Nine Days Prior
Langley, Virginia
The third floor was silent. It was still too early for the normal traffic to begin to filter into the building, bringing with it the low din that played continuously in the background for ten hours a day. The stillness, the unnatural quiet, caused Derek Ben-David's footfalls to be that much louder as they bounced from the freshly waxed floor to the unblemished walls and back again.
He moved the folder from his left hand to his right, glancing down absently at his watch as he did so, not fully registering the time as a few minutes past four in the morning. He would glance back down at it a few minutes later when he reached the Director's office, this time noticing it was five after four in the morning; just after ten in Graz. They stepped up their game a bit, local police would still be apt to assist. It would get much harder as the day aged, when most men would want to be at home, enjoying evening meal, and heading off to sleep. That is, if they needed them at all.
Ben-David struck the closed door once with a knuckle, pushing it open when he received a gruff "Yes" as a reply. The nameplate to the right of the door read "Martin Szekely- Director Covert Ops" engraved into a shiny piece of metal. The placard was new. The promotion was new. The choice was surprising. But only to those who hadn't been privy to the turmoil surrounding the past thirty months. Assistant Director Dennis Paulson had once been a shoe-in to lead some of the Agency's finest intelligence officers. He had even been promised the promotion by the Agency head himself once Covert Ops director retired to his little corner of the United States; fishing of the coast of Oregon Ben-David had heard. And when Martin Szekely, former Chief Intelligence Officer working closely with what Ben-David and other agents inside Covert Ops referred to as 'desk jockeys, sometimes lightheartedly, usually derisively, and always with just a hint of contempt, was bumped up to Director, tongues wagged like they often do. Speculation turned to rumor and eventually turned to fact. Assistant Director Dennis Paulson was being punished for the acts of rogue agent Andra Norreys and the Agency head was making his point. Andra Norreys was cause for more than her fair share of headaches around the Agency and Ben-David was almost certain Martin Szekely would not be too happy this morning.
At first glance, a person might believe Martin Szekely was not nearly as impressive as his title would suggest. The Director's personnel file suggested he reached 5'7". They must have gotten him on a good day. Ben-David himself stood at just a titch over 5'8" and the Director was a good three inches shorter than he was. Szekely usually stood with a posture that would make a schoolmarm cry; shoulders hunched, a spine that curved just slightly to the right. His coal black eyes bulged behind wireless glasses; Ben-David thought the man looked perpetually surprised or astonished. A thick patch of silver hair was parted neatly off to the left. He could always be found in a blue suit with a grey tie, or a brown suit with a maroon tie, or a black suit with a striped tie, and always, always, with a crisp white shirt beneath. Szekely reminded Ben-David more as an accountant or a banker than the man responsible for the Agency's most prized division.
At least, until the man talked.
Martin Szekely's voice commanded attention he might not had otherwise received. If you discounted Martin Szekely on looks alone, his voice would assure you you had made one hell of a mistake. It was somewhat amazing that lithe body housed the sort of lungs capable of making such an impact.
When Ben-David entered, Szekely was busy knotting a striped tie—black suit today—by feel alone, his thin eyebrows knitted tightly together above his wireless frames. He was alone, something Ben-David hadn't expected. Of course, it was still early yet.
Szekely reached out with one thin arm, motioning for the folder. Ben-David handed it over without a word. Szekely flipped open to the first page, scanned it quickly before roughly turning to the set of photos paper clipped behind.
"Have they made a positive ID?" Szekely finally asked without glancing up at Ben-David.
"About fifteen minutes ago."
"Who made it?"
"Henson." Szekely peered patiently up at Ben-David over his glasses. "He's already been informed not to talk to anyone about the ID aside from you or myself." Szekely nodded, satisfied, and turned his eyes back to the photos.
"And when did you say NSA took these?"
"Eight days ago, sir." Szekely's eyes shot back up, his eyebrows arched so high they almost reached the top of his forehead.
"Eight?" He hissed.
"NSA had no clue those pictures were anything important at the time." Ben-David began. "It was only by chance someone who recognized her from the info we put out on her over a year ago. And even then, you know they were slow getting it to us. Afraid we might take over their case that we have no interest in taking over."
