Cord had been rambling on for about ten minutes when Porter returned and sat down. “Here’s the other thing we’re thinkin’ about.” He handed me a piece of paper.
“Roughstock contracting?”
“Yeah, you know, raisin’ bulls and broncs for rodeos? Other stuff too.”
“Wow.”
“You think it’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know, Port. It sounds like it could be.”
“See?” he said to Cord. “It’ll work, I’m tellin’ you.”
Was he telling him because I said it sounded like a good idea? Since when did anyone care what I thought about anything?
“She’s tired. You should let her go to bed,” said Holt, setting his guitar down. He looked over at Cord. “And if you think this dude ranch idea is a good one, maybe you should get your ass up tomorrow and get in that kitchen and help her.”
“I can do that.”
When I came out of my bedroom the next morning, Cord was sitting at the dining room table, waiting for me. “Want some coffee?” he asked.
I poured a cup and added cream and sugar to it.
“I’ve been thinking about buying a smoker. We could do ribs and brisket, maybe even make our own sausage. It could be like our signature thing.”
“That sounds really good, Cord.”
He beamed at me.
Two hours later, I was on my way to school, feeling more lighthearted than I had maybe in my whole life. So when Janine Nick tried to trip me between first and second period, I hauled off and punched her in the gut.
Mrs. Mancuso saw the whole thing too, yet when Janine asked if she was going to write me up and send me to the office, our science teacher told her the only thing she saw was Janine trying to trip me.
They might call me a heifer, but Janine and everyone else would soon learn that I had the strength of a goddamn bull.
9
Irish
Washington, DC, to New York, New York
Two Years Ago
When I almost lost my life a third time, in an inexplicable ambush—the second of its kind that took place in Beijing—both Cope and I decided we needed to step up our efforts.
“There’s a mole,” I said. “Someone is feeding information to the Chinese government, and it’s getting agents killed.”
“By someone, do you mean inside the agency?”
“Yes.”
“I agree.”
“It’s someone high up, Cope.”
“I believe it is.”
“Within the agency, or do you think it’s broader than that?” After Agent Kilbourne’s mission ended with a dead CIA director and a number of high-ranking government officials either in prison or on their way there, I wouldn’t rule anything out.
“Broader, definitely. I’m going to ask you something outright, and I’ll warn you, you aren’t going to like it.”
“What?”
“Are you absolutely certain you want to continue this mission?”
I was incredulous. How could he even ask?
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“You do? So why’d you bother?”
Cope stood, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and handed it to me. “Because it’s you risking your life, Irish. I sit behind a desk.”
“If someone finds out about our investigation, do you think I’d be the only one they kill?”
“No, but—”
“There’s your answer. It’s your neck too, Cope. You want to back out, go right ahead. I’ll continue with or without you.”
Two days later, Cope asked that we meet at one of our off-site locations. When I sat down at the bistro table across from him, he handed me an envelope.
“Dr. Emerson Charles. Research analyst and political strategist with MIT’s International Policy Program.” I looked up at him. “What about her?”
“One of the world’s foremost experts on China.”
I kept reading. The stated objective was to recruit the doctor as a CIA asset. The reason the agency was fast-tracking the mission was because MI6 had expressed an interest in doing the same.
“Do you know who they’re sending in?” I asked.
“Saint.”
I rolled my eyes. It was sometimes hard to believe Niven St. Thomas, code name Saint, was still employed by any intelligence agency, let alone SIS. Word was, he was the least effective operative with MI6, unless the qualifier was bedding women. In that case, rumor was he was a pro.
As I finished reading the brief on Dr. Charles’ background, I couldn’t help but grow more curious about MI6’s choice of Saint. What I read indicated the woman’s intelligence quotient was well above genius level. The photos of her in the file weren’t unattractive. She was no beauty queen-type, but something told me she would see right through seduction.
“I have approval to send you in with a stated objective of asset acquisition. Your cover is research assistant to Dr. Charles. You will have access to every point of information she has amassed on China in every conceivable category, whether political, economic, or militaristic.”
“When do I start?”
“Two weeks.”
I’d been at MIT, working with Dr. Charles, for over eight months when Cope scheduled an urgent meeting. Since it was a holiday weekend, I offered to come to DC. Instead, we settled on New York City and agreed to meet at Frankie and Johnnie’s Steakhouse on Thirty-seventh.
Over two T-bones, Cope read me in on a man named Adam Benjamin.
“Officially, he’s a British diplomat. He’s also an MI6 asset. If you think Dr. Charles has strong opinions in regard to China, this guy has her beat by a mile. Especially when it comes to Hong Kong.”
I thumbed through Benjamin’s file. As a world-renowned expert on China, he’d been the first to suggest MI6 recruit Emme as an asset, believing that in her, he’d found a comrade in arms. With him as a policy influencer for the UK and her a policy writer for the US, they’d make a formidable team. They were equally impassioned about the threat China posed not just to our two countries, but to the world.
I knew, from the many conversations she and I had had, what loomed great in her mind was the idea that China had become a “systemic rival” to the world’s superpowers, one whose economic power and political influence had grown with unprecedented scale and speed.
What I hadn’t been able to share with her but weighed just as heavily deep in my soul, was their apparent systematic annihilation of some of the best agents and operatives in the intelligence world.
“Benjamin has requested a meeting with Dr. Charles later this week. Be sure to sit in on it.”
“That ought to be mind-numbingly exciting.”
He chuckled. “Try not to nod off.”
It felt good to laugh, even if it was fleeting. This mission had taken most of the joy out of both of our lives. Even when I was on another mission, I was thinking about this one. I occasionally went out to bars, but the conversations I got into with women either depressed or frustrated me. While there was a possibility they led lives more interesting than their stories indicated, I hadn’t met one yet that produced a spark.