“Always happy to improve agency-military cooperation.” Cunningham spoke with the light lilt of south Virginia. He’d been born in Roanoke.
“Glad to hear. I know you’re busy, so let me get to it. I have a request for you.”
“Request away.”
“I’d like your files on a warrant officer named Daniel Lorenzo Francesca.”
“How do you know he’s one of ours?”
“Please, Colonel. You’re not denying it, are you?” Shafer made a finger pistol and pulled the trigger,
“I’m neither admitting nor denying. I’m asking you how you know.”
“His jacket indicates he’s a Delta op.” The jacket was the section of Francesca’s personnel file that would be archived and made publicly available after his retirement. It included the basic facts of his service: deployments, dates of promotion, awards. Shafer was asking for the full file, including disciplinary record, aptitude tests, and notes from commanders. The permanent record, in the words of a 1950s high school principal.
“I’m not going to give you access to my personnel files. And for the record, I am still neither confirming nor denying that this man is one of mine.”
“You have a funny definition of agency-military cooperation, Colonel.”
Silence. Shafer pushed on.
“I understand he’s in a pilot project, two-man sniper teams. Official name is Detachment 71.”
“We’re going in circles here, Mr. Shafer. I just told you I will not confirm or deny anything about Mr. Francesca. Might as well ask me to pull my pants down and cough for you. As for that project”—and Cunningham’s voice turned into a sneer—“maybe you should talk to your boss about it.”
In his anger, Cunningham had answered a question that Shafer hadn’t thought to ask. “Fair enough, Colonel. I’ll do that.”
“And now you need to tell me why you’re asking about my officer.”
“All I can say is that I’m conducting an investigation and his name came up. I’d like his record. Since you’ve declined, I’d ask you at least to do me the courtesy of not informing him that we’ve spoken.” A request that ensured Cunningham’s next call would go directly to Kandahar.
“What kind of investigation?”
“The criminal kind.”
“With due respect, Mr. Shafer, you are on very thin ice. If you have evidence that one of my men has broken the law, you’d best tell me about it so I can open an Article 32 if necessary. I wouldn’t want you to interfere with the military justice system. That’s a crime. And if you don’t have hard evidence, if this is a fishing expedition, I will make you pay. You come clean on this now and maybe I won’t call OSD”—the Office of the Secretary of Defense —“and turn it into a real tornado.”
“Anyone who knows me will tell you I love tornadoes, sir.”
“Do you now.”
“And wicked witches and cowardly lions, too.”
“Well, then, Dorothy, why don’t you—” Cunningham ended the conversation with an anatomically impossible suggestion and slammed down the phone.
“Pleasure talking to you, too, Colonel.”
THE EASY PART WAS DONE. Now Shafer faced a trickier conversation. He took the internal stairs to the seventh floor. He was huffing when he arrived at Duto’s windowless anteroom. He sat heavily among the whispering praetorian guard, wishing he had a magazine. Something transgressive, a
Shafer found Duto with the phone to his ear. He wore a lightweight blue suit that was cut to emphasize his chest, and a shirt so white that it nearly glowed. Again Shafer marveled at how far Duto had come. Maybe Wells was right. Maybe Duto was thinking White House. Though he had no ideology, as far as Shafer could tell. Like Nixon, Duto wanted power strictly for its own sake. To reward friends and punish enemies.
Shafer sat in the leather chairs nearest Duto’s desk. A briefing book sat on the polished wood and Shafer reached for it. Duto slapped at his hand.
“I’m as excited as you are, Chairman.” Duto wheeled his index finger, the universal sign for
He hung up.
“Senator Travers. He wants to see the real Afghanistan. And also he wants a zero-risk trip.”
“A safari of sorts.”
“And equally authentic. We leave in three days, Ellis. Hour’s getting short. You and the boy wonder close?”
“We’ve found the soldier in charge of running the trafficking.”
“And I care because?”
“Because he’s the one guy who knows the mole’s real name. He’s a Delta named Daniel Francesca.” Shafer watched Duto for signs of recognition, didn’t see it. “And also because Colonel Cunningham, the Delta commander, is going to call you screaming from Fort Bragg in about fifteen minutes. Probably the E-Ring, too.”
“You been making friends again, Ellis.”
“Ever heard of Detachment 71?”
Duto smiled. For real. An uncommon sight. Duto pretended to smile a lot, but usually his eyes didn’t follow his lips.
“You’re kidding me. Francesca’s in 71?”
Shafer nodded.
“Where’s he based?”
“Kandahar. Tell me about 71, Vinny.”
“I suspect you already know, but 71 started four years ago. Technically it’s still a pilot project. The Pentagon wanted true black ops capability, so JSOC created two-man sniper teams that can operate outside the wire for medium-term missions, anywhere from forty-eight hours to two weeks. They received extra language training, six months of immersion at Monterey. They wear local clothes, drive local vehicles, carry local IDs. No uniforms, no official or unofficial connection to us. Complete deniability.”
“Nonofficial cover is our job.”
“They aren’t intelligence officers. They handle military missions where standard infiltration by helicopter or convoy is impossible. Sit on top of ratlines. Or let’s say we have intel that a Talib commander may visit a village in the next seven days, but nothing more specific. A 71 team could set up outside the village and wait for him.”
“So what’s it a pilot for? Infiltrating Iran? Pakistan? You can’t have liked this, Vinny. Giving the military even more power.”
“I expressed my concerns, that’s true. Explained that this kind of covert action capability had to be managed closely.”
“I’ll bet. Lo and behold, you send me and John out to find a mole. Lo and behold, we stumble onto a program you hate. Fool me once.”
“I know where you’re going but you’re wrong.” Two years before, Duto had asked Wells and Shafer to investigate the murders of a team of CIA operatives. He hadn’t told them he hoped their investigation would help him rid himself of a rival.
Shafer walked around Duto’s desk and stood by the triple-glassed, bulletproofed, sound-dampened window that offered unobstructed views to the Potomac. Langley had once been on the very edge of the federal sprawl. But the government had grown and grown. Bits of the military-intelligence complex were all around them. The turf wars and lies had grown, too. Shafer looked over his shoulder. “You love a marked deck, don’t you, Vinny? Won’t play without one.”
Duto lifted his hands, like a man with nothing to hide. Like a politician. “Truth, Ellis. I had no idea what you and John would find. Or that this guy was involved. Dumping 71 would be nice, sure, but the whole program is
