“We need to meet in person to discuss our plan,” Fazil said.
“My cousin is getting married in Mirabad this weekend. Care to join us for the festivities? It’d be an honor to have you with us.”
“Send me all the information. You know how to reach me. I will be there.”
Fazil hung up and laughed.
In a few days, I’ll be free.
CHAPTER 27
Washington, D.C.
WHEN ALEX DUNCAN was growing up, she learned quickly that she needed to temper her thirst for justice if it consisted of pointing an accusatory finger, especially if she wanted to have friends. In the fourth grade, she once outed a girl for cheating even though it was a practice test. Alex reasoned that it wasn’t doing the girl any favors to turn a blind eye, assuming that one day she’d thank Alex for demonstrating what true character was. The girl had a funny way of showing Alex thanks. Two weeks after the incident, the girl sucker punched Alex in the face and refused to speak with her ever again.
Time after time, Alex refused to back down when she saw injustice, which was one of the driving factors for her when she decided to join the CIA. And when she saw something she considered threatening, she addressed it—even if her methods extended beyond the bounds of the agency’s jurisdiction or occasionally U.S. law. To Alex, the end justified the means. Perhaps it was naiveté or arrogance, but Alex trusted herself above anyone else. She vowed to right wrongs, a promise that eventually cost her job.
Alex was handling one of the CIA’s top assets in Afghanistan, who had an opportunity to take out one of the Taliban’s top leaders. Agency protocol dictated that she clear assassination attempts with the station chief, giving the chief time to decide whether to read in the host country. But the window of opportunity was thin, and Alex knew the bureaucratic red tape would eliminate the rare chance. The attempt was botched, putting the CIA in a poor diplomatic light. And while the responsibility fell at the feet of the station chief, Alex was dismissed immediately.
Upon returning to the U.S., the agency did everything in its power to smear Alex. This strategy included coercing New York Times reporter Angela Brentwood into writing a story alleging that Alex was fired for incompetence but had retained a lawyer for the express purpose of suing the CIA for an unjust firing. Alex denied it all, but a Washington lawyer told Brentwood that Alex had hired him. The story boiled down to a he-said-she said battle, which didn’t go well for Alex.
A year following Alex’s dismissal from the agency, she received an email from Brentwood. She claimed to be remorseful about what she’d done, realizing she’d been played. It was little consolation to Alex at the time, but the present situation seemed like the perfect opportunity to call Brentwood and see if the letter was just to assuage her guilt or a genuine attempt to reconcile. Alex hoped for the latter.
Alex contacted Brentwood and arranged a meeting at a Washington bistro to discuss the past—and the future.
As Brentwood approached the table ten minutes past their scheduled lunch date, Alex noted just how disheveled the reporter appeared. In Alex’s previous dealings with her, she sported a sharp blouse and skirt, her hair pulled up neatly in a bun. She barely resembled the ambitious reporter Alex remembered.
“Let me apologize again, Alex,” Brentwood began as she sat down. “It seems like that’s all I’m doing to you after your time with the CIA.”
“Is everything okay?” Alex asked.
“Why?” Brentwood looked down at her sweater, which looked worn and had a small coffee stain in the center. “Oh, this? Mishap this morning on my way out of Starbucks. The people in this town sometimes . . .”
“You don’t have to convince me. I’m a solid believer that Washington is full of snakes and sharks.”
“And assholes.”
“I was simply trying to be polite.”
Brentwood raised her hand to get the attention of the waitress. She hustled over and took the reporter’s order for a glass of red wine.
“Are you still working with The Times?” Alex asked.
“Not any more,” Brentwood said. “I was part of their downsizing initiative, something that seems to take place with alarming regularity in the industry now.”
“But you’re still in it?”
“Yes, I landed on my feet and got a job with The Washington Post. I help cover politics and even get the occasional bone thrown my way of getting to attend Presidential press conferences. But most days, I write a blog called Washington Whispers, but it’s not nearly as sexy as it sounds. I spend most of my time cobbling together blog posts based off tweets from members of congress.”
The waitress arrived with a glass of wine and placed it in front of Brentwood. She wasted no time in drinking half of it.
“I guess journalism isn’t what it used to be,” Alex said.
“That’s for damn sure. I consider every day that I don’t have to write about Kim Kardashian or share one of her Twitter posts a reason to celebrate.”
Alex took a deep breath and leaned forward on the table. “Sounds like you miss being involved in all the action.”
“That’s an understatement. I miss being involved in any meaningful action. Just a smidge of it might placate my desires these days.”
“Well, how would you like to get involved again?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how would you like to break one of the biggest stories this town has seen since Watergate?”
Brentwood knit her brow. “What’s the catch?”
“You’d be going up against the city’s most powerful people, and they’d definitely try to do everything they could to discredit and silence you.”
Brentwood laughed softly and finished off her wine. “Look at me. What do I have to lose? Just tell me what you want me to do.”
CHAPTER 28
PHASE ONE OF ALEX’S PLAN sounded simple when she first described
