Imelda Friedman and An-
tonio Strauss and then the four of them sat down.
“For the record, I have confirmed for Kevin that the whistleblower
is an Agency employee, but I have not disclosed their identity yet. I
have also mentioned that in ordinary circumstances I would not
know the identity of the whistleblower and by law could not seek to
learn it, but these are far from ordinary circumstances. Also, the
whistleblower first brought their concerns to Tony and Imelda be-
fore going to the IC-IG because regulations require the referral, and
they were Agency, after all. Ordinarily, the identity of the whistle-
blower would remain with them and the IG of the IC, but due to the
current circumstances, and concerns for the safety of the whistle-
blower, by congressional mandate, this agency has been given sole
responsibility for protecting the whistleblower and their identity un-
til the matter is resolved. Thus the necessity of your involvement,
Kevin, as Director of the Office of Security for the CIA.”
And lucky me, Kevin thought as he took in what his boss was
telling him.
“I am going to tell you the whistleblower’s name now, but you will
not tell anyone else, is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For the purposes of your protective operation, assigned person-
nel will, of course have to know who they are protecting, but they
cannot under any circumstances be told why. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You will design a plausible cover story and maintain direct over-
sight of the protective operation from start to finish, is that under-
stood?”
“It is,” Kevin said.
The Director turned to the General Counsel.
“Tony?”
Strauss removed a single page from the leather portfolio on the ta-
ble in front of him and slid it across to Kevin who picked it up and
read it, then grinned.
“Fucking lawyers,” he said under his breath, smiling and taking a
pen from inside his jacket. “Always gotta make sure they can sue or
prosecute you later.”
“That’s why they pay us the medium-big bucks in government ser-
vice,” said Tony Strauss with a grin of his own, taking the signed pa-
per back and replacing it in his portfolio.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” said Tunny-Baxter, glancing at
Imelda Friedman. “Would you care to do the honors, Madam In-
spector General?”
Friedman adjusted her black-framed bifocals and gave the Direc-
tor a rueful expression, then turned to Kevin and said a name, a
name that was quite familiar to him, and as he considered this
name, the person and the position they had occupied at the White
House until relatively recently, it did not surprise him one bit.
“You don’t look surprised?” Tunny-Baxter said curiously.
Kevin looked at her.
“Not really,” he said. “Makes sense, actually, knowing this person
and the job they had until a month or so ago.”
 “Let’s hope the White House doesn’t reason it out that quickly,
and then blab it to FOX News,” the IG said drearily. “Even though it
would be a crime under both the Whistleblower Protection Act as
well as the Intelligence Identities Protection Act, I really don’t think
this administration or their media and congressional allies would
care.”
“But I would,” said the General Counsel of the CIA. “And would do
everything in my power to see that people got prosecuted for the
disclosure. It might take until there was new leadership at the Jus-
tice Department, which can’t come soon enough in my opinion, but
I’m a very patient man when I have to be.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” said the Director without much
enthusiasm. “But if it does, Kevin, your work will become that much
more difficult.”
He nodded.
“Yeah, but it’s the nature of the work, not to mention the world we
live in now.”
Tunny-Baxter nodded.
“And I’ll bet you’re already formulating a plan in your head, aren’t
you?”
“Yep,” he confirmed. “And with your permission, Director, I in-
tend to order a review of all of our current security plans for senior
Agency personnel, yourself and the IG and GC as well. If this thing
gets really ugly, your names and faces could begin showing up in
nasty tweets or on the news and who knows what might happen if
[i]
some Red Hat happens to spot you out somewhere one night
with your families.”
And if they weren’t already wearing serious expressions before
that, the three Agency executives suddenly paled. The thing about
being a security officer on any level is that it’s your job to think
about all the worst things that could happen and try to come up with
ways of preventing or at least minimizing those threats. Most people
didn’t have to think like that, and bully for them.
Kevin Mada was not most people.
[j]
He was The Doss .
 Chapter 2

1102 WESTBRIAR COURT NE

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
23:58 HOURS

Kevin made it home just before midnight and found his wife of the
last quarter century, Angela “Angie” Dell-Mada, coming out of the
kitchen wearing a black silk bathrobe, adorned with white Japanese
characters on the left side from breast to hip, and stopped just above
her cute and sexily slender knees. She was carrying a glass of milk in
her left hand, paused when he came through the side door from the
garage, stopping at the control panel to deactivate and reset the
house alarm.
“Tell me you at least used a condom?” she said sardonically as he
glanced her way. “I don’t want to catch anything again from one of
your late night trysts.”
Kevin snorted, coming into the kitchen, setting his briefcase down
on the counter, removing his overcoat and shaking it out before
draping it over the back of one of the wooden chairs at the table.
“Now you know I only solicit the finest whores eight dollars can
buy, darlin’,” he quipped. “And condoms are for wimps. Real men
pull out and aim for their tits.”
Angie snickered, leaned over to set her glass down on the table,
laughing fully now as she reached out with open arms to welcome
her husband home.
“You’re so bad,” she said into his ear, then nibbled on it.
 “Look who’s talking,” he said, inhaling her, slipping both hands
down to her ass. “And why aren’t you wearing underwear, it’s mid-
night and I wasn’t home up until a minute ago?”
Angie snickered again, pulled back and stared deeply into his
eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know, cowboy?” she teased.
“Yeah,” he said. “Especially since you came down here to get a
glass of milk first.”
She kissed him on the lips, fully, passionately, then reached for
and downed the glass of milk before setting it back on the table,
empty.
“I know it’s late and you’re kind of old now, but do you think you
can raise your flag for just a little while tonight? I’m kind of horny.”
Kevin laughed, undid the knot in his tie, then picked his wife up in
his arms and turned for the stairs out in the hallway.
“Let’s find out,” he said, then began to race up the stairs two at a
time, Angie cheering him on with the theme song from Rocky the
whole way.

AFTER HER DEEP BLUE EYES STOPPED rolling around in her

head and began to focus again and her breathing settled just a bit,
Angie looked at her husband and shook her head, exhausted.
“Hey, what happened to pulling out?”
Kevin grinned, leaned down and kissed her.
“That’s what my eight dollar whore said earlier this evening, too.”
Angie snickered and poked him mercilessly until he rolled onto
his back beside her, both now laughing. In a minute she shifted and
put her head on his bare chest, raised her knee onto his near thigh,
her slender fingers playing with the hairs on his stomach.
 “Well since you did come back home tonight, I guess whatever the
Director wanted to see you about wasn’t world-ending.”
Kevin kissed the top of her head, squeezing her bare shoulders.
“Not tonight at least,” he said sleepily.
Angie kissed his nipple.
“You want me to let you go to sleep now?” she said.
“No, oddly I’m wide awake now, and thinking about playing an-
other game of raise the flag in a little while.”
Angie grinned, poked him again.
“Easy, tiger. We might have to see about getting you a prescription
for reverse Viagra or something. According to all my women friends
my age, men your age shouldn’t be able to get it up like that so of-
ten.”
Kevin snorted.
“None of your friends is married to me,” he said, squeezing her
again. “And sure as hell none of their husbands or boyfriends is
married to you. God, you could make a dead guy hard.”
Angie choked with laughter again, snorting, rolling onto her back
and convulsing for several minutes. Kevin smiled, turned on his side
to watch his wife, enjoying the sight of her nakedness even more as
she aged every year, becoming even sexier in his eyes. He put his
right hand on her tummy, felt the still taunt abdominal muscles, a
testament to her fitness routine, and extracurricular activities with
her husband.
When her laughter was reduced to a mild giggle, he slipped his
hand between her thighs and Angie sighed, feeling his middle finger
enter her.
“You used to ask permission before you did that,” she said,
squeezing her thighs around his hand and covering it with hers.
“Now you’re just taking all sorts of liberties, Mister.”
“Would you like me to remove my hand?” he said.
“Only if you want me to remove your hand,” she said. “As in de-
tach it from your body.”
Kevin smiled, kissed her shoulder as he snuggled close.
“How’s your project going?”
Angie sighed, still holding his hand in place while his middle fin-
ger continued to gently probe her.
“It’s going to get tougher in the morning,” she confided. “I’m go-
ing to lose an employee.”
“Voluntarily or otherwise?” he said.
“Otherwise,” she said. “Tonight it became patently clear that he
and I cannot work together. He’s been with Bryce almost as long as I
have and I have worked with him a little over the years, but he
seems unwilling to accept that I’m now his boss and is challenging
my authority over the littlest of things, almost being petty. I have
tried to give him time to adjust, but he is only getting worse. And
there is no other place to shift him in the organization that we
wouldn’t cross paths and swords now that I head International Op-
erations. I gave the CEO a heads-up two weeks ago and he told me
the decision was entirely mine, that he would support it, whatever it
was.”
Kevin kissed her shoulder again, leaned down further and kissed
her right nipple, liked it so much that he spent a minute licking it
slowly, his wife moaning in return, her thighs still clamped tightly
around his hand below.
“Well, hon, looks like you’ve given this person all the rope you
can. His fault if he can’t accept you in your new position. Maybe he
thinks he should have gotten the job.”
 “Doubtful,” she said tightly. “He knows he’s not qualified, out of
his area of expertise. Likely he was hoping his buddy José Yules
from the East European Investments Branch would get the post,
then he would have an in at the senior management level. Oddly,
Yules seems to have no problem with me getting the job over him.
He’s going to move into my old slot and probably do very well there.
Too bad Herman Cass can’t get over it.”
“Well fuck Herman Cass then,” Kevin said.
Angie moaned.
“No, deary, I’d much rather fuck you.” She turned her head and
kissed him, moaned again. Suddenly her eyes popped back open.
“Oh, did I mention what Mr. Cass does at Bryce?”
“No you didn’t,” Kevin said, inching closer, gently moving his fin-
ger further into her, the pad barely caressing her G-spot. “And hon-
estly, I couldn’t care less right now.”
Another moan, then a deep sigh.
“But you might, if you were ready for a career change,” she in-
sisted, perspiration breaking all across her body. “Herman is, at
least until in the morning, Bryce’s Chief Security Officer.”
Kevin chuckled, leaning down to kiss his wife’s right nipple again,
then her left. When he looked up his wife was staring at him, barely
able to control her trembling body.
“If I make you cum right now does that mean I move to the head
of the replacement list?” he teased.
Angie was panting now, her body jerking involuntarily as she tried
to maintain focus.
“Baby… you… are… the… fucking…”
That’s as far as she got before ecstasy took complete control of her
and Kevin’s middle finger was doing things to her womanhood that
she could never hope to describe.
With luck, the one child they still had living at home was sleeping
with his noise canceling headphones on tonight, because no nine-
teen year old should ever hear his mom scream like that.
 Chapter 3

CIA OFFICE OF SECURITY HEADQUARTERS

1500 WESTBRANCH DRIVE
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
0817 HOURS

Despite only managing a few hours of sleep and the physical exer-
tion that preceded it, Kevin Mada was up by six-fifteen Tuesday
morning, spent twenty minutes doing a light workout of pushups,
situps, and jumping jacks while his wife lay in bed and admired him
with a playful grin, then hit the shower, where Angie joined him, but
only for the purposes of getting clean. Largely.
Breakfast was cereal, a sliced pear, and mango juice, then into his
Honda for the two mile, in qualified terms, trek to his office in
McLean, a relatively nondescript seven story office building that
looked like all the others in the area. The only difference was that
this particular office building housed the headquarters for the Office
of Security of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. Offi-
cially known as the Stafford Building.
Kevin arrived in his office by 0745, both his executive assistant,
Mindy Gregg, a fifty-six year old, thirty-plus year veteran of the
Agency’s bureaucratic world, and his administrative assistant, Clark
Beeson, much younger, and often times treated as the former’s fa-
vorite offspring (unless he screws up), were both already there.
Mindy had a hot cup of herbal tea ready for him, which he accepted
gratefully as he moved to his desk, setting it down, along with his
briefcase, removing his coat and hanging it up.
 They were already pelting him with data points before he could
settle comfortably behind his desk and take a sip of the wonderfully
aromatic liquid steaming from the cup on his desk. It would be ten
minutes before a pause, and when this occurred, Kevin took that op-
portunity to pose a question to his EA.
“Mindy, have you seen Anna yet this morning?” he said after swal-
lowing a mouthful of tea.
She nodded dutifully.
“Yes. I was down talking to her AA about twenty minutes ago and
she came in. Would you like to speak with her?”
“I would,” he said. “After we’re done here. Let her know that I
[k]
want to meet in the SCIF , and handle it directly. I don’t want it
made a big deal of.”
Mindy Gregg studied her boss for several long moments as he
sipped his tea, sensing something, not knowing what, but fully un-
derstanding that if he wasn’t telling her about it, then she didn’t
need to know.
“I’ll take care of it when we’re done,” she said crisply.
Kevin nodded, turned to his AA.
“What’s next, Clark?”

ANNA BETTS IS TWO YEARS OLDER THAN her boss, but they
both joined the Agency’s Office of Security Training Academy in Vi-
enna (Virginia) at the same time over thirty years ago; were in the
same Special Agents’ class. In the early years they were posted to-
gether numerous times, usually for short, very dangerous, and
highly classified jobs that both were lucky enough to have lived not
to tell anybody about.
 As they moved into their forties both had been faced with the real-
ity that if they wanted to remain in the Agency past the twenty year
mark they were going to have to move into the ranks of manage-
ment. Kevin had contrived to land a plum assignment as head of the
Special Activities Staff, where even if he wasn’t in the field all the
time doing the work himself, he at least got to oversee some really
juicy gigs from time to time, occasionally even observing in the
field, when a job was particularly critical. But that ended pretty
quickly after his forty-first birthday.
Anna was head of Clearance Division by then, that department in
OS responsible for approving security clearances after a lengthy
background investigation was conducted by Investigations Group.
Not a day went by during that period where she didn’t strongly con-
sider slitting her wrists as she reviewed endless applicant back-
ground and personnel reinvestigation reports. But she had a hus-
band and kids that she loved so she stuck it out.
Kevin became Chief of Reinvestigations Branch for a while and
had to fight every day not to throw himself through his office win-
dow. It helped that the window did not open and could withstand
everything except a direct rocket strike. He did catch a break when
the slot for Chief of the Protective Programs Group opened up sud-
denly and the Deputy Director for Personnel Security tapped him to
fill it. PPG manages all protective operations units within OS, Uni-
formed Division, DCI Security Staff, Defector Protection Team, An-
titerrorism Security Division, Threat Analysis Team, and the Special
Activities Staff, plus several others. So at least if he wasn’t in the
field anymore, he was at the heart of the action and making deci-
sions that kept a lot of people and property safe. Better than Rein-
vestigations where more times than not he had to decide whether to
recommend pulling or downgrading someone’s clearance after a
blemish popped up during their latest BI.
But Anna got stuck with Investigations Group, a big responsibil-
ity, to be sure, it’s the largest section in the Office of Security, but
she really envied Kevin’s posting at PPG, even challenged him to a
game of roshambo, or even a live-ammo duel, to decide who got to
keep which job. He politely declined, just like he tried to eighteen
months later when the previous Director of Security asked him to
step in as Acting Deputy Director for Physical and Technical Secu-
rity for a few months, just until they were able to find someone who
was the right fit for the job, and he could retain his position as head
of PPG as well, temporarily dual-hatted, as the saying goes. It took
almost another eighteen months to find that right fit, and by then
the DOS himself was ready to retire.
Grace Tunny-Baxter was Deputy Director of the Agency by this
time and had had many occasions to work closely with Office of Se-
curity personnel throughout her career, in particular with members
of SAS because one of this unit’s primary functions was to support
the Directorate of Operations (DO) missions in the field, providing
covert surveillance and security, countersurveillance, and emer-
gency extraction of blown officers and assets if things really went
south in a hurry. Tunny-Baxter was Chief of the Counterprolifera-
tion Center while Kevin was running OS/SAS and had been very im-
pressed with the way he and his people handled several dicey and
dangerous assignments for her officers in different hotspots around
the world where disaster was a more likely outcome than not. One
in particular that would always remain restricted access that came
at the beginning of her tenure as Chief/CPC and had really shown
what the future head of OS was made of. When the previous Direc-
tor of Security gave his notice of retirement and the DCI of the day
asked for recommendations for a replacement, Deputy Director
Tunny-Baxter asked the DOS what he thought about the man who
had just finished an eighteen month stint as acting DDP&TS. The
DOS had grinned wryly at the question, then told her. The rest was
history, except for the part where Kevin called Anna Betts into his
new office and she was all smiles and giggles, addressing him as Mr.
Director, telling him she was glad it was him and not her and that
she would be more than happy to look after Protective Programs for
him, her deputy in Investigations was more than capable of succeed-
ing her there.
He smiled and thanked her, then handed her two sheets of paper.
The first was a notice of transfer, the current Deputy Director for
Personnel Security (DDPS) was leaving to take a job at State with
the Diplomatic Security Service (DSS). Anna’s face fell even before
she had a look at the second document, which was her letter of ap-
pointment (freshly signed by the new DOS) to the position of
Deputy Director of the Office of Security in Charge of the Personnel
Security Directorate. It was probably the first time in the history of
the Agency that someone who had just been promoted to a deputy
director’s slot ever referred to her benefactor as a double-crossing
motherfucker, but Kevin J. Mada, Jr. did not mind one bit. The
murderous look on the face of his new deputy was priceless.

KEVIN WAS SEATED AT THE round conference table in the SCIF

down on the sixth floor just beneath his office, guarded around the
clocked by officers of the Uniformed Division, when Anna was
granted access. She was wearing a solid gray pantsuit this morning,
crisp white pullover blouse, her long blond hair hanging around her
shoulders. At fifty-four Anna is still in great shape, two kids not
withstanding. Even now she and Kevin occasionally skipped lunch
to go to the gym and try to knock one another’s blocks off like they
used to do back in the early days. And both were still nearly as vi-
cious as they had been back then.
“Director,” Anna said with a sardonic grin and a mock salute.
“Deputy Director,” Kevin replied in kind.
“If you brought me in here to fire me and hoped I wouldn’t make a
scene, you really don’t know me at all,” she quipped.
Kevin grinned.
“Oh, but I do. And I brought you in here to tell you I’m quitting
and you’re the new DOS. Congratulations.”
Kevin Mada is a very hard person to read, even for someone with
as much experience as Anna Betts. She can never be sure if he’s jok-
ing because his delivery is always deadpan. Then she noticed that
her pulse was beating faster. Oh shit!
“You better be lying,” she said, pulling out a chair across the table
from him. “I got two more years before I’m out of here and I do not
want to spend them in your chair, thank you very much.”
Kevin smiled.
“Not to worry, my friend. Only joking. Although I was offered a
wonderful employment opportunity outside the Agency just last
night, five times my current salary.”
“And you’re still here?” Anna said with mock incredulity. “Man
you really are fucked in the head.”
“Took you long enough to notice,” Kevin said, waited until she was
settled. “Okay, I’ve got some things to tell you that will never leave
this room, understood?”
 Anna nodded without thought or hesitation. Thirty years in the
CIA did that to you.
“Got it,” she said.
Kevin nodded, folded his hands together in front of him on the ta-
ble, took a moment, then started speaking.
“Last night I went to a meeting at Headquarters and present at
that meeting were the DCI herself, the Inspector General, and the
General Counsel.”
“Oh shit!” Anna said.
“Yeah,” Kevin said.
Then told her the rest.

“FIRST THING I SHOULD LET YOU KNOW is that I am about to

violate an official order from the DCI and a document I signed at the
behest of the General Counsel with the Inspector General looking
on.”
Anna grinned.
“Which means if I blab, your job will be open,” she said. “But not
to worry, that gives me even more incentive to keep my trap shut.”
“In a minute you’ll understand why,” Kevin went on. “Still, it is a
breach of protocol, but it’s not like it would be the first one between
the two of us.”
“And we’re still here,” Anna said. “So far. So spill.”
“The whistleblower who blew the whistle on the White House’s
shenanigans in Eastern Europe is an Agency employee, as con-
firmed to me by the Director last night.”
“Holy shit!” Anna breathed. “So the rumor was true?”
“It was,” Kevin confirmed. “And is. Can you guess what I’m going
to say next?”
 Anna chuckled.
“Yeah, we should both retire right now.”
“If only.”
“Well considering that disclosing anything about a whistle-
blower’s identity is a violation of federal law, the only reason the
DCI would know it is because she had to for legal reasons; and she
told you in your official capacity as DOS because she is tasking you
to provide the whistleblower with protection. And given all the shit
that’s been heaped their way from the White House and a lot of
other nutty quarters since the story broke, that’s probably a good
idea. You were right, I can guess why you violated the DCI’s order
not to disclose this to anyone else. The two-agent rule.”
Kevin nodded.
“Correct, Special Agent Betts,” he said. “The two-agent rule. In
case something happens to me, you’ll know everything I do and will
be able to step in and take over. Then you can also explain to the Di-
rector why I violated her orders.”
Anna smirked.
“And the GC can file charges against your corpse. Roger that. So,
boss, what are we gonna do?”
Kevin took a measured pause, suddenly feeling a bit of anger well
up inside him, about a lot of things he had been ignoring for the past
couple of years since the ascendancy of the current occupant of the
White House. Since several months ago when the former Chief of
Staff from over there tried to steamroll the Agency into granting a
security clearance to a contractor who couldn’t pass a background
[l]
investigation. Maybe it was more than just a bit of anger.
Abruptly the Director of Security realized just how absolutely pissed
off he was. And it had nothing to do with politics. Anna Betts no-
ticed the change in her long-time friend, recognized it for what it
was, nodded her agreement with his unspoken thoughts.
“We’re gonna make goddamned sure this person is completely
protected at all times, and if anyone so much as looks at them
funny, we’re going to fucking obliterate them!”
“Damn right!” Anna said, a grim smile etching her features. “Put
‘em under the fucking dirt! Just like the old days.”
Kevin smiled.
“Then let’s get to work, my friend.”

