Shadow War (5 page)

“A company helicopter will extract your team,” he said. “Fifteen-minute window. Don't be late.”

And that was it. The operation was set. There would be no file, no photos, no written mission brief. And despite the cubicle gerbils toiling fifty feet away, no useful information. There never was.

“I'll see you in a week,” I said, standing up and straightening my suit.

Winters stood up. I thought he was extending his hand for a shake, but instead, he slipped me a phone number. “My personal line,” he said. “You'll know when to call.”

Three hours later, at almost exactly the time Locke was boarding his flight to Kiev, Brad Winters laid his knife and fork across his plate at the Occidental and pushed away the last of his steak. It was just past one
P.M.
, but he had been here for more than an hour. It was time to get moving.

“You got the talking points?” he said to Tom Hagen, the man sitting across from him. Hagen was the only thing more synonymous with Washington, DC, power than a private government contractor: a law firm partner without a law degree.

Hagen's story was one Winters had heard a hundred times, with slight variations. Undergraduate at Georgetown (sometimes they were Ivy); Senate staffer at twenty-three (after one or two years of “charity work”); chief of staff at thirty; then a permanent member of a prestigious Senate or House committee; and, finally, a filthy rich lobbyist by the time the midlife crisis kicked in at forty. After that—at least in Tom Hagen's case—came the long, slow decline, something Winters had long ago decided was attributable to a lack of both ambition and imagination. He'd seen it too often, from too many people who had cashed out and lost their way. Never make your goal something you can achieve.

“I've got them,” Hagen said, knocking back the last of his Sancerre. “It's more than stopping a tyrant. It's energy security. Ukraine has Europe's third largest shale reserves. Putin is imperiling the world economy.”

“Freedom gas,” Winters said slowly, as you would while teaching a toddler. “Ukrainian gas means freedom from the Soviet threat. Freedom gas.”

“I'll start with members from Texas and Louisiana,” Hagen said, ignoring the condescending tone. “We'll establish the Friends of Ukraine.” Politicians were forever creating informal groups around newsworthy issues—the Friends of the Farmer, the Friends of Coal, the Friends of Real Americans.

“I know a crisis communications firm on K Street for the public angle. We'll create a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization called . . .” Hagen paused, thinking “. . . the U.S.-Ukraine Democracy Alliance.”

“Good.” Throwing democracy in a name was always a good idea.

“It will be a media platform and attack dog, going after the White House and critics, saying things Congress won't. Don't worry, the firm is clever, founded by ex-CIA. They do oppo research, media hit pieces, muddy reputations. They even infiltrated Greenpeace.”

“Make it AstroTurf.” Meaning the “nonprofit” should look and feel and, most importantly, sound like a legitimate grassroots organization. “When's the press conference?”

“When do you want it?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. So we get ahead of any breaking news. I want four senators, at least.” Hagen started to object, but Winters cut him off. “Addison is already onboard.”

Hagen nodded. Addison had pull. “Ten and four,” he said, meaning at least ten from the lower house—they were easy—and four known names. “And then—”

“I'll see what I can do with Shell.”

Shell Oil held the rights to the eastern Ukrainian gas fields, and they were halfway through an estimated infrastructure in
vestment of $410 million, but they had pulled back because of violence in the area. A Putin victory, or a government collapse in Kiev, would put their leases and infrastructure investments at risk. It was a hazard of the modern world economy and, since the pullback in government contracts at the end of the official Iraq War, Brad Winters's main engine of growth. Hagen would kill, almost literally, to have a fat oil company like Shell as a client.

“Are you sure you don't want to go through State?” Hagen said, trying to prove his worth. “I can get you in at the DepSec level.” The deputy secretary was the alter ego of the secretary of state and the power behind the policy throne.

“I think it's best if I stay out of it for the moment,” Winters said. He had no interest in going anywhere near this political charade until it was safe. That was why he needed Hagen.

“As long as it's for the good of the country,” Hagen said with a knowing smile.

Winters figured at one point the phrase had meant something, but it was so de rigeur by now it had become a punch line.

“Right now,” he said, putting his napkin on the table and pushing back from the table, “I'm in the process of saving our asses.”

Hagen glanced up, surprised by Winters's serious tone. “You're a patriot, Brad,” he said, standing to shake his hand. “Just like the rest of us.”

The waiter appeared with the dessert menu, stepping deftly aside as Winters turned. “On my tab,” Winters said, as his eyes scanned the room.

“Bodegas Hildalgo Napoleon, thirty-year,” Hagen said absently, as he watched Winters glad-hand a few familiar faces as he left, the hundreds of black-and-white portraits of Washington players behind him on the walls, portraits that seemed to retreat farther and farther away the longer Hagen stayed in town.

