“Thank you, Senator Ungerer,” said King. He looked around the room. “Does anyone disagree?”

  “Even though I probably disagree with whatever scheme you boys are dreaming up,” said Cadomyer, “I also know that Rashawna is right. It’s clearly vested within Article Two. Plus, on a practical level, what kind of government is going to punish someone for doing something we ask them to do?”

  “Good luck, Hector,” said Wetherbee, standing up. “We’ll be rooting for you.”

  “Who are the individuals you’ve selected, Hector?” said Senator Danica Wade.

  “I haven’t selected anyone yet,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll be reviewing files after we’re done.”

  “The committee is entitled to know who the men we’re setting loose on the United States are,” said Wade.

  “The Russian mob,” said King, interrupting. “We’re setting them loose on a bunch of killers and thugs.”

  “I stand corrected,” said Wade. “My point is, we have a right to know the people we’re authorizing preemptive presidential pardons for.”

  “I agree,” said Senator Wadmore-Smith.

  Several other senators nodded.

  “The knowledge of who these men are must be extremely guarded,” said Calibrisi. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable sharing their identities.”

  “I’ll speak for myself,” said Wade. “I took an oath to protect any and all information shared with the committee by the Central Intelligence Agency. I intend to honor that oath. But as long as I have a constitutional oversight role over the CIA, I expect to receive information that could effect my constitutionally mandated responsibility. Either I know the names of the CIA agents or I rescind my vote.”

  “Hear, hear,” said several senators.

  Calibrisi looked at Dellenbaugh. Dellenbaugh was blank and emotionless. He was telling Calibrisi that it was Calibrisi’s decision.

  Calibrisi glanced at Adrian King, the White House chief of staff. King, an experienced federal prosecutor, was shaking his head back and forth, saying to Calibrisi, don’t do it.

  Calibrisi walked over to King.

  “Please excuse us,” said Calibrisi.

  They stepped to the corner of Hastings’s large office.

  When they were out of earshot, Calibrisi spoke.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Calibrisi.

  “What? That I don’t trust half of these motherfuckers as far as I can throw them?” said King, nodding politely and smiling at the group of senators out of earshot.

  “Something like that,” said Calibrisi, grinning. “Maybe not quite as harsh.”

  “Oh, hell, chief,” conceded King. “You have to tell them. Senator Wade is actually right. Besides, she’s got us over a barrel—and she’s not alone.”

  Calibrisi walked back to the conclave.

  “Fine,” said Calibrisi. “It’s eyes only and no staff members. As I said, I haven’t selected the members of the unit. When I do, I’ll apprise you of their identities.”

  CHAPTER 11

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  By the time Calibrisi arrived back at CIA headquarters, Bill Polk, the bespectacled, balding head of the agency’s Directorate of Operations—Langley’s secretive, clandestine, highly trained crew of spies and assassins—was waiting.

  Calibrisi’s instructions to Polk had been simple. They needed to find two individuals for a deep-cover, possibly long-term mission. Calibrisi wanted three things: fluency in Russian, tenure inside the Eastern Bloc, and a “quadrant-level kill ratio,” an internal measure of an operator’s killing ability inside complex, lethal situations, especially in dead zones.

  Calibrisi entered his office and immediately removed his coat and tie. Polk was seated in one of two chairs in front of Calibrisi’s desk. With his brown corduroy suit, bow tie, and horn-rimmed glasses, Polk looked more like an English professor at a small, New England liberal arts college than the man responsible for directing Langley’s paramilitary projects across the globe.

  “You got me some names?” said Calibrisi, reaching for the manila folder Polk was holding.

  Polk pulled it back before Calibrisi could grab it.

  “What’s it for?” said Polk, a cagey look in his eyes.

  Calibrisi stared at him.

  “Like most of the world, I’m vaguely aware of what just happened,” said Polk warily. “You know and I know we are not allowed to operate on American soil. I’m not going to jail because someone higher up than me is pissed off at the Russians.”