RESPECTIVELY, IAN ZENK AND Maggie Kel run the Protective

Programs Group and the Special Activities Staff. They would be key
players in the operation Kevin and Anna were organizing, although
they would not be given the full story. This would make things a bit
more difficult because neither was an idiot and would probably real-
ize very quickly that there was more going on than was being
shared. However, both were also loyal Agency veterans and under-
stood the phrase need to know all too well. They had faith in their
leadership and would believe that if they were being kept in the dark
about something it was because they didn’t need to know. Hope-
fully.
“We gonna do eight or twelve hour shifts?” Anna asked after re-
turning to the SCIF with coffee for her and tea for Kevin.
Kevin was working at his encrypted laptop. He glanced up at her.
“Ordinarily on a job like this we would do two twelves per day,” he
said carefully. “But I think for this one it should be three eights.”
Anna sat down and slid a Styrofoam cup across the table to him.
“I think that’s a good idea, too,” she said, testing her coffee, find-
ing it passable. “It keeps them fresher that way. What about SAS?”
 “They can do the twelves,” he said. “First, we don’t have that many
resources locally right now and I don’t want to bring another team
back stateside for this because all of them are currently engaged in
critical missions or missions that could go critical at any moment. I
haven’t talked to Maggie yet, but I’ve looked at her roster and Team
Blue is the only one in-pocket, just finished three weeks of training
at the Farm.”
“Beth Strange’s team, right?” Anna said, frowning and setting her
cup down next to her laptop.
“Correct,” Kevin confirmed, now sipping his perfectly prepared
tea. “The redoubtable Bethany Strange, who, at age 27, is already
well on her way to getting both of our jobs before she retires. And
quite possibly higher.”
“I’ll say,” Anna said. “Did four years in the Army after high school,
early entrance at seventeen. Trained as an MP, stationed in Ger-
many, where she came into contact with some of our people by the
way. Finished up as a buck sergeant at age twenty-one, decided not
to reup, went to college instead. Graduated at the top of her class at
Amherst in three years, then came knocking at our door. Did you
know Matt Stephenson talent-spotted her in Berlin? He was
[m]
ASO to Berlin Station at that time.”
Kevin nodded, still typing.
“Yep, and Maggie brought Ms. Strange into the shop on Matt’s
recommendation while she was still the number two in SAS before
Jorge Porter transferred to DIA. Since then young Bethany has shot
up to field leadership quicker than any other agent in the history of
SAS, yourself and myself included. A most impressive operator. And
I’m glad she’s available.”
“SO HOW ARE WE GOING TO BILL THIS op to our people since
we can’t tell them the truth?”
Kevin had removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Anna’s
jacket was on the back of her chair and she was leaned all the way
back with her long legs crossed at the ankles, staring across the table
at Kevin as the lunch hour fast-approached.
“We’re helped in one key area by the fact that we work for a secret
government organization,” he told her.
“The fact that they’re used to not being given all the facts about a
job because of need to know? I get that, but still, our folks aren’t
dummies, some of them are bound to be suspicious.”
“They’ll all be suspicious, Anna, and some will even bitch about it
behind our backs. And before this is all over, I don’t doubt that all of
[n]
them will probably figure it out. Especially if the WB has to go to
Capitol Hill to talk to investigators and staff. If there’s closed door
executive session testimony, it’s game over. They’ll all know, and
they’ll all know why we had to play it the way we did. I’m guessing
most, if not all of them, will be proud of the part they played in this
whole mess. Knowing that they were on the side of right. That one of
our people chose to stand up and say something when everybody
else was wringing their hands and hanging their heads in uncer-
tainty and woe. And that they had a part to play in keeping that per-
son, that patriot, safe.”
Anna was staring at Kevin so intently that it took her a few mo-
ments to respond when he finished. Then she shook her head, sat
forward, and smiled.
“Jesus, you can be so damned inspiring sometimes, Kevin,” she
said. “At first I thought you were joking, but then… God, man, when
the time comes, don’t change a word, say just what you said then
and everybody we’re about to throw blindly to the sharks will jump
to attention and salute. Especially Bethany Strange.”
Kevin sighed, shaking his head, not really looking forward to that
future moment.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “What say we order some lunch?”

A BREACH AT ONE OF THE AGENCY’S satellite locations in Ross-

lyn caused a minor hiccup during the lunch hour, but the Uni-
formed Division captain responsible for site security assured his
chief that all was well in hand by 1330, the threat dealt with, and a
review of procedures was already underway. In turn, the Chief of the
Uniformed Division, based at main Headquarters, was on the secure
line with Kevin and Anna at 1400 assuring them of the same.
“It wasn’t Agency related,” Elena Kohl said over the speakerphone
in Kevin’s office. “Local PD were chasing a robbery suspect and he
made for the facility’s entrance just as a couple of our people were
coming back from lunch, shoved his way inside. And right then he
[o]
was confronted by the two SPOs posted in the lobby. They had
him down on the floor by the time the cops got there to take custody
of him.”
“And I have to ask,” Anna said as she leaned on the front edge of
Kevin’s desk. “The cops, the bad guy, and the robbery story all check
out?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Kohl. “All checks out. This does not appear to
have been some hostile attempt to either penetrate one of our offsite
facilities or test its security. That being said, I’ve asked Maggie Kel
to deploy an SAS team to watch over the site covertly for the rest of
the day and into the night. Just in case.”
“Good idea,” Kevin thought, then remembered that the only
SAS team currently available was Team Blue. “Copy both of us when
the review is done, please. Not sure how much more can be done at
that site to prevent things like this, considering the commercial
cover of the building. Perhaps a refresher course for the employees
there, admonishing them to pay closer attention to their surround-
ings as they enter and leave the building. Of course, that’s been a
problem at many offsite locations since we were all freshmen. When
I was in training a hundred years ago, I had to go to that facility for
a day but couldn’t find it, despite the instructions I had been given
beforehand. So I went to the coffee shop in the train station across
the street, waited until I spotted somebody coming out who had
Agency written all over him, the chain for his ID badge visible
around his neck, the badge itself tucked into his coat. I held the
shop door for him and then followed him across the street and right
into the building. He never had a clue. Fortunately that time I be-
longed there and had no hostile intent.”
Anna stood up and stretched her back.
“Well we were just discussing a wide ranging security review any-
way,” she said, eyeing Kevin. “So perhaps it’s a good thing this hap-
pened today.”
Kevin smiled, nodded.
“Maybe,” he said cagily, for the benefit of Elena Khol on the
phone. “Need to bring Ian in for this, too.”
“Agreed,” Anna said, right thumb up. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks
for the update, Elena. Anything else develops, let us know.”
“Will do. Bye.”
The line went dead and Kevin pressed the button to clear it and
disconnect.
“Always a gifted opportunity somewhere,” he said.
 Anna nodded, taking a seat across from the desk, crossing her
long legs.
“Time to head back to the SCIF?” she said.
“In a bit,” Kevin said, glancing at his watch. “First I want to call
and check with Angie. She should be through with that personnel is-
sue I mentioned earlier and I want to make sure everything went all
right.”
Anna nodded, pushed up from the chair.
“Understood,” she said, making for the door. “I’ve got a few other
things I need to catch up on in my office. What say we meet back
down there in thirty?”
Kevin nodded, pulling out his mobile phone. “Sounds good. Also,
make sure Ian doesn’t have anything else to do for the rest of the af-
ternoon that can’t be cancelled or rescheduled. We’re going to need
to have a long talk with him.”
“Will do,” she said, and then she was gone.
Kevin had already hit the speed-dial key for his wife’s phone and it
was answered on the third ring. From the tone in her voice he could
tell that she had not had a good morning. He leaned forward on the
desk and listened in silence as the love of his life vented her frustra-
tions with barely restrained anger.
On the plus side, at least she wasn’t angry with him.
Even better, she’d probably be really horny when they both got
home later tonight, a thought that Kevin had the good sense to keep
to himself as Angie raged on.
 Chapter 4

At six that evening Kevin was trying to get out of his office and head
home for family dinner night. He and Anna had accomplished a lot
today and managed to do it without giving much away to the people
they had to partially loop in. There were still a few details that
needed to be worked out, but the wheels were in motion and head-
ing in the right direction for now. Anna said she had a couple more
ideas and would probably work them out later at home after she and
her husband finished their date night.
Kevin had just finished making sure that all classified materials
were locked away in his safe and that his desktop computer was
turned off when his green line buzzed on the credenza behind his
desk. He glanced at the secure telephone with a gnawing sense of
dread. Whenever that thing rang at the end of the business day, it
was rarely good news.
Sighing, the Director of Security stopped what he was doing and
turned to pick up the receiver. Green lines do not have caller ID so
he couldn’t tell who was calling, but the list of people who had his
secure line number or could get it was not very large, so that told
him something right off the bat.
“Kevin,” said the Director of Central Intelligence. “Glad I caught
you still at the office. I was on my way out in a bit, too. You heading
home?”
 “Of course not, ma’am,” Kevin quipped. “I am a totally dedicated
Agency employee and never leave my desk before midnight, back
fresh at daybreak seven days a week.”
Grace Tunny-Baxter chuckled down the line.
“I’ll bet you could say that with a straight face and probably pass a
polygraph, too,” she said.
“Of course, ma’am,” he said. “All you have to do is tell the truth.”
“Oh, is that what I’ve been doing wrong all these years?” she said,
then paused before continuing. “Look, Kevin, I won’t keep you long.
It’s regarding the matter we discussed last night in my office.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I know you probably haven’t been keeping up with the news to-
day, but regarding the person we discussed, things are heating up
from some quarters, and there is increased concern.”
“I understand that, Director,” he said. “And a lot of progress has
been made today. I’ve been locked in the SCIF for most of it. A few
more details to work out and we should be ready on this end.”
“Good to hear that,” said the DCI. “Because there is increased ner-
vousness on the part of some also. We need to put that plan into ac-
tion sooner rather than later. Soonest, as a matter of fact.”
The implication was impossible to miss, and inwardly Kevin
groaned. Of course, he had known this was likely to happen, which
is why he and Anna Betts had worked so hard today.
“I understand, ma’am,” he said evenly.
“Kevin, I don’t want to put you on the spot here, but it might help
if you met with them personally, explained what you’re doing and
what your people will be doing, that might help a lot.”
Handholding had never been one of Kevin’s strong suits, unless it
was his wife’s hand that he was holding and the setting was inti-
mate, not professional. Nevertheless, Kevin said that he understood
and was prepared to do whatever was required.
Tunny-Baxter actually snickered as she responded.
“Almost sounds like you want to tell me to go jump in a lake, Di-
rector Mada, but have too much tact to say it out loud.”
“And getting fired would suck, too,” he said, then thought about
the job Angie had offered him last night, but kept that to himself. He
liked his job at the Agency and intended to do it for at least a few
more years if he could. At least until the current administration was
put away and buried, either in the next election or perhaps even
sooner if Congress got its act together.
“Perish the thought, Kevin,” said the DCI. “Come by my office at
eight in the morning, please. Be prepared to spend a couple hours at
Headquarters.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling out his mobile phone. “I’ll see you
then.”
“Good night, Kevin.”
“Good night, Director.”
As he was hanging up the green line he finished sending a text to
Anna Betts letting her know that he probably wouldn’t be in the of-
fice at OS Headquarters until sometime after ten or eleven in the
morning, then set a cryptic reminder on his electronic calendar
about a surprise inspection of security procedures at Main Head-
quarters on Wednesday morning. This was something that he had
done before so it wouldn’t be all that suspicious to his two principal
assistants, both of whom would receive notifications on their mobile
devices very shortly and then adjust his schedule for tomorrow ac-
cordingly, if necessary.
After that, Kevin went home.
DINNER WITH THE KIDS WAS ALWAYS A special time for Angie
and Kevin, even when one of them was going through something
difficult, school-wise, personal-wise, job-wise, or otherwise. It was
family time, time for the four of them to reconnect and check on one
another, offer any help that might be needed, even if it was just a
sympathetic ear. Sometimes a bit of cash, too, but hey, what were
parents for?
Tonight had been a good night, though, no major dramas in any-
one’s life. Well in the kids’ lives at least, because both Kevin and
Angie had professional woes aplenty right now, but neither was go-
ing to share this with their kids. As for Angie’s, Kevin already knew
about them, however, he couldn’t tell her about his due to security
restrictions, which she fully understood, having once been a govern-
ment official with high security clearance herself. But she could and
would offer him support in other ways, and for that Kevin was grate-
ful.
At ten their oldest, Reggie (Regina), hugged and kissed everyone
goodbye and then headed back to her apartment in D.C. that she
shares with two roommates, both paramours of hers but not of one
another. Pali (short for Palindrome, because his name is Adam
[Dell] Mada, which, without the Dell, is the same name spelled
backwards and forwards, thus he is a palindrome), still an under-
graduate at George Mason and living at home, said he was going to
go up and finish a paper that was due on Friday and then spend
some time talking to his girlfriend on Skype. He said goodnight to
his parents and went upstairs.
Kevin and Angie finished in the kitchen, checked the security of
the house, and then went up the backstairs holding hands. When
they reached the top, she stopped him, pushed him against the hall-
way wall, and pressed her lips to his as her arms snaked around his
neck. Angie is only a couple of inches shorter than her husband and
she doesn’t have to reach up too far, nor does he have to stoop when
he reaches back and grips her perfect little ass with both palms.
“Would it be wrong if we made so much noise out here that our
son and his girlfriend on Skype two doors down could hear us?”
Angie said.
Kevin grinned.
“Wrong, yes, hot, hell yes! But…” Kevin scooped her into his arms.
“Perhaps we should adjourn to our bedroom at the opposite end of
the hallway so that I can properly take advantage of your most ex-
quisite physique, young lady.”
Angie put her arms back around his neck and kissed him.
“Then be quick about it, kind sir, your wife is quite randy this
evening.”
Kevin laughed, starting to dance down the hallway.
“And when are you not, dearest?” he said. “When are we not?”

AT ELEVEN-FORTY ANGIE CAME out of the bathroom and joined

her husband in the middle of their warm and cozy bed. The lamp to
his left was on low but as soon as she climbed in, he shifted over and
shut it off. The curtains were open and the moonlight provided all
the illumination they needed. Angie turned on her side and snug-
gled into him as Kevin draped his arm around her and held her
close.
“That was worth waiting all day for,” she mumbled into his chest.
Kevin moaned contently, kissed her forehead.
 “I’ll say. God, woman, those little hips of yours should be regis-
tered as deadly weapons.”
Angie snickered, nibbled on his bare chest.
“I owe it all to ballet dancing when I was a kid,” she said. “Not to
mention the horseback riding.”
Kevin grinned.
“Well, cowgirl, you still know how to ride!”
They both laughed for several minutes before settling down into
silence again. Both had busy days tomorrow and sleep would have
been the smartest thing to do right then, but Kevin could sense that
Angie wanted to talk, so he lay still for a few minutes more until he
heard her sigh and then kiss his chest.
“I was watching the news before you came home tonight,” she
said.
“Yeah, that’s never a smart thing, my sweet,” Kevin said jokingly.
“You’ll only hear stuff that pisses you off. That’s why I prefer to stick
my head in the sand.”
“This coming from a man who works for an organization that has
the word Intelligence as its middle name,” she said.
“Talk about fake news, huh?” he said.
“Not with you working there, hon,” she said, and he chuckled,
squeezed her again. “There was a story about the president prepar-
ing to order the DCI to reveal the name of the whistleblower who re-
ported his alleged misconduct to Congress.”
Kevin tried to keep the groan inward, but failed.
“Which is why I never watch the news, babe,” he said. “So much
speculation and conjecture, and a lot of unnamed, off-the-record
sources. Hell, kind of like intelligence work, come to think of it, but
at least what we do is in secret. Or at least is supposed to be.”
 “Could he actually do that, order the Director to give up the
name?”
“Angie, you’re smarter than me on the law, you know as well as I
do that the Whistleblower Protection Act makes it illegal for any-
body to disclose the name of a whistleblower. Also, who says Grace
knows the name? And it’s never been proven that the whistleblower
is CIA. And even if the person were with the Agency, Grace probably
wouldn’t know the name anyway.”
Despite need to know and operational security, Kevin hated be-
ing deceptive with his wife. Still, he knew he couldn’t tell her the
truth. What’s more, she knew he couldn’t tell her the truth.
“But if he did order her, and she refused…”
“He’d have to prove she actually knew. Also, the order would be il-
legal. And that would likely be another article of impeachment
against him when Congress gets to that stage.”
“You think they will?”
“I don’t know, Angie. I really don’t spend much time thinking
about this administration or the bozos on Capitol Hill. With the
power split the way it is right now, anything is possible. I know
Grace is doing everything she can to keep our agency out of it; we’re
keeping as low a profile as possible. She has made it clear that we
will comply with all legal requests made of us, provide any docu-
ments necessary, as well as personnel to testify in executive session
as required. Luckily none of this directly affects my office.”
And he really hated adding that last part because it was the most
untrue thing he had said to her tonight.
She stroked his chest, kissed him.
“Well if things did get really bad there and Director Tunny-Baxter
got the boot, you’re at the thirty year mark yourself, can retire with a
decent pension, and with your talents and skills, you would be very
marketable.”
Kevin was silent, waiting his wife out, and then she started to
shake with laughter. He kissed her forehead again.
“Last night you offered me kinky office sex with the Managing Di-
rector of International Operations as a perk if I became Bryce’s new
Senior VP for Security Operations,” he grinned. “What’s it gonna be
tonight?”
Angie, still giggling, leaned her mouth close to his ear, nibbled on
it first, then told him.
“Jesus!” he said, staring at his wife in mock horror. “I know you’re
still pretty limber for someone a heartbeat away from the big five-
oh, but that I’d have to see to believe.”
Angie laughed again, pulled him close for a kiss on the lips.
“I’m gonna let you sleep on that thought,” she teased, then turned
on her opposite side, her back to him.
Kevin sighed, snuggled up against her, his left arm around her
waist. After a few minutes, Angie snickered again.
“Feels like somebody is going to have a hard time dropping off
tonight.”
They both snickered, cuddled, and eventually slept, albeit for
Kevin, a little bit uncomfortably.
 Chapter 5

Kevin woke up before Angie Wednesday morning, was dressed in

warm running clothes and heading for the bedroom door when she
stirred. He had told her last night that he had to go to (main) Head-
quarters this morning, but not about meeting the DCI, and that he
needed to leave early. Even so, he wanted twenty minutes of run-
ning before showering and getting dressed. Emphasis on the run
part. Angie was in just as good a shape as he, but this morning he
didn’t have time to wait, and she understood. Besides, the draw of
their warm bed was just too much for her to resist right then.
When he returned he found her on the floor doing stretching exer-
cises and grinned, making an offhanded remark about her flexibil-
ity, then went to shower. Pali was up and in the kitchen eating ce-
real and toast when Kevin walked in at six-thirty, fully dressed, but
carrying his suit jacket over his left arm. The younger, taller, and
leaner Mada man was dressed in gray sweats with the logo of his
school on the front.
“Morning,” Kevin said, dropping his jacket across the back of one
of the empty chairs at the table, rolling his wheeled briefcase up
next to it.
“Hey, dad,” said Pali. “Heading in early?”
Kevin nodded, moving to the stainless side-by-side refrigerator in
the corner.
 “Yep. You?”
“Yeah. My first class isn’t until ten but I want to get in a good
workout this morning at the gym, including some swim time. Best
opportunity for that is early in the morning.”
Kevin nodded again, removing a container of liquid vegan egg
mix.
“How it was when I was in school,” he remarked, walking over to
the stove and getting a skillet from the cabinet. “If you wanted to
have some time to work out with fewer distractions, best to do it
early before everybody else woke up from their hangovers.”
Pali laughed, drank the last of his juice and wiped his mouth on a
napkin.
“This was back before the Earth cooled, right?
Kevin chuckled.
“Right after the dinosaurs went extinct, actually. Smartass. How’s
Zandy doing, by the way?”
Kevin turned from his work at the stove, caught the sudden smile
on his son’s face as he rose from the table, all six-feet, three inches
of him.
“Great. Smart as ever. On track for the Dean’s List again this
term.”
“And you aren’t?” Kevin said.
Pali grinned, walking over to the sink and setting his dishes down.
“Probably,” the son said nonchalantly.
Kevin smiled and began scrambling eggs.
“Yeah, probably. Son, you could almost certainly skip half the
term and still wind up on the Dean’s List. Sometimes I’m convinced
your mother had an affair with another devilishly handsome black
man whose IQ is about a thousand points higher than mine because
while she is a freaking genius in her own right, I’m not sure all of
her genes could account for your brain.”
Pali laughed and turned to lean against the sink, folding his long
arms across his muscular chest.
“Dad, I’ve known where you really work since I was eleven, and
actually what working there really means since I was fourteen. I
have no doubt that if you really suspected that was a possibility,
you’d have confirmed it by now, and decisively dealt with the mat-
ter.”
Kevin grinned dumping the eggs he’d just scrambled onto a plate.
“Son, I’m a mid-level bureaucrat working at the Department of
Defense in a job so boring that people have been known to fall
asleep while reading my business card.”
Pali snickered, pushed off the sink.
“Only because it was coated in some fast-acting poison, Comman-
der Bond.”
Both men laughed, and right then Mrs.-Dr. Dell-Mada joined
them.