I'd seen the lobby of the Kiev Hyatt Regency a hundred times in a dozen different countries. The glass façade and square beige furniture were standard business class, the clean, modern lines not fashionable so much as what corporate architects and factories in China churned out to meet the needs of the world's discerning travelers. Even the painting on the wall—red and green interlocking salamanders, either fucking or forming a faux native pattern, I wasn't sure—could have hung on any hotel wall anywhere in the world. The only thing that would be unique, I knew, was the requisite sky bar on the top floor—this one was on the eighth—and then only because of the surrounding city. Fortunately, my suite had a firm mattress, always a pleasant surprise after three weeks on a cot, and a view of the gold onion domes of Saint Sophia's Cathedral (according to the bellboy) to remind me that I wasn't in an upscale area of Juba, South Sudan, or Wichita, Kansas.

The lobby bar was even more comfortably familiar, filled as it was with the usual conflict carrion. People assume upscale accommodations are deserted in war zones, but in the modern world, where economics trumped politics, reliable chain hotels like the Hyatt Regency quickly became de facto embassies. This is the place where conflict entrepreneurs, recently arrived from Lebanon by way of London or, if I had to guess, the more Eastern European sections of Brooklyn, swapped tips on how to “ex
ploit” the situation, a word that wasn't just a positive, but a life mission.

The diplomats, meanwhile, were slumped into their drinks, waiting for whatever it is diplomats spend their lives waiting for. I spotted two squared-off Germans drinking pilsner in the corner; three Frenchmen at the bar with mineral waters and Gauloises; and two Brits in overly wide pinstriped suits with a little coin pocket above the regular pocket on the right side. Only English tailors bothered with that pointless little pocket.

“Woodford Reserve on the rocks,” I said, nodding to the Germans and leaning on the bar between the businessmen and the French. Every nationality has a drink, and the bourbon would mark me as American, something I didn't mind. The dozen or so obvious undercover agents hanging around the lobby had already noticed me; the only question was whether they were working for the Ukrainians or the Russians.

Besides, I liked Woodford Reserve.

“Keep it,” I said, sliding twenty euros to the bartender and shrugging off the glance of a barfly with blond hair and augmented assets. She was a professional, but she wasn't working for money. In a war zone, information was more valuable, that was what made hotels like these hothouses of intrigue. Everyone wanted a piece of everyone else. She'd probably be outside my room tonight, hoping to catch me in a moment of weakness.

Her, or another one like her.

I sighed. It was 1340 local time, twenty minutes until my meeting with Greenlees, and I'd been traveling for forty-two out of the last fifty-six hours. Despite a nap in my suite and on the Lufthansa overnight, I could feel the fatigue. But it was a virus I'd been living with for years. I was so used to it that I could sit perfectly at ease at a bar in a strange part of the world and use the reflections in the backsplash to pigeonhole everyone in the room.

There were the misfits: maybe tourists caught in the wrong place, maybe missionaries, who always managed to appear awkward. There were a few wealthy locals waiting for visas or other arrangements they needed before leaving the country. They'd probably been here for weeks, holed up inside except for shopping trips on whatever strip was considered the Fifth Avenue of Kiev. Their children looked so bored, I could image them chewing the upholstery. These kids weren't used to slumming it at a four-star hotel.

At the end of the bar, a small group of international journalists was gathered over gimlets and rye. They were all drunks, so it was too early for sloppiness, but I knew they were already telling the same endless war stories they'd been exaggerating for years.

The young reporters were buzzing, chatting each other up or eavesdropping on conversations. There were fewer of the old guys every year, with their set sources and set ideas and focus on the economics of delivering glass to mouth, and more of the youngsters, although
young
was a relative term. The right word was
underemployed.
Most of these reporters were freelancers, either locals or here on their own dimes—the lucky ones were on a daily allowance—hungry for any story they could sell.

That was why they gravitated toward the nongovernmental organizations, or NGOs, the swarm that followed modern war like the slatterns followed General Hooker's army. The two groups had a symbiotic relationship: the reporters gave these humanitarian organizations press, and the NGOs showed them suitable horror stories for the websites back home.

Even in the reflection of the bar back, I could smell their self-righteousness: their stylishly unkempt hair; their imperious manner, as if they were here to correct the wrongs men like me inflicted on the world; the colorful shawls they'd picked up in
the last conflict. Humanitarian workers had an addiction to third world garb, as if pieces of cloth could make them locals, instead of a “warmonger” like me. Humanitarians liked to wear their internationalism on their sleeve.

Just like being home,
I thought as I picked up my drink. A job is a job, and even though Ukraine wasn't my area of expertise, all I really needed to feel comfortable was a quiet corner where I didn't have to worry about eavesdroppers and ten quiet minutes with my bourbon.

And then I saw her, sitting with a group of twenty-somethings, their bags sprawled around them on two lobby sofas. Her curly hair was darker and pulled back; her elegant nose just visible in profile. But I knew it was her. I could feel the heat in the pit of my stomach, just from looking at the curve of her neck. Last I had heard she was in Bulgaria working on one of her sex trafficking stories. But that was a year ago. Now here she was, in Kiev, leaning into one of those good-looking, classically unkempt video-journalists, while staring into the viewfinder of his handheld camera.

Instinctively, I paused, the bourbon coming down to the bar without reaching my lips. I looked down at the glass, collected myself, and looked up. There I was in the backsplash, staring back at myself. The metal was golden, and it gave my face a wavy look, like I was viewing myself through the top of a tanning machine. Even so, I could tell I looked tired.

