He snapped a few photos and then saw the red flashing light of an incoming call. He put the phone to his ear.

  “Identify,” came a soft female voice.

  “NOC X five dash nine nine four.”

  “NOC X five dash nine nine four.” A two-second pause. “Identified. Please hold for DDCIA Polk. Confirm.”

  “Confirmed,” said Cosgrove.

  CHAPTER 13

  Office of the Director

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Calibrisi was on the phone, seated at his desk, when Lindsay, his assistant, stuck her head inside the door.

  “He’s here,” said Lindsay.

  “Let me call you back,” said Calibrisi, hanging up the phone.

  The glass door to Calibrisi’s office opened. Cosgrove stepped in.

  “Hector?” he said.

  “Hi, Billy,” said Calibrisi, standing up and walking around the corner of his desk. “Thanks for coming.”

  Billy Cosgrove’s shaved head showed the dark outlines of what would have normally been a thick head of black hair. He was clean-shaven; rugged looking, like a football player. He wasn’t handsome. His face looked as if it had been pummeled a few times. But he was big, with a muscular frame.

  Cosgrove stepped into Calibrisi’s office and shut the door. Calibrisi pointed to the seating area, a large rectangle of long leather sofas around a big glass coffee table. They sat down across from each other in the center of Calibrisi’s large, glass-walled, soundproof corner office.

  “How’s Peshawar?” said Calibrisi.

  “I think you know the answer,” said Cosgrove.

  Calibrisi paused. “I lived there for two years. It was my second station. I kind of liked it.”

  “It’s changed,” said Cosgrove. “In nine months, I’ve lost thirteen men. You guys need to understand. It’s not al-Qaeda. It’s Hezbollah. It’s the Iranians. Every gunfight we’re involved in there always seem to be Iranians. We’ve killed a number of them. All Quds or Hezbollah.”

  “I read the reports,” said Calibrisi. “I know it’s a tough spot.”

  “Why am I here?” said Cosgrove.

  “I assume Bill briefed you.”

  “He told me to get on a plane. I don’t know shit.”

  “Tell me what you do, Billy,” said Calibrisi.

  “You know what I do.”

  “In your own words.”

  Cosgrove leaned back, crossing his legs.

  “I run exfoliation crews,” said Cosgrove. “We get intelligence, environment’s too populated for a Hellfire, they call me.”

  “How many people have you killed since you got to Pakistan?”

  “Me personally—or my guys?”

  “You personally.”

  “Twenty or so.”

  “How about your teams?”

  “Fifty-seven,” said Cosgrove. “Actually, sixty-one, if you include tonight.”

  “Where are you getting your men?” said Calibrisi.

  “Delta.”

  “You were a SEAL.”

  “Yeah, I know the kind of guy I need and I know how to pick them out. I spend a week every two or three months at Bragg looking at guys, same with Coronado.”

  “Are you saying Deltas are better than SEALs?”

  “No,” said Cosgrove. “I’m saying they’re trained for different purposes. I’m running men into villages with precise information. I don’t need a team. If I did, I’d be running DEVGRU. These are tight-seam, volatile-kill missions. In-theater stuff, instinct. Deltas are crazy, but they’re the perfect sort of crazy for kill teams in Pakistan and Afghanistan.”

  Calibrisi leaned forward. After a few moments, he stood and walked to the far wall, pushing against a shelf. A door opened and a bar was hidden behind it.

  “I’m having a bourbon,” said Calibrisi. “Would you like one?”

  “Sure,” said Cosgrove.

  Calibrisi opened a bottle of Buffalo Trace and poured two glasses. He returned to the seating area and handed Cosgrove a glass. Cosgrove took a sip as Calibrisi sat down.

  “We’re creating a unit and I want you to run it,” said Calibrisi. “Obviously, it’s top secret. You don’t talk about it with anyone but me or who I tell you you can talk about it with. Don’t trust anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” said Cosgrove. “But I have a question: Are you guys asking me to do it or telling me?”

  “Asking,” said Calibrisi.

  Cosgrove took another sip of bourbon.

