Hey all. Apologies for the late update. I went on vacation before I was able to finish this chapter. Should be back on track now. Again, quick reminder that all of the dialogue in italics is stuff said in a foreign language (French in this chapter). That's it for now. Hope you enjoy!
…
Emily ended the call with Clyde in frustration. Whatever this Operation Valhalla was better be damn important, because the police in Marseille had a complete mess on their hands. Emily was bitterly disappointed that she and Tsia weren't going to be able to help them out.
The sounds of footsteps crunching on shattered glass behind her announced Tsia's arrival.
"What did Clyde have to say?"
"He still wants us back tomorrow," Emily relayed.
"What? Why?"
"Something about an Operation Valhalla," Emily said. "Some case Sean's bringing from Interpol. Clyde wants everyone there."
"What the hell is Operation Valhalla?"
"Clyde wouldn't tell me over the phone," Emily said, shrugging to signify that she was just as baffled and irritated as Tsia apparently was. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow."
"This is ridiculous."
"I better go break the news to Laurent," Emily sighed. "I'll be right back." She re-entered the grimy public housing block. Judging by the fact that the hallways were now completely empty, the police had evidently succeeded at last in forcing the residents all inside. She could make out snippets of loud chatter from inside some of the units. Emily seriously doubted anybody in the building was going to get any sleep that evening.
Inside the Khadir's unit, things were still frantic. Officers were confiscating the family computer, flitting through desk drawers, grabbing anything that might be of interest. A crime scene team was meticulously photographing Mehmet Khadir's body. In the midst of it all stood Laurent, giving confident direction to every officer who wasn't already engaged in some task or another. Emily couldn't help but admire the Frenchman. While his officers had taken down their main target, the entire raid had been borderline disastrous. The knowledge of a dead officer and a mole in the ranks would have overwhelmed many.
"Did you speak to your chief?" Laurent inquired, after he'd finished issuing orders to the remaining officers.
"I did. Unfortunately he's still ordering us back tomorrow. I explained the situation, but he's insistent," Emily offered, apologetically.
"That's too bad." Laurent lamented.
"We're yours for the rest of the night," Emily offered. "What can we do for you? Interviews? Interrogations? Anything?"
Laurent shook his head.
"I don't think so. The Khadirs aren't in any state to speak right now. We moved them to another room away from this. Waiting on a grief counselor. Eventually I'll want to interview everyone in my department and every person in this complex. But it's going to take time to process everything and figure out where to start. I'll have a car come and take you to your hotel. You can stop at the station along the way to pick up your things. I will pick you up in the morning to take you to the airfield."
"I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help."
"As far as I'm concerned, you have nothing to apologize for. You've been nothing but right this evening. Is your partner alright?"
"Yeah, she'll be fine. Just a little new to this," Emily explained.
"Understandable. Well, I hope you both can have a restful night. I'll see you in the morning."
The hotel wasn't terribly far from the police station. By the time they arrived to check-in, the night was still young enough that plenty of Friday night revelers remained in the streets. Emily was pleased to see that they had been booked into a mid-size place that was locally owned. The kind that still used actual door keys and would have an ample breakfast spread inside a cozy tea room. In her opinion, this was how all European hotels should be. The key cards and plastic cereal dispensers could stay in the States.
"You going straight to bed?" Emily asked Tsia as they trudged up the staircase to their second-floor rooms.
"Yeah, aren't you?"
"I think I might go for a walk," Emily mused.
"By yourself? At this hour?"
"I have a gun," Emily reminded her.
"Suit yourself," Tsia said. "I'm exhausted."
"Get some sleep then," Emily said, as they reached their rooms at the end of the hallway. Emily had to fiddle with the key a bit before she finally got the door to unlock. She was halfway in the door before Tsia stopped her.
"Hey, Emily."
"Yeah?" Emily said, poking her head back out.
"I, uh. I don't really know how to put this. So…thank you. You saved my life."
"That's what we're there for, to have each other's backs," Emily said. She didn't want Tsia dwelling on it too much.
"You could have been shot."
"But I wasn't."
"No, but…"
"Tsia," Emily interrupted. "It's the job. I know what I signed up for."
"I just…I froze.
Emily noticed that Tsia wasn't making eye contact anymore. Her gaze had dropped to the faded rose-patterned carpet lining the hall.
"Hey," Emily said, willing Tsia to look at her again. "It was your first time. You had a natural reaction. And you recovered to make some good observations. Stop beating yourself up. It's all good."
"Yeah," Tsia said softly. "Alright. Good night Emily."
"Good night."
