nation flows through this relationship and it is my job to ensure that nothing damages that. That no obstacles block the flow. Obstacles like you.” Obstacle was a good word to describe the hulking African-American.
Vance looked a little puzzled. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand the situation. But what I don’t get is how a discreet CIA operation could be considered an obstacle.”
“Discreet? Is that what you think your little mission is?” Beecroft selected a manila folder from a pile on his desk. “If it is so discreet, then explain to me why the head of the Special Tasks Branch is sending me reports warning that you are, in fact, the next target for the very terrorists you’re supposed to be hunting?” He threw the folder on the desk in front of Vance. “Your operation has the potential to severely embarrass my standing with the Emir. I can only hope that he isn’t aware of your presence already.”
Vance stepped forward to pick up the folder. It contained a single page police report. He skimmed it quickly and dropped it back on the desk. “How the hell did they find out we’re here?”
“Evidently your World Health Organization cover isn’t as good as you think.”
“That’s total bullshit, Mr Ambassador, and you know it.”
“How it happened doesn’t matter.” Beecroft was waving his finger at Vance as he spoke. “The simple fact is you’ve been compromised and now you’re out. My aide has arranged tickets for you and the––”
“Get the WHO team out, but I’m staying.”
Beecroft pushed back his chair and struggled to remove his corpulent frame from its clutches. He finally jumped to his feet, drawing himself up to his full five foot nine inches. “You will do no such thing. This is my post and I will––”
“You will sit the fuck down, Ambassador!” Vance growled from a height advantage of almost six inches. Beecroft shrunk like a deflated balloon, dropping back into his chair. “The only way I could have been compromised is through this office.”
The Ambassador opened his mouth to object but Vance cut him off again.
“Now. You’re probably not harboring Bin Laden and his boys, so my guess is you blabbed to one of your buddies at poker.”
Beecroft opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.
“Now usually I would get very, very upset about that, but this time I’m gonna let it slide. What I won’t be doing is getting on any airplane.”
The Ambassador’s face turned a brighter shade of red. “You will get on that plane. Otherwise I will submit a report to Washington.”
Vance smiled. “You go right ahead and do that, Mr. Ambassador. By the time your report gets read and someone takes notice, my job here will be done. So you just get back to protecting the flow of oil and I’ll get back to tracking down killers.” The CIA operative turned and walked towards the door.
“This will be the end of you, Vance. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Take your best shot, Mr Ambassador. Better men than you have tried.”
***
Ice was waiting in the car park when Vance left the main building. He wore a similar rig to Vance: desert tan cargo pants and a loose-fitting shirt. The former MARSOC operator was chatting with a member of the Embassy’s Marine security detail. The guard was a big man, at least six foot, but the CIA operative towered over him. With short blonde hair, a square jaw, and the build of an NFL quarterback, Ice was a formidable-looking individual.
Spotting Vance, he shook hands with the Marine and walked back to their Toyota Landcruiser, starting the engine. Both men sat in silence as they pulled out from the embassy carpark, until the battered four-wheel drive had merged into Abu Dhabi’s hectic traffic.
“Where’re we heading?” Ice asked.
“Find a place to park. I need to make a few calls,” Vance replied.
“That bad?”
“Yes and no.” Vance gave him a run down on the conversation with the ambassador. “The crux of
Vance looked a little puzzled. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand the situation. But what I don’t get is how a discreet CIA operation could be considered an obstacle.”
“Discreet? Is that what you think your little mission is?” Beecroft selected a manila folder from a pile on his desk. “If it is so discreet, then explain to me why the head of the Special Tasks Branch is sending me reports warning that you are, in fact, the next target for the very terrorists you’re supposed to be hunting?” He threw the folder on the desk in front of Vance. “Your operation has the potential to severely embarrass my standing with the Emir. I can only hope that he isn’t aware of your presence already.”
Vance stepped forward to pick up the folder. It contained a single page police report. He skimmed it quickly and dropped it back on the desk. “How the hell did they find out we’re here?”
“Evidently your World Health Organization cover isn’t as good as you think.”
“That’s total bullshit, Mr Ambassador, and you know it.”
“How it happened doesn’t matter.” Beecroft was waving his finger at Vance as he spoke. “The simple fact is you’ve been compromised and now you’re out. My aide has arranged tickets for you and the––”
“Get the WHO team out, but I’m staying.”
Beecroft pushed back his chair and struggled to remove his corpulent frame from its clutches. He finally jumped to his feet, drawing himself up to his full five foot nine inches. “You will do no such thing. This is my post and I will––”
“You will sit the fuck down, Ambassador!” Vance growled from a height advantage of almost six inches. Beecroft shrunk like a deflated balloon, dropping back into his chair. “The only way I could have been compromised is through this office.”
The Ambassador opened his mouth to object but Vance cut him off again.
“Now. You’re probably not harboring Bin Laden and his boys, so my guess is you blabbed to one of your buddies at poker.”
Beecroft opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.
“Now usually I would get very, very upset about that, but this time I’m gonna let it slide. What I won’t be doing is getting on any airplane.”
The Ambassador’s face turned a brighter shade of red. “You will get on that plane. Otherwise I will submit a report to Washington.”
Vance smiled. “You go right ahead and do that, Mr. Ambassador. By the time your report gets read and someone takes notice, my job here will be done. So you just get back to protecting the flow of oil and I’ll get back to tracking down killers.” The CIA operative turned and walked towards the door.
“This will be the end of you, Vance. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Take your best shot, Mr Ambassador. Better men than you have tried.”
***
Ice was waiting in the car park when Vance left the main building. He wore a similar rig to Vance: desert tan cargo pants and a loose-fitting shirt. The former MARSOC operator was chatting with a member of the Embassy’s Marine security detail. The guard was a big man, at least six foot, but the CIA operative towered over him. With short blonde hair, a square jaw, and the build of an NFL quarterback, Ice was a formidable-looking individual.
Spotting Vance, he shook hands with the Marine and walked back to their Toyota Landcruiser, starting the engine. Both men sat in silence as they pulled out from the embassy carpark, until the battered four-wheel drive had merged into Abu Dhabi’s hectic traffic.
“Where’re we heading?” Ice asked.
“Find a place to park. I need to make a few calls,” Vance replied.
“That bad?”
“Yes and no.” Vance gave him a run down on the conversation with the ambassador. “The crux of
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