He’d been brought into the Directorate of Operations as a senior staff operations officer soon after completion of his—decidedly abbreviated, thank you Director Boothman—clandestine service trainee program. And no, he would not get over the ludicrous naming scheme, ma’am.
Admittedly, most of it had been a thoroughly terrifying but succinct course in how not to bungle the handling of national intelligence delivered by one of the Director’s executive staff before he was gleefully poached by the head of the operations department, one Colonel Thompson, to start hands-on training in the form of updating and implementing all of the proposed patches the man had found so riveting, followed by a truly dizzying deep dive into all facets of maintaining the division responsible for covert operations. Cyber security, yes, but also developing technology, data collection, threat analysis, and supporting field agents through their missions.
It took the better part of a year for Syler to realize the abnormality of the entire situation pointed to his having been hand picked by the aging Colonel to become his second-in-command. Once given the chance to catch his breath and settle in, Syler couldn’t complain. The current Director of Operations, as he himself had eventually explained, came from an older, more physical generation of spy craft, and the future of counterintelligence was undeniably digital. Nearing seventy years of age, he needed a jack-of-all-trades ready to take the helm of his department someday, but a cyber security master was especially paramount, not only to defend that which the CIA maintained but to access that which they needed and lay in the hands of other parties.
Getting to design the tech—who was Syler kidding, gadgets—used by the paramilitary operations officers, otherwise known as field agents—honestly just call a spy a spy already—was really just the icing on top of the cake.
He swiped his security badge over the entry pad, slipping through the door into the branch main office.
“Morning, S!” Maria called, senior manager of the night shift looking bright-eyed despite having been up all night monitoring agents. Even her chestnut curls looked unfairly tidy. Syler couldn’t relate to that level of organization.
“Morning, how’s the situation in Bolivia?” He dropped his messenger bag onto the central command desk, unofficially his for the last few months, disturbing a pile of paperwork as he did. The Colonel preferred the quiet of his workshop office, tucked off on the periphery of the open floor plan room.
“Stable. Agent Garcia is poised to plant the bugs before the gala tonight. Her target is all too happy to have her attention for the afternoon.” One could always count on wealthy, corrupt men to enjoy the company of a young, attractive woman, particularly when it included an opportunity to peacock in advance of an event held in his honor. Pity for him the woman in question was a senior special agent of a foreign nation.
“Wonderful. She’s been notified that I’ll be on comms to guide her throughout?”
“Yup. Latest firewall testing reports are in your box and range notes on the latest bugs are being tabulated now. Should be done in a few hours. Anything else before I head out?” Reyes shouldered her bag, already half-way to the door. Must be nice to have someone to rush home to after work.
“Is the Colonel in?”
“Nah, he’s in a meeting with the Director all morning. One of the deep cover agents just returned for debrief apparently. Enjoy being in charge again, boss!” She waved, hair bouncing as she turned and headed out, joining the throng of staff coming and going as day shift took over.
His life was a spy film and he was, somehow, a spy. For the CIA. ‘No ambition, my ass,’ he thought, logging into the system to review and disseminate the morning’s work load.
Life was good.
Three
Life was not good for one Special Agent Arthur Dufault, although that didn’t seem to stop anyone from joining the pile on. His most recent assignment had been a half year long prelude to a disaster wherein months of meticulous infiltration leading to the arrangement of a private meeting between himself and his target had culminated in a lethal brawl.
He was beginning to suspect that thirty-seven was too old for any shit, let alone this shit in particular, though that might be the lack of sleep and eleven hour return flight from Kiev talking. His suit jacket rode uncomfortably over the bandage on his left shoulder blade, the knife wound a parting shot from his now deceased mark, and dry blood flaked off from under his fingernails as he carded a hand through his short blond hair. God he needed a shower.
“You do understand, Agent, that your orders were to leave Mr. Shevchenko alive, with he and his associates none the wiser to your information retrieval, correct?” Director Boothman’s irritation was palpable, underscored by the meeting occurring not in her office but in the formal briefing room, resplendent in dark wood and markedly unyielding chairs enough to seat two dozen individuals. Today, it held only three. The subtle rebuke chafed.
“A bit hard to manage, what with our last meeting beginning and ending with him drawing a knife to reveal how spectacularly my cover had been blown. To whom do I owe my thanks for that, by the way?” He shifted his attention to the Colonel, tone insouciant but blue eyes promising murder.
“We’re still waiting on confirmation, though the Russian’s seem to be involved,” Thompson supplied.
“When aren’t they?” Arthur muttered. Boothman snorted softly.
“Whoever tipped them off, the breach didn’t occur internally,” the Colonel continued, and that was something at least. Arthur heaved a sigh, eyes returning to the Director.
“I
