The Asset (9 page)

He ripped into the ceiling panel with the bone saw, cutting through the ancient plaster with ease and revealing the metal door he was hoping to find. It had a handle cut into it, so he stuffed his hand in it and pulled with all his might, but it was rusted shut. He cut the corroded hinges away with the saw and slammed the butt of it into the metal door until it broke free and fell to the floor.

As he climbed into the large metal shaft, the men outside the meat locker snapped the tine off the meat hook in the latch and rushed through the door. While Kennedy crawled through the dark, narrow passage, they sprinted across the room and climbed up after him. Kennedy was moving through the shaft as quickly as he could, cutting and bruising his elbows and knees on the rusty metal. He saw a light at the end of the tunnel when he heard one of the men coming after him in the shaft.

“Stop or I'll shoot you!” the bearded man yelled.

Kennedy pressed on, fueled by a surge of adrenaline. He reached a large duct vent with light coming through from the room on the other side. He slammed all of his body weight against the vent and fell headlong through the opening, landing hard on the floor of a commercial kitchen. While an army of kitchen staff stared in disbelief, Kennedy rose and sprinted through the swinging door and down a dark hallway. He reached a set of stairs,
pounded up them, and ran down another hallway. Footsteps were coming close behind. He could hear the murmur of a crowd of people at the end of the hallway. He ran toward the sound, desperate for help. There was a swinging service door at the end of the hall. He burst through it and froze. A hundred or so well-dressed people having lunch in a posh dining room turned and stared at him in horror. In an instant, he knew where he was.

The restaurant Les Ambassadeurs at the Hôtel de Crillon in Paris.

K
ennedy's eyes darted around the
room, where he'd dined on several occasions with European clients. He was too shell-shocked to think or move. Mercifully, a woman with comforting eyes and a warm smile materialized in front of him. Her chic, understated suit gave her the air of a manager or concierge.

“Monsieur,” she said with an American accent.
“Puis-je vous aider?”

“Yes, I need to—”

“American?”

He nodded, unable to speak through the wad of cotton in his mouth.

“Me too.”

She extended a manicured hand. He shook it and she led him to the lobby.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Los Angeles,” he said, surprising himself.

Her eyes lit up.

“I'm from San Francisco.”

“Oh . . . ” he started awkwardly.

“You didn't tell me your name,” she said.

“I know,” he said, obsessively surveying the room, looking for his captors.

They stopped walking.

“Is everything all right?”

Kennedy's face flushed. The woman touched his arm. He flinched.

“Have you been a guest here before?”

“Many times,” he said as the room spun slowly.

“I thought I recognized you. We have a hospitality suite. There's a phone, as well as some toiletries and light refreshments. Would you like to use it for a couple of hours?”

He was so grateful he almost burst into tears. They rode the elevator to one of the upper floors and the door opened into the foyer of an expansive suite. She led Kennedy into the sitting room, and he stopped cold.

His captors were all there, smiling at him.

“Relax and have a drink,” she said pleasantly. “It's not what you think.”

She sat him down in a leather club chair and poured him a glass of his favorite Japanese whiskey. Kennedy looked at the men in the room. With their normal demeanors, they looked like young professionals instead of violent thugs.

He couldn't speak.

“My name is Alia. I'm a senior operations officer in the CIA's Clandestine Service. These men are not terrorists. They're field agents.”

Kennedy felt dizzy and dropped his whiskey tumbler. One of the men refilled his glass and handed it to him with a rueful smile.

“I want to apologize for the stressful nature of our evaluation,” Alia said.

“Evaluation?”

“For a new intelligence-gathering program I want you to be a part of.”

“I'm sorry, but you're not making any fucking sense.”

“I'm recruiting you.”

“Recruiting me?” he said cynically. “As what?”

“An asset.”

She handed him a thick file folder with the CIA emblem and the word
CLASSIFIED
emblazoned across the top.

“Go ahead, read it.”

He opened it. It was a highly detailed dossier on him, with photographs and surveillance documents tracking his movements over the past three years. Cold sweat filmed over his palms.

“I had to be sure I was making the right choice,” Alia explained. “After
tonight, there's no doubt in my mind. What do you think? Would you consider working for us?”

“Thirty minutes ago you had me thinking I was going to be the next ISIS sideshow in the YouTube circus. Why wouldn't I want to work for someone like that?”

“I don't blame you for being angry,” she said. “And I wouldn't have done this if it weren't vital to national security. Would you like something to eat? I can call—”

“Just get to the point,” he said.

“That will be all for today, gentlemen,” she said.

Her men filed out of the room.

“The program I want you to join is called Red Carpet, and it's the first CIA operation of its kind ever to take place on American soil. You've read the recent terror threat memo from Homeland Security?”

Kennedy nodded.

