“No body armor, no Army uniform where we’re going. You’ll be sheep-dipped and trade in your M4 for a Kalashnikov.”
“You want a covert operator, grab a guy from Delta.”
She stood, walked around her desk, and closed the office door. It was time to tell him what she figured many on base suspected but few at Camp Citron knew for certain.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified. I’m not a CIA case officer. Nor am I an analyst.”
He snorted. “No kidding.”
She couldn’t help but smile. She’d done little to protect this secret with Special Operations Command. It hadn’t been possible or necessary. She crossed back to her desk. “I started as an analyst, went through case officer training and was one for a while. When I find someone I think would make a good asset, I let the case officer at the embassy know.”
“It’s Kaylea Halpert, isn’t it?”
She didn’t miss a beat and just rolled her eyes. “You think you’re the first person to try the guessing game on me?” He wasn’t, but he was the first to guess it in one try. Most assumed the case officer was a man. Few soldiers looked at Kaylea and thought she was CIA. Usually they were too distracted by the beautiful black woman’s curves.
Unlike Kaylea, whose cover as an embassy employee hid her true job, Savvy worked directly with SOCOM and, like the soldier who sat before her, was prepared to deploy on special ops alone or with a team at a moment’s notice.
Savannah James’s official cover was civilian public works liaison for Camp Citron, which gave her access to Djiboutian ministers and the right to come and go as she pleased from the base. But she wasn’t Savannah James, and she was hardly a public works liaison. She worked with a degree of autonomy that was rare in the intelligence community but completely necessary to be able to react quickly when opportunities arose to gather intel on particular individuals or organizations.
“I don’t run spies, but I’m privy to the intel they provide. I handle top secret tech like subdermal trackers, but that’s not my main job either. My actual title is paramilitary operations officer for the Special Operations Group within SAD.”
Cal looked skeptical. “I thought SOG officers were recruited from the military? Special Forces, SEALs, Delta. You aren’t military.”
She wasn’t, while he was US military through and through. He probably bled Army green. Worse, Sergeant Callahan had more than made it clear he was no fan of the CIA.
“Most do come from the military, but a few are recruited from within the CIA—especially the women.” She flashed a smile. “Special forces isn’t exactly a bastion of equality, and some jobs—like this one—require a woman.”
She cleared her throat. “Unlike other special units, SAD/SOG operatives are trained to operate with limited to zero support. When I’m working a covert op, I don’t carry or wear anything that connects me to the CIA or US government. If compromised, the US government will deny all knowledge of my existence.”
Special Operations Group was considered the US government’s most secretive special operations force, with good reason. Missions—conducted by teams or singly—included raids, sabotage, and even targeted killings, hence the need for the US to have plausible deniability of their covert operatives’ actions.
She rested her hands on her desk. “I won’t force you to help me in this operation. You can say no and return to your A-Team. But I want you to know, I wouldn’t ask for your assistance if this weren’t important. The intel we recovered from Nikolai Drugov’s operation is time sensitive. We have a chance to strike a major blow for Team Democracy and take out the kleptocrats and warlords who have been preying upon the Democratic Republic of the Congo since before Mobutu changed the name to Zaire.”
This part made her nervous. If Cal said no, she was screwed. He didn’t like her, but his mother was from DRC. She’d left the country when it was called Zaire under the rule of Mobutu Sese Seko. For Cal, this could be personal, and she would appeal to that.
His lengthy silence had her sweating, despite the air-conditioning being set to frigid.
Finally, he said, “Seems like I should know what I’m agreeing to before I commit.”
She nodded. “I have intel collected from Drugov’s yacht and found information that another Russian oligarch, Radimir Gorev—a rival of Drugov, but also a business partner—is hosting an event on his yacht in Dar es Salaam next Friday. A gathering of warlords, drug smugglers, corrupt government officials, and wanna-be oligarchs. A nasty, old-fashioned cabal. Drugov compiled quite a bit of information on the other guests, including the fact that Jean Paul Lubanga will be there.”
“Who is that?”
“In my opinion, he’s the biggest threat to the relative peace of DRC.”
“Then why haven’t I heard of him?”
“Lubanga is quiet. Stealthy. And shrewd. After witnessing the mistakes of Mobutu, he’s doing his best not to draw attention to himself.” She grabbed a file from her desk and pulled out a picture of the man. “At present, he’s a government minister, the ultimate power in DRC’s vast mining and mineral rights industry. Analysts believe he’s working toward gaining the loyalty of the military, and once he has that…”
“He’s planning a coup?”
“It’s our job—my job—to find out. I think Drugov hoped to get Lubanga out of his rival Gorev’s pocket and into his own. The oligarch who can bring Russia the riches of DRC would be the second most powerful man in the country.”
“And why do you need me?”
“You’re my ticket onto Gorev’s yacht. Into the heart of the cabal. It’s an evening of business negotiations, sex, and drugs. Sex and drugs give him the kompromat he needs to keep his associates in line, while the business deals keep everyone rich.”
“And how do I get you ringside seats to this shitshow? Because I’m assuming you don’t plan to watch from the sidelines.”
“Warlords and oligarchs will never accept a woman at the table, unless she’s there as a toy.” Her gaze flicked down Cal’s perfect, soldier’s body. “You’re the businessman. I’ll be your sex toy.”
Savannah James, his sex toy. Now there was a thought that should turn Cal cold. Should being the operative word.
He studied the woman, finding it all too easy to imagine her in nothing but kinky strips of leather. He had zero interest in sadomasochism, but he had to admit, the accoutrements were sexy, and on Savvy, that kind of getup would be pure hot sin.
“What’s the timeline?” he asked, returning his focus to where it belonged.
“We head south the day after tomorrow. The meeting is Friday night, but before we can get invites to the party, we need to connect with some of Gorev’s associates on Thursday. They’ll extend the invite if you pass muster. If I don’t get everything I need at the party, we’ll stick around for as long as Lubanga is in Dar es Salaam. All told, it should take a week.”
“You hope,” Cal said.
“Yes. I hope.” She dropped back into the chair behind her desk. “I’ve gotten intel from Morgan’s crew on artifact trafficking.” Morgan was Dr. Morgan Adler, an archaeologist who’d sought protection at Camp Citron two months ago. Cal had met her when her car blew up two miles from the main gate.
“What does Morgan have to do with this?” he asked.
“We’ll use artifact trafficking to get that invitation. Gorev has a fondness for antiquities. You’ve got goods to sell and want to use them as your ticket to the big show, because precious metals and diamonds are where the real money is.”
He cocked his head. “You’ve got artifacts to sell? From Morgan’s project?”
