The Socotra Incident Read Online Free Page A

said nothing.
    Shannon leaned forward in her chair to make her eyes level with Natalie’s.
    “This is important: We do not exist, as far as Washington knows. No Congressional oversight, no inquisition from an inspector general’s office demanding to see our receipts for coffee creamer. We’re expected to deliver results, not good feelings.”
    “That’s not how I was trained,” Natalie said, her voice meek. She’s learned her fair share of dirty tricks, and her instructors had soothed her concerns by specifying how everything she’d be asked to do was legal under the laws of the United States. Other countries, not so much.
    “It’s quite liberating once you get used to it. So, ready to get to work?”
    “What do I do first?”
    “Lunch. You and I have a business lunch two days from now. In the meantime, a car will take you to your apartment. Get over your jet lag and buy some suitably expensive clothes. Our concierge has your appointment at the Kohlmarkt department store set up; they’ll pick you up at ten.” Shannon stood up and leaned over her desk to look at Natalie’s feet.
    “See Mario for shoes. He’s incredible.”
    “Wait. I thought I’d get fired for overbilling a cup of coffee. How the hell does Uncle Sam afford”—she held her genuine purse—“this?”
    “There you go, asking the right questions again.” Shannon winked at her. “Go. I have to threaten to castrate a Greek over a cargo of wheat rotting on a pier in Alexandria.”
    Natalie stood up and turned away. She stopped a step away from the door and looked over her shoulder.
    “Where’s Ritter? Is he here?” Natalie felt like some lovesick school girl asking the questions and immediately regretted them.
    “I’ve got him out of town, running an errand.”
     
     
    Aden.
    Ritter hated the Yemeni city. He hated the sketchy border town atmosphere, borne from centuries as a nexus for shipping, piracy, and smuggling on the eponymous gulf. He hated the air, which was fat with humidity in the 100-degree temperature. Hated the memories the city held.
    He’d been here on the day a terrorist attack hit the USS Cole . A college trip to appreciate the old city, built into the depression of an extinct volcano, had taken a bitter turn when the snap of five hundred pounds of high explosives rolled over the city that early October morning.
    What he hated most about Aden was the way the city had cheered after the attack. He’d never wanted to return to the sweltering cesspit of a city. His target, an al-Qaeda courier, was here, and Ritter’s choice of travel destinations was moot.
    He sat at a café, sipping what passed for coffee in this part of the Arab world: a light-colored roast that smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, and tasted of the sesame seeds coating the bottom of the cup. As much as he disliked the city, at least the coffee was drinkable. He shuffled his newspaper and stared over the top of the page at the Internet café across the street.
    The courier was the cousin—and therefore a trusted agent—of a Saudi prince the CIA suspected was funding al-Qaeda with money skimmed from charities and the prince’s construction interests in Oman. The Saudis had a good reputation for arranging sudden and fatal accidents for any royals linked to al-Qaeda, but they demanded solid proof before acting.
    “Nothing from the rear exit,” a voice crackled from a tiny earpiece. “You still have the eye.”
    Ritter clicked his tongue twice to acknowledge the message. The other operative, who went by John for this mission, was on loan from the CIA station in the capitol city of Sana’a, had done a decent job of keeping a low profile and swapping out the “eye,” the designation for whoever had active sight on their target. John had had the eye until the courier went into the Internet café; then Ritter had picked it up so John could transition to watch the back.
    The conversation in the café turned to swapping dirty jokes about the Huthis, Shia