  “I’m all ears. Where’s the job? To be honest, the last thing I feel like doing is heading back to a dead zone.”

  “The job is domestic,” said Calibrisi. “While you might have to do some foreign travel, I expect it’ll be rare.”

  Cosgrove nodded, a hint of interest for the first time flashing on his face.

  “The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence met in secret session,” said Calibrisi. “They can sometimes be called upon by the president on security issues the president believes pose significant enough threat to warrant sub rosa temporary amendment to U.S. laws.”

  “Like a star chamber,” said Cosgrove.

  “I suppose.”

  “Why were they meeting?”

  “After the assassinations of Nick Blake and John Patrick O’Flaherty, the president sought permission to allow the agency to operate on American soil under a very tight focus: hunt down Russian mob and exfoliate. The vote was unanimous.”

  Calibrisi let the words sink in. Cosgrove remained still, with a blank expression on his face.

  “A kill team? Won’t I be breaking the law?”

  “You and one other individual received authorization,” said Calibrisi. “Each of you will be granted a preemptive and official pardon by the president for all actions on U.S. soil, even actions unrelated to the core mission. Technically, you can go rob banks if you want, but we hope you won’t.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Cosgrove, pointing at the bar. “You mind if I get another?”

  “Not at all,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll take one too.”

  Cosgrove walked to the small liquor cabinet nestled in the bookshelves at the far side of Calibrisi’s office. He poured two glasses and returned to the seating area. He handed one to Calibrisi.

  “Russian mob, huh?” said Cosgrove. “So they’re the ones behind what happened?”

  “The Russian mafia now runs organized crime in every major city in America,” said Calibrisi. “The U.S. government systematically destroyed the Italian mafia, but in its place came the Russians. They’re a quantum level more brutal and violent.”

  “I’ll become a target.”

  “Not if you do it correctly.”

  Cosgrove sat back down across from Calibrisi.

  “You mentioned another member of the team. Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have any say in that?”

  “No, you don’t,” said Calibrisi, shaking his head. “I’m the one who was given authority in terms of team selection. I picked you because you understand how to organize and run kill teams. The second individual is a guy named Rob Tacoma. I picked him because he knows how to kill. He’s also fluent in Russian. By the way, he hasn’t agreed to it yet. If he doesn’t, I am considering sending you back to Pakistan and unwinding the operation.”

  “He’s good?”

  “Yes,” said Calibrisi. “Very.”

  Calibrisi reached to a manila folder on the glass coffee table. He handed it to Cosgrove.

  Cosgrove flipped it open and downed the rest of the bourbon. It was a few sheets of paper. At the top of the first sheet was a headshot. It showed a man with medium-length dirty-blond hair, parted in the middle. He had a layer of stubble, blue eyes, stripes of black beneath each eye, and was handsome, disarmingly so.

  TACOMA, ROBERT THIERIAULT

  Citizenship: USA

  DOB: 4/12/90

  Home:

  New York City, NY

  Middleburg, VA

  Milan, Italy

  Washington, D.C.

  University of Virginia May 2010 Russian Studies B.A. 2.77 GPA

  Varsity Lacrosse [Captain 08–09, 09–10] All-American 06, 07, 08, 09

  U.S. Navy: enlistment Jun 09 [Charlottesville, VA]

  U.S. Navy SEALs—training Coronado, CA

  Rank: 4 in class of 232

  U.S. Navy SEAL Team 6 DEVGRU: Virginia Beach, VA [Mar 10-Dec 12]

  CIA Special Operations Group [Dec 12-Jul 15]

  RISCON LLC, Middleburg, VA [Jul 15-present]: private security firm founded with Katherine “Katie” Foxx, ex-director, Special Operations Group

  CAREER:

  U.S. Navy SEALs/SOG:

  - Stockholm: Jan-Mar 12: Reclamation of intellectual property from traveling Facebook executive, Garin (mission success)

  (Note: Garin terminated under in-theater provision 4)

  - Panama City—COS: Apr-May 12: DOT Task Assignment, removal of Jaidi, Ambassador PAN to Russia NUY, TPL, VEN (mission success)

  - London, ENG: Jun 12: Assassination P.D. Zarls, banker, Goldman Sachs/special money laundering provision 77.b (mission success)

  - Munich, GER: Jun 12-Jan 13: Destabilization of German government, aka, Project Cold Rider, assassination of Adolf Kairnax, known uranium vendor (mission success)

  - Berlin, GER: Jan 13–Mar 13: Assassination of Fields Bohring, German secretary of defense and intelligence (mission success)

  - Rio de Janeiro, BRZ: Mar 13-Oct 13: Anti-narcotic: ARG, COL, CHI, and BOL: Total kills: 117 confirmed. Kill metric 76.7%.