THE SPOs AT THE FRONT GATE (all gates, actually) know Kevin’s
vehicle, and since he is ultimately their boss, when they realize he is
in the entrance line, they stand a little sharper, their manner becom-
ing less casual, more professional.
It is not actually required that everyone come to a complete stop
to have their identification examined when they approach an en-
trance gate. In actuality, a CIA access badge only displays the bear-
ers photograph and some numbers and letters. The color and logo
are distinct, however, and this is what the security officers posted at
the gates are really looking for. In order to actually enter any Agency
facility, and especially Headquarters, each ID card has to be run
through a reader and a code punched into a pad. There are officers
posted at all of these entry points as well and if there is a problem,
the machines let them know pretty quickly and they respond appro-
priately.
All one has to do when they approach a gate is make sure that the
SPO can plainly see their ID card as they drive by at a reduced rate
of speed. The officer will acknowledge with a hand signal and a nod
when they have seen what they need to and you are cleared to pro-
ceed to the parking area. If there is a problem, the officer will also
indicate that with a hand signal. If anyone fails to stop when re-
quired, there are concrete barricades that can be activated by an of-
ficer who is always posted inside the security shack twenty feet in-
side the perimeter, and if they can’t activate them fast enough and a
vehicle gets through, there are two quick response vehicles standing
by to give chase, with additional barricades farther inside the prop-
erty that can be activated if necessary.
Kevin rolled down his window, as he always did, regardless of
weather, held his blue-gray badge up so that the young female SPO
could see it, and smiled.
“Good morning, sir,” she said crisply, waving him through.
“Good morning, Officer Bright,” Kevin said, dropping his badge
back into his shirt pocket and accelerating.
Officer Kendra Bright was living up to her name that morning af-
ter realizing that the Director of Security for the whole Agency actu-
ally knew her name. What she did not know and did not need to
know is that it wasn’t for any special reason that the DOS knew her
name, simply his desire to show the people under him that they all
had value and worth. Before leaving home he used his encrypted
phone to check the Uniformed Division’s roster for the front gate at
Headquarters that morning, which included photographs of every
SPO, and a small biographical readout. He now knew that her birth-
day was in February and that she had already put in a request to at-
tend the Protective Security Training Course that was due to start in
April. He had no idea if she would be approved, those decisions
were not made directly by him, although he would see the list of ap-
proved candidates before the class began. Making a mental note to
look for her name when the list came out, Kevin rounded the curve
outside the Original Headquarters Building and made for the visi-
tors’ lot. He still had twenty minutes to get inside and up to the
DCI’s suite.

KEVIN WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED TO see Michele Iyoko in the

Director’s outer office instead of her executive assistant when he ar-
rived on the seventh floor executive level of OHB at two minutes be-
fore eight. But then, perhaps he should not have been.
Iyoko was a forty-four year old GS-15 career security officer who
had worked for Kevin back when he was running the Special Activi-
ties Staff. She’d also been a special projects manager for him during
his time as acting Deputy Director for Physical and Technical Secu-
rity. She was smart, efficient, highly mission-oriented, and one of
the toughest people he knew. In the mold of Anna Betts, which was
not surprising because she had worked for Anna, too, years earlier
when the now Deputy Director (Personnel Security/OS) was Chief
of the DCI Security Staff, that entity of OS/Protective Programs
Group responsible for providing round-the-clock security for the Di-
rector and Deputy Director of the Agency. Michele Iyoko was now
the chief, appointed by Kevin almost a year ago.
 “Morning, boss,” she said with a smile and an outstretched hand.
Kevin came over and took it, noticing the bud in her left ear.
“Hey, Michele. Everybody else out sick this morning so you gotta
pull a post?”
Iyoko laughed.
“Well sittin’ around all the time in that very uncomfortable chair
in my office was making my ass too big to fit in my favorite pair of
jeans, so I figured I’d better get back into the habit of standing
around all day before the damage became irreversible.”
Kevin smirked and wisely chose not to entertain comments on his
subordinate’s ass.
“Actually, boss, the DCI mentioned the need for some discretion
this morning. That’s why her assistant and other staff members
aren’t here right now. They’re on security review (unscheduled)
[p]
with members of The Staff . As you know, we actually do un-
scheduled stuff like that anyway, so it wasn’t too hard for them to
swallow. Took my people kind of by surprise because they usually
get advanced notice, but they rolled with it.”
Kevin nodded.
“Yeah, I’m actually here for a security review as well. I’m not
meeting with the Director today.”
“Of course you aren’t, sir,” Iyoko said with a straight face. “I’ve
never even met you in my entire life.”
Kevin grinned.
“Met who?”
Michele Iyoko smiled, then turned and knocked on the DCI’s of-
fice door.
THE DCI HAS A PERSONAL SCIF attached to her personal confer-
ence room which is located behind her inner office. After a quick
meeting with Kevin, Grace Tunny-Baxter led him through the con-
ference room and into the SCIF. Introductions were not necessary,
and the Director quickly bowed out to return to her office to catch
up on work.
The whistleblower is someone who was already known to Kevin,
and not particularly liked by him, but that was of no consequence.
Truth be told, he didn’t really like a lot of people, even some he con-
sidered to be work friends.
“Good morning, Kevin,” the whistleblower said, coming around
the small round table in the center of the SCIF, extending a hand.
Kevin shook the hand and nodded, saying good morning and us-
ing the person’s first name since the tone had already been set. Then
they both sat down side-by-side.
“So you know who I am,” said the whistleblower. “The hated lefty
lib with a political axe to grind whose trying to take down the
greatest president in the history of presidents.”
Kevin actually smiled.
“Well I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he said. “I think I saw you kick
a kitten in the parking lot one time so you can’t be that much of a
lefty.”
The whistleblower stared at Kevin for several seconds, then began
to shake with laughter. This went on for several minutes and when it
ended, most of the tension had been released.
“Thank you, Kevin, I really needed that. You have no idea. If you
caught the latest news this morning, you know the president is rant-
ing in my direction again, insisting that I made everything up and
that the opposition party in Congress is simply conducting a witch
hunt to hurt his reelection chances.”
Kevin held up a hand.
“Let me stop you there,” he said. “I don’t really care about all that
crap, and for me to do my job, it really isn’t essential. It is a part of
the threat profile and does have to be considered, but not to a large
degree. Very few people know your identity and those who do all
know the consequences of revealing it, legally and ethically. Plus, in-
side this building—even though most folks aren’t sure you’re actu-
ally an employee here—, a lot of people believe what you did was the
right thing to do and it took a lot of courage and integrity. The likeli-
hood of your identity leaking is remote, but I understand your con-
cerns and those of the DCI, IG, and GC. With each twitter rant from
the Oval Office and each spew-fest from certain media outlets, a
small but dedicated and virulent minority of dangerous fanatics be-
come even more ginned up. And if your identity were to leak at
some point, it would be better to have protection for you in place be-
forehand so we wouldn’t have to scramble last minute.”
The whistleblower sat silently listening carefully to every word out
of the DOS’ mouth, knowing that their life depended on what this
man had to say and what he did. He ran through several things,
some of which the whistleblower had not considered before now.
When Kevin finished, the whistleblower sat back and sighed heavily,
nearly overwhelmed.
Kevin noticed this and sat forward, once more looking directly at
them. He used their first name when he spoke.
“I’ve spent my entire career in the Office of Security,” he said.
“I’ve protected people all over the world, run covert surveillance
deep inside hostile territory while being actively searched for by
those very same hostiles, extracted hostages and defectors from
some really nasty places and really nasty people who would’ve been
only too happy to kill us all. I’ve never lost a protectee,” he said with
deep conviction, reaching over and squeezing the whistleblower’s
right hand. “And I’m not about to start now.”
He paused, sat back in his chair, then added, “Because in the next
[q]
promotion cycle I’m up for my SIS-V and if you bought it on my
watch that might get screwed up.”
And with that the meeting ended on a humorous note that man-
aged to distract the whistleblower from their troubles yet again. At
least for a little while.
Kevin left them to return to the DCI’s office, promising to be in
touch again very soon.
 Chapter 6

Kevin didn’t arrive at his office at OS Headquarters until eleven-

thirty because he had a few things to discuss with the DCI, IG, and
GC, and he needed to make an effort to make the security review
that he was observing look real.
Mindy Gregg, his formidable executive assistant greeted him just
outside the seventh floor elevators and escorted him to his office, all
the while reviewing things that needed his immediate attention,
ranking them in order of importance. He was at his desk in shirt-
sleeves when she finished, now making notes on a pad on his desk.
“I assume all of this has been sent to both my machines?” he said,
glancing up at the steel-eyed keeper of his gate.
“Yes,” she replied. “Prioritized. The only two that are pressing, in
my estimation, are the ones that come from the Deputy Director
(Science and Technology), and Connor Ricks at CIC.”
Kevin nodded.
“I’ll take care of it ASAP. Anything else?”
Ms. Gregg was silent for a few moments, glancing over at his
closed door. Kevin sat back and waited patiently. Mindy Gregg had
been in OS longer than anyone, knew all the secrets, kept them all,
too, she was a treasure in the Office, and someone owed a great deal
of respect.
When she spoke now her eyes were directly focused on Kevin’s.
 “If you require anything that would in any way assist you in what-
ever you’re currently involved with but no one is supposed to talk
about, you are aware that I have sources and resources in many
places throughout our organization?”
Kevin stared back at her, smiled a little, nodded a little.
“Of course, Mindy, I know that full well. Which is why I’m glad
you’re on my side. And thank you, if I should require anything, I’ll
let you know.”
The Executive Assistant to the CIA’s Director of Security squared
her shoulders and nodded once, what she had to say now said, then
turned on her heels and quickly exited her boss’ office.
Kevin was just finishing up a call to the head of the Agency’s Sci-
ence and Technology Directorate when Anna Betts knocked on his
door and stuck her head in.
“Are we working through lunch again today?” she said with a grin.
“Of course we are,” he said in like tone.
“Good,” she said. “Because I’ve already ordered from that Chinese
place over on McFaul. Should be here in about ten minutes.”
“Good woman,” Kevin laughed. “I knew there was a reason I pro-
moted you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “To torture me. I’ll have it set up in the SCIF, fig-
ured we’d have a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah, we do,” he told her. “Just need to return a call to Conner
Ricks at CI. Should be done by the time the food arrives. If not, buzz
me, please.”
She said she would and then left, closing the door behind her once
again.
Kevin picked up his secure phone line again and dialed a five digit
number from memory. A few moments later a raspy female voice
answered by giving the five digits that he had just dialed back to
him, a common Agency practice.
“Hello, Margaret,” he said. “It’s Kevin Mada, is Conner in?”
“Director Mada,” said the personal assistant to the Agency’s Chief
of Counterintelligence. “Yes, he just came back into the office and
told me to put you right through if you called back.”
“Thank you,” Kevin said, then waited a couple seconds until the
call was connected.
“Kevin!” boomed Conner Ricks through the encrypted secure tele-
phone line. “My good man, how good of you to call. Hope I didn’t
catch you in the middle of a firestorm.”
Kevin laughed.
“You know us in OS,” he said. “We clean up everybody else’s
messes, especially those made by the folks in your office.”
Both men chuckled good naturedly, and soon afterwards the CI
Chief got down to the business of why he wanted to talk to the OS
Director.

PHONES AND ELECTRONIC DEVICES OF any kind that were in-

ternet-enabled were not allowed into the SCIF, therefore before she
came in, Anna Betts had printed several pages of data off the inter-
net that she wanted Kevin to read while they had lunch and dis-
cussed their current need to know only very special project.
As was to be expected, Kevin was disgusted and uninterested half-
way through the first paragraph, but he knew that Anna was right,
he needed to read every word in order to complete a proper threat
assessment and threat profile and to develop the best possible plan
for protecting the whistleblower all while keeping their people in the
dark as to what they were really doing and why.
 “You know I’ve got a pretty cast iron stomach,” Kevin said when
he finished reading the last page and turned it over on the table in
front of him, reaching for his cup of tea. “Have only thrown up once
since the early 1980s, and if it hadn’t been for that unfortunate gas
station chicken sandwich back in ’06, I’d be closing on forty years
now. But every time I hear or read this stuff, it makes my stomach
gurgle and I want to spew all over everything.”
Anna Betts did not break stride as she polished off the last of her
egg rolls, then the fried rice. She, too, had a cast iron stomach and
had once removed two bullets from a fellow agent’s backside during
a tricky bit of field surgery in the Balkans back in the mid ‘90s and
then went on to devour an entire pot of improvised stew made from
things that to this day she still wasn’t sure about.
“I’m right there with you, man,” she said, now dabbing at her lips
with a napkin. “I hate that shit, too, especially when it’s directed at
one of our own, but we have to review it, seeing as how we’re the
only two who actually know what this op is really all about.”
And, of course, she was right.
Kevin nodded, finished his tea, and then reached for the pages
again, a bit of bile rising at the back of his throat that had nothing to
do with the food he had just finished eating.

KEVIN HAD ALWAYS BEEN A MASTER writer, going back to his

time in training, his mind was highly organized when it came to
facts and details and often times his fellow classmates, and later, his
fellow agents, were quite comfortable leaving most of the report
writing to him. Especially in the planning stage. Thirty years later
not much had changed.
 Anna Betts finished reading his operational plan for the third time
just after six p.m. This time she had no additions to suggest and
pronounced it to be perfect, grinning at Kevin, who added, of course
it is.
Director Grace Tunny-Baxter concurred with that assessment af-
ter reading the abstract attachment and skimming the details of the
plan ninety minutes later when Kevin hand-delivered it to her in her
office at Headquarters. She approved the plan at once and signed in
the appropriate spot, after which Kevin countersigned and then
handed her a second document to sign. The DCI skimmed it as well,
nodding, then took her glasses back off and once again scrawled her
signature across the bottom of this document. Kevin countersigned
once more, then put both documents in the secured compartment of
his briefcase and looked across the desk at his boss.
“You do think of everything, Kevin,” she said with a smile. “You
know, it is not impossible that you could be tapped to sit in this
chair one day, if you really wanted it.”
“Director,” he protested immediately. “Let’s not even go there. As
[r]
I already explained to our illustrious DDS , I am quite happy in
my current position and intend to say in it until retirement, unless I
get fired. Both being likely outcomes.”
Tunny-Baxter grinned.
“The second not so likely,” she said. “And not as likely as it could
be for me, given current circumstances. But I am serious, Kevin.
You’d make a great DCI. And Alvin is right, too, you’d make a great
Deputy Director for Support, first. He retires in eight months. You
could slide into that spot easily. If I survive here another couple of
years, then I retire. Maybe by then you’ll be ready…”
 “Grace, as much as I appreciate the consideration, absolutely
not!”
The Director of Central Intelligence smiled with melancholy. She
could completely understand Kevin’s reluctance, had felt the same
way when she was first considered for the Deputy Director’s job,
and later the top slot. And only her husband knew how many days
since that she wished she’d had the good sense to say no. But Grace
was good at the job and the Agency has thrived under her leader-
ship, despite the recklessness and accusations from the White
House. She had no doubt that with Kevin Mada at the helm, it could
be even better. For now, however, she knew that her Director of Se-
curity had other things to worry about so she let the matter drop.
For now.
“Okay, Director Mada,” she assumed a formal tone. “Please pro-
ceed as planned and keep me informed of any developments as war-
ranted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the Director of Security as he rose. “I will. As
soon as the order is given, the first team will deploy tonight. The
agents are already standing by for word from Anna Betts.”
Tunny-Baxter nodded, picking up and putting her glasses back on.
The meeting was over and she turned to her phone and buzzed her
assistant.
Kevin was in the elevator heading down when he reached Anna on
her encrypted mobile phone.
“We’re a go,” was all he said.
“Got it,” was all she said, then the line went dead.
Kevin got off the elevator on the fifth floor and turned left. Being
close to eight at night, there were not as many people in the building
as during daytime hours, but the Agency was open for business 24/7
and that meant there were still a lot of people on duty.
If you didn’t know where you were going, a person could get lost
at Headquarters quite easily. Kevin knew this first hand from all the
times he had been lost when he first began working at the Agency
thirty years ago. For years afterwards, coming back from long de-
ployments, he still found himself losing his way from time to time
and having to ask directions. But he had been Headquarters-bound
for most of the last eight years and as a consequence of his appoint-
ment to DOS three and a half years ago, had to spend a great deal of
time on the main campus, so he didn’t get lost much any more.
Therefore tonight he was able to make his way to the office of the
Chief of the Counterintelligence Center with no difficulty and found
his friend at his desk in shirtsleeves, glasses perched near the end of
his nose, leaning close to the screen of his desktop as he read.
Kevin grinned and knocked on the open door.
“I think you might need new glasses, my friend.”
Conner Ricks turned his scowl from the screen onto Kevin, then
shook his head and sat back, tossing his glasses onto his desk.
“Actually what I need are new eyes,” he sighed, waving for Kevin
to close the door and to come in and have a seat. This is what Kevin
did, removing his suit jacket beforehand.
“Want some water or something?” Ricks said, rubbing his chin
with the back of his left hand. “Got some bottles of that and some
juice in the fridge. And some beer if you’re of the mind. It’s after
working hours.”
Kevin chuckled.
“As if that ever stopped anybody in this building, but no, thanks.”
 Ricks nodded, looked over at his friend from Security for a few
moments before sighing.
“Not much has changed since the last time we talked,” he said.
“But I have been able to confirm a little more of what we’ve already
gleaned. It’s looking solid, Kevin, and I know that’s not something
either of us really wants to hear.”
Kevin silently considered what his friend was telling him without
actually saying it out loud, and already thinking of additional ques-
tions that would have to be satisfactorily answered before he would
commit to what he was being asked to commit to. Finally he nod-
ded, sat back.
“Okay, tell me what you have so far.”
The Chief of Counterintelligence nodded, reached for his glasses,
turned back to his desktop screen. First he made sure the sound
masking program was up and running, then he glanced over at
Kevin.
“Okay,” he said.
 Chapter 7

Friday morning news broke that there might be an additional three

whistleblowers preparing to come forward to support the claims and
allegations that the first whistleblower had made against the presi-
dent and key members of his staff and cabinet. Reports suggested
that these individuals might be from the State Department and Na-
tional Security Council staff. Washington and pundit land went into
their usual hysterics and everyone with something to gain or lose
rushed to establish their sides of the argument.
Kevin was at home having breakfast with Angie at seven-thirty,
planning on getting to the office a little late this morning, when his
phone began to buzz with news alerts, courtesy of Anna Betts. He
scrolled through them with a sour expression and finally put the
phone back on his belt.
Angie dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and studied him for a
few moments before saying anything. She had been watching him
for most of the past week and could tell something was bothering
him. A quarter century of marriage left little secrets between two
people, especially when those two people were as astute as Angie
and Kevin. She also knew that given his job, whatever was bothering
him was likely something he couldn’t discuss with her. When she
was still in government service her clearances had been as high as
Kevin’s, and even now, because some of the work she did involved
the United States government, she still held security clearance.
However, now, she did not have a need to know, and Kevin would
never break security rules, not even for her.
“Herr Mada,” she affected a very bad German accent. “Vie have
vays of making you talk!”
Kevin looked over the table at her and grinned, despite not feeling
like it.
“And moan and groan, too,” he said. “Among many other things.”
Angie smiled.
“Look, I know whatever is bothering you, you can’t tell me about
it. But don’t think for a second I don’t know you are bothered. And
even if we can’t talk about what’s directly on your mind, we can still
talk in general, and I will listen and not pry.”
Kevin stared into his wife’s deep blue eyes for several moments
and instantly felt his mood and heart lift.
“Right now I’d like to talk about how much I love you,” he told
her. “And how glad I am that you haven’t come to your senses after
all these years and traded me in for a different model.”
Angie snickered, leaned forward on the table.
“You’ve depreciated too much since the original purchase date,”
she teased. “Wouldn’t get enough resale value so it looks like I’m
stuck with you for life, honey bun.”
Kevin grinned, reached across the table and took her hand.
“Happy to be stuck with you, too, baby,” he said.
Angie laughed. “Huey Lewis?”
He nodded. “Just popped into my head.”
“You wanna blow off work today and stay home?” she squeezed
his hand.
 Kevin seriously considered what she said and knew that she was
serious. He knew that her work was every bit as demanding as his
and that she really couldn’t afford to miss a day of it right now, but
he also knew that she would in a heartbeat if he asked her to. Unfor-
tunately, today he could not.
They brushed their teeth in the master bathroom side-by-side,
watching one another in the vanity mirror, grinning. Afterwards,
they spent a few minutes enjoying minty fresh kissing, then back
downstairs to collect their things and head out.
“I love you, Kevin,” she said, climbing into her car.
“I love you, Angela,” he said, seeing the slight flair in her eyes. She
had always preferred Angie to Angela, but Kevin, for some reason,
preferred the latter. Even so, he rarely called her that, but when he
did, it always set something off inside her heart. Maybe lower, too.
“I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Mada,” she said firmly, teasingly.
“And I’ll see you, too, Dr. Dell-Mada,” he replied with a grin, then
climbed into his vehicle.
 Chapter 8

Saturday morning Angie and Kevin drove down to Annandale to do

some antique shopping, a pastime passion of the former, and after
getting some really great deals that only made a slight dent in their
retirement fund, carried on to a new Greek place that Angie had
heard a lot of good things about and wanted to try. As it turned out,
the restaurant’s reputation was well-deserved and she and Kevin
thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
There was a new romantic comedy playing at a nearby theater and
they chose to see it because Julia Roberts and Julianne Moore were
the costars, and in their fifties; for a lot of women of that age their
starring role days were over. Unless they were Helen Mirren. The
movie was wonderful, both leading ladies superb, funny, and sexy.
And later on Kevin did have the good sense to mention that neither
of them came close to his wife in any aspect of intelligence or
beauty. She still elbowed him when they were walking out of the
theater, and they both laughed.
Sunday the whole family gathered for brunch at ten-thirty, a rela-
tively new tradition that had begun as a joke about six months ago
but seemed to catch on. Not every weekend, but often enough, once,
maybe twice a month. Reggie told them that she was going to have a
busy afternoon because she was working for her D.C. nonprofit this
weekend and they were organizing for a major fundraising cam-
paign. The work was exciting and demanding and she was ecstatic
about what her organization was doing. Then she hit her parents up
for a donation.
Pali and Zandy were spending the afternoon attending some for-
eign language films in D.C., part of an assignment for one of her
classes, then they’d grab dinner somewhere close by and hang out
for the rest of the evening.
Brunch ended just after noon and the kids were away shortly
thereafter. Kevin and Angie took care of the dishes and considered
their options for the rest of the day.
“I’ve got a brief I need to read before tomorrow,” she said, leaning
against the doorway that connected the kitchen and dining room.
“But it’s only about twenty pages, I can do that later.”
Kevin smiled, reached for her hands.
“Well then that leaves you in need of something to do for right
now,” he said huskily.
Angie was smiling demurely when her husband’s encrypted mo-
bile phone started to buzz.
Ten minutes later Kevin was in his Honda and racing toward his
office in McLean.