"Who's the man in the photo?" Szekely asked, pulling the top photo free with a quick jerk of the wrist, sending the three remaining photos and the NSA report askew.
"Edward Diaz. A Canadian national who immigrated to the United States ten years ago. NSA has been tracking him because they believe he sells government secrets to the highest bidder. No country in particular but they're certain he's getting ready to sell some of our own secrets to North Korea. They've been watching him since before 9/11."
"Where is this?" Szekely asked, waving the picture in his hand slightly.
"Outside a small restaurant in Graz, Austria." Ben-David started to tell Szekely the whole background of the photo, taken because Diaz was in Austria, supposedly to meet with a defector from inside NSA's own confines. Secrets were on the table, what sort he was not privy to; the information a NSA agent had defected was already more than his contact had wanted to share. But he decided not to. Treason would hit a little too close to home and Szekely probably wouldn't give a shit, anyhow.
Szekely stared at the photo a few beats longer. Behind and just off to the let of the beefy man dressed in a slick pinstripe suit was Andra Norreys. Confirmed by one of their own. Unbelievable, it seemed, but nevertheless, there she was. Her hair no longer wavy and blonde that ended just below her shoulders; currently cut to her chin, straightened and dyed a very natural looking auburn. In this photo, her sunglasses covered her eyes, but in the next one, her glasses had been pushed to the top of her head, pulling her thick bangs with them, reveling the emerald eyes, one streaked with thin wisps of brown. That had been the photo that caused all the stir. Hard to forget such a unique birth defect, especially when every US government agency had been flooded with every bit of information the Agency had on Andra Norreys and a not quite restrained plea for assistance.
Szekely placed the photo back where it originally had set, even clipping everything back together just as neatly as it had been presented to him, before closing the folder and raising his face just slightly so he could meet Ben-David's gaze.
"Does she have any connection to this Diaz?" Ben-David shook his head.
"None that anyone can find. She just happened to be there the day they snapped those photos."
"And this was eight days ago." This time, the Director received a short nod. "So, she's probably not even in Austria anymore."
"There's no reason she wouldn't be." Ben-David argued. "She has no idea we know she's alive. She probably still believes she's safe."
Szekely stared at Ben-David, his eyes still locked into the younger agent's, still wide with that perpetually surprised look, as he pondered the information given to him. He finally pushed himself away from his desk and to his feet, all in one fluid motion, grabbing the black suit jacket that had been draped neatly across the back of the leather chair as he did so.
"I have a meeting with the Boss this morning. I'll see what he wants us to do."
"With all due respect, sir, by the time we're given the go ahead, it'll be late, maybe even too late."
"I thought you said she's completely unaware."
"She is. Probably. However, we don't even have an idea where she is. Graz is a fairly big city, and Andra Norreys is obviously quite apt at hiding. We will probably need to bring local police in on this, if only as a lookout. If anybody knows where an American is hiding off the radar in their city, it's them."
Szekely appeared to think all of this over as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the suit jacket. Silk linen sleeves from what Ben-David could see. Very nice, Ben-David thought. Something he couldn't afford on a GS-11 salary, but he was sure the Director had no problem paying the bills and buying expensive clothes.
"I'll get a hold of the section chief in Vienna and tell him to have the locals be on the lookout for Ms. Norreys. But until I have my meeting, I'm not going to have them do anything, understand?" Ben-David nodded. He stayed where he was for a few seconds longer in case the Director had anything he wanted to add, but when the silence stretched on, he turned on his heel and took his leave.
The door closed behind him with an audible click, the hallway still quiet and empty.
Ben-David headed back the way he came, his footfalls seeming much louder than they had on his trip down. He wondered if Szekely would give the information to the Agency head much sooner than he had hinted. The Director was no fool. He had seen what had happened to Dennis Paulson. Marked because of his involvement with Andra Norreys. Stuck for his entire career as Assistant Director because someone needed a scapegoat. There wasn't much chance Szekely would risk the same happening to him.
Ben-David pressed the call button for the elevator twice, checking his watch once more, out of habit more than anything. He once again failed to register the time; four seventeen A.M.