Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Fifteen minutes after the Venezuelan president is shot, a Diplomatic Security Service special agent walks onto one of the balconies at the Teresa Carreño Theater, where there is a performance of Mozart's Requiem tonight.

"Mr. Ambassador, there has been an incident that requires your immediate attention," the agent whispers into the ear of a forty-something man with gray hair and a lean frame.

In less than half an hour, the recently appointed US ambassador, Samuel Robertson, rushes to the American embassy, an impressive five-story red granite building that occupies a twenty-seven acre mountain site. An angry crowd is already gathered outside.

At first, it's just a scattered mob looking to vent its frustrations; but as the crowd grows, a common theme begins to emerge: the Americans have to get out of the country. Every car coming and going from the embassy is met with different degrees of hostility, ranging from angry shouts to improvised projectiles. The Marines and Diplomatic Security Service agents guarding the premises are on full alert.

Things are hectic inside the complex. The news about the president's shooting has sent the place into overdrive. All embassy personnel have been recalled for safety reasons. The CIA briefs Ambassador Robertson in his office before attending an emergency meeting with his senior staff.

"The locals have already identified the shooter," says Michael Singleton, an austere man with glasses and closely cropped white hair. "His name is Eric Caine, thirty-five years old, born in Caracas. Has dual American citizenship due to his father. They're still fishing for his body in the Guaire." Singleton is the head of the CIA's Office of Regional Affairs.

"The government is claiming that the attack was backed by the CIA," says defense attaché Colonel Harold Stern, an athletic middle-aged African-American with a quiet sense of authority.

"I'm not going to dance around this issue," Robertson says, too nervous to sit down. "Was this a CIA operation?"

The room falls quiet.

"No," a tall, foreboding man breaks the silence. Dressed in a black suit, he has slicked back hair and a weathered mien. A scar crosses the left side of his face, revealing a cold glass eye.

"Mr. Ambassador, this is Nathan Blake, our senior paramilitary operations officer from the Special Activities Division," Singleton says.

The SAD is part of the CIA's National Clandestine Service, tasked with covert special operations. The mere fact that one of its officers is sitting in the briefing room at this particular moment makes Robertson uneasy.

"No offense, Mr. Blake, but what exactly are you doing here?" the Ambassador says.

"None taken," Blake says. His voice is devoid of emotion. "For years, the National Security Council has felt that relations with Venezuela have deteriorated to a point where alternative options might be viable in case diplomatic or military action is not feasible."

Robertson knows exactly what he's talking about. SAD is known to employ psychological, economic, and cyber warfare, as well as paramilitary operations, espionage, sabotage, and even assassination.

"I might be newly appointed to my post, Mr. Blake, but that doesn't mean I'm new to international politics. Was this one of those 'options'?"

"Termination was considered," Blake says. "But since our president took office, Congress has been highly critical of such measures."

"Then the Venezuelans have no proof to back their claims," the ambassador says.

"The problem is, they don't really need it," Singleton replies. "As you can see by the crowd outside, these people are ready to believe anything their government says."

"And what's worse, they've been using us as a political punching bag from the very beginning," Colonel Stern says.

"Not without reason," Robertson says. "Otherwise, my predecessor would still be here, wouldn't he?" The comment isn't well received. "So who's this Eric Caine? Is there anything about him that is not in the dossier? What's the 24th Special Tactics Squadron'?"

"That would be the Air Force's special missions unit under the Joint Special Operations Command, Sir," Colonel Stern says.

"In civilian lingo, please," says the ambassador.

"Eric Caine was a pararescue jumper in a counter terrorist unit," Colonel Stern says. "He saw multiple combat deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. His military record is mostly classified."

"We need to get access to those records as soon as possible," says Robertson. "What about his psychological profile? I'm sure the NSA, if not the Air Force, had to have him thoroughly screened."

"I wouldn't recommend going there," Colonel Stern says. "According to his personality profile, he's defined as an INTJ: introverted, intuition, thinking, judging; also known as a strategist. He scored at the genius level in his IQ test."

"That's not good," the Ambassador says, plopping into his chair.

Colonel Stern turns to Blake. "Potential Mensa membership aside, sounds like one of your boys to me."

"It's curious that you say that," Singleton reads from his notes. "Because before his service was up, Caine was approached again by the NSA and also by the CIA. He turned them both down."

Robertson rubs his neck. "Is he a mercenary?"

"Not that we're aware of," Singleton replies. "But because of his colorful background, the Venezuelans have been keeping an eye on him since his arrival."

"Caine has a history of PTSD for which he was receiving treatment at the VA in Miami," Blake says. "And he also keeps some interesting company." He hands his folder over to the ambassador.

Robertson flips through the pages, stops and looks back at Blake. "You have to be kidding me."

"We have to do some serious damage control, if we're to survive the political shit storm ahead," Singleton interjects. "The country is ready to explode into massive chaos that'll make the 1989 riots look like a block party."

"Make no mistake, Mr. Ambassador, the natives want revenge," Colonel Stern says. "They're looking for someone to hang for this, and if the dangling body happens to be American, all the better."

"Let's not jump the gun," Robertson says, dropping the file back in front of Blake. "Any ideas?" He looks around the room.

"Caine has dual nationalities," Blake says. "We can use that to downplay his American background."

"We should offer complete cooperation with the investigation and make it public," Singleton says. "The sooner we're seen as a team player, the less ammunition we give the hard-liners to shoot us with."

"That includes arranging for some face time with the vice president ASAP," Colonel Stern says. "In the meantime, we're closing the embassy to the public for security issues. The personnel will be kept on the premises until we know how this whole thing is going to play out."

The ambassador rubs his eyes under his glasses. "Very well. If there's nothing else, we should head to the meeting..."

The intercom buzzes.

"Yes?"

"The president is on the line, sir," a female voice says.

"Thank you," Robertson says.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador?" A DSS special agent rushes into the room.

"Not now!"

"Sir, it's important," says the agent.

"I can't imagine anything more important than the President of the United States," the Ambassador says.

"It's the assassin, Sir," the DSS agent says before Robertsonpicks up the phone. "We have him in custody."