  - Paris, FR: Dec 13: Assassination Pierre Scott, Canadian businessman attempting to sell Canadian passports to El-Shaimeen, QUDS executive colonel. (mission success)

  RISCON:

  Enterprise retainer: $10000000/mo

  Iran May 17: Theft of Iranian nuclear device

  NYC July 17: Stop Pyotr “Cloud” Vargarin

  Paris, FR, Aug 16: Project Eye for an Eye; removal of Fao Bhang

  MISC:

  - Raised in NYC. Youngest of two brothers [Bo born Sep 89]

  - Bo Tacoma Lt. Cmdr, U.S. Navy SEAL Team 4 [Mar 09-Oct 14]: Bronze Star [Oct 09], Navy Cross [Oct 09]: Both awarded for actions resulting in the rescue and exfiltration of U.S. diplomat and family captured in Sri Lanka and subsequent firefight in which 4 members of SEAL Team 4 were KIA.

  - Father, Blake Tacoma [b. Oct 58-d. May 12] U.S. Attorney for Southern District of Manhattan [Jan 07-May 09]

  - Attorney General US (Jun 09-May 12)

  - Portland, ME [May 12]: AG Blake Tacoma assassinated at public restaurant while on vacation with wife (Susan). Murder remains unsolved though FBI believes killing was reprisal for actions taken as DA and AG against factions of Russian mafia.

  - Severomorsk, RUS (Murmansk Oblast region) [Oct 14]: Bo Tacoma, while on Observation + Assessment operation in the waters near the Port of Severomorsk, headquarters of Russia’s Northern Fleet, is lost in early winter storm. After two days of reconnaissance efforts, he is declared Missing In Action and presumed drowned. All other members of unit survive.

  Behind Tacoma’s CV was a small stack of after-action reports. Over the next twenty minutes, Cosgrove read through all of them as Calibrisi watched.

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Cosgrove, putting the folder down on the table. “After that whole bomb incident near the Statue of Liberty, I read the stories. He’s obviously talented, as you said. Probably a lot more talented than me. But…”

  Calibrisi took a sip of bourbon.

  “But what?”

  “They killed his father?” said Cosgrove.

  “He’ll be motivated.”

  “Yeah, no shit he’ll be motivated. And, he’ll have a license to kill.”

  “Exactly,” said Calibrisi.

  Cosgrove shook his head.

  “I don’t like emotion in my teams,” said Cosgrove. “Anger, revenge, sympathy, whatever—it alters things. You’re setting in motion something that could become very unpredictable.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “If the Russians killed my dad, and I was allowed to go after them, I would kill as many as I could. And in a week or two, I’d be dead. That’s what I’m saying. You’re talking about putting nitroglycerine in a Ferrari. Don’t be surprised if the Ferrari wraps itself around a tree going three hundred miles an hour.”

  “Point taken,” said Calibrisi. “Your job will be to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Cosgrove leaned back.

  “Where do we work out of? Here?”

  “Arlington,” said Calibrisi. “We’re setting up a Tier One secure site inside an anonymous-looking office building, heavy-duty security.”

  “What’s the budget?”

  “It’s an off-balance-sheet appropriation,” said Calibrisi. “A black budget. Technically, the money will come out of a long-forgotten national emergency fund that was originally set up by Ulysses Grant within the Treasury Department. Bottom line, you spend whatever you want.”

  Cosgrove took a sip of bourbon and looked at Calibrisi.

  “I’m in,” said Cosgrove, leaning back with a small smile. “When are you going to tell Tacoma about it?”