ANNA BETTS WAS ALREADY THERE WHEN he arrived, along

with a very worried looking Loraine Pelnichek, the fifty-one year
old, multi-doctorate Chief of OS’ Information Security Group. Both
women were waiting in the SCIF on the sixth floor when Kevin
walked in wearing the same jeans and sweater he’d put on earlier
this morning—and had hoped Angie would be ripping off by now—,
a blue sport coat with gleaming gold buttons the only late addition.
When he saw the tightness in both his subordinates’ faces, the pit of
his stomach suddenly dropped even more than it had when he’d re-
ceived the call from Pelnichek less than half an hour ago.
“Tell me,” he said, moving to the table and pulling out a chair. The
DD/PS and the C/ISG pulled out chairs and sat as well, and then the
latter took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She adjusted her gold
octagonal framed bifocals as she turned her gaze to the DOS, an-
other deep breath, and then she told them both.

DIRECTOR OF CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE Grace Tunny-Baxter

lives in Georgetown but she and her husband have a weekend home
down in Spotsylvania. They were both out horseback riding when
the call from Headquarters came in, however, the DCI does not like
to have bodyguards crowding her when she and her husband are out
enjoying some personal time. So no members of The Staff are al-
lowed to accompany her, and she doesn’t take a mobile phone with
her either. But given her position at the heart of the U.S. Intelli-
gence Community, and as a consolation to Michele Iyoko, the Direc-
tor does carry a GPS locator with her at all times and it can be used
to send a panic signal to her detail if she gets into trouble while out
alone. As soon as the urgent call came to the house in Spotsylvania
that afternoon, the detail leader herself, Darlene Jacoby, quickly
mounted one of the two horses they keep ready just in case there’s a
need for a rapid response when the DCI is out of their sight. The
GPS tracker led her right to Director Tunny-Baxter and Professor
Baxter just over two miles away. As soon as the former saw her de-
tail leader riding hell-bent-for-leather, as the old saying goes, she
knew that her weekend away from the rigors of her office was about
to come to an abrupt end.
THE INSPECTOR GENERAL AND GENERAL Counsel of the
Agency were already in the SCIF at OS Headquarters when the DCI
arrived a little before four that afternoon. Anna Betts, Loraine Pel-
nichek, and Kevin Mada were in there as well, and none of her peo-
ple looked especially pleased. She could easily guess that it had
nothing to do with the fact that all of them having to come in to
work on a Sunday afternoon. At least not in total.
Kevin made room for the Director at the small round table to his
left and she sat after removing her overcoat and holding it in her
lap. First she looked around the room at everyone else, then to her
right at Kevin.
“Please tell me we’re all gathered here because the head of the
[s]
Russian SVR has decided to defect,” she said with as much jovial-
ity as she could muster.
Kevin forced an ironic smile.
“That I would have put in a text, Grace,” he said in a low, personal
tone.
She smiled, reached over and patted his hand before turning back
to everyone else.
“So tell me the bad news.”
Which Kevin did.

THERE WERE A FEW TECHNICAL QUESTIONS that needed to be

answered and that was Dr. Pelnichek’s cue. Once those were satis-
fied, Kevin asked her to excuse herself, then nodded at Anna to
leave as well. Despite the dismissal, neither woman would likely be
leaving the building any time soon, perhaps not ever again, but what
was about to be discussed now was far beyond their pay grades.
 When the door was sealed again and they were back in secure
mode, the DCI turned to the DOS, her usually steely eyes showing
hints of fear.
“Is she absolutely certain they didn’t get in, Kevin?” Grace Tunny-
Baxter demanded. “Completely, one hundred percent?”
“Grace, if Loraine says she’s sure, she’s sure. She is the best at her
job, which was why I was glad we were able to steal her away from
the NSA. No, if she says the penetration wasn’t successful, then it
wasn’t.”
“You mean penetrations, don’t you, Kevin?” said Antonio Strauss
from across the table.
Kevin looked at the General Counsel for a moment, nodded.
“Yes, Tony, I do.”
As part of the Agency-wide security review Kevin had ordered
right after receiving the whistleblower assignment from the DCI, the
Information Security Group began a meticulous scan of all CIA sys-
tems across the globe looking for anything unusual anywhere, any
sign of anything amiss, no matter how innocuous, everything to be
reported to the Chief of ISG in a timely fashion, which, given the
size of the Agency and the nature of their work and systems, was a
relative thing.
Early Sunday morning two techs at OS Headquarters were run-
ning reviews on the systems at main Headquarters and came across
two discrepancies that could not be easily explained. After a couple
of hours, they looped in their desk supervisor on duty. An hour later
he called his supervisor. Right as Kevin and his family were sitting
down to Sunday brunch, Loraine Pelnichek was running into the
Stafford Building like she was being chased by Bigfoot.
 The two discrepancies revolved around the encrypted systems
used exclusively by the Agency’s General Counsel and Inspector
General. As soon as Pelnichek reviewed the data, verified the code
lines with her own eyes, a coldness ran through her bones. Seconds
later she was calling both Kevin and Anna and telling them they
needed to get to the office at once. Her immediate boss is Hector
Chavez, Deputy Director for Physical and Technical Security, and
she would have called him as well, had he not been in Europe at the
moment attending meetings with his counterparts in brother and
sister intelligence agencies in the EU.
“The fact that someone tried to breach both the firewalls to
Imelda’s and Tony’s secured systems is highly suspicious for a num-
ber of reasons,” said the DCI. “And the timing is extremely alarm-
ing.”
“Yeah,” said Imelda Friedman from her seat next to Strauss.
“Given that it happened on the day after that story broke in the Post
about you being ordered by the president to reveal the whistle-
blower’s name.”
“If people believe the press reports,” Kevin began thoughtfully.
“And we have to face it, a good bit of them do have a large degree of
accuracy to them. Public speculation—and White House spin—is
that the whistleblower is a member of this agency, that they first
went to the General Counsel here, which looped in the Inspector
General, and at some point they were told that since the reorganiza-
tion of the IC and the creation of the Office of the Director of Na-
tional Intelligence, all whistleblower complaints had to go to the IG
over there. And we all know that’s pretty much how it happened.”
Everyone nodded and Kevin continued.
 “Meaning that at least two people in the Agency have to know the
name of the whistleblower.”
A long silence ensued as four very smart people contemplated
some very unpleasant business ahead of them.
Suddenly the DCI turned to Kevin, the steel back in her eyes.
“You run this investigation, Kevin, because you know everything.
But I want Conner Ricks brought in, too. This is a Counterintelli-
gence matter now as well. According to Dr. Pelnichek, this could not
have been done from someone on the outside, so that means we
have a mole somewhere. I don’t know if they’re working for a for-
eign government, a media outlet, or the White House, but whoever
they are, when we find them, I want them prosecuted. Which means
you’re going to have to notify the Counterintelligence Division at the
FBI at some point, too, although I’d like for you to hold off on that
right now.”
Kevin nodded, making mental notes.
“My people are all over this, Grace, as well as keeping the whistle-
blower safe. As I said, Pelnichek is the best at what she does. I have
every confidence that she will trace the attempted breaches.”
“Hey!” the IG suddenly said, frowning. “What about the IG of the
Intelligence Community? Tony and I are speculation, but it is a for-
gone conclusion that he knows who the whistleblower is, and proba-
bly some members of his staff.”
Kevin nodded.
“Anna already thought of that,” he told her. “Already got on with
their Director of Security and told them to do a sweep of all their
systems, especially those tied to the IG. If someone did try to hack in
they probably didn’t get any further than they did here. We should
know by morning. But if the hacker is an insider here, they may not
be able to get into the Intelligence Community systems as easily,
and, again, the chances for success would be less. But there could be
more than one hacker.”
Tunny-Baxter sighed and glanced at her watch.
“Well what a perfect way to wrap up the weekend,” she said.
“Kevin, I want regular progress reports. I don’t want to microman-
age, but please keep me in the loop as often as warranted.”
He nodded.
“Will, do, Director. As soon as I know something of value, you’ll
know it.”
The DCI nodded and made to stand. Everyone else stood as well.
Kevin escorted the three visitors out to the elevators. The Director’s
security detail was waiting there and Darlene Jacoby nodded at
Kevin before taking charge of her protectee and they were all away.
Kevin turned left and made a quick dash for the stairs. He was not
leaving, and probably never would again either. He went up to the
seventh floor, stopped at the restroom just off the stairs, and then
went into his office where he knew Anna Betts would be waiting.
And she was.
 Chapter 9

Loraine Pelnichek delivered an update at seven-thirty and then

quickly exited Kevin’s office to return to her shop down on the third
floor. As soon as she left, Anna and Kevin took the remainder of
their lackluster dinner and headed down to six where they could
continue their conversation in the SCIF. As she passed the SPO on
duty, Anna asked if he had eaten yet and the man told her he had
come back from a dinner break a little while ago, smiled at her and
she smiled back, then followed Kevin inside. Although she had
started agent training at the same time as Kevin, Anna actually had
two years on him in actual time at the Agency, having started out as
a SPO herself. As a result of that entry position, she always took ex-
tra care to make sure those who wore the uniform she once wore
three decades plus ago were never overlooked when she was around.
She was far too familiar with what that was like from her time in the
job.
“So Loraine is confident that the firewalls weren’t actually
breached, despite some very sophisticated attempts,” Anna said af-
ter taking a bite of her burger and chewing. “And she’s eliminated
the possibility of a false failure designed to make us think they
didn’t get in but in reality they did?”
Kevin nodded, spooning some cottage cheese into his mouth.
 “Unless whoever did it is better than Loraine and her tech geeks,”
Kevin said humorlessly.
Anna smirked his way, wagging a finger.
“Aren’t we just a ray of sunshine this evening?” she teased.
He looked at her as he swallowed another mouthful of his favorite
dessert.
“Well considering that I had plans to spend this evening at home
with my wife but am instead here with you…”
He left it hanging and after a minute both were laughing.
“The good news, though, according to Imelda Friedman, is that
even if the firewalls had been breached, they wouldn’t have found
what they were likely looking for.”
Anna nodded, finishing the rest of her bottle of soda.
“This being the part I’m not to know about, right?”
“Yep,” Kevin said. “The part about this concerning the whistle-
blower, and the name of that individual, who, as we sit here now, is
under the protection of some of our best and brightest young
agents.”
“And they have no clue who they’re guarding either,” Anna added.
“How did we used to put it way back when, welcome to the CIA!”
Anna smiled, putting the cap back on her empty soda bottle.
“Among a lot of other far more derogatory comments. So why is
the IG so sure that they wouldn’t have found what they were looking
for?”
“Because information on whistleblowers is not kept on the IG’s se-
cure server, regardless of how secure it’s supposed to be. The IG and
GC both have standalone encrypted systems that cannot be hacked
because they aren’t connected to anything. The only way to get any-
thing off of them is to actually penetrate their offices and then their
vaults. That would be a neat trick given the elaborate security PPG
put up around both those offices, electronic access, dedicated video
monitoring, and, of course, SPOs patrolling their office areas around
the clock. I feel pretty confident nobody could defeat all that, even if
there is someone on the inside doing this. Too much to bypass, and
suspicion would be raised at once, especially given the fact that
we’re conducting multiple routine security reviews at the moment.”
“Scary to think we got a mole in the house,” Anna said, frowning.
“Wouldn’t be the first,” Kevin pointed out. “Remember the one CI
[t]
uncovered back when we EOD’ ?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Guy out of Russia Division, Ames. Prick. And
his dad was a legend at the Agency. Even has a fricking building
named after him, albeit covertly. But if there is one operating now,
he or she might not be working for a foreign government, but rather
our own. Or at least some part of it, likely political.”
“What you actually mean is the White House,” Kevin said bluntly.
“Or for some members of Congress,” she replied. “If you read
some of those things I emailed you the other day you know how
crazy some on Capitol Hill are getting these days. One senator actu-
ally said on Meet the Press this morning that he didn’t trust the FBI
or the CIA because we were all tainted by the previous administra-
tion. I mean, what a crock of shit. They don’t trust us but they have
no problem trusting fucking Vladimir Goddamn Putin! How the hell
did we get here, Kevin?”
He hoped that was a rhetorical question because he sure as hell
didn’t have any answers for her. Glancing at his watch he thought
he’d better call Angie before it got too late. She already knew he
wasn’t coming back home tonight, but had made him promise to call
before she went to sleep.
 Anna said she was going to call home as well and they stood up to-
gether and exited the SCIF.
 Chapter 10

The Stafford Building is equipped with a small gym on the basement

level and because of that there are shower and locker facilities. After
grabbing about ninety minutes sleep on his office sofa, Kevin went
down to the gym for an hour’s workout at five, then showered and
changed into the spare suit he kept at the office. Anna skipped the
workout, got a little more sleep, then showered and dressed in her
spare suit. His was charcoal, hers was navy.
They were in his office at seven-thirty eating cereal and yogurt
that Mindy Gregg had sent Clark Beeson out to pick up from a diner
down the street shortly after they both arrived at seven. Ms. Gregg
was a little pissed that Kevin hadn’t called her in last night, but
quickly moved past the sleight and set about coordinating with
Deputy Director Betts’ EA to reshuffle both their bosses’ schedules
for the day.
Director Tunny-Baxter had a lot of things to do that Monday
morning, including meetings at the Pentagon and on Capitol Hill.
She didn’t have a lot of spare time. Kevin was in the same boat, con-
sidering what he was in the middle of managing at the moment, so
he suggested, and the DCI agreed to, a secure video conference from
their respective SCIFs. Loraine Pelnichek and Anna Betts were
present with Kevin. On her end, Tunny-Baxter was alone, but said
she’d brief the IG and GC later in the day. Pelnichek laid out what
she and her people had been doing all throughout the night, check-
ing and rechecking every security system the Agency had in place to
make absolutely sure that none had actually been penetrated. She
was relieved to report that none had. She also reported that the
[u]
head of data security for the DNI’s office reported that there had
been no breaches and no attempted breaches, but added they would
step up their detection efforts and countermeasures and be ready in
the event any occurred.
“Well that’s good news at least,” the DCI said on the screen. “Any
luck in tracing who tried to breach our systems yet, Dr. Pelnichek?”
“Afraid not, ma’am,” said the Chief of ISG. “Whoever was behind
this attack was very, very good. Covered their tracks very well. But
my people are very good, too. We’re on them.”
“Would additional resources from the NSA help?” Tunny-Baxter
offered.
“I’ve already spoken with Roger Chao,” Kevin said. “My opposite
number over there. He has a team coordinating with Loraine’s as we
speak.”
The DCI nodded, glanced at her watch. When she looked back up
her eyes were on Kevin. He nodded, asked the others to give him the
room. When Kevin was alone, Tunny-Baxter shook her head.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Kevin?” she said.
“I think somebody tried to get into our systems as a backdoor way
into exposing the identity of the whistleblower,” he told her without
hesitation. “Somebody either knows or at least believes press re-
ports that this person is a member of the Agency, meaning our IG
and General Counsel must know the name. They probably didn’t go
after the IG/IC because that would have been too obvious.”
 “But if the whistleblower isn’t Agency, then they wouldn’t find out
anything,” the Director pointed out logically.
“Grace, I don’t think we’re dealing with people here who care a
whole lot about facts or logic,” Kevin said. “We’re dealing with ide-
alogues, and bad ones. For some reason or other a lot of people al-
lied with the White House seem to think that by exposing the name
of the whistleblower they will be able to prove that this person has a
personal or political motive for going after the president, and that
this will somehow exonerate him. But they’re ignoring all the evi-
dence to the contrary that has come to light already, including the
White House admission that pretty much everything in the whistle-
blower complaint did in fact happen. So exposing this individual’s
identity would serve no logical purpose, even if they were an ex-
tremely partisan person completely opposed to this administration
from the beginning. Which we both know is actually crap.”
The Director glanced at her watch again.
“I’ve got to go in a minute, Kevin. Meeting with the Deputy Secre-
tary of Defense. Find the breacher, find out who they’re connected
to, keep the whistleblower safe, and while you’re at it, solve that
pesky Middle East problem before next weekend, too. Do all that
and I’ll make sure you get Al Kramer’s job when he retires.”
Kevin was about to protest the part about Kramer’s job, which the
Director knew full well. She waved a hand to cut him off then ended
the video transmission.
Kevin shook his head, grinned, then stood up and exited the SCIF,
thanked the SPO on duty as he retrieved his mobile phone from one
of the secured lockers outside.
Mindy Gregg’s office is just down from her boss’ on the seventh
floor and her door is rarely, if ever, closed when she’s in. It was not
this morning, and as Kevin buzzed by, intent on going to his office
to call Angie before any more of the morning got away, his periph-
eral vision registered a guest sitting across from his executive assis-
tant’s desk. A familiar figure, and probably the only person in the
entire Agency who could make Mindy Gregg giggle like a schoolgirl.
Conner Ricks, Chief of the Counterintelligence Center, and one of
Kevin’s staunches allies. Kevin smiled, passed on. He knew Ricks
was there to see him and they needed to talk, but right now he was
entertaining Mindy and Kevin needed to call his wife. Actually he
needed to stop by the bathroom, too, but that could wait.
Wife, first.
Bladder, second.
Then Conner Ricks.
 Chapter 11

Anna Betts joined Kevin for the meeting with the Counterintelli-
gence chief, which necessitated a return to the SCIF. Anna laid out
everything in about ten minutes and Ricks took notes. When she
finished, he had questions, which both the Director and Deputy Di-
rector (Personnel Security) of the Office of Security answered. After
that, Ricks sat back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. Anna and
Kevin sat quietly and waited. There were about a million other
things they needed to be doing right now, but CI had to be looped in
now that there had been verifiable breaches in Agency security, so
they had little choice but to wait for the somewhat eccentric CIC
boss to work his mental process.
“Do we have any idea what they might have been after from the IG
or GC?” he said finally, looking at both of them in turn. “I mean, the
Inspector General and the General Counsel of the CIA? Yeah, sure,
both are essential Agency offices, and both no doubt have a lot of se-
crets contained within their files, but it’s not like breaching the
[v] [w]
DO or DA , where the really juicy stuff is contained, sources,
methods, officers’ names, stuff that could do real damage and get a
lot of people killed. Why would a foreign government care about
what the IG and GC have in their files? Unless it were a test of some
sort, or a misdirect.”
 Neither Kevin nor Anna said a word. After a minute, Ricks seemed
to notice this and tilted his head slightly to the left.
“Of course, nobody said it was a foreign government who did it,”
Ricks said. “Least of all the two of you. If it were an internal breach
by somebody looking to cause mischief, that would be strictly within
the purview of the Office of Security, but since you’ve brought me in,
there’s more to it. And judging by the reluctant expressions on both
your faces, I suspect some of it is not for sharing. Maybe ordered by
a higher authority?”
Again, no response.
Ricks shook his head and actually grinned.
“It’s why I really love working at the CIA. Okay then, tell me what
you can tell me and then I’ll get my people working, coordinate with
your CI liaison.”
“On this one that’ll be me, Con,” Anna said. “Given the sensitive
nature of this matter, Kevin and I both feel it should be handled on
an executive management level.”
Conner Ricks stared at the Security Deputy Director for a few mo-
ments, then nodded. “I’ll assign Charley Perkins, my Chief of Opera-
tions, to work with you then. Bert Pettengill, my deputy chief, is out
of the country right now.”
Anna said that would be fine, glanced at Kevin and he nodded.
She then took a deep breath and added a few details that she had
omitted the first time, completely leaving out any reference whatso-
ever to the whistleblower and the probable reason why someone had
attempted to breach not one but two highly classified data systems.

