Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2), André Gallo [ebook reader color screen .txt] 📗

As Thérèse left, he told her, “I want to see him for a few minutes before he leaves.”

She was relieved that Deuel hadn’t asked why it was necessary to activate him now, as opposed to waiting a month when her first choice would be available. She was concerned about the information that was coming from a contact in Syrian Military Intelligence that Morris Radu, her Chief of Station in Damascus at the time, claimed he had recruited. That notch on his gun was the main reason why Radu was now chief of the Near East Division.

Radu insisted that his source was a “unilateral,” that he was reporting without the knowledge of his government. The Syrian source claimed that Iran was many years away from a nuclear weapon and that Iranian motivation was only skin deep, political posturing, more show than go. She just wasn’t convinced that Radu’s asset was reporting independently, or if he was a double agent feeding the CIA information that had been first approved by the Iranians, particularly by Ali Mousavi, the CIA’s nemesis. It was crucial to get SENTINEL’s information to confirm or deny the reporting from Radu’s agent.

Walking through the director’s outer office, the NCS Chief received “elevator looks” from the admiral’s entourage. At age forty-two, she was more appreciative than insulted of their unabashed interest. She walked down the corridor to her office, satisfied with the Deuel meeting. The operation was on. Her mind switched to her children: what about a summer camp? When she reached her outer office she said, “Clare, please arrange a meeting here tomorrow with Steve Church, the chief of cover staff, and Radu.”

“How about Marshall Church?” Clare asked. “I don’t think so.”

Marshall’s presence would only complicate things. It would be difficult enough to convince Steve to take on another CIA mission. Then she made a note to herself in a small notebook she had in her handbag. “Call Elaine about summer camps.”

Before Thérèse reached the door to her office, Clare said with a serious look that quickly melted into a slight grin, “Oh, I almost forgot, Captain Brian called. He said he would try to call you again tonight at home. He was calling from somewhere in the Middle East but couldn’t say where.”

Several months earlier, Thérèse had been one of the speakers at a memorial for the one hundred two CIA officers killed in the line of duty. Invited guests had packed the lobby of the CIA headquarters building. Afterward, as she greeted the families and friends of those being honored in front of the Wall of Honor and its one hundred two stars, her military deputy had introduced Captain Brian Navarre to her.

Navarre had invited her to the christening in Savannah of his new ship, an Aegis-class cruiser, the U.S.S. Allen Dulles, the first ship named for a Director of Central Intelligence. Following the afternoon ceremonies, he had invited her to have dinner with him at the Kasbah Moroccan Restaurant apparently wanting to impress her with his international sophistication. She recalled the evening and smiled. The food was excellent, and the seats, a foot off the floor, narrow and uncomfortable, had been a source of amusement throughout the evening.

Brian proved to be funny, smart, a bit formal, five years older, and single. He had blue eyes, which, she thought, can make up for a lot of imperfections. Brian’s wife had died in a car accident twelve years before while he was deployed during the first Gulf War. At the time he was a recent graduate of the Naval Academy. He had never remarried. No children.

They had dated again when he came through Washington for intelligence briefings. He had been equally as interesting the second time. Was Navarre a relationship waiting to happen? Was there more to Brian than an occasional dinner during infrequent visits to Washington? He wasn’t even spooked by her two children. On the contrary, he had seemed at ease with their antics and questions. Is it still called dating when both parties are in their forties? Or is it called desperately looking for a mate?

What was the name of that summer camp?

7. Langley: National Clandestine Service

The next day, Steve walked out of Thérèse LaFont’s suite of offices with Morris Radu who asked, “How fast can you pack? You should get in and get out before the Israelis do what they do best and bomb the hell out of Tehran.” Balding and wide of girth, Radu laughed at his joke and added, “I agree with you that sending you is a terrible idea.”

Steve had noted Radu’s subdued opposition during the meeting. He assumed that Radu had earlier expressed his views to Thérèse and had been overridden. As they were alone in the elevator, Steve said, “Did I say that? I don’t think so. I’m actually surprised that you need an outsider like me. As I said to Thérèse, I have a life, a job, and you must have much more qualified people. She just made a strong case that this is important. If it’s going to make a difference, I’m glad to go, until a full time case officer is available. We’re talking about a month max, right?”

Steve knew of Radu’s reputation as a dedicated Arabist who had studied at the Foreign Service School first in Arlington and then in Tunis. As Chief of Station in Damascus, he had gotten along famously with the Syrian intelligence service, which had provided information that Israel’s Mossad was still interfering in Lebanese politics. No surprise there and hardly worth a report. The Syrians had also provided a report on a possible terrorist threat against the American Embassy in Ankara. That report had been the clincher proving to some that the agent was credible. There were skeptics, however, because the terrorist group, whose operation was aborted through smart CIA cooperation with the