Satisfied that Tsia was doing as well as could realistically be expected, Emily retired to her room. It was simply furnished. A small bed, made up with several layers of white blankets that Emily doubted she would need on this summer evening, an armchair, also white, and a small wooden writing desk with a single drawer and desk lamp. She didn't spend too much time surveying the room. Tossing her suitcase on the bed, she grabbed a handful of Euro notes and her hotel keys, made sure her firearm was still concealed under her shirt, and headed back out into the French night.
A strong but pleasantly warm Mediterranean breeze wafted through the streets. Emily wished ruefully that she could spend the rest of the weekend on the coast. She had half a mind to find an ATM and abscond to Monte Carlo for a few days. Instead she kept wandering the streets, observing several young, carefree (and often drunk) passersby with a mix of amusement and envy. In one case she determinedly avoided staring in the direction of a young couple who were all but fornicating down a side street. After a few minutes, she at last found what she was looking for—a small café still open for late-night business. The storefront didn't necessarily look appealing. The narrow stone façade was cracked in some places and graffiti-marked in others, but Emily knew from long experience that such places were often the best place to score a strong late-night coffee.
Inside, a few lingering patrons were sitting an eclectic yet endearing assortment of mismatched tables. Behind the counter stood a short, stooping Frenchman who had to be at least 70, but was wearing a broad grin. Emily marveled that he had the energy at his age to be working this late.
"Mademoiselle, what can I do for you this evening?" the man asked, his brown eyes twinkling. Emily grinned, well aware that she was verging on too old to be addressed as "Mademoiselle."
"I'd like a café au lait, please."
"Ah," the man shook his head, with mock disapproval. "That will keep you up all night, at this hour."
"I'm counting on it," Emily teased, though it wasn't untrue.
"Ah, is Mademoiselle up to something tonight?"
"I couldn't possibly say," she answered mischievously.
"I take it you would like this to go then," the man laughed knowingly as he made up Emily's coffee. Ideally, Emily would have the luxury of sitting out at a table on the street and sipping from a mug, but this wasn't too terrible a substitute. The coffee was still rich, warm, and satisfying. Emily submitted to one last flirtatious wink from the old man before returning to the midnight streets. She was indeed "up to something," but nothing so fun or scandalous as the old man had implied.
Coffee in hand, she returned to the hotel, entering her room as quietly as possible so as not to wake Tsia or any of her other neighbors for the night. Flicking on the lights, Emily sat at the writing desk. In the wobbly drawer, she found a handful of pens and some hotel stationary. Things would be a lot faster if she had a laptop, but she had to make do with what she had.
Uncapping one of the pens, Emily began writing. Aside from a few moments when she paused to think, Emily wrote frantically. Her hand flew across the paper so rapidly that she soon had a cramp in her palm and ink stains on her fingers. She continued for hours, fueled only by her late-night caffeine and a determination to finish her task before morning. At last, around 4 a.m., she finished. She was sure it wasn't her best work, but it was the best she could do in the circumstances. It was time to throw in the towel and get some sleep.
She was sprawled out spread-eagle on the bed when a rapping on the hotel door ripped her from her sleep.
"Emily, Emily. Are you alright in there? Wake up," Tsia's voice floated from the hallway.
Emily squinted at the bedside clock and grunted. How could it be 7:30 already? She had just closed her eyes.
"I'm up. I'm up," she shouted groggily. Anything to stop the knocking. Pushing stray strands of her brown hair out of her face, she stumbled to the door and threw it open.
"Jesus, you look like crap," Tsia said. "When did you go to bed?"
"Late."
"What is that?" Tsia said, noticing the handwritten pages scattered on the floor. They must have fallen off the desk during the night.
"P...puh…profile," Emily yawned.
"Profile? For what?"
"I'll explain later. Breakfast first." Emily insisted. She was famished, and in terrible need of caffeine.
"Okay."
Furiously trying to rub the sleep from her eyes, she followed Tsia downstairs to the breakfast room. A few patrons were already breakfasting and conversing in hushed French. Emily hardly spoke before consuming a croissant, two eggs, and about a liter of coffee.
"Better?" Tsia asked.
"Significantly," Emily agreed.
"So," Tsia said in a hushed voice. "What's with this profile?"
"I'm just so pissed off that we can't stay and help. So I wrote everything I could think that might help the police profile the mole and find co-conspirators in the apartment block."
"You did all that last night?" Tsia stared.
"It's really general. It probably won't help," Emily dismissed. "But it's something I felt like I could do."
"You're insane, you know that?"
"Oh, I've known that for years," Emily agreed, downing yet another cup of coffee.