AT TWO P.M. THE SPEAKER OF THE United States House of Rep-

resentatives unexpectedly took to the rotunda, flanked by the chairs
of both the House Judiciary and Permanent Select Intelligence com-
mittees, to announce the start of an official impeachment process to
formally investigate the president’s conduct and to decide whether
that conduct warranted formal articles of impeachment, which
could lead to a trial in the United States Senate where the president
might be convicted and removed from office.
Following that, Washington was abuzz with uncertain anticipation
about what the future might hold for the country. The White House
and their political and media allies lashed out immediately, reusing
their tired and overused which-hunt defense and accusing the oppo-
sition party of trying to undermine the last election because they
were sore losers.
The opposition party and their allies recounted facts, as far as they
were concerned, and expressed their intention to conduct a fair and
open process that only sought to learn the truth, and if the president
didn’t have anything to hide, he should not fear the outcome of the
investigation.
Kevin and Anna watched the news in her office with the door shut.
As much of it as either of them could stand. She was behind her
desk and he stood in front of it in shirtsleeves, arms folded across
his chest.
“Well we ought to know fairly quickly if the WB will have to testify
in this inquiry,” Anna said as she sat back and crossed her long legs,
smoothing out the bottom of her skirt across her knees. “And if that
is the case, the cat will definitely be out of the bag as far as our peo-
ple are concerned.”
Kevin nodded somberly.
“True,” he said. “But our mission remains the same, keep them
safe no matter what. I want you and Conner’s team to work as
quickly as you can on this CI angle, nail it down if you can. Have
Pelnichek run increased status checks on all Agency systems, get
help from NSA as necessary. Captain Chao has already agreed to an
open-ended commitment as long as we need the help.”
“Got it,” Anna said, sitting up and leaning against the back edge of
her desk. “Now tell me what else is percolating in that devious mind
of yours. I recognize that look, Mr. Mada.”
Kevin glanced down at his deputy but said nothing. He did, how-
ever, offer a wolf-like smile, then turned and made for the door.
“I’ll check in with you later, Anna,” he said, and then he was gone.
 Chapter 12

That night Angie and Kevin had dinner at an Italian restaurant

called Filomena off M Street NW in Georgetown. The weather was
foul but they had a great time anyway, and afterwards, despite the
falling snow, decided to take a stroll up Wisconsin Avenue and win-
dow shop. They were both bundled up in heavy coats, hats, and
gloves, and walked arm-in-arm with Kevin on the street side.
Just past Edible Arrangements on Q Street is a Greek coffee shop
that Angie knows well because it’s only a few blocks from the re-
stored brownstone that serves as the headquarters for her employer,
the Bryce Group.
“They serve cocoa and really good Greek tea, too,” Angie told
Kevin as she pulled him toward the entrance. “Strong enough to
take your stomach lining off, but it’s very good.”
Kevin smiled, shaking his head, and followed his wife into the
shop. Even this close to closing time, which is ten p.m., the place
was almost packed, but they managed to squeeze into a booth in
back that was already occupied by a friendly elderly man sitting
alone and enjoying a strong cup of almond flavored coffee.
“Funny thing is, it actually helps me sleep better than warm milk
or vodka,” the old man said with a discernable accent, smiling and
revealing a relatively new set of dentures.
 Angie smiled back at the man as she removed her hat and gloves,
leaning forward.
“I’m sure your doctor would prefer you drink warm milk before
bedtime, Leo, as opposed to the coffee or the vodka,” she said in
flawless Russian.
Leonid Penikov, age seventy-three, late of both the Soviet KGB
and Russian SVR, smiled at her and replied in his native tongue.
“Yes, but what that heartless bastard does not know will make me
live to a hundred.” He laughed raucously and a few people turned to
look, but most didn’t, too wrapped up in their own conversations.
Kevin glanced around casually, now removing his gloves and hat.
“Good to see you again, Leo,” he said in Russian as well, though
not as smoothly as his wife. “And thank you for agreeing to meet
us.”
The old Russian was holding his cup in both hands before his lips,
dark eyes appraising the middle aged couple across from him that
he owed so much of his current comfortable life to. He downed the
remainder of his coffee and turned the cup upside down on the
saucer to his left.
“My friends, had it not been for your efforts a dozen years ago, I
would be in one of Putin’s hell holes right now, if not much worse.
So I am at your disposal whenever and whatever you need.”
Angie glanced at Kevin and he nodded. She leaned close and
kissed his cheek, whispered in his ear that she would see him at
home later. He nodded, stood as she did and put her hat and gloves
back on. He watched until she was out the door and getting into the
back of the waiting rideshare at the curb that she had ordered as
they walked up Wisconsin a little while ago.
 Seated again, Kevin and the Russian stared at one another for a
long time in silence, though around them was quite noisy.
“It is quite curious that you use your wife to arrange this meeting
and then send her away before we discuss the reason for it. Don’t
you trust your missus anymore?”
Suddenly Kevin’s expression turned deadly cold and Penikov real-
ized that he had said the wrong thing, but too late.
“Angie, I trust implicitly,” he said icily. “Far more than I would
ever trust you. And you know perfectly well why I asked her to set
this up, because you would likely have blown me off otherwise,
given our history.”
The old man was cold now, too, his gaze hard. In truth, he de-
spised Kevin Mada as much as any man, but there was more truth
that obligated him to the CIA Security Director than his personal
dislike could countenance. Despite that, and for Angela Dell-Mada,
he sat and swallowed his anger, his hatred, and his blood oath to
one day take his revenge against the man who had let his brother die
when he could have saved him.
And he listened.

TWELVE YEARS AGO ANGIE WAS STILL working for the National
Security Council staff at the White House, serving as the deputy spe-
cial assistant for East European Policy and Plans. She was in Bul-
garia with a delegation from the State Department that had been
sent to shore up support for a new round of economic sanctions
against Russia for their continued interference in the internal affairs
of their neighbors, especially those former satellite states that were
now NATO members.
 On the night of her third day there, she returned to the Sofia Four
Seasons where the delegation was staying, exhausted and desiring
only to go to her room and soak in its spacious tub for an hour be-
fore ordering a snack from room service to eat while she read over
some work papers. But then she passed by the hotel bar and made a
detour, just a quick glass of wine, she told herself, then the bath,
snack, and paperwork.
That was the plan, but someone else had another. When she fin-
ished her drink, she smiled at the bartender and turned away from
the bar, standing, and that’s when a waitress handed her a note, said
it was from a gentleman admirer. Angie grinned, took the note. She
was wearing a wedding ring but that didn’t stop a lot of people these
days, especially horny guys hanging around luxury hotels in Euro-
pean capitals. Or horny guys anywhere for that matter. She couldn’t
wait to brag to Kevin that she still had it!
Shaking her head, she opened the note. It was in Russian, which
she found a bit odd, given the fact that she was in Bulgaria and
clearly not a local herself, nor from the Russian Federation. Then
the full import of what the note contained hit her. Still, Angie was a
pro and behaved as one, smiled, shook her head again, and crum-
pled the note. But she did not discard it in the receptacle near the
exit as she departed.
She did go back up to her room, but only briefly, and then left the
hotel again in the back of a cab on route to the U.S. Embassy. The
cryptic call she made from her government-issue mobile phone
while in her room was to the Deputy Chief of Mission at the Em-
bassy, and the man was smart enough to realize from what she said
that he needed to have the senior political attaché there when she
arrived. Angie actually knew this man because she was part of the
team that had briefed him before his posting to Sofia as the CIA’s
Chief of Station a year earlier.
They met in the SCIF and Angie showed both men the note, al-
though the DCM didn’t actually speak Russian, but the CIA man
did. Following this meeting a flurry of secure communications be-
gan to fly back and forth between Washington and Sofia. The Am-
bassador was summoned before daybreak and briefed, and an hour
later he was on a secure line to the Deputy Secretary of State brief-
ing her. Hasty meetings were arranged on the other side of the At-
lantic, the White House, State Department, Department of Defense,
and CIA, the latter bringing in the head of the newly formed Coun-
terproliferation Center in an advisory capacity due to the fact that
they were operating under the assumption that the information
Angie had been passed in Bulgaria was correct. Even if it wasn’t they
had to act as if it were, because someone was claiming that ten Rus-
sian tactical nuclear weapons thought to have been destroyed in ac-
cordance with international treaties were in fact still very much in
existence and preparing to be sold on the black market to a terrorist
group that had some really unpleasant feelings about the West in
general and the United States in particular.
The note sender wanted a personal meeting with Angie, and no
one else. They were willing to provide detailed information on the
nukes and the people involved in the sale on both sides, but they
wanted something first. That was to be discussed in the meeting
with Angie. Angie and no one else.
State objected strenuously because Angie was not senior enough
to negotiate, in their opinion, on a matter of this magnitude and felt
one of their ambassadors assigned to the delegation already in Bul-
garia would be better suited.
 Defense objected because this involved nuclear weapons and ar-
gued that someone from DOD’s Arms Inspection Group in Brussels
should handle the meeting because they had a better grasp of the
subject matter and would know what questions to ask to verify if the
note writer was telling the truth or full of BS.
CIA objected because this, in their estimation, was an intelligence
matter, one with dire national security implications, and wanted one
of their people sent to the meeting. CPC had both analysts and oper-
ators at their disposal and some of the latter had vast experience in
field interrogation, and, if the situation warranted it, they could be
tasked to snatch the note writer and bring them in for a more de-
tailed conversation.
In the end, the president at the time had the good sense (and we
really do miss those days) to listen to his National Security Advisor,
who pointed out that Dr. Dell-Mada was one of the brightest mem-
bers of her staff and infinitely capable of handling herself in any sit-
uation. And since the note was written in Russian, it was a good bet
that the writer was Russian as well, a language in which the writer
knew Angie was fluent. Plus, the writer wanted her, said it could
only be her, so it had to be her. And the president agreed.
The DCI of the day dispatched the Chief of the Counterprolifera-
tion Center to Bulgaria for an on the ground assessment and to be
his direct line to everything that was going on. And because she had
come to respect the diligent work of the members of the Office of
Security’s Special Activities Staff, Grace Tunny-Baxter requested the
DOS to send a team with her.
Kevin Mada was Chief of SAS at that time and even if his wife
hadn’t been involved in this business, he would still have personally
led that team, and did so, arriving on a separate flight with three
other agents a hour before Tunny-Baxter, were set up and ready to
conduct discreet surveillance on the meeting site in the wee hours of
the next morning less than three hours later.
Kevin didn’t have time to meet with or even talk to Angie before-
hand, but she knew he was there, close by, watching over them. It
bothered her a little to have him there because it meant that both of
them were away from home and potentially in harm’s way while
their kids, ages eleven and seven at the time, were staying at the
home of friends in Maryland whose children they were also friends
with. If something should go wrong, their children could become or-
phans. But she had to put that thought out of her mind. Kevin was
the best at what he did and she knew he would make sure nothing
went wrong, no matter how many bodies he had to drop.
Early in their relationship when they were both posted in Mo-
rocco, Angie had seen her husband (then boyfriend) in action, and
even though he had been critically wounded during a gunfight with
several terrorists outside the American Embassy there, those terror-
ists were no longer walking around to tell the tale. Kevin Mada was.
The meeting was held in a car park in one of the seedier parts of
Sofia at three-thirty in the morning. Angie was dropped off by an
embassy car two blocks away, as instructed, and then made the rest
of the way on foot. This part Kevin really hated, and Angie wasn’t all
that thrilled about either, but she was covered every step of the way
by the best operators in SAS, as their chief well knew.
She arrived at the third level of the largely empty structure two
minutes ahead of schedule and spotted the vehicle she was sup-
posed to look for right away. It was one of only three up there, an
old beat up brown Lada that had never seen better days. It was out
in the open so no one would be able to get close without the occu-
pant seeing them first, a prudent security precaution, Angie
thought, she just wished it benefited her.
The car appeared to be empty but she approached anyway, cau-
tiously but without hesitation, her confidence in Kevin’s team unwa-
vering. Stopping at the driver’s door, as instructed, she glanced in-
side, and that’s when she nearly wet herself as a small man rose
from the backseat and scared the shit out of her. Yelping and taking
a step back, Angie’s heart was racing. The man inside waved a hand
apologetically and motioned for her to climb inside behind the
wheel. Angie was weary of this because he would be behind her, but
she saw little choice, having come this far.
The man moved to the opposite side of the backseat so she could
see him in the rearview mirror, apparently already adjusted for this
purpose. He was wearing a black suit and overcoat, a matching Irish
flat cap on his small head. He appeared to be in his sixties and not
in the best of health, with rheumy eyes and an unhealthy parlor.
And Angie knew at once that he was a native Russian.
“Leonid Alexandrovitch Penikov,” he introduced himself once
they were both settled in the cold car. “I am lieutenant colonel with
T Directorate of the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Fed-
eration.”
So he was SVR, Angie thought to herself as she eyed him in the
mirror. Also, given his age, likely a former member of the KGB be-
fore that. And T Directorate meant he would have knowledge of
Russian nuclear weapons, assuming, of course that he really did
work there and was who he claimed to be.
“Angela Dell-Mada,” Angie spoke to him for the first time.
“Deputy Special Assistant to the President of the United States of
America. I work on the East European Policy and Plans Desk at the
National Security Council. Pleased to meet you, Colonel Penikov.”
The old man laughed.
“Your Russian is excellent,” he complimented her in the language.
“Though obviously not learned in my mother country. And to oc-
cupy such a high position with your president at such a young age.
Most impressive.”
Angie did not respond, she knew he knew more about her than
she currently knew about him, but that would change very soon, as-
suming this was not some sort of elaborate Russian trap.
Penikov quickly set about disabusing her of this notion, reached
inside his coat and extracted a sealed envelope, passing it across the
seat to her. Angie took it, stared at the man for a moment, then
ripped it open. Her blood ran cold within seconds.
“I have to go,” Penikov told her, reaching for the door handle. “In
there you have what you need to stop that transaction, but you must
act quickly.”
Angie turned around in the seat, reached out a hand.
“But wait!” she demanded. “I have a lot of questions. As will my
people. And there was something you wanted from me.”
The Russian paused, stared intently at the young American for
several long seconds. Then he smiled.
“Yes, and when next we meet, Dr. Dell-Mada, I know you will
agree to give it to me. But for now, I have to go before I am missed
and my position is compromised. I will contact you again soon. Af-
ter your people have satisfactorily taken care of this matter.”
Penikov exited the backseat with an agility that Angie would not
have believed he possessed, and suspected that he might have been
behaving more decrepitly than he actually was. She did not want to
let him go, could give a signal to Kevin that would have the SAS
team moving in to secure Penikov within seconds, but she didn’t do
that. Chances were good that he had some form of countermeasures
in place to protect himself, and if the Agency tried to detain him
against his will he might start being a lot less cooperative, perhaps
even outright hostile. So she let him go, and then quickly got out of
the car herself, rushing in the same direction from which she had
come.
Kevin picked her up himself on the street below and when she fell
into the passenger’s seat of the nondescript operational vehicle the
local station had provided, she exhaled a long pent up breath, reach-
ing out and resting her hand on her husband’s thigh.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for the cloak and dagger stuff, Kev,” she
said a minute later, once her heart had stopped racing so much.
“Give me a roomful of bullshitting diplomats and politicos any day
over dangerous little old men in deserted car parks at nearly four in
the morning.”
Kevin reached down and squeezed her hand, taking a left at the
next intersection, casually glancing in his rearview mirror and see-
ing the cover car about a block away, just as it should have been.
“And here I was thinking that after tonight I could recruit you
away from the White House and we could be just like Mr. and Mrs.
Smith, only way hotter than Brad and his Angie.”
Angie snickered, then fell back in the seat laughing, her tension
and nerves beginning to ease. But then she remembered the enve-
lope in her coat pocket and everything shifted to cool professional-
ism. She told Kevin they had to get back to the embassy quickly,
there were things that the president and the National Security
Council needed to know right away.
 A decision to be made.
And something to be done.

TWO DAYS LATER, A PARAMILITARY TEAM from the CIA’s Spe-

cial Activities Division, accompanied by a specialist from the Coun-
terproliferation Center, entered Northern Pakistan and intercepted
the sellers and buyers of the ten aforementioned Russian tactical
nukes. The buyers were two moneymen and thirteen fighters from
an Al-Qaeda splinter group based in Indonesia that had claimed re-
sponsibility for attacks on three Western targets in the region over
the past eight months. They were an increasing and evolving threat
that CIA’s Counterterrorism Center had been warning about for
some time, but thus far had received very little support from the
DNI, NSC, or the White House. That was about to change in a major
way.
The sellers were three former members of the Russian GRU and a
team of ten hired mercenaries with long experience in the backwater
battlefields of the third world.
By presidential finding, later shared with and endorsed by the
leadership of both the House and Senate Intelligence Committees,
the CIA team was authorized to use lethal force to stop the sale and
get control of the weapons. Under no circumstances were any of
those weapons to be left unaccounted for. The Chief of SAD as well
as the Chief of the Special Operations Group who had picked and
deployed the field team both agreed on what the president’s order
really meant and made that clear to the team leader.
All the sellers and buyers were terminated (yes, with extreme
prejudice), the weapons secured, guarded until an extraction team
arrived to remove them and the SOG team ten hours later. Mission
accomplished, mission successful. Washington was elated, but only
for a short while because they had to wonder just how many other
nukes that were supposed to have been destroyed were lying around
out there ready to be sold to terrorists. Or worse, already had been.
Grace Tunny-Baxter and her team at CPC had their work cut out for
them.
But so did Angie Dell-Mada.

LEONID PENIKOV WAS GOOD TO HIS word. He did contact

Angie again before her time in Bulgaria ended, the last day of the
delegation’s mission, actually. He wanted to meet again, that day.
And again, he would only meet with Angie. Even though there were
objections from those in the know this time as well, they were only
halfhearted. The president had made his position clear on this mat-
ter, if Penikov wanted to deal exclusively with Angie, after the infor-
mation he had already provided turned out to be most relevant and
actionable, then he would get his wish. Of course, this did not mean
the meeting wouldn’t be shadowed once again by the CIA’s SAS
team, led by Kevin Mada.
This time he picked her up a few blocks from her hotel as she
walked east along the street he had instructed her to. It was a mo-
bile meeting but Kevin had three cars following them, switching off,
taking parallel streets, giving them enough space, but remaining
close enough to intercept the Russian if something went wrong. And
they had audio, Angie was wired for sound and had two GPS track-
ers hidden on her person, one, thanks to Kevin, in quite an intimate
location he felt sure would be missed if she were searched. Angie
had laughed at that, remarking that only two people were allowed to
touch her there, and one of them was a licensed physician, the other
a horny forty year old with a great ass.
Penikov congratulated Angie on the success of the counter opera-
tion in Pakistan. He assured her that while some in his government
had been aware of what was going on, no one in higher authority or-
dered or participated in it. He went on to say that he was not aware
of any other weapons such as this on the black market, but he did
know a lot about conventional arms sales to terrorists and would be
happy to provide that information, as well as operational details and
lists of covert SVR agents that he was aware of in several locations
throughout Europe and a few in the United States. He would do all
of this freely, but he needed some assurances from her and her gov-
ernment, and he would require them before he provided any addi-
tional information.
Inwardly Angie pondered that Penikov had a different definition
of the word freely than she did, but he was Russian, after all. She
asked what he wanted, and so he told her.

THERE WAS BICKERING BACK AND FORTH in Washington,

again between the DNI, NSC, DOD, and CIA, with the president
playing referee. The CIA and DOD were now on the same page, ex-
pressing a strong desire to simply render the Russian to a black site
for intense medical interrogation and wring every bit of information
from him until he was dry. Then they could relocate him under a
new identity with a new life. Or dump him back on the street and let
the SVR deal with what was left.
The president said no to that idea.
He also said no to several others from that team as well as sugges-
tions from the DNI and his National Security Advisor. He said he
would honor the requests from Colonel Penikov, but first the SVR
man had to provide additional information as a sign of good faith.
Penikov agreed to that request.
A week later the FBI arrested a senior contractor in Silicon Valley
who had been working for the Russian GRU for nearly four years,
compromising dozens of highly classified government projects that
would set them back for years. After that, the president was satis-
fied, green lit Angie to make whatever promises were required to se-
cure the further cooperation of Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Penikov.
At their next in-person meeting Angie gave him the news and the
colonel took it in stride, showing no emotion. Angie found this curi-
ous and studied him for a few minutes before something clicked in
her brain.
“What have you been holding back, Colonel?” she asked in a low,
deliberate tone.
He stared back at her unblinkingly for nearly a minute before re-
sponding.
“It’s about my brother,” he told her, his tone somber. Then he told
her the rest.

