handle. Delicate balance. Headquarters is strong on the case. Traces confirmed everything about him; LYRIC’s the real deal, and the intel so far is giving the air force wet dreams.”
When Forsyth spoke, Nate listened. He knew Forsyth’s record was every bit as spectacular as Gable’s—but different. While Gable was killing snakes with a tire iron, Forsyth had been drinking wine in Warsaw with a well-known Russian stage actress—coincidentally the mistress of a Soviet Northern Fleet admiral—who had photographed the fleet’s readiness and deployment schedules for the coming year in her boyfriend’s office bathroom. Forsyth had given her the palm-sized Tessina camera months earlier and she brought the microcassette of film out past customs wrapped in a condom hidden where only her gynecologist would have thought to look. Forsyth had accepted it with aplomb. Gable and Forsyth: Natural-born operations officers, and they both knew what they were talking about.
To Nate’s perceptive eye, the relationship between Forsyth and Gable was a pragmatic alliance tempered by years of working together. Forsyth was the senior, but there was never a thought of him ordering Gable to do anything. Gable knew what to do; if he disagreed he’d say so, then follow instructions. Gable acknowledged that Forsyth sometimes thought he was undiplomatic, but they both knew that golden-boy Forsyth had at various times in his career himself gotten into serious bureaucratic trouble by speaking his mind, once memorably to a member of Congress visiting Rome Station on an endless string of summer recess Congressional delegations—they were called fact-finding trips for the benefit of the taxpayers—during which Forsyth noted that she was three hours late for her Station briefing, pointedly looking at the half dozen Fendi, Gucci, and Ferragamo shopping bags carried by her chief of staff. Gable had not been present, a small blessing, but Forsyth was in the penalty box for a year after that.
Nate saw mutual respect, knew there was loyalty, guessed at comradely affection. The COS and his DCOS watched each other’s backs; they naturally sensed what the other was thinking, and they knew what came first: operations, which informed everything they did. Everything. Nate did not know it, but Forsyth and Gable had argued with Chief of Counterintelligence Simon Benford over the issue of Nate’s intimacy with Dominika. Inthe Agency it was an infraction of the highest order: Previously other officers had famously slept with assets and been separated from the service. But even as Forsyth scolded, and Gable threatened, and Benford raved, Forsyth convinced Benford to give young Nash a break. It was not because Nate had handled MARBLE, DIVA, and LYRIC flawlessly; it was not because they recognized in Nash an exceptional internal ops talent; in the end, it was a veteran assessment that the greater good was being served by ignoring for the moment the lesser transgression. But they would never let Nate know.
The TALON recording of the meeting suddenly was interrupted by three woman’s screams, high, strident, one after the other.
“Fuck’s that?” said Gable. The screams repeated over the sound of LYRIC’s voice.
“Peacocks,” said Nate. “Two of them came out of the woods and started calling. Scared the shit out of us.”
“Peacocks! Jesus wept,” said Gable.
Forsyth started laughing. “Make sure you tell Headquarters about the birds when you forward the digital file. The suits will think you brought a woman to the debriefing for the general.”
“Not a bad idea, but where would Nash find a woman?” said Gable.
They were gathering up papers when Gable told Nate to sit back down. Forsyth waited by the soundproof door, his hand on the latch. They would not talk about LYRIC, refer to him or the case, or even mention the cryptonym, outside this Lucite-walled room. No exceptions: Moscow Rules. The case was already in compartmented, Restricted
When Forsyth spoke, Nate listened. He knew Forsyth’s record was every bit as spectacular as Gable’s—but different. While Gable was killing snakes with a tire iron, Forsyth had been drinking wine in Warsaw with a well-known Russian stage actress—coincidentally the mistress of a Soviet Northern Fleet admiral—who had photographed the fleet’s readiness and deployment schedules for the coming year in her boyfriend’s office bathroom. Forsyth had given her the palm-sized Tessina camera months earlier and she brought the microcassette of film out past customs wrapped in a condom hidden where only her gynecologist would have thought to look. Forsyth had accepted it with aplomb. Gable and Forsyth: Natural-born operations officers, and they both knew what they were talking about.
To Nate’s perceptive eye, the relationship between Forsyth and Gable was a pragmatic alliance tempered by years of working together. Forsyth was the senior, but there was never a thought of him ordering Gable to do anything. Gable knew what to do; if he disagreed he’d say so, then follow instructions. Gable acknowledged that Forsyth sometimes thought he was undiplomatic, but they both knew that golden-boy Forsyth had at various times in his career himself gotten into serious bureaucratic trouble by speaking his mind, once memorably to a member of Congress visiting Rome Station on an endless string of summer recess Congressional delegations—they were called fact-finding trips for the benefit of the taxpayers—during which Forsyth noted that she was three hours late for her Station briefing, pointedly looking at the half dozen Fendi, Gucci, and Ferragamo shopping bags carried by her chief of staff. Gable had not been present, a small blessing, but Forsyth was in the penalty box for a year after that.
Nate saw mutual respect, knew there was loyalty, guessed at comradely affection. The COS and his DCOS watched each other’s backs; they naturally sensed what the other was thinking, and they knew what came first: operations, which informed everything they did. Everything. Nate did not know it, but Forsyth and Gable had argued with Chief of Counterintelligence Simon Benford over the issue of Nate’s intimacy with Dominika. Inthe Agency it was an infraction of the highest order: Previously other officers had famously slept with assets and been separated from the service. But even as Forsyth scolded, and Gable threatened, and Benford raved, Forsyth convinced Benford to give young Nash a break. It was not because Nate had handled MARBLE, DIVA, and LYRIC flawlessly; it was not because they recognized in Nash an exceptional internal ops talent; in the end, it was a veteran assessment that the greater good was being served by ignoring for the moment the lesser transgression. But they would never let Nate know.
The TALON recording of the meeting suddenly was interrupted by three woman’s screams, high, strident, one after the other.
“Fuck’s that?” said Gable. The screams repeated over the sound of LYRIC’s voice.
“Peacocks,” said Nate. “Two of them came out of the woods and started calling. Scared the shit out of us.”
“Peacocks! Jesus wept,” said Gable.
Forsyth started laughing. “Make sure you tell Headquarters about the birds when you forward the digital file. The suits will think you brought a woman to the debriefing for the general.”
“Not a bad idea, but where would Nash find a woman?” said Gable.
They were gathering up papers when Gable told Nate to sit back down. Forsyth waited by the soundproof door, his hand on the latch. They would not talk about LYRIC, refer to him or the case, or even mention the cryptonym, outside this Lucite-walled room. No exceptions: Moscow Rules. The case was already in compartmented, Restricted
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