The two agents finished their breakfast, packed up their rooms, and checked out just in time to meet Laurent curbside for their lift to the airfield.
"Good morning," he greeted them glumly. "You look like shit," he added to Emily. She laughed wryly at his bluntness and returned some in kind.
"Not as bad as you. But I have a present for you," she said, handing over her crude work product.
"What is this?" the captain inquired.
"It's a psychological profile," Emily explained. "Two actually. One has the characteristics you should be looking for in your mole. The other has what you should be looking for in Khadir's neighbors and friends."
"You think this will help?" Laurent asked, flitting through the pages.
"Maybe. I honestly have no idea. It's the best I could come up with in the time."
"Well, I'll certainly take a look at it," Laurent said. "But if I don't get you to the airfield now your departure will be delayed. I don't want to get you in trouble with your chief."
Emily stared ruefully at the passing Marseille landscape on the way to the airfield. It seemed to be a shame to leave France on such a beautiful day. She made a mental note to add the southern coast to her list of potential destinations for her next vacation. If, in fact, she ever got another vacation.
They arrived at the airfield with only minutes to spare. Laurent gallantly though unnecessarily helped them load their paltry luggage and they bade their farewells.
"I know it all seems less than ideal, but I truly do appreciate your assistance," he informed them. "Thank you."
"I hope that profile helps some," Emily said. "I can't exactly hand out business cards, but you know how to contact our team if you have any questions."
"I do. And thank you. Have a safe flight."
By the time Emily settled into one of the private jet's plush leather seat and buckled herself in, the temporary boost she'd gained from her rapid coffee consumption had worn off. She was asleep before the plane left the tarmac. She managed a halfway decent slumber before the thud of wheels on runway jolted her awake as the plane landed in Brussels.
"We're back already?" Emily grumbled.
"Afraid so," Tsia said, sympathetically. "I'd tell you to skip out on the rest of the day and go straight home, but I don't think that's going to be possible. Look who's picking us up."
Emily followed Tsia's gaze out the window and saw that none other than Clyde himself had come to meet them at the small private airport. He must be really urgent to get started on the new case if he was going out of his way to drive Tsia and Emily back to the office.
"Great," Emily sighed. "Going to be one hell of a day."
Slinging their travel bags over their shoulders, Emily and Tsia deboarded. Emily fumble to throw on a pair of sunglasses and shield her half-closed eyes from the unwelcome late morning sun.
"Welcome back," Clyde said with sarcastic cheeriness. He gamely took Emily and Tsia's bags and loaded them into the back of the waiting car. "I heard one of you had quite the late night fun." He glanced knowingly at Emily.
"Shut up, Clyde," moaned, laying out across the back seat as Tsia took the front.
"Manners, Darling," Clyde admonished, as he got behind the wheel. "And actually, you may be pleased to know that I just finished speaking to one Captain Laurent, and your midnight toils paid off."
"What? Already? How?"
"I'll explain after you sit up and put your seatbelt on."
"Clyde, I'm tired," Emily protested.
"I don't care, I don't want to have to ask the CIA for a new agent if you go flying through the windshield."
"I thought you were a good driver," Emily groaned, complying nonetheless.
"I am. Never said anything about being a safe driver, though," he quipped. Speeding off at an unnecessary rate to underscore the point. Tsia chuckled. Emily shot them both a dirty look in the rearview mirror.
After taunting Emily with a few more seconds of purposely erratic driving, Clyde slowed down to a more reasonable pace and updated Emily on the details of his phone call with Captain Laurent. The French police were still searching for co-conspirators in the apartment building, and expected that investigation to take some time, even with Emily's profile. On the other hand, Laurent had already found the mole within his ranks. Emily's profile enabled the captain to promptly narrow his investigation to three suspects. Luckily, the mole hadn't been particularly careful. A search of the three officer's phones led to the immediate arrest of a third-year patrolman. Laurent expected to have the man charged by the end of the day.
"He's lucky the mole was so sloppy," Emily observed as the car arrived in the back lot at JTF-12's inconspicuous office. "Not even bothering to wipe his cell phone. What an idiot."
"True. Still, give yourself some credit, you did good work," Clyde commented.
"I realize you're both probably tired, but I want everyone here for an immediate briefing on Sean's case," Clyde continued as the trio of agents entered the office. "We'll all still be working on consults and other cases, but this one is going to be our top priority."
"Why is Sean briefing the case?" Tsia asked curiously. Emily had the same question. Clyde always handled all of the briefings, even if another member of the task force first brought the case to his attention.