ALEXI PENIKOV WAS TEN YEARS younger than his brother

Leonid, and had chosen to join the armed forces of Mother Russia
rather than the intelligence service as the elder Penikov had. By this
time, despite his younger age, Alexi had moved up the ranks of the
Red Army faster than Leonid had at SVR, this partly due to the fact
that his full KGB rank was disallowed and he had to start several
grades lower when he transferred over after his previous service’s
disbandment in 1991. Alexi was a full colonel and commander of an
artillery brigade attached to a division of elite troops that was se-
lected for service in Chechnya following the Muslim enclave’s at-
tempt at independence.
At first Colonel Penikov (Red Army) took on his new assignment
with zeal and fortitude, determined to exercise the full authority of
his nation’s political will through the force of arms as directed by his
superiors. The Kremlin had labeled the mission in Chechnya as one
of counterterrorism and counterinsurgency to root out the small
cabal they deemed responsible for all atrocities committed against
innocent civilians and their Russian liberators. They said the Army
should have them routed out within half a year and be returning
home to their barracks, and Alexi believed this as well, given the
training and modern equipment at their disposal. Of course, this
was before he arrived in Groznyy, the Chechen capital city, and be-
fore his men were met by such fierce resistance, far more than he
and other commanders had been led to believe they would face from
a small number of troublemaking rebels.
Within six months, as the casualties mounted in his command,
Alexi began to question the wisdom of Moscow’s decision regarding
Chechnya, and the amount of time and resources they were willing
to sink into what was obviously a looming humanitarian and politi-
cal disaster as word of what was happening there began to reach the
western world. But Red Army Command were adamant, and the or-
der was to crush the resistance by whatever means necessary, no
consideration or quarter would be given to the enemy, kill as many
of them as was necessary, regardless of age, sex, or infirmity. In
other words, butcher them.
This turned Alexi’s stomach, and he strongly considered resigning
his commission, voiced these concerns in a letter to his older
brother Leo at the SVR. As it turned out this was a mistake because
someone else read that letter first, and Alexi was sanctioned, re-
moved from the early promotion list, and his entire command was
reassigned to a more dangerous region of the battle, Sadovoya, a
small province northwest of Groznyy where some of the most in-
tense resistance was known to be causing all kinds of headaches for
the Army, even Spetsnaz was having a difficult time quelling the vio-
lence and for the most part they were just killing everyone they en-
countered. Still, the resistance continued almost unabated.
So Alexi and his men arrived in the quagmire and soon got a taste
of the slaughter for themselves. Within the first two weeks three of
his company commanders, a battalion commander, and eight senior
NCOs had been killed. His executive officer was critically wounded
[x]
in a suicide attack carried out by an eighteen year old Shahidka .
That attack also injured Alexi and his command sergeant major, the
latter losing three fingers on one hand.
Alexi pleaded with his superiors for additional assistance, rein-
forcements so that he could stabilize his command and hopefully or-
ganize some kind of counteroffensive against the rebels, but he was
denied those resources, the claim being that at the moment they just
weren’t available. Alexi knew this was a lie, and knew what they re-
ally meant was that the resources weren’t available to him, a disloyal
commander who spoke badly about superiors behind their backs,
even questioned the wisdom of the political leadership in Moscow,
always a dangerous thing. No, the colonel of artillery would simply
have to do his job with what he had and stop complaining.
A week later, two more suicide attacks inside his command com-
pound wracked up scores of casualties among his senior staff, and
this time the rebels managed to capture prisoners, one of them the
brigade commander himself.
 That was eight months ago, and so far Moscow had done nothing
to rescue Alexi or any of the others, despite clear GRU intelligence
pinpointing the location where they were being held and by whom,
and due to a recent increase in Red Army activity, the enemy had
been severely degraded in that region, those left behind to guard the
prisoners believed to be the least effective troops, some just chil-
dren.
SVR Lieutenant Colonel Leonid Penikov was willing to defect and
bring a treasure trove of knowledge with him that would enable the
CIA and others to do considerable damage to the Rodina’s current
and future intelligence operations. He wanted to live in comfort for
the rest of his life in the United States. He had no wife or children or
any other relatives that he cared about, save for his younger brother.
And what he wanted more than anything else was to get Alexi away
from the Chechens before they tortured him to death or Moscow fi-
nally decided to bomb the prisoner encampments to make a point.
And he wanted the CIA to go in and get him.

“HE MUST BE OUT OF HIS FUCKING MIND!” spat the Director of

the CIA’s National Clandestine Service (now thankfully reverted
back to its old name, the Directorate of Operations) when he
learned of this. “There is absolutely no way I’m sending operators
into that hellhole to rescue some Russian colonel who is likely dead
by now, or at least wishes he was.”
Defense, State, NSC and others privy to the situation expressed
similar reservations, and the president strongly considered their
counsel. By this time, Angie Dell-Mada had returned to Washington
and personally briefed the National Security Advisor and the presi-
dent, giving her impressions of Leonid Penikov and the potential he
represented as a major intelligence resource not only for the U.S.,
but their NATO allies as well. When the president asked for her
opinion on what she thought he should do, Angie felt the weight of
the National Security Advisor’s hooded gaze from her left. The re-
tired navy three star was her direct boss, once removed, but the man
behind the desk in the Oval Office was everybody’s boss in that
building, so she did not hesitate when she told him what she
thought. Following that, the Deputy Special Assistant to the Presi-
dent for East European Policy and Plans was dismissed and the man
behind the desk and the woman to his left, his Assistant for National
Security Affairs, were left alone, decision time fast approaching.

ANGIE JOINED KEVIN AT CIA HEADQUARTERS later in the

evening and they were in a small private conference room in the
basement of the Original Headquarters Building, in a section that
was for the exclusive use of the Special Activities Division, the
Agency’s gunslingers. They were alone, and were doing something
that they practically never did, and both were not happy to be doing
it now. The president had sanctioned the mission in Chechnya, over
cabinet-level objections, as well as those from senior members of
the Agency leadership. The objections were noted, even included in
the finding that the commander-in-chief signed and issued to the
DCI and D/NCS.
The Chief of the Special Activities Division was to task a team
from the Special Operations Group to plan and execute the mission
in Chechnya as quickly as was feasible. Additionally, a team from
the Office of Security’s Special Activities Staff was to deploy to Bul-
garia to facilitate the defection of Lieutenant Colonel Leonid
Penikov of the SVR once SOG had located and extricated the
younger Colonel Penikov from his POW camp. This pleased Angie
because it had been her recommendation to the president that de-
spite the obvious risks of an international incident should the mis-
sion fail, she believed the potential rewards were far greater having
both Penikov colonels under U.S. control. In the end the president
agreed with her.
What was pissing her off was what she had learned when she ar-
rived at Headquarters with a team of NSC staffers for a joint brief-
ing. She had thought that Kevin would be returning to Sofia to work
with the local station on the plan to safely extract Leonid Penikov
once his brother was secured, but she quickly learned this was not
the case, and she was livid.
“How many times have you told me over the years that you’re not
actually a spook? That you’re a security officer, your main mission is
to protect. You don’t spy, you don’t analyze, you don’t interdict, you
protect people and places. So can you tell me why it is that you’re
going to fucking Chechnya as part of a CIA paramilitary team, half
of which is not likely to come back and there’ll be a lot more stars on
that wall out there, more grieving wives, more kids growing up with-
out a father? I’d really like for that not to be our kids, Kevin, I really
would. I do look good in black, but I don’t want to be a widow before
I’m forty!”
Kevin tried to resist the snicker, but his mind works too quickly.
When Angie saw his expression, her eyes flared. He held up a pla-
cating hand.
“Sorry, baby, I know this is serious and you’re angry.”
Angie paused, frowning, then shook her head, trying to keep the
smile down inside because she was not really feeling humorous at
all, but she knew her husband far too well.
 “Oh you’ve got to be goddamn kidding me!” she raged. “You’re
thinking about that at a time like this!”
Now Kevin was grinning.
“You said it, not me,” he told her.
“Bastard!” she swore, then began giggling.
Kevin took her in his arms, looked deeply into her even deeper
blue eyes.
“You do look good in black,” he said in a low tone.
Angie shook her head again before replying in like tone.
“But not as good as black looks in me.”
An old joke, but it still works.
He kissed her, she put her arms around his necked and squeezed
fiercely.
They stayed liked that for a very long time, saying nothing else.

THE REASON KEVIN HAD BEEN ATTACHED to the SOG team

had to do with precisely the fact that he was a protector, actually,
the best that the Office of Security had ever produced, at least ac-
cording to the then Director of Security. Despite this ringing en-
dorsement, the Chief of SOG was not happy about the decision, even
less happy about his assignment as deputy team commander. While
Kevin’s skills and accomplishments might have been appreciated by
his peers in the National Clandestine Service, he was not one of
them and another detractor was his age. He was forty, and to be
truthful, his days of active field work were supposed to have come to
an end when he took over as Chief of SAS, something that Angie had
been quite happy about at the time. He still maintained his physical
fitness, but had never been on the paramilitary operational side of
things where most officers were prior elite Special Forces. And the
oldest member of the team was thirty-three, the old man, the team
commander. But the decision had been made by higher ups and
there was no use in complaining about it, they had to make it work.
During the week of training that followed, despite the obvious dif-
ferences in conditioning, the other members of the SOG team came
to accept Kevin, his drive, his determination, and most importantly,
his lethal fighting skills. At the end, one operator suggested that
maybe Kevin would like to transfer over to SAD when the mission
was done, remarking that they could probably use somebody on the
teams who could actually pass for an old man. Kevin took the jibe
good naturedly, and affirmed his intention to remain in his own
patch once this assignment was over, likely his last as a field opera-
tor, assuming he survived it.

THE MISSION WAS BRIEFED AT SAD’s operational training com-

pound called The Point in North Carolina, Angie and two of her NSC
colleagues were in attendance, along with several others from De-
fense and State. The goodbye was brief, and he promised he’d see
her again very soon. She did not cry, held onto his hands until the
last possible second, and then playfully remarked, “If you don’t
come back I’m probably gonna start sleeping with guys half my age.”
Kevin grinned, kissed her, then pointed out that since she was
thirty-seven at the time that might put her in some tenuous legal
jeopardy. “But not to worry, blue eyes, I’ll be back. And when I am,
sleep will be the last thing you’ll have to worry about for quite some
time. In fact, while I’m away, you might want to look for some good
noise-cancellation headphones for the kids.”
That made Angie laugh, and they kissed once more.
Then he was gone.
THE TEAM WENT IN FROM GEORGIA (the one to the south of
Russia), with the totally deniable assistance of Tbilisi because they
did not want to bear the brunt of either the Russians or the
Chechens if anything went wrong. The exact words the Georgian Se-
curity Minister used were, “If they fuck this up, I don’t know them!”
It wasn’t the first time Kevin had been in a war zone as bloody as
this one. He hoped it would be his last, and that he’d be alive when
it was over. The Agency had two geosynchronous satellites tasked
for this mission, one belonging to the NSA, which was infrared ca-
pable. Every inch of the ground between insertion point to target
had been mapped for a week prior to the mission and were ongoing
for the duration. Of course there could still be surprises, and there
were some, but nothing that the operators couldn’t deal with, even
the ones with guns.
For the most part Kevin let the younger men do the work, after all
this was what they did best, what they trained and lived for. His
mission would begin once they had secured Alexi Penikov, and then
it would be his job to keep the man alive until they could reach the
extraction point. So for the time being, he reserved himself as much
as possible.
The following night they were outside the prison camp where
Alexi Penikov was being held, at least according to the latest infor-
mation that his brother was able to provide. Thanks to overhead
surveillance, they had a complete layout of the area, could confirm
living human beings by body heat as well as other animal life. Un-
fortunately there was no way to tell which holding area Alexi was in
from satellites so on the ground recon would have to take up the
slack.
 The team commander sent out two scout parties, two operators
each, gave them the entire night to move around the entire com-
pound, hopefully undetected, and report back. As dawn broke they
[y]
all reassembled in the concealed CP half a kilometer away from
the camp and everyone listened to the parties report what they had
found. The Russian prisoners were being held in the most secure
area, of course, with three to four armed guards who looked like
they knew what they were doing at all times. From what recon could
tell, there were no more than twenty prisoners at the moment, and
none of them were in the best of shape. The problem they had was
that they couldn’t get close enough to discover whether Alexi
Penikov was actually one of them or not, which meant they’d have to
risk going in blind and hope to ID and extract him at the same time,
while wading through a mass of other desperate prisoners. Far from
an ideal situation, but there were few other options. Actually, there
were none, so that’s exactly what the team commander ordered after
sending a signal back to HQ that the infiltration and extraction
phase was about to begin.
Weapons checked, final orders given. Their only mission was to
retrieve Alexi Penikov, anyone who got between them and that mis-
sion died. For some reason all eyes went to Kevin when the team
commander made that last statement. He guessed some of them still
had doubts about him, after all, they had not worked with him be-
fore and despite how well he had performed during training, this
was not training. They now had to rely on him to watch their backs
and to kill without hesitation if the situation called for it. They just
wasn’t sure that the man from Security had it in him.
Kevin sighed inwardly, nodded once.
Then the team got on with the mission.
AS IT TURNED OUT, GETTING into the camp was the easy part, lo-
cating Penikov-the-younger was not so easy, especially because it
was three in the morning and everyone who could sleep was asleep,
including the prisoners. No one liked being onsite in the camp any
longer than they had to be, every second was another second that
something could go wrong, and probably would, but they couldn’t
hurry too much either. Haste makes waste, and sometimes you get
wasted.
One of the two-operator teams reported they found a man they
believed to be Alexi after twenty grueling and agonizing minutes for
everyone. They believed it to be him but could not confirm. He was
unconscious and severely emaciated, a dirty, scraggly beard and un-
kempt hair were making ID difficult as well.
Kevin was on another team but quickly made his way to the cells
from where they were calling, and when he laid eyes on the figure
the team had reported, he knew why they were having a tough time
with the ID. Actually, none of the prisoners looked to be in anything
resembling humane condition, and the odor… Best not to dwell on
that.
Kevin knelt and shined a dull light on the man, tasted bile rise at
the back of his throat, clamped it down. He wasn’t sure either, the
man looked nothing like any photograph he had seen of Alexi
Penikov, and in all fairness, there was very little here that could be
called a man.
Kevin tried to rouse him, but as quietly as possible, and after what
seemed like a year, unfocused, glassy eyes finally opened and the
man reeled, trying to scream. Luckily he could only manage a dry
whimper that no one else could hear, and Kevin clamped a hand
over his mouth and added his weight to quiet the man. When he did
so he felt cartilage crack and the man whence in pain. He had not
wanted to hurt him any more than he had already been, and he re-
gretted the pain he caused, but he had to keep the man quiet.
Leaning very close to the man’s filthy left ear, Kevin spoke to him
in Russian, asking if he was Colonel Alexi Dylkovitch Penikov. When
the man did not respond, he asked again, and then added the older
brother’s name, along with a childhood nickname that only the two
of them would know.
Suddenly the creature on the dirty pile of rags he was using for a
bed seemed to come alive and tried to speak. Kevin kept his mouth
covered, leaned in again, and asked if he was Colonel Penikov. This
time the man nodded slowly. A feeling of relief began to spread
through Kevin’s chest and he was just about to lean close once more
and whisper something else, but then gunshots shattered the night,
and everything became far more complicated than it needed to be.

KEVIN’S AFTER ACTION REPORT TO the DCI, which was for-

warded to the White House and other relevant government depart-
ments, laid out the facts of what transpired in a logical and orderly
fashion that left no unanswered questions for anyone who read it,
even if it did not satisfy any of them. And while he had never been
allowed to read the report himself, Leonid Penikov knew that as a
result of the CIA’s failure in Sadovoya, his younger brother would
not be joining him in the west to live out the rest of his days in peace
and comfort.
The reason Kevin wrote the post-operational report is because the
team commander had been killed in the ensuing firefight after a
member of the SOG team missed a concealed sentry at the camp
and paid for that mistake with his life, the first shots that were fired
just as Kevin was making contact with Penikov. In total, four of the
eleven operator team were killed, three others critically wounded.
The number of Chechens and other prisoners killed is still not
known.
Since Kevin’s mission was to protect Alexi Penikov, when all hell
started breaking loose, he and the two team members with him
grabbed the man and started making their way out of the cells, and
that’s when one of the operators was hit, wounded but still able to
move. Kevin had Penikov thrown over a shoulder in a modified fire-
man’s carry. After months of harsh treatment and little to no food,
the man was nearly as light as air.
They managed to fight their way to the perimeter of the camp and
several of the two-operator teams regrouped, but then reinforce-
ments on the Chechen side arrived and it was at that point that the
SOG team commander went down. Kevin took command then, or-
dered a swift retreat, but they were about to be flanked, cut off by
the arriving reinforcements. They had to move quickly or risk cap-
ture. Death would have been preferable, at least from the Agency
standpoint because there would be deniability with corpses. Live
prisoners complicated things. However, Kevin Mada has never been
the suicidal type, if he was going out it would be on his feet and in a
fight to the death. But there was that promise he had made to his
wife. He’d be damned if she was going to start sleeping with
teenagers!
Alexi Penikov knew he would never make it out of the prison
camp because he could not move under his own power, and with the
wounded and other dead, the CIA team would not be able to get him
out themselves. That being the case, Kevin was still willing to give it
his best effort.
Then Alexi looked at him with as much strength of will that he
could manage, gave a message to be passed along to his brother,
Leo. He didn’t have to say anymore, Kevin understood fully, was
staring into the man’s watery eyes when he drove the blade of his
Ka-Bar into his heart and severed his aorta. The Red Army colonel
was dead in seconds, his suffering finally over.
With what seemed like half the Chechen rebel army hard on their
heels, Kevin and the remainder of the SOG team humped their
fallen brethren seventeen kilometers north of the camp to the sec-
ondary extraction point where they were met by two unmarked
choppers, one a transport, the other a heavily armed gunship, both
black as night, of course, and spirited away under heavy fire across
the Black Sea to a NATO base in Northern Turkey.
A review of the mission found no fault in the planning or execu-
tion, and chose to lay blame on circumstances and bad luck. The
dead were buried and quietly honored, families consoled as best as
possible, the wounded were treated and allowed to convalesce at
their own pace, and Kevin returned to the Office of Security to finish
out his tour as head of the Special Activities Staff.
Despite what had happened in Chechnya, Leonid Penikov still
chose to defect. He really had little choice, by this time he had fallen
under increased suspicion as Russian Intelligence began to suffer
several setbacks that could only be the work of a mole, and an inves-
tigation by Section 2—Counterintelligence—traced the leak to Direc-
torate T’s operation in Bulgaria. He became a valuable resource for
the CIA and other agencies, received praise and financial reward fol-
lowing a lengthy debriefing that lasted for more than three years. By
the time he was ready for resettlement, Kevin had been promoted to
Chief of the Protective Programs Group, which meant he was re-
sponsible for overseeing the former SVR man’s security arrange-
ments. This also meant they had to have a face-to-face meeting,
their first, although Penikov knew precisely who he was.
Penikov started out contained but cold, but soon this deteriorated
to open hostility. They were being observed through a one-way mir-
ror and at one point, the case officer on the other side ordered one
of the security agents inside the room. Kevin quickly dismissed her,
stared at Penikov for a long time, then told him to say whatever he
had to say, which he did, in quite colorful Russian that Kevin had a
little difficulty understanding, but got the gist.
When he was done, Kevin nodded slowly, still watching the other
man. Then he told him about an attempt to snatch his wife two
years earlier when she was attending a conference in Germany, an
attempt that was foiled by Angie’s alertness, as well as that of two
[z]
Canadian SIS counterintelligence officers who happened to be
close by and managed to intervene in time. Later, CIA and the Ger-
man BND were able to confirm that the would-be abductors were
wet work contractors for the SVR’s Directorate K and the operation
had been sanctioned in retaliation for her involvement in Penikov’s
defection; something the SVR only learned because Penikov had
been somewhat sloppy in the weeks before his crossover and had let
something slip to someone he should not have. It wasn’t until after
the defection that the man realized the significance and passed the
information on to SVR investigators. Soon they were able to link
Penikov’s defection to a member of the White House National Secu-
rity Council.
 “So thanks to you, Colonel, my wife was damn near killed,” Kevin
said in a low but dangerous tone. “You put her at risk the moment
you chose to involve her in this whole sordid mess. You could have
contacted the CIA in Bulgaria and gotten the same results, but you
wanted someone outside the intelligence business with a direct con-
nection to the White House and the president. And Angie was just
perfect for your needs, it didn’t matter that she was a civilian, it
didn’t matter what danger you might put her in. It’s just a good
thing for you she was not hurt. Otherwise today I would not be ar-
ranging for your future protection, and right now somebody would
be cleaning your blood and brains off the floor and walls of this
room.”