I grabbed my drink and tipped it back, unsurprised to see her reflection getting larger as she approached, until the only thing I could do was turn around.

“Alie,” I said.

“Tom,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder and swinging into the seat next to me. “I hope you weren't planning to ignore me.”

“I just got here.”

“I know. I saw you come in.”

She had lost her roundness and looked harder than the last time I saw her. More sure of herself, maybe, and more fit. I missed her softness, the half inch of give when I caressed her arm, but that didn't mean she didn't look good.

“You look great, Allison. What's it been, eight years?”

“At least,” she said, although we both knew exactly how long it had been. “What are you doing here? I thought you'd be in Africa.”

“I thought the same about you.”

She was sizing me up, and I couldn't help but wonder what she thought of my face, ten years later. What had she expected? Oh right. The way I left, she probably hadn't expected to see me at all.

“Are you still with that little company,” she said. “I can't remember the name. Umm . . . Harvard University?” She was digging at me. That had been my cover story, but she knew my real work.

“Are you still with Catholic Relief Services?”

She smiled. “No. I burned that bridge a long time ago.”

I wondered if I was part of that.

“You look good,” I said, then realized I'd said the same thing thirty seconds before.

She checked me up and down with her legendarily direct stare, but didn't say anything. I hated myself for glancing, but she wasn't wearing a ring.

“Still trying to save the world?”

“You know me,” she said, but I didn't. I'd only known her when she was twenty-four, with the life experience of an eighteen-year-old, and nobody is themselves at twenty-four.

“Double vodka,” she said to the bartender. “On my friend.”

I nodded, to tell him I'd cover the charge.

“So really,” she said, glancing around the room, probably to ward off the blonde, who was lingering, no doubt sensing the waft of valuable intel coming off my bourbon and rocks, “what are you doing here, Tom? I'm sure there are plenty of problems in Africa for you to meddle in.”

There was an edge in her voice, one I hadn't quite anticipated, and it struck me like a hammer that Alie resented me. Maybe because I left her behind. But maybe because it had been ten years, and while I'd been blowing up oil facilities and killing terrorists, she'd been . . . what? Trying to rescue young girls.

No, that wasn't right. She had gotten famous for those blog entries on Magdelana, a Burundian refugee trying to make it to Europe, but that was six or seven years ago. She'd bumped up to the
Guardian
after that, and she'd made a reputation for herself as a champion of the underclass, especially women. For a while there, she was humming. Sex trafficking. Human slavery. Almost won a Pulitzer, or so I'd heard. But then what? A slowing down, a falling away, followed by a quiet pink slip, or maybe she'd just faded back to the deep Internet and the unsourced pages, the things that would never get past the fact-checkers and lawyers because they were too unspeakable and, therefore, mostly, too true. That was why good-looking college dropouts asked her to look at their unedited documentary film footage—and that was why she did it, even though it was something no sane person would ever do. Out here, with this crowd, Alie was still a groundbreaking reporter.

And I wasn't an ex-lover. I was an exclusive.

“It's not a good time,” I said, feeling resentful, as if she was disrespected our past, even though I knew that wasn't fair. She wasn't playing me, not necessarily. She was just leaning on the bar, wearing her confidence like a shawl. I wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, and tell her I was sorry.

But instead I glanced over her shoulder, ostentatiously checking to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “Let's meet later,” I said, knowing she would understand that this conversation, in this bar, wasn't a good idea. The last thing either of us wanted was for someone else to know I was a merc.

“Dinner.”

“You choose the place.” I handed her my business card, which included one of my real phone numbers. She smirked when she saw it.

“Green Lighthouse Group. Nice.” She grabbed a small notebook from her jacket pocket. “Meet me at my room,” she said, tearing off a sheet and handing it to me. Number 12, 8:00
P.M.

“First floor? I thought that was all conference rooms.”

She laughed. “I'm not staying here. I'm at the Ibis with the rest of the do-gooders. Isn't that what you always called us?”

I thought about inviting her to my suite, with its world-class view, but I'd learned through painful experience never to let an unknown variable into my room. That was why I was meeting Greenlees in the lobby in . . . I glanced at my watch . . . two minutes.

“I have to run,” I said.

“It's what you do,” she replied.

She downed the double vodka and walked away without looking back, and I couldn't help but watch her go, the roll of her hips just like I remembered it, the heat turning the ice in my bourbon to water.

Then I turned and walked to the farthest corner of the lobby, where it was hardest for others to eavesdrop, and took a seat facing the door. I opened the
Financial Times,
knowing its unique salmon color and English-language format would be a beacon to Greenlees, and let my eyes wander aimlessly over the pages, trying to focus as my mind faded out to the sunset over
Lake Tanganyika in Africa, and the French restaurant at the top of the hill, and Alie MacFarlane stepping out of her dress in my little room beneath the palm trees, the freshest girl I'd ever seen, so clean and bright, like they'd taken her out of the package just for me.