"Sean and Interpol have a much better grasp on the case," Clyde answered quickly. Emily couldn't be certain from where she was standing, but she was fairly sure Clyde hadn't met Tsia's eyes.
"We'll begin the briefing in a few moments," Clyde continued. "Tsia, go ahead and have a seat in the conference room. Jeremy and Sean should already be in there. Emily, a word in my office please."
Emily was taken aback. She'd no idea what Clyde could possibly want from her. She made brief eye contact with Tsia, who gave a barely perceptible shrug, then reluctantly but dutifully followed Clyde into his dark office.
"Shut the door and have a seat," Clyde said. Emily obliged. She wasn't quite able to read his tone.
"You lied to me," Clyde said, point-blank. The slightest edge of anger and disappointment in his voice.
"What?" Emily demanded, not bothering to mask her exasperation. She was absolutely certain she'd never told Clyde a lie.
"Captain Laurent and I spoke about more than just your profile," Clyde explained. "He said that when you first arrived at the scene of the raid, Tsia froze in the line of fire and you damn near got yourself killed pulling her to safety. You told me everything was fine."
"That is not true," Emily said firmly. "I told you she's still making adjustments."
"Fine, you didn't lie. You just withheld information," Clyde allowed tersely, making it clear he saw it as a distinction without a difference. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to make of all of this. On the one hand, you displayed excellent courage and quick thinking, and on the other hand I don't know that I can trust you to be completely honest with me."
"I wasn't trying to deceive you or anything Clyde," Emily protested. "It's just…Tsia's a good agent. She's smart. Raw, yes. But smart. I didn't think she should be off the task force just because she freaked out her very first time. She can be an asset."
"Prentiss," Clyde sighed. "They day might very well come when you are asked to lead your own team, and you can make those decisions. But right now, that is my responsibility. My decision. And mine alone."
Emily didn't protest.
"Now, as it happens, I agree with you this time," Clyde said, easing into a gentler manner. "But the quality of my assessments and decisions depends on getting information I can depend on. I need to be able to depend on you to tell me the truth. The whole truth. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I have to be able to trust you. I won't ever ask you to divulge something you can't. I'm not going to ask you to reveal American secrets or break your vows to the CIA. But when it comes to this team, to our operations, I must demand complete honesty."
"Understood, sir."
"Oh for Christ's sake Emily, don't give me that 'sir' shit. This isn't grammar school. And again, excellent work. Truly. Let's get this briefing underway shall we."
Emily followed Clyde into the conference room. She knew she should be used to it after several months, but she was still somewhat baffled by the team leader's tendency to shift from intensely serious to almost chummy at the drop of a hat. She supposed it was just the British manner.
The other three JTF members were waiting on them. Sean was fiddling with hooking up his laptop to the large telescreen, rubbing his dark beard furiously. Tsia and Jeremy sat beside one another at rounded table, talking almost imperceptibly in French.
"Alright, sorry for the delay," Clyde announced as Emily took a seat next to Jeremy. "As I've indicated, Sean has a case from Interpol that we will be pursuing as a unit. It will be our top priority going forward. Exact roles will be determined as we go forward. For now, I'll turn it over to Sean."
"Right," Sean said, in his thick Scottish accent. "As Clyde said, Interpol's picked up this case but we've hit a bit of a dead end. The head of the terrorism division gave me permission to bring the case to this team, and Clyde agreed we all may be of some use."
"What exactly is this case?" Jeremy asked, with a hit of impatience.
"For some time now, Interpol's been tracking an individual operating primarily out of the UK and Ireland who we believe has a hand in terrorist activity in several different countries. We've been unable to positively identify this person, so he's been given the code name Valhalla for the time being. What we do know is that he is extremely well connected and a long time ranking member of the Provisional IRA."
"You're joking, right?" Jeremy suggested, looking thoroughly nonplussed. "The IRA?"
"You think that's funny, do you?" Clyde interjected. Emily thought she'd seen Clyde a bit upset earlier, but this was nothing compared to how he looked now. He was seething. "It's a joke to you? "
"Clyde, calm down," Sean warned, but he, too, was staring daggers at Jeremy. Emily understood the Brits' reaction, but she also thought Jeremy probably had a fair point, if poorly expressed. The whole point of JTF-12 was to help provide a more rapid and targeted response to active threats. She couldn't speak for the British SIS or even for Interpol, but she was certain the Americans, Germans, and French hadn't loaned out their agents to go hunting down old Irish Republican Army vets.
"I don't think anybody's making light of the IRA," Emily tried to explain, calmly. "It's just…they're not exactly a big active threat. The Provisionals have been under ceasefire since '97."