  Calibrisi nodded, then grinned.

  “I knew you’d say that,” said Calibrisi, chuckling. “I’m going to tell you about something. It stays between us, Bill.”

  “Got it.”

  Calibrisi sat down and walked Polk through his conversation with Dellenbaugh and the codicil. He walked Polk through the process for voting. Polk listened without asking questions.

  When Calibrisi was finished, Polk handed him the folder.

  “So SSCI voted unanimously?” said Polk.

  “That’s right.”

  “We’re speaking the same language here, right, chief?”

  “Kill team,” said Calibrisi. “A domestic exfoliation crew. Preemptive presidential pardons for any and all acts on U.S. soil. In-theater command control. No leashes, no oversight. Expires a year following creation of the unit. Must be reinstituted.”

  “And the president got seven Democrats and eight Republicans to agree on something?”

  “Yes,” said Calibrisi.

  Polk nodded.

  “What are you contemplating?” said Polk. “How many? Obviously, I know the background you’re looking for.”

  “Two to begin with. We’ll be designing it on the fly, and I don’t want more variables than we can manage.”

  “We can manage?” said Polk. “Hector, unless you and I are also getting pardons, we ain’t managing shit.”

  “Understood. I didn’t mean we. I meant they.”

  “Well, I brought you three names,” said Polk.

  Calibrisi opened the folder. There were three pages. Each was a “spec sheet”—a summary page—on the individuals Polk had selected. Each sheet was stamped EYES ONLY—DCIA in red. At the top of each sheet was a black-and-white face shot. All three were male.

  The first sheet showed a young, dark-haired, thick-necked Hispanic man with a mustache and a blank, deathly stare.

  “Friendly-looking fellow,” said Calibrisi.

  VAZQUEZ, PABLO MARTINE

  NOC 3320P-8

  CAREER HIGHLIGHT(S):

  ITC: RUS/UKR

  Tenerife (Exxon/SINOPEC) Massacre

  Lexan (Sevastopol) affair

  Polikhaz Assassination

  Fmr.

  SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP

  Eastern Sector

  Active assignments:

  Sevastopol

  Kiev

  Siberia

  COMBAT APPLICATIONS GROUP (dis. Langley)

  U.S. MARINE CORPS

  LANGUAGE(S):

  ENG

  SPA

  RUS

  ARA

  UKR

  #K.R. 57.2%

  (NOTE: Tier 1/Rank 7)

  Action(s):

  Madagascar, 2018

  2

  Cairo, 2018

  1

  London, 2018

  4

  Sau Paolo, 2018

  1

  BVI, 2017

  2

  Reykjavik, 2017

  1

  Paris, 2017

  3

  Verbier FR, 2014

  5

  Paris, 2014

  1

  Moscow, 2013

  2

  University of Southern California Dec 2012

  Intl Relations B.A. 3.97 GPA

  Varsity Swimming

  Varsity Soccer (Captain 11–12)

  Calibrisi moved to the next sheet. A pale-skinned man with a slightly crooked nose, as if it had been broken a few times. His eyes were hollow-looking, with dark bags around them. He had longish dark hair, down to his shoulders. He looked almost like a hippie, but another photo showed him in a wet suit, emerging from a swamp, a rifle in his arms, trained forward. It was a photo found on the man he’d been sent to kill, who accidentally took it with his cell just before the pale-skinned man gunned him down. Like Vazquez’s, the look was emotionless, unless one knew his background, and then the look made sense: operational; a killer of the highest caliber.

  “This guy actually makes the first guy look friendly,” said Calibrisi.

  “We’re not running a preschool,” said Polk.

  “Yeah, I picked up on that.”

  SMITH, JAMES GREGORY

  NOC 65T-55

  CAREER HIGHLIGHT(S):

  Special Assignment: Moscow

  Assassination Binkerton (MI6 loan)

  OP: “Exfoliate”

  Assassination Polykov (GRU)

  Per DDCIA

  Assassination Verner (Freytag)

  Fmr.

  SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP

  Eastern Sector

  Active assignments:

  Moscow

  Greenland (Arctic Mining Recon)

  NOTE: Proficiency in extreme climatic conditions, subterranean explosive design, and hand-to-hand combat.

  COMBAT APPLICATIONS GROUP (dis. Langley)

  U.S. ARMY RANGERS

  LANGUAGE(S):

  ENG

  RUS

  ARA

  FR

  #K.R. 60.9%

  (NOTE: Tier 1/Rank 3)

  Columbia College, Columbia Univ. May 2009

  History B.A. 3.47 GPA

  Theater

  Varsity Fencing (NCAA championship 06, 08, 09)

  Calibrisi flipped to the third sheet. It showed a bald man with a muscular forehead and eyes set a bit wide. The man’s neck was thick and appeared to be about the same width as his head. He had an overgrown beard and mustache. Like the others, the stare was like a statue, stone cold, alert, fearsome.

  “Well, at least one of these guys has your hairdo, Bill,” said Calibrisi.

  “A plethora of testosterone,” agreed Polk. “Thought we should have at least one good-looking guy.”

  COSGROVE, WILLIAM JOSLIN

  NOC X5-994

  CAREER HIGHLIGHT(S):

  Special Assignment: Venezuela

  “Savage Night” (GRU trap) Caracas 2

  Caracas (active)

  Exfiltration Markov, P.

  OP: “Clear Cut”

  Assassination Zimmer, D. (Freytag)

  Per DDCIA

  Assassination Sanchez, N. (CIA)

  Fmr.

  SPECIAL OPERATIONS GROUP

  South America Sector

  Active assignments:

  Rio

  Karachi

  Caracas

  Buenos Aires

  Greenland (Arctic Mining Recon)

  U.S. Navy SEALs (dis. Langley)

  ACTIVE: Tier 7a (JSOC) command, Section 4

  Pakistan border/Afghanistan border

  EXF 22

  Direction of all units within 100 square mile quadrant along the Khyber Pass.

  Government ID# 227Y

  Provisional authority under SECDEF 1.B

  LANGUAGE(S):

  ENG

  RUS

  URD

  SPA

  FAR

  #K.R. 49.0%

  (NOTE: Tier 1/Rank 18)

  Duke University May 2008

  Film Studies B.A. 3.22 GPA

  Varsity Football (captain 08)

  Calibrisi put the folder down and looked at Polk.

  “Cosgrove is the only one who doesn’t meet the criteria,” said Calibrisi. “Kill ratio is below fifty-five. I assume you have a reason, beyond his good looks?”

  “Actually two,” said Polk. “First, he’s highly organized. That’s why he’s in Peshawar. He’s running wipeout teams up the Khyber Pass. You need someone organized to run this. Also, he’s a great guy. I recruited him myself.”

  “Two?”

  “He’s good-looking,” said Polk. “Look at that kid’s hairdo.”

  Calibrisi laughed.

  “What’s two?”

  “Vazquez and Smith are deeply embedded in dark zones,” said Polk seriously. “It’s taken us years to build out.”

  “Got it,” said Calibrisi.

  “There’s another thing, and it doesn’t feed into the decision, but it’s real,” said Polk. “Cosgrove has a family. His wife divorced him while he was in Karachi. He has two young children. If this is inside the United States, it would give him a chance to see them every once in a while. She took the kids to Atlanta. Broke his heart. She’s remarried. If he could be more of a father it would be the least we could do for being the cause of it.”

  “How soon can you get him here?” said Calibrisi.

  “He’s in Peshawar,” said Polk. “Assuming I can find him, tomorrow.”

  “Do it,” said Calibrisi.

  “I thought we wanted two guys,” said Polk. “It sounds like we only have one.”

  Calibrisi stood up and picked up the folder. He looked at Polk.

  “You know and I know who the other one is,” said Calibrisi.

  Polk said nothing.