“The part about this being
a
large-scale, coordinated attack on an indeterminate number of US airports
was taken directly from a briefing I sent to Homeland two years ago. When I learned about this plot from our field agents, I knew we would need a specialized asset to help us gather intel. You.”

“What could I possibly know that the CIA doesn't?”

“Your expertise in airport security is practically legendary. I'd venture to guess you know more than the head of TSA.”

“That's not saying much. And there are plenty of experts in my field.”

“True, but they're mostly think-tank types. You're always in the field, touching base with your network of clients, keeping your boots on the ground. You're a road warrior, a million-mile flier who drinks with pilots, knows flight attendants by name, and more important, they know
you
by name. Even if I had a full decade to do it, I could never train the best field agent to know what you know and move in your circles. And you have no family ties that could be used to leverage you. You're the perfect lone wolf, in my opinion.”

“Thanks for making me feel even worse about my life.”

“Your work is your life. Nothing wrong with that. It's mine too. And if you were making a difference in that clusterfuck of DHS and TSA, you would be a lot happier. Work with us and I can guarantee you'll make a difference. Interested?”

“If it's anything like your test, absolutely not.”

“I needed to see how you would function under extreme duress. You actually tested higher than most of the former military officers they're always sending our way. You didn't crack, kept your head, and found a way out. Quite frankly, we never expected you to actually escape. Finding that bomb shelter door was brilliant. I know seasoned field agents who would never have worked that scenario. But, as I said, the test is not the job. I just needed to know how you would react if, by some off chance, you were in a similar scenario. Since you're a civilian, we have to go with a trial-by-fire method.”

“I'm flattered, but alive. What do you mean when you say
by some
off chance, I were in a similar scenario
?”

“Suffice to say this will be far safer, statistically, than driving in Los Angeles. All we want you to do is provide information we don't have the resources to gather.”

“Why do I have the feeling you're telling me what I want to hear?”

“I don't blame you for thinking that. It is the CIA after all. It's not like we have a stellar reputation. But the reality is that our reputation is largely fictional, thanks to books and movies. The truth is, being a spy might be one of the most boring professions on the planet. It's a hell of a lot more drudgery than danger. And we would only need you for a short assignment.”

“How long?” Kennedy asked.

“Your services would be engaged for the duration of our investigation into the terror threat, which I don't anticipate will last longer than six months, and you will be paid very well for that service.”

“If I wouldn't be in any danger, why put me through the stress test?”

“Because I don't just want you to be a part of this team. I want you to lead it.”

“Come again?”

“I have some of our best analysts and field agents, but my leadership can only go so far,” Alia said. “You have the greatest depth of knowledge relevant to this operation. The others are more utility players, but you would be the quarterback, running the field when I'm needed elsewhere. And I
will
be needed elsewhere.”

Kennedy took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. Alia's offer excited him in ways nothing else had for quite some time. And, oddly enough, he'd
be getting exactly what he was hoping for if he truly wanted to help stop the threat. The whole terrorist Punk'd thing she'd just put him through started to make sense in a sick way—he couldn't imagine the pressure of managing a “normal” citizen in such a critical operation. He had to admit, he had impressed himself with how he'd behaved under pressure. He remembered those applications he'd shredded after 9/11 and wondered if he might have had what it takes to be CIA after all.

“I need to think about this.”

“Sleep on it. If you're still interested, you can meet the team in the morning.”

She got up and retrieved a distressed-leather overnight bag from the armoire.

“Your passport, wallet, phone, a change of clothes, and some toiletries.”

“Where am I staying?”

“Here.” She smiled.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she said, walking out.

“I'll meet the team tomorrow,” he called after her.

She brightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. That's the only way I'll be able to really tell you yes or no.”

“Spoken like a true team leader. Have a nice evening.”

“Thank you, I think.”

After she left, Kennedy looked around at the suite, which was likely 15,000 euros a night, and felt like he was dreaming. Everything that had just happened was impossibly surreal, and his exhausted mind didn't have the energy to analyze it. The whiskey had burned through his empty stomach and gone straight to his head, sapping him of the last twitch of energy he had left. He laid down on the bed, wondering if he'd been drugged again, and passed out.

K
ennedy woke up to the
sound of someone knocking at his suite door. He looked at the bedside clock. It was a little after 9:00
P.M.
He was still fatigued but no longer felt like a zombie. He got up and opened the door. A bright-eyed young woman in a suit was standing there, smiling broadly and holding two envelopes.

“Bonsoir, monsieur. Did you have a nice rest?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I am Camille, the concierge. I have made dinner and cocktail reservations for you this evening.”

She handed him the envelopes.

“Thank you, Camille, but I'm kind of beat—”

She frowned ever so slightly but kept her chin up and pressed him.

“These are some of the best places in Paris and impossible to get in even if you call months in advance. Are you sure you don't want to treat yourself after your journey? It is all compliments of your colleague . . .”