"It's not the IRA we're after," Sean explained. "Just Valhalla and a few conspirators. Apparently after the peace accords, he went freelance and started treating terrorism as a for-profit personal business. He's using the connections he built up to facilitate the sale of arms to various active terrorist organizations throughout the globe. He was most active in dealing with Chechen terrorists in the late 90s. More recently he seems to have made connections with some lose Al Qaeda affiliates, particularly in Afghanistan. We've tracked smuggled shipments of small arms and even a few RPGs."
"Is that a big enough active threat for you?" Clyde asked coldly, his eyes boring in to Emily. Emily had the distinct impression that he somehow knew exactly how she had gotten hurt the previous year and was thinking precisely what Emily was thinking at the moment—there was a chance, however remote, that this Valhalla character had sold the weapon that shot down her helicopter. Still, Emily chose not to directly respond. Clyde's anger was out of character. Something was going on, and she didn't want to directly engage him until she found out.
"So, if you don't know who this guy is, how exactly are we supposed to profile him?" Emily asked, directing her question to Sean.
"Through his associates," Sean answered, clicking a key on his laptop. A picture displayed on the large screen. A profile shot of a man with a gray buzz cut and stubble. Emily placed him in his mid forties, possibly early fifties. At first glance, he just looked like an ordinary rough, grizzled fighter. The kind of person you wouldn't want to engage at a bar. But his blue eyes revealed that there was more to him than that. They betrayed cunning, intelligence, even a hint of charm.
"Ian Doyle," Sean said. "Known Provisional IRA member. A long history of fighting and assaults in the Belfast area. He was arrested in 1993 on suspicion of playing a roll in the bombing at Harrods in London, but nobody was ever able to affirmatively connect him to it. They had to let him go. He was picked up other times on suspicion of involvement in other attacks around Belfast, but nothing could stick." Emily swore she caught Sean shoot the briefest of glances at Clyde, but if Clyde saw it, he gave no indication.
"Not long after the Provos agreed to the ceasefire, we started noticing that Doyle's material circumstances were changing. SIS was still keeping tabs on him. Every year, he moved to a nicer home, started traveling more. Now he owns several properties throughout Europe. When Interpol started picking up rumors about an ex-IRA man dealing in other terrorist circles, we cross-referenced with known facts about old IRA suspects still being tracked by the British government. Doyle's known to have traveled to some of the locations where Valhalla struck deals."
"Okay, is it just me, or does anybody else think that this Doyle person is Valhalla?" Tsia asked.
"That's what we suspected," Sean agreed. "And it's still a possibility, but we're not able to make a definitive connection. None of our informants or interrogations subjects has actually seen Valhalla, though some of them have dealt with Doyle. It's possible they're one in the same, but we also suspect that Doyle may just be a high level intermediary. There's no way to be sure."
"So why not just grab this Doyle and see if he rolls on Valhalla?" Jeremy asked.
"That's the eventual plan," Sean said. "But before we make a move on him, we need to be sure we can make him roll. Otherwise all we accomplish by arresting Doyle is tipping off Valhalla to the fact that we're tracking him. He'll change his patterns, his contacts, we lose every lead. And right now we can't be sure of rolling Doyle at all. Other than the general sketch, we don't know anything about him."
"So that's where the profiling comes in," Tsia caught on.
"Exactly."
"This case is relatively new to me, so Sean and I will be meeting to draw up specific battle plants," Clyde said. "In the meantime, you three see what you can initially make of the information we have so far." He passed each agent a moderately thick file. It appeared to be everything Interpol had collected on Ian Doyle. "I expect some initial impressions by the end of the day tomorrow."
Clyde strode out of the conference room and back to his office with Sean in tow. As soon as they were out of hearing range, Jeremy let out a low whistle.
"Well that was strange," he remarked. "I swear to God, if they are wasting our time on some vigilante quest to avenge the Troubles…"
"You heard Sean," Tsia said. "This guy is selling weapons all over the place."
"Yeah, if we take their word for it," Jeremy scoffed. "You saw Clyde, he's hell bent on this. And if he's so sure of the intelligence, why is Sean presenting the case? Clyde always presents the group cases, even if we're the ones who bring them in."
"What do you think, Emily?" Tsia asked.
"I don't know. Something's definitely weird," she said, pulling her cellphone out of her pocket and dialing the number she'd committed to memory. She got an answer halfway through the second ring.
"This is Shirer. Is everything alright Agent Prentiss? Are you in trouble?" came the urgent but still measured voice on the other end.
"I'm not in trouble, but I'm not quite sure everything is alright. I somebody to dig into everything we have on Clyde Easter."