THAT WAS THE LAST DIRECT CONVERSATION Leonid Penikov

and Kevin Mada had, and it took place nearly nine years ago. Be-
cause of his position within the Office of Security, he kept tabs on
the Russian’s movements, as he did with many other high value de-
fectors, but he never had a need to meet or speak with the man.
That is, until tonight.
“What do you want from me, Director Mada?” Leonid Penikov
asked coldly, eyes steel.
Equally cold and steeled, Kevin leaned forward on the table be-
tween them in the quaint little Greek coffee shop in Georgetown and
explained.
 Chapter 13

Kevin had a meeting at Headquarters the following morning with Al

Kramer, the sixty year-old, soon-to-retire, Deputy Director for Sup-
port, the senior manager of the directorate in which the Office of Se-
curity was compartmented. In other words, Kramer was Kevin’s im-
mediate boss. In addition, they were good friends, and for about the
last year Kramer had been trying to get Kevin to take seriously the
offer to replace him as DDS when he retired this year. However, so
far those efforts had met with negative results. It didn’t keep the
current DDS from trying, though, with the full support of Grace
Tunny-Baxter in the Director’s suite down the hall on the seventh
floor of OHB.
Kramer was having a bit of an issue with indigestion and paused
to take a pill, chasing it with water instead of the black coffee that he
knew he should avoid this morning. The DDS was a large man, tall
and overweight. Yes, he was only sixty, but all the years of being be-
hind a desk in a high stress job had taken their toll on the career
government bureaucrat and he was looking forward to retirement
more than most knew. His wife would be especially happy when he
left the Agency for good. She had plans for both of them, but first
she would see to her husband’s health. Put him on a strict diet,
make him get some exercise every day, and ensure that he got more
than a few hours of sleep every night because there would be no
more crises that required his urgent attention at all hours. As Kevin
sat and watched the other man groan and pat his chest, he thought
that Kramer probably should have gone out five years ago when he
reached the thirty year mark, but he had hung on, like a lot of others
do, to get their full pension, with maxed out time in grade.
“So you were saying, Kevin?” Kramer said once he stopped cough-
ing, returning to his chair at the small conference table in the far
corner where they were eating and talking. “I believe it was some-
thing about how much you would really love to redecorate this office
once it’s yours.”
Kevin smiled, drank the last of his cranberry juice before respond-
ing.
“I believe you misheard me, sir. What I actually said is that when
you do retire, Ernie Frost is probably going to redecorate this office
with a lot of African art and deep mahogany everything. He did one
tour in West Africa about twenty-five years ago but seems to have
left his heart behind.”
Kramer snorted, reaching for his half empty juice glass, but then
rethinking.
“Along with most of his brains. And he has absolutely no shot at
this chair. Grace and I have already discussed that. If I thought it
was even a remote possibility, I’d stay in this office forever, even af-
ter I died, just have my EA come in and prop my corpse up every
morning.”
Kevin laughed.
“Well there’s a thought,” he said, glanced at his watch. “But what I
[aa]
was really saying is that I’ve looked over the report from DSS at
State and agree with about seventy-five percent of the recommenda-
tions. Where we disagree, I’ve highlighted those, adding in my com-
ments about why I disagree, including alternate recommendations.”
“Have you sent those to DSS yet?” Kramer asked.
“I will after this meeting, wanted to let you know first.”
“The gist of your disagreements?” Kramer asked, leaning back in
his chair and rubbing his clearly upset stomach.
“One is the burden of cost,” Kevin told him, not bothering to con-
sult any notes. “They seem to think the Agency should bear most of
it and I strenuously disagree. After all, we are talking about U.S. em-
bassies overseas, which are all managed by State. Where it directly
concerns the Agency, sure, we should foot the biggest part of the
bill, maybe even all of it, but not for other non-Agency related oper-
ations on their turf. I think they’re trying to offset some of their re-
cent budget cuts by tapping into ours.”
“Quite possible,” Kramer said thoughtfully. “The new director
over at DSS has been complaining about that since she took over.
Wouldn’t be surprised if some of her budget people suggested this
as a way of dealing with their shortfalls. Send the report and when
the return calls come in, direct them to me. I’ll run interference for a
while. What other problems do you have on this?”
“Well the only one that is actually a dead starter is their proposal
to have one of their people placed on our security staff in the em-
bassies. That’s not going to happen. I know why they want to do it,
and it may seem a bit hypocritical from their standpoint because we
[bb]
do have some of our MDSOs embedded on their staffs. Hell, in
my youth, I was one of them. That’s how Angie and I met.”
Kramer nodded.
“I remember the tale well,” he said, grinning. “Including the fire-
works after your first date. Didn’t you end up in the hospital for
something like six months?”
“Less than a month, actually,” Kevin told him. “Took another five
to fully recover. Then we got married.”
“Well you two sure did start with a bang, and still going strong a
quarter century later. And I agree with you completely on the no re-
garding their embed request. I’ll handle that one, too. Anything
else?”
Kevin shook his head.
“Nothing pressing. The rest is in the email I sent this morning,
highlighted as I said. As regards to everything else in OS, besides
needing a bigger budget, we’re doing great. Hector Chavez is still in
Europe, due back early next week. We’re all caught up on reinvesti-
gations, including polygraph work, and Security Education Staff is
gearing up for the start of a new MDSO training class in five weeks.”
Kramer nodded, grabbed his chest suddenly, took several deep
breaths. Kevin was on his feet and moving quickly to the man’s side.
Kramer held up his other hand, sat back in the chair.
“Damn heartburn!” he exclaimed, then forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m
really gonna have to lay off eggs from now on, too. At least until I
leave this job. I’m good, Kevin, but it is nice to know that a man
your age is still that spry.”
Kevin shook his head and grinned, but he wasn’t entirely con-
vinced that his boss was telling the truth. But he was his boss, and a
grown man, if he wanted to lie to himself, Kevin supposed he had
the right. And he didn’t have that much time left in the Agency any-
way.
The meeting ended and Kevin left to head back to his own office
on Westbranch Drive less than fifteen minutes away, once he actu-
ally got out of the building and to his car in the west lot. Probably
tack on another fifteen minutes for that. As all insiders knew, get-
ting into CIA Headquarters was no easy feat, but getting out again
was often even trickier.
Some have died trying.
 Chapter 14

The Dell-Mada clan had an excellent family night dinner, including

two post-meal games, a math quiz that Team Pali-Angie handily
swept the board with, and an English Lit quiz that Team Reggie-
Kevin ran the table on. By nine Reggie was leaving to get back to her
place in D.C. and Pali said he was going to meet Zandy and some
friends at a late night juice bar in Vienna. He’d be back before mid-
night. Angie kissed her son on the cheek, hands on his shoulders,
leaning back and staring up into his eyes because he is rather tall.
She grinned, reminded him not to forget condoms. Pali gave his
mother a withering glance, shook his head.
“Because god forbid I give you any multiracial grandchildren be-
fore grad school,” he quipped.
She swatted his backside as he walked toward the front door.
“I’m too young to be called granny just yet,” she said. “Your fa-
ther, on the other hand…”
Kevin moved behind his wife, encircling her with his arms, resting
his chin on her left shoulder. He bid their son goodnight, told him
that condoms were never a bad idea, even at juice bars. Pali shook
his head again and was gone. Angie had reached back with her left
hand and rubbed Kevin’s groin when he made the condom com-
ment, and now turned to face him.
 “You haven’t worn a condom in more than two decades,” she said.
“So how would you know?”
He smiled, leaned his face very close to hers.
“I do work in Intelligence, my dear, I hear things.”
Angie giggled, kissed his lips, slipped her arms around his neck
and crushed her body to his, rewarded by a bulge against her groin.
Kevin lifted her into his arms, her long legs encircling his thick
waist. It was not the easiest way to ascend the hallway stairs to the
second floor of their home, but it did have a lot of benefits, too.

THE SHOWER ATTACHED TO THE MASTER bedroom is a walk-

in, there’s a separate tub for baths, and both are big enough for two,
something that they take advantage of as often as possible. Tonight
it was the shower.
After ten minutes of loosening up their muscles and then soaping
their bodies and rinsing off, Angie turned to the back wall and
closed her eyes. Kevin moved up behind her, feeling the warmth
from her skin more intensely than the spray of water cascading
down on their bodies. She was nearly fifty and still had the same
body (in his opinion, not hers) that she had the first time they met,
the first time they were naked together. And that body, this woman,
still did things to him that he could never explain.
He moved her long wet hair around her shoulders and started
with her shoulder blades, massaging the strong muscles up and
down her back, her shoulders and neck, her scalp, down to her but-
tocks (where he spent a considerable amount of time), upper and
lower thighs, all the way down to her feet, where he lifted one at a
time while Angie balanced on the other one until he was done.
 Then she turned and looked at him, smiling, aroused. Kevin
kissed her lips, then each of her swollen, ruddy nipples, and after
that he continued to massage the front of her body until he again
reached her feet. During the course of this, Angie had experienced
approximately eight orgasms via Kevin’s subtle digit manipulation
of her genital region. She was breathless after the last one, leaning
against the wall, taking deep breaths while he stood and watched
her, quite content.
“You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” she demanded
when she could speak again. “Think you did something really spe-
cial.”
“You’re always special,” he said, stepping closer.
Angie grinned.
“And you always know just what to do to me,” she said, reaching
out for him.
They kissed for a long time after that, and were breathless once
again when they pulled back, Angie’s deep blue eyes filled with
many things, but chief among those things right now was the Big L.
As in LUST!
“Hope your back can take it, old man,” she whispered after tug-
ging on his left earlobe with her lips and teeth. “Because I want you
to pick me up and fuck me right here, right now, against the wall be-
hind me.”
Kevin laughed, squeezing her closer.
“Even if it couldn’t, it would,” he said. “And I’m gonna show you
an old man, blue eyes.”
Before she could respond, he lifted her into his arms, kissed her
on the mouth. Angie once again encircled his waist with her legs as
she felt the shower wall against her back.
 She also felt something else pressing against her front. Well, not
actually against it. More like… Well I’m sure you get the picture.
 Chapter 15

The Speaker of the United States House of Representatives had ap-

pointed the Chair of the House Permanent Select Committee on In-
telligence Oversight to conduct the main inquiry into suspected
wrongdoing on the part of the president and others in the White
House because the complaint had come from the Intelligence Com-
munity and all the members of that committee and their staffs al-
ready possessed the necessary security clearances to review any
classified material and speak to any witnesses that might be re-
quired. Other named witnesses had begun to come forward from
across the spectrum, including State, Defense, and the National Se-
curity Council. Despite this, the president and his media and politi-
cal allies still seemed to want to out the whistleblower that had
started everything because they were convinced that this person had
somehow made everything up and if only they were named publicly
then the whole thing would just magically go away. This despite the
fact that now other people had come forward and agreed to testify
under oath before Congress. People with solid reputations and non-
partisan credentials.
Kevin and Anna watched the latest news on the flat screen in his
office for about ten minutes, switching channels often, until neither
could take it anymore.
 “Remember that time I was taken prisoner by those druggies in
Venezuela?” Anna remarked as Kevin returned the remote control
to a drawer in his desk.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the back of his desk in shirt-
sleeves. “Part of Mike Mitchell’s fucked up overt show of force oper-
ation that got a lot of people—himself included—killed, and you and
three other OS officers captured. Two weeks, if I remember cor-
rectly. I was in the Far East on the DDCI’s security team at the time,
but we heard all about it.”
“Yeah, well, as unpleasant as that experience was, I’d choose to go
back and do that again rather than ever watch another news item
about politics, in this country or any other.”
Kevin grinned.
“Well I’m sorry to disappoint you on that one, Deputy Director
Betts, but if I recall correctly, and I do, all of those guys are dead.
Due in large part to your efforts. Legend has it that one of them had
his Adam’s Apple bitten out and then shoved up his ass.”
Anna grinned, glanced down at her manicured nails.
“I’m sure I have no clue what you’re talking about, Director Mada.
But if I did, I would have to say that the shoved up his ass bit is
likely just speculative hype.”
They were both grinning when Conner Ricks knocked on the par-
tially open door.
“Just the man we were waiting to see,” Anna said as she stood
from the sofa to the left of the desk.
Ricks grinned, stepping inside and closing the door.
“You have no idea how rare it is to hear anyone say that about us
in CI?” he said.
 “About as rare as it is to hear somebody say it about people in
OS,” Kevin assured him, standing and reaching for his jacket on the
back of the chair. “And probably more so with us because some of
my people actually carry handcuffs. Let’s repair to the SCIF.”
Ricks nodded, Anna nodded.
Kevin led the way out after dropping his suit jacket off on the rack
in the corner that was designed for that purpose.

IN THE SCIF DOWN ON THE SIXTH floor, the Chief of Counterin-

telligence wasted no time in reporting what he and his people had
discovered thus far in their investigation into the attempted breach
of the secure files of both the Inspector General and General Coun-
sel. His people had been working with a team from OS’ Information
Security Group and had quickly narrowed down a suspect list of
people inside the Agency who had the required skills and access.
Kevin and Anna were aware of this list, had looked it over them-
selves, but chose to let CIC do the heavy lifting on the background
work because they had other more pressing matters to attend to and
also knew they could trust Conner Ricks to do the job right.
Once he explained the procedure for vetting and removing some-
one from the list, he explained that they were able to clear all but
five very quickly, and then concentrated their efforts on those five.
Now Kevin and Anna were really interested, perked up and waited.
However, Ricks did not say more, simply sat across the table from
both senior security officers and glared, which somehow he man-
aged to do with the coldest eyes.
Anna looked at Kevin, Kevin looked back at her, then they turned
to the man from CI.
“Do you two think I’m a fucking idiot?” he finally said.
 “Only on Thursdays,” Kevin said without missing a beat, and
Anna snickered despite knowing she shouldn’t.
Ricks glared at her even harder and the usually not shy Deputy
Director of Security looked away.
“Conner, what are you talking about?” Kevin demanded.
Ricks turned his glare on the Director of Security and they held
the eye lock for nearly two minutes before the CI man turned away
and swore disgustedly.
“I guess you were under orders from the DCI, but still, you had to
know you could trust me.”
Anna and Kevin exchanged glances again and then the latter
sighed, turned back to Conner Ricks.
“Con, I was under orders,” he said pointedly. “And I already vio-
lated those orders by telling Anna. I couldn’t risk telling anyone else,
even someone I trust completely. And officially, I’m not telling you
shit right now.”
Ricks looked at him and a small grin began to form at the corner
of his thin lips.
“Grace had you sign something, didn’t she?”
“Actually it was Tony Strauss. But Grace and Imelda were wit-
nesses to the event.”
Silence ensued, and finally Ricks relaxed.
“Well I’ll forgive you this time,” he said. “But the next time you
come up for CI review, you can probably expect a really thorough
probing by my staff.”
Anna was the first to laugh, then both men caught it and laughed
as well.
“Okay,” Mr. Ricks finally said once he had composed himself. “Let
me tell you what we came up with on the narrowed down suspect
list.”
And he did.
 Chapter 16

Representative Maxine Ruddy, the Chair of the House Permanent

Select Committee on Intelligence Oversight and chief inquisitor for
the House Impeachment Inquiry/Investigation against the presi-
dent, announced that she saw no good reason to call the whistle-
blower to testify before congress since, as her colleagues on the
other side of the aisle so deftly pointed out, this person did not have
any direct, firsthand knowledge of the events alleged in the com-
plaint to the IG/IC. Instead, a list of others in and around the White
House and cabinet posts who were directly involved in the matter
would be called, subpoenaed if necessary, to give testimony before
the House Special Impeachment Subcommittee as soon as a week
from the day of the announcement.
On the seventh floor at CIA Headquarters there was a huge sigh of
relief in the DCI’s suite, but it was a cautious one because Grace
Tunny-Baxter knew that it was still possible for some of her people
to be dragged into this mess because many of them had regular con-
tact with the White House, some even on temporary duty assign-
ments there. And then there was the director herself. This, after all,
was an intelligence matter, and despite the creation of the position
of Director of National Intelligence, many in the know understood
that the DCI was still the nation’s top spymaster with an actual
agency to back her up. She could foresee the possibility of a sub-
poena in her future, and if that happened, what would she do, what
would the White House want her to do?
That question was answered pretty quickly with a release from the
Office of the White House Counsel two days later in which the presi-
dent, through his taxpayer-funded mouthpiece, declared that no one
in the executive branch of the government would be cooperating in
any way whatsoever with the House’s sham, witch hunt, politically-
motivated attack on American democracy and the sanctity of the
duly elected president.
Subpoenas soon followed, and the legal and political games began
in chief.

THOUGH IT NOW APPEARED UNLIKELY that the whistleblower

would have to testify in the open before congress, or even in closed
session, the DCI and Kevin agreed that the round-the-clock protec-
tion of them should continue for a while longer because they were
still a favorite target of the White House and their allies on Capitol
Hill and the media. Also, there was the matter of that attempted
breach of the Inspector General’s and the General Counsel’s secure
systems, the likely purpose being to uncover the identity of the
whistleblower. That still had to be resolved and Grace Tunny-Baxter
sat in her SCIF on a cold and gray Monday morning—she knew this
even if she couldn’t see it from where she was—listening to her Di-
rector of Security’s solo briefing on this very matter. She was not
happy with what she was hearing, but impressed by the thorough-
ness of the man giving her this unpleasant news.
“Conner Ricks and his people have rechecked their findings three
times and I had Anna Betts in my office check again. We’re abso-
lutely confident now.”
 “Should I ask how you got onto this other fellow?” the DCI said as
she looked over the table at her DOS. “This Russian, what’s his
name again?”
“Vonovitch, Director,” Kevin told her. “Igor Vonovitch. Officially
an officer with a Russian oil and gas conglomerate with offices in
D.C. and a major lobbying effort on Capitol Hill to get more sanc-
tions against Russian oligarchs lifted. In reality, Vonovitch, now
fifty, was trained and deployed as an SVR illegal in Western Europe
for a decade. His mentor, Grigori Lebid, former SVR major general,
now a member of the Duma, is a close ally of Vladimir Putin’s. At
Lebid’s request, Putin had Vonovitch transferred from SVR to the
Main Intelligence Directorate, GU, and then placed him under com-
mercial cover. A year ago he was transferred to D.C., ostensibly to
assist in image management for his company and Russian industry
in general.”
“But in reality?” asked the Director unnecessarily.
“In reality he’s still an illegal, only now for GU, and he is a central
figure in their continuing effort to undermine American influence in
the world by sewing descent and division on the home front, partic-
ularly where U.S. election systems are concerned. Oh, and if you re-
ally want to know how I got on to him, well, we are in a SCIF.”
Grace Tunny-Baxter glanced down and shook her head, took a
breath before returning her gaze to Kevin Mada.
“Let’s put a pin in that for now, Director Mada,” she said formally,
then grinned, but only for a second. “Have you informed FBI Coun-
terintel yet?”
“Yes, ma’am. Personally spoke with Assistant Director in Charge
Carfagno. We’re coordinating efforts at this very moment. He has a
team around-the-clock watching Vonovitch. Since he is actually and
illegal, he can be picked up at any time. Frank brought his director
into the loop but they want to hold off on involving the Attorney
General as long as possible, unfortunately, for political reasons,
given the AG’s closeness to the White House.”
The DCI was visibly unhappy about that comment, but also knew
the truth of it and let it pass.
“And about our friend? I take it you did not share this with the
FBI?”
“No, ma’am,” Kevin said. “Since at the moment it is still an inter-
nal matter and officially this individual does operate under official
cover. We’re handling him ourselves. I’ve had a team from Special
Activities Staff on them since we confirmed our suspicions last
week.”
The DCI glanced down at the file folder open in front of her,
shifted some pages, shaking her head, then slammed the file
closed.”
“Bastard!” she swore, then looked up at Kevin. “Not you.”
Kevin grinned.
“Many in this building would disagree with you on that one, Di-
rector.”
“Perhaps. But none of their opinions count. I’m going to speak to
Director Hayes at FBI and we’re going to come up with some sort of
strategy for dealing with the political aspects of this case regarding
Vonovitch. We might not be able to arrest and charge him, but we
can likely get him expelled, disrupt GU’s operation for at least a lit-
tle while. I’m sure Conner would rather run a playback operation
against the Russians now that we’ve identified their main project
leader in the U.S., but I’m tired of playing patty-cakes with these
motherfuckers, Kevin. I want them to know that we know, that we
caught their man, and we’re taking action against him and them.
Oh, and pardon my French.”
Kevin smiled again.
“I speak French, Grace, and I’m pretty sure motherfucker is not
French in origin.”
“Really? Maybe Japanese, then. Anyway, as regards to our inter-
nal problem, well that’s complicated as hell, too, considering their
closeness to the White House as well, but they ultimately work for
me and I will take action. Very soon. I want you with me when I do.
For the time being, keep them under surveillance as well.”
“Will do, Director,” Kevin said, glancing at his watch. “Will there
be anything else?”
The Director of Central Intelligence sat staring at the head of
Agency Security for several long moments, smiled, and was about to
say something else, but then a buzzer sounded and the red light
above the secured door began to flash. The two senior CIA officers
stared at one another for a moment and then Kevin rose and went
over to unseal the door.
The uniformed SPO handed him a note, her face grave. Kevin took
the note, about to step back and resecure the door, but the SPO put
a hand on his arm, indicating the note. Kevin stopped and opened it,
and then his scalp shrank.
“What is it, Kevin?” the DCI said, now on her feet and moving to
join him.
Kevin took a deep breath and turned to his boss, his face the most
serious she had ever seen it.
“Al Kramer collapsed at his desk, his AA found him ten minutes
ago and Medical responded. A Lifesaver chopper is on the way from
Bethesda now. They think it’s a heart attack.”
 “Shit!” swore the DCI, the color draining from her face. She
rushed passed Kevin, heading for the exterior exit. Kevin would
have joined her but he had to remain behind to secure the classified
material still on the table. Even though it was in a SCIF, it could not
be left behind once the room was empty.
He worked as quickly as he could while the SPO stood in the en-
trance and watched him, sensing the urgency in her boss’ move-
ments. Once everything was secured in his briefcase, Kevin rushed
toward the door, his thoughts on his friend, wondering if he would
survive, if he was even still alive at this moment.
“Sir?” the SPO called as he breezed by.
Kevin paused, glanced at her.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about Mr. Kramer, sir.”
Kevin nodded.
“Thanks, Sunny. I’ll make sure you get an update.”
Then he was gone.
 Chapter 17

Max Foster joined the CIA when he was twenty-five years old, hav-
ing finished up his master’s in political science at Penn State a few
months earlier and been recruited by a campus talent spotter who
saw promise and potential in the young black man who had worked
his ass off to get into college and by sheer determination had contin-
ued on through grad school, working three jobs, to finish at the top
of his class.
Foster was fifty-one now and close to completing his three year
tour as the Director of the White House Intelligence Office, a plum
assignment within the Agency, and one that usually guaranteed ad-
vancement to a senior position at Headquarters afterwards. With
the recent health crisis regarding the current Deputy Director for
Support, Foster could see himself being tapped by the DCI to slide
into that slot.
Kramer had indeed suffered a massive heart attack, but had sur-
vived. He was in a coma now at Bethesda Naval Medical Center but
his prognosis was not good, even if he did survive the next few days.
And as for returning to the Agency and resuming his post, well he
was going to be out in seven months anyway, no one thought he
would be coming back, even if by some miracle he managed a spec-
tacular full recovery, which was highly doubtful.
 So when Foster received notification from the DCI’s chief of staff
that Tunny-Baxter wanted to see him in her office at nine sharp
Thursday morning, he was pretty sure he knew why. He was going
to be recalled from the White House early to take over the Direc-
torate of Support, first as acting DDS out of respect for Kramer, and
then in perhaps a couple of months the acting would drop away and
the job would be his.
This made Foster smile. Not the prospect of being appointed act-
ing DDS, because this would never happen, Max Foster had no in-
tention of accepting that position. And this is what made him smile,
anticipating the expression of that arrogant bitch’s face when Foster
turned her down. That would be sweet. Not as sweet as what would
happen in another couple of months when it was announced that he
was going to take over a key position within the White House staff,
one with more power and prestige than he could ever hope to
achieve at CIA. And after that, with his political connections in the
Oval Office assured, who knew where he would end up next.
But first, the bitch in the DCI’s suite.
Darlene Jacoby was on duty this morning and happened to be in
the DCI’s outer office with her administrative assistant when Foster
arrived at five minutes to nine. He had seen her a few times and
knew her to say hi, which he did now. Jacoby was cordial, maintain-
ing a relaxed posture as the senior officer made small-talk, and not
doing such a great job of flirting with the woman seventeen years his
junior.
Her eyes averted for a few seconds and then she nodded, the uni-
versal sign that a protection agent was receiving a message through
their earpiece, which Jacoby was. Pressing the transmitter in her left
hand, the detail leader acknowledged the message.
 “Mr. Foster, the Director is ready for you now,” she said, stepping
aside and moving to open one of the double doors to the office be-
hind her.”
Foster was a little surprised that the call had come over the secu-
rity agent’s receiver instead of the AA’s intercom, but he brushed it
aside, nodded, and walked through the door into the Director’s in-
ner office, anticipation growing inside him as he relished the scene
about to play out.
However, as soon as he was greeted by the Director of Security on
the other side of the door, his confusion returned, joined by a sink-
ing feeling of unease as the door shut behind him.