  “He has the highest kill ratio in the history of the Agency,” said Calibrisi. “He’s fluent in Russian and Ukrainian.”

  “He’s in the private sector,” said Polk.

  “It’s because you know him too well,” said Calibrisi. “He’s not just a name. You know how dangerous this fucking thing is going to be. He’s the best choice and you know it.”

  “He’s never spent material time inside a deep cover,” snapped Polk. “He’s an assassin. You know it and I know it.”

  “Which is precisely why he’s the person we want for this,” said Calibrisi.

  “If we place him inside any sort of Russian paradigm, we might get him killed,” said Polk. “You asked me for my advice and I’m giving it to you.”

  “We’re fighting a war on American soil,” said Calibrisi. “If you don’t believe it, just ask Nick Blake. We need Rob Tacoma right now.”

  “Fine,” said Polk. “I’ll call Billy Cosgrove and get him on a plane. Do you want me to call Tacoma?”

  “No, I’ll talk to Rob myself.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Torkham

  Near Peshawar, Pakistan

  Billy Cosgrove skulked silently down the alley and then down a crumbling flight of stairs. He quickly picked the lock and entered the basement through an old wooden door, removing a suppressed Glock 19 from a concealed holster at his waist.

  Cosgrove stood at six foot four and weighed in at 260 pounds, most of it muscle. His face was painted a patchwork of dark green and black, the whites of his eyes the only detail visible in the darkness.

  The room reeked of stale garbage. It was dark, and blisteringly hot.

  If his source was right, the door at the far side of the basement would lead to another room. Above that room was an apartment inside which the man was staying.

  Cosgrove pulled night optics down over his eyes and flipped them on, scanning quickly in a bright green hue. He looked silently across piles of garbage and cardboard, stacks of paint cans, and then it all went white as someone flipped a light switch and the room was illuminated in bright, blinding yellow.

  “Marhabaan, ya sadiqi,” came a voice.

  Hello, friend.

  Cosgrove turned and looked toward the door. Three men were standing in a loose row. The two men in back had guns out. Their spokesman stood with his arms crossed, a look of confidence and anger on his face. He was young and bearded, dressed in tribal clothes.

  Cosgrove acquired him in the site line of the suppressor.

  “Ma aldhy tafealuh huna?” the man said.

  What are you doing here?

  “Thlatht 'iilaa wahid,” said Cosgrove as he squared off, moving backward, buying time. “Tahtaj thlatht rajal?”

  Three to one. You need three men?

  “I don’t need three men. But it makes it more fun.”

  Break the team into parts. Start with the strongest. Kill quickly.

  The lead man moved forward and began to slowly circle in an arc as the other two flanked him at either side, guns raised and trained on Cosgrove. Cosgrove again inched backward, creating distance, gun still raised and moving quickly now, across the three gunmen; he had little time.

  The goal was to fire three consecutive shots, in three linear targets, either right-left or left-right, prior to the sound of your first shot causing the third man to fire, as he has been trained to do. In other words, take down all three before they kill you.

  It’s the only way. Imagine an eye chart. Measure and sweep in a line.

  “Who told you?” said the guard.

  “I have no argument with you,” Cosgrove said. “If you want to live, I suggest you get out of my way.”

  “Are you going to take him?”

  “No.”

  “Who is he?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  Cosgrove swept the gun a few inches left and fired. The bullet struck one of the men in the eye, kicking him back, just as Cosgrove fired again, this time hitting the other backup thug in the throat, dropping him.

  He trained the Glock on the remaining man, the young leader.

  “I gave you a chance.”

  The man’s eyes were wide and dark, fear and panic glistening in them. Cosgrove fired, striking the man in the forehead.

  Cosgrove found the man upstairs, asleep. He was an old man, in his seventies. He was alone. Cosgrove placed the end of the suppressor a half-inch from his chest and fired. A dull, metallic thwack echoed from the damp walls, floor, and ceiling. The bullet ripped through the target’s heart.