on board called the DDO and told him Gentry’s injuries were too grave to send him anywhere but to an ICU.
So Hanley had scrapped his plan to use Gentry, and he sent Zack Hightower down to Venezuela instead.
“No, this isn’t about LA,” Hanley replied. “In fact, how about we never bring that shit up again? Might be good for our long-term relationship.”
“Suits me,” Court said, his head sinking back into the pillow. He closed his eyes.
Hanley’s loud voice was out of place in the small, quiet room. “Here’s the deal, kid. Not gonna sugarcoat it. I need you, and I need you yesterday.”
Court’s eyes opened back up, and he looked down at himself on the bed. “You need . . . me?”
“Yep. In Caracas. Zack was down there, working an op, and he got rolled up.”
Court sat up now, wincing with the pain in his shoulder as he did so. “Federal police?”
“They’ve got him in El Helicoide, a detention facility run by the Bolivarian National Intelligence Service.”
“Spooks. Shit.” Court reached to a rolling bedside table next to him and lifted a plastic cup of water, took a slow sip, then asked, “How’d he get rolled?”
“We aren’t certain.”
“You aren’t certain, or you don’t have a clue?”
Hanley didn’t pause for long before saying, “We don’t have a clue.”
“And . . . what? You want me to just pop down there and liberate him?”
“Negative.” Hanley shrugged. “We’ll get Zack out, eventually. He’s tough, he’ll be fine. Hell, he’ll be playing poker with the warden in a month.” With another dismissive heave of his shoulders, he added, “He’s not the priority right now.”
Court put the water down. He understood. “The mission he failed. You’re sending me out on that.”
“Correct.”
“Zack has been doing this bullshit for a long time, Matt. I doubt he screwed up.”
“We’re trying to determine where the fault was. But we don’t have time to work that out now.”
“So, you’re sending me in without knowing if there is a compromise?”
“We change up the op. You insert differently than Zack, you make your own plan, do your own thing. Look, this needs to be done, and it needs to be done now.”
“What’s the mission?”
“Personnel extraction of a noncompliant actor.”
“So . . . kidnapping.”
“Whatever,” Hanley said, sweeping his hand through the air. “An American national, in Caracas. We need him here for questioning.”
“Why?”
Hanley sighed a little. It was his go-to whenever Court frustrated him. He wanted his men to salute and move out, not to ask questions. Still, he said, “The target is Clark Drummond. You know who that is?”
Court cocked his head a little. “The NSA big shot who died last year?”
Matt Hanley shook his head. “No, the NSA big shot who didn’t die last year. An officer working at Caracas station saw him three and a half weeks back in La Castellana neighborhood. Just stumbled upon him in the street walking out of a bank. Our man lost Drummond in the crowd but was sure it was him. We sent case officers out all over La Castellana looking for him, but one by one they were rolled up by SEBIN on trumped-up charges and quietly deported. I told Caracas station to spare their remaining case officers, and I sent in Zack instead.”
“And they rolled him up just the same.”
Hanley rubbed his face again. “Eventually, yeah. Zack was on Drummond for a couple of days. He got an ID on his residence to the southwest of the city, and then he tailed him through a market in town to see if he was meeting with anyone. And then Zack got popped. Yeah, Drummond had good physical skills to identify surveillance. Even though he was NSA he worked in the field all over the world for decades. His tradecraft was solid, according to all reports. But still . . . I don’t understand it.
“SEBIN had the local agency guys and gals pegged. That, I get. But Hightower has never worked Caracas, he wasn’t working with the embassy while down there, and he’s not even CIA anymore. There is no record of him anywhere working for the Agency in the last five years.”
“Right. He’s a Poison Apple asset. Off book.”
“Exactly.”
Now Court’s own voice rose to match Hanley’s. “Like me.”
Hanley exhaled slowly, looked around the room. “Got any coffee?”
“Shit. Sorry. Where are my manners? Cappuccino? Macchiato?”
The two men stared at each other in the dim light until Court said, “It’s five a.m. Breakfast comes at seven. That’s when I get coffee.”
Hanley let it go. “Look, we