“GOOD MORNING, MAX,” Kevin said cheerily as he extended his

hand to the other man. “Good to see you again. It’s been a while.”
Still stunned, Foster managed to give the DOS a weak handshake,
then glanced over and saw the DCI behind her desk wearing a light
gray blouse and black designer jacket, no doubt she would be wear-
ing pants that matched the jacket, and shoes that matched the
blouse. Grace Tunny-Baxter was known for her fashion sense almost
as much as for her keen intellect, and even her enemies knew the
woman was no dummy.
Foster was a little annoyed by the fact that the Director chose not
to rise and greet him, but he let it go, nodding as he walked over to
the two leather wing chairs before the desk in the middle of the of-
fice.
“Good morning, Director,” he said.
“Max,” she said coolly. “Have a seat, please. You, too, Kevin.”
Both men sat, Foster on the left, and faced their boss. As he stared
into Tunny-Baxter’s usually reserved gray eyes, this morning Foster
couldn’t help but observe that they seemed less inviting than usual,
and harder to read. Suddenly he began to wonder if perhaps he had
misjudged the reason for his summoning this morning.
Director Tunny-Baxter leaned forward on her desk, folded her
hands together, and simply stared at Maxwell Dennis Foster for two
full minutes, barely blinking, before another word was uttered.
When it was, it wasn’t the DCI speaking, but rather the Director of
Security, and that sinking feeling sunk all the way to the bottom.
“Max, you know me and you know I don’t bullshit,” Kevin said
evenly. “So let me tell you what we have here. We know that you
were involved in the attempted breach of Agency systems a couple
of weeks back, specifically the secured systems belonging to the
General Counsel and the Inspector General. We know that you have
also been using your position at the White House to influence cer-
tain people in the Agency to assist you in uncovering the identity of
the whistleblower who informed the IC/IG about alleged illegal con-
duct on the part of the president and members of his staff. And be-
fore you come up with any denials and perhaps a defense, let me
also tell you that we know and can prove you have had unauthorized
and unreported contact with a Russian illegal operating in D.C. un-
der commercial cover. There’s been an SAS team on you for more
than a week, Max, around-the-clock. And they’ve got some really
neat toys in their play box these days, in particular when it comes to
video and audio recording at long distances. And in case you think I
am bullshitting, does the name Igor Alexandrovitch Vonovitch ring
a bell?”
Grace Tunny-Baxter’s gaze was absolutely glacial as she looked
across her desk at the man she had wanted to throttle since learning
of his treachery a few days ago. He glanced at her briefly before re-
turning his gaze to Kevin, but he couldn’t maintain eye contact there
either, so he looked down at his lap.
“You could be arrested and charged with espionage right now,
Max,” Kevin continued in a quiet and logical tone, no trace of malice
in his voice, there was no need, his words said it all. “All it would
take would be one call to the FBI. By the way, they’re on Vonovitch
around-the-clock as well, so you know how he’s going to end up.
He’s an illegal so he has no diplomatic cover, but he might be in the
mood to make a deal, sell out any Americans he’s been working
with, in exchange for a lighter sentence. Or maybe he’ll choose to
defect…”
Foster’s eyes shot toward Kevin’s at that moment, his fear palpa-
ble. This morning definitely did not turn out the way he had imag-
ined it would. But perhaps he still had one ace up his sleeve. At least
he thought so until the DCI spoke next.
“As of this moment, Mr. Foster, your security clearance is
stripped, pending a full review of your activities.” And there went
that, without Agency security clearance Foster would never be able
to get a job at the White House, least of all the one promised to him
by his benefactor over there. “You are hereby suspended from any
official duties as an Agency representative. You will surrender your
credentials and all access cards to Agency and White House facilities
to Security before you are escorted off property today. That is, after
you have been thoroughly interviewed by a team from the Office of
Security and the Counterintelligence Center. I should warn you that
after that interview is done, it might be recommended to bring in
the FBI. If that is the case, whether or not you are taken into cus-
tody will be the sole responsibility of the Bureau’s Counterintelli-
gence Division. Is that understood, Mr. Foster?”
 Max Foster wasn’t hearing much of anything at the moment ex-
cept the loud beating of his heart that was at this very moment
threatening to burst from his chest. He did manage a weak nod after
the third time the Director called his name.
Kevin was already on his feet, opening the same door that Foster
had entered just fifteen minutes ago. Darlene Jacoby stood there,
and behind her, two uniformed SPOs, all stone-faced.
Tunny-Baxter was now on her feet and addressed her detail
leader.
“Darlene, please make sure that Mr. Foster finds his way to the
Counterintelligence Center on Five. There are some people waiting
to speak with him, at length.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the DCI Security Staff detail leader, stepping
forward to the chair where Foster still sat, one of the SPOs remain-
ing outside the office while the other was close behind Jacoby.
It took Jacoby’s hand on his left shoulder before Foster realized it
was time for him to move. He did so without resistance, moving
slowly, like a man on his way to the gallows, which, to some extent,
he was.
Alone once again, DCI Tunny-Baxter turned to Kevin.
“I’ve got to put an acting director over there ASAP,” she said
thoughtfully, a bit of a wolf-grin etching her patrician features. “And
come up with a plausible explanation for removing that jackass so
suddenly.”
“Plausible but not true,” Kevin said.
The Director did not answer, instead returned to the other side of
her desk and slipped on her glasses as she sat down, reaching for
her desk phone.
 “Nancy, find Lucy Atlas and have her report to my office immedi-
ately, please.”
When Tunny-Baxter looked up, removing her glasses once more,
Kevin was grinning.
A few seconds later, so was the DCI.
And then they were both laughing out loud.
 Chapter 18

Up until her tour ended six months ago, Lucy Atlas had been Max
Foster’s deputy at the White House. Upon her return to the Agency
she took a posting with the National Intelligence Council as Director
of Coordination. At forty-two she was a bit young for the post, but
everyone knew how bright and ambitious Atlas was and the DCI and
NIC Chairperson were both convinced that she could handle the job.
While at the White House she had made some good friends that
she maintained contact with, even lunched with on occasion, so her
connections there were still good. Max Foster’s sudden departure
for personal family reasons came as a big surprise to many, and
there were questions for Tunny-Baxter, which the DCI deftly an-
swered with reasonably believable bullshit that seemed to mollify
the questioners, though not completely satisfy some of them. Atlas
was capable and competent and that was the main thing, even if she
wasn’t as amenable to some of the White House’s desires as Foster
had been.
After being told by the DCI that she was going back to the White
House, and the initial shock passed, Atlas drove over to OS Head-
quarters for a private meeting with the DOS in his sixth floor SCIF.
Anna Betts was also present.
“I just wanted to shake your hand, Lucy,” Anna said with a smile.
“Officially, I have no clue about anything, but I just had to tell you
how much I admire what you did. Whatever the result once the
politicians have their say, you did the right thing and did all of us
and the country proud.”
Atlas nodded somberly, smiled as best she could.
“Thank you, Anna,” she said, and then the Deputy Director de-
parted, leaving Atlas alone with Kevin.
“As she said, she knows nothin’ about nothin’,” Kevin said as they
both sat at the table.”
“Understood,” Atlas said. “So I guess you know?”
Kevin nodded.
“I was in her office when Grace made the call. She is right, you are
the best choice for the job, and there is a hell of an irony here.”
“You’re telling me,” she said. “And I guess this really means they
had no clue all along.”
“With this White House, I’d say that’s always a safe bet. Nobody
knows that you are the whistleblower because if they even had an
inkling, you’d never be allowed back, and right now your face and
name would be all over every media outlet. In a way, sending you
back probably takes suspicion away from you. And with the inquiry
in the House moving forward with other direct witnesses, they’ll
probably forget about you soon anyway. Security is being pulled
from you as of today, however, if you suspect an issue regarding
your safety, contact my mobile number immediately, or the Duty
Security Office. Understood?”
“Got it. What really happened with Max Foster, Kevin? The Direc-
tor won’t say.”
“And neither will I,” Kevin said, rising from the table. “After all,
we are in the secrets business around here. Good luck over there,
Director Atlas. And keep your eyes pealed. Something tells me this
White House nightmare is far from over. On the plus side, we still
have people like you in the fold who know right from wrong. I echo
my deputy’s sentiments. You did us all proud. Keep up the good
work.”
They shook hands and Kevin escorted Atlas from the SCIF. Both
had a lot of work to do.

ANGIE HAD TO TAKE A LAST MINUTE trip to Paris over the

weekend and that left Kevin and Pali alone with plenty of father and
son trouble to get into because Pali’s girlfriend was also unavailable
that weekend and Reggie had other plans. The two Mada men ended
up in West Virginia at a Star Trek convention where they got to
meet Jonathan Frakes and Marina Sirtis.
Angie would not be back in the U.S. before Wednesday and this
gave Kevin plenty of time to read reports and sign off on up coming
assignments, or to deny assets for ongoing ones that he saw as
wasteful.
Wednesday morning Mindy Gregg came into his office in a rush,
not even bothering to knock. The usually unflappable executive as-
sistant was grinning from ear to ear and clearly excited by some-
thing. Kevin stood from behind his desk and stared at her.
“You won the lottery?” he teased.
“Al Kramer is awake!” she shouted.
Thirty seconds later Kevin was leaving his office on the run.

AT SIX THAT EVENING, HAVING BEEN summoned an hour ear-

lier while he was still at Bethesda, Kevin arrived in the Director’s of-
fice suite at Headquarters.
 “Wonderful news about Al,” she greeted him just inside the door,
smiling and shaking his hand. “He still has a long road to recovery,
but at least it now looks as if he will pull through. Dr. Green from
[cc]
OMS spoke to the head of cardiology at Bethesda and got all the
details.”
Kevin nodded, feeling relief for the first time since his friend had
fallen ill.
“Yeah. He’s still doped to the gills and can’t focus all that well, but
his wife says he recognizes everybody and remembers where he was
when he had the attack. By the way, she says thank you for every-
thing you’ve done for the family over the past week, making sure
their kids got an escort from the airport and all. She also asked me
to tell you that she is not letting her husband come back to this place
ever again. We can pack up his office and send whatever personal
items we find, or throw them away. Somehow I don’t think Al will
see it that way, but he’s gonna be in recovery for some time.”
The Director smiled again, walked Kevin over to the sitting group
to the left of her desk and they sat down on the sofa.
“I’m with Mrs. Kramer. Al was on short time before this. With
medical leave and vacation, plus a little creative accounting, we can
make his retirement an even thirty-five years and he won’t lose any-
thing. I’ll personally guarantee it.”
Kevin nodded, taking a moment to work out a kink in his neck.
“Lucy Atlas is settling into her new position at the White House,”
the Director said. “And so far no problems. As I understand it, there
is a bit of a scramble on over there anyway as subpoenas are being
delivered and the president is demanding that they be ignored. Ap-
parently some of the recipients might be planning to revolt.”
 “Politics,” Kevin said disgustedly. “Of the many good things about
this town, that taints all of them. Which is why I’m probably looking
forward to retirement in a few years more than ever before.”
Tunny-Baxter grinned and patted his knee.
“Me first, my friend, me first.”
Kevin smiled, then caught something in his boss’ eyes, frowned.
“Kevin,” the DCI said, suddenly serious. “I need you now more
than ever.” And there it was, the ultimate oh shit moment. “The Di-
rectorate of Support is of vital importance to the order and opera-
tion of the Agency and it’s essential that the right person be in
charge of it. Al Kramer always wanted you to succeed him, you know
that. He believed that of all the people under his leadership, you
were head and shoulders above the rest in terms of management
skills and integrity. The Office of Security is the most efficiently run
department within DS, hell, likely the whole Agency, and your fit-
ness evaluations are stellar. They always have been. We’ve known
each other a long time, too, and I’ve always been impressed with
your work, was keen to recommend you to my predecessor to take
over as DOS when the job became available. A job that I also know
you didn’t want at the time. And I know you don’t really want this
one either, but I have to ask you to consider it now, in light of Al’s
sudden departure. As I said, I need you. The Agency needs you.
Please strongly consider taking over as Acting Deputy Director for
Support, at least in the interim. If in a couple of months it isn’t
working for you, perhaps a more suitable candidate will emerge.”
Kevin stared at the Director for a long time, thinking up all kinds
of excuses for not taking the job, and knowing that they were all ex-
cuses. Of course, he really didn’t want it, he was perfectly happy as
the DOS, although Grace was right, he hadn’t wanted that job either
when he was pressed into taking it nearly four years ago. But still,
this was the senior ranks of the Agency. There would be more poli-
tics, more time spent on Capitol Hill, perhaps even the White
House, and it would likely mean that the remaining few years of his
time at the Agency wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as they would be
if he remained in the Office of Security.
But then there was duty, one of the driving reasons he had joined
the CIA in the first place. To serve.
Fuck!
That he said in his head, to the Director he said he’d have to talk
to Angie when she got back from Paris tomorrow, but in all likeli-
hood he would take the interim position of acting DDS until a suit-
able replacement could be found.
Grace Tunny-Baxter could hardly contain her pleasure at hearing
this, reached over and took both of Kevin’s hands in hers, squeezing.
“Thank you, Kevin,” she said sincerely. “Oh, and I suppose you
plan on making Anna Betts’ day, too, when you tell her?”
Kevin grinned as he considered that conversation.
“Probably. Between her and Hector, Anna is the obvious choice.
I’ll tell her it’s only temporary until you find a permanent replace-
ment for Al. She’ll be acting, too. Probably make it easier to swal-
low.”
The Director grinned again, looked at her watch and then stood.
“I’ve got to get going, Kevin. My husband and I have dinner plans
with friends in Chevy Chase this evening. You should head home,
too.”
Kevin nodded, standing.
“I will,” he said a little somberly, glancing around the Director’s
office.
 Tunny-Baxter observed him and smiled.
“Well you’re on your way now, Mr. Deputy Director,” she quipped.
“Who knows, you play your cards right, you might be able to hang
your hat up in here when I leave.”
Kevin Mada cast a smirk her way, shaking his head, then re-
minded her, “That’s Mr. Acting Deputy Director, Director, and
goodnight.”

“THANKS, I’LL TAKE CARE OF THAT myself,” Anna Betts said as

she walked into her office, her executive assistant on her heels. “I’ll
be going down to Camp Peary tomorrow for the change of command
ceremony between the incoming and outgoing chief of security at
the Farm. It starts at noon so I’ll likely just leave home and take the
three hour drive down. Unless something changes, I won’t be back
in the office until day after tomorrow.”
“Understood,” said the EA. “Anything else you need me to take
care of for you? Oh, those budget reports will be ready in an hour
and I’ll have them brought right to you.”
Anna smiled, moving behind her desk, glancing over at Mindy
Gregg.
“You’re just too damned efficient, Mindy,” said the new (Acting)
DOS as she sat down at her desk. “Glad you decided to stay here
rather than go with Kevin.”
Mindy Gregg smiled at her new boss, adjusted her bifocals.
“I’ve been in Security since the day I joined the Agency and I’ll be
here until the day they escort me out. This is my home, where I be-
long. I am happy for Deputy Director Mada, though, and I’ve made
sure he is well taken care of over at Headquarters. Clark went with
him and his new EA is very good, as well. He’s in good hands.”
 Director Betts nodded.
“Good then, and that’s all for now. Thanks.”
Gregg nodded, turned and left her boss alone.
Anna glanced around for her glasses, opened the middle drawer of
her desk, found the glasses and a folded sheet of paper. Frowning,
she unfolded it and after a second started grinning.
It was a pencil drawing of Deputy Dawg with a CIA emblem
where his star should have been. It was signed with a K. Anna
smiled again, put her glasses on and refolded the paper, putting it
back in the drawer and shutting it.

FROM HOUSE IMPEACHMENT INQUIRY to Senate trial and ac-

quittal took just over five months, and then it was election season
again, not a whole lot having changed in highly partisan and divided
Washington, D.C., and the country at-large. Despite the loss of a key
player in his efforts to disrupt democracy in the United States—Igor
Vonovitch was picked up by the FBI but eventually deported instead
of being charged after the Attorney General and White House be-
came involved—Vladimir Putin was quite a content man as he
watched chaos continue to consume American politics and the peo-
ple of the United States became increasingly angry and distrustful of
one another and especially their government. It made the plans he
had for Europe and other parts of the world where Moscow in-
tended to exert greater influence that much easier to achieve. Soon
dreams of Russia as a resurgent and dominant world power would
become a reality, and the person at the center of that domination
would become the most powerful man on Earth.
That is, if somebody didn’t stop him first.
CONNER RICKS HAS A CABIN DOWN in Fredericksburg, Virginia
a good distance away from D.C. and sometimes he goes there alone
to clear his mind and get away from the pressures of his work.
Sometimes he hunts, sometimes he fishes, and sometimes he just
likes to take long walks in the woods.
He was just finishing up a walk and returning to his cabin when
he noticed another vehicle parked behind his near the front, and the
vehicle was familiar to him. He was halfway to the front door when
it opened and Angie Dell-Mada stepped out wearing a heavy green
sweater, blue jeans, and hiking boots.
Ricks smiled.
“Well hello, beautiful,” he said, stopping in front of her. “What a
pleasant surprise.”
They embraced warmly and then she took him by the arm and es-
corted him inside. He had left the fireplace ready and now a fire had
been set, the damp chilliness from early gone.
“I’ve made some tea, decaf, of course. I know your wife is con-
cerned about your blood pressure.”
Ricks snorted.
“But you aren’t my wife,” he protested with a grin.
“Well that would be awkward as hell,” Angie chuckled. “Consider-
ing the guy sitting on the couch over there thinks I’m his wife.”
Ricks turned and saw Kevin sitting on the sofa against the far
wall, hunched over the coffee table sifting through several file fold-
ers. He glanced over.
“Have fun playing with yourself in the woods?”
Ricks shook his head.
“Did you know that you’ve become such a dick since you moved to
the seventh floor at HQ?” he said.
 “Comes with the job,” Kevin said, returning his attention to the
coffee table. “I see you’ve been very busy these past few months, Mr.
Ricks. Very thorough work.”
“Thank you,” Ricks said, accepting a cup of tea from Angie and go-
ing over to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the sofa, across
from the coffee table. “Dr. Dell-Mada’s work in Europe has been
most helpful in moving mine along.”
Angie held two more cups in her hands, walked over and handed
one to her husband, smiling at Ricks again, then sat down beside
Kevin, tentatively sipping from hers.
“The sound maskers are all up and running,” she said, looking up.
“We’re secure.”
Kevin glanced at his wife, who was also his Director of Operations,
and nodded, turning back to Conner Ricks, his Director of Intelli-
gence.
“Okay, Con,” he said, resting his free hand on Angie’s thigh.
“You’ve got the floor. Tell us how close we are to actually being able
to pull this off, and stopping that arrogant son of a bitch before he
can’t be stopped.”
Ricks sipped his tea, nodded to himself, and then sat back and ex-
plained to his coconspirators exactly where they were at this point
in their highly ambitious and totally unauthorized covert operation,
and just how far they had left to go before one of two results would
come to fruition.
Total success or complete disaster.

END

Kevin Mada and company will return for their final adventure:
THE DOWNFALL
COMING IN 2021…
[a]
Coming soon!
[b]
From the Off-Book, Derrick Olin, The Lost Years set.
[c]
Writing as Leo Croix.
[d]
Coming soon!
[e]
Coming soon!
[f]
Writing as Leo Croix.
[g]
Writing as Leo Croix.
[h]
Coming soon!
[i]
Fuckhead wearing a MAGA hat and swearing absolute loyalty to the
Putin-installed lizard in the White House as of January 2017.
[j]
Nickname for the Director of Security at CIA.
[k]
Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, pronounced skiff.
[l]
See PUSHBACK by Leo Croix.
[m]
Area Security Officer.
[n]
Short for whistleblower.
[o]
Formerly Special Protection Officers, a holdover term from when Uni‐
formed Division was known as the Special Protection Service (SPS) and
its officers were called SPOs. Today they are called Security Protective Of‐
ficers and are members of the Security Protective Service.
[p]
The insider nickname for the DCI Security Staff, The Staff.
[q]
Senior Intelligence Service, Level 5. In the CIA, beyond GS (General
Schedule) 15, officers become members of the Senior Intelligence Service.
In every other government agency they become members of the Senior Ex‐
ecutive Service (SES).
[r]
Deputy Director for Support.
[s]
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the Foreign Intelligence Service of the
Russian Federation.
[t]
Entered On Duty.
[u]
Director of National Intelligence.
[v]
Directorate of Operations.
[w]
Directorate of Analysis.
[x]
Black Widows, wives of Chechen fighters killed in battle who agree to
become martyrs and seek vengeance against those who took their beloved.
[y]
Command Post.
[z]
Canada’s primary intelligence agency, the Security Intelligence Service.
[aa]
Diplomatic Security Service.
[bb]
Multi-Disciplined Security Officers.
[cc]
Office of Medical Services.
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