  “I thought I’d brief him before you two meet, see if he’s willing.”

  “When will I know?”

  “He’s on his way,” said Calibrisi. “If he agrees, I think you two should get together, sooner rather than later. I’ll handle the Pentagon and your various reassignments and commendations. We’ll lock up your pension. Just so you know, you set your own salary. It’s a black budget. I’m not telling you to be greedy, but we should be paying guys like you the way we pay major league baseball players.”

  “Understood.”

  Cosgrove stood up and reached his hand out, shaking Calibrisi’s.

  “I’m honored you guys thought of me,” said Cosgrove. “I’m going to go home. I haven’t been there in four months. Pay some bills, feed the cat, that sort of thing.”

  Calibrisi grinned.

  “Have Rob come to my house for a beer tonight,” said Cosgrove, “assuming you can convince him.”

  “Done.”

  “By the way, when do we start?”

  “You just did.”

  CHAPTER 14

  22 West

  1177 22nd Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  Several hours later, Tacoma awoke to the low hum of his cell, vibrating next to his head on the hardwood floor. He saw the screen:

  CALIBRISI, HECTOR

  The cell phone was off except for three numbers, one of which made the phone vibrate like a fish on a dock.

  “Yeah,” said Tacoma, sitting up on the side of the bed. “What is it, Hector?”

  “Hi, Rob,” said Calibrisi.

  “What time is it?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  There was a long pause as Tacoma ran his hand back through his mop of dirty-blond hair and stood up, naked. He was ripped, with the only mark on him being a tattoo on his right shoulder—a lightning bolt, cut in blue ink. Unlike most operators of his ilk, meaning DEVGRU, Tacoma had no bullet wounds or knife scars.

  “I was going to take a few days off,” said Tacoma, walking toward his jeans, in a pile on the floor. “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “Fine,” said Tacoma. “I just have a quick errand to run.”

  “Okay, see you when you get here,” said Calibrisi.

  Tacoma hung up. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. It was eleven in the morning. He pulled on his jeans, then found his red T-shirt and put it on. He stepped into his flip-flops.

  Tacoma reached into his pocket and found the check Katie had handed him. It was his quarterly distribution check from RISCON. On some days, he was in disbelief at how much money he earned. In truth, most of the time it gave him an uneasy feeling. It reminded him of his father. His father had worked as a prosecutor most of his professional career and they didn’t have a lot of money; what they did have put him and Bo through boarding school and college. His father used to talk about how they were going to go on a safari in Africa and then to the Great Wall of China, as soon as they had the time; as soon as they had the money. Every time his father was about to accept a lucrative job at a big law firm he was asked to do something more in government, usually by the attorney general. It was President Allaire who offered him his last job, the job during which he was killed, the job that got him killed, U.S. attorney general.

  The check from Katie, instead of making Tacoma happy or proud, only reminded him of the man who had raised him and who died before they could see the lions he used to dream of.

  Tacoma walked from the building east, toward the White House, crossing through George Washington University. He weaved down a series of roads and came to a majestic building with white columns and pretty red crosses on the portico peak and above the main door. It was the headquarters of the American Red Cross.

  He entered the building. It was slightly chaotic. There were dozens of people sitting in every available seat. Tacoma came to a sign that said:

  THANK YOU FOR VISITING THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.

  WE ASK THAT YOU PLEASE WAIT FOR YOUR TURN IN LINE.

  After almost an hour, Tacoma finally got to the front of the line. A black woman was seated behind a cluttered desk. She waved Tacoma over.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to make a donation,” said Tacoma, reaching for his pocket. He put the check down.

  She read the check and leaned back.

  “Wait. Is your name Robert Tacoma?”

  “Yeah,” said Tacoma. “Do you have a pen?”

  She leaned forward and handed him a pen.

  “Some people want to talk to you,” she said.

  “Can you see to it that it goes to veterans?” said Tacoma, taking the pen and slashing his signature across the back of the check.

  $16,455,900.92

  “We always do, Mr. Tacoma.”

  “Rob,” he said, standing up. “Mr. Tacoma was my dad.”