Red Cell (45 page)

“Thank you, sir,” Kyra said, taking the cherrywood box. She opened it. The bronze coin inside was stamped with an eagle’s head in profile atop a sunburst over a five-point star, with the words “Central Intelligence Agency” and “For Valor” written around the circumference. She didn’t say anything, instead running her fingers over the metal. Then she closed her eyes. A warm feeling rose up inside her chest and she felt tension drain out of her shoulders.

“You won’t be able to tell anyone about that,” Barron said. “Not until Pioneer’s file is declassified, anyway. You’ll be an old woman when that happens. Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Kyra said. She closed the box. “But we just lost our best asset in Beijing. The Chinese are starting to test their capabilities. It’s a bad time to have intelligence gaps on their intentions.”

“We have more assets. There are always more,” Cooke told her.

Kyra looked down at Pioneer, sitting in the sand, eyes closed, and wondered what he was thinking. “Not like him.”

“Sure there are,” Jonathan countered. “Plenty of people want to change the world for all the right reasons. Just have to find them.”

Cooke looked at Jonathan, surprised. “You’re going soft.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to be the one who had to go looking for them.”

“You were right,” she said. “You really are an acquired taste.”

“And yet, you still haven’t fired me,” he observed.

Smiling, Cooke leaned in close and nudged him hard. And Jonathan finally smiled back.

Cooke turned Kyra. “No need to hide you anymore. Two Intelligence Stars in three months. I think with that on your record, you can pick your assignment. What do you want to do?”

It took the younger woman a few moments to settle on her answer. “I want to finish the mission,” she said, nodding toward Pioneer. Kyra stepped forward and walked down the sandy shore.

My wife Janna, who decided that the Exceptional Performance Award money would be better spent on a laptop for writing than on paying down student loans and who played single mother far too many nights while I learned how to write a novel the hard way.

My parents, Carl and Lynne Henshaw, for their love and support; I miss you, Dad. My siblings Glen, Neal, and Susan (herself, a fine writer) for their patience with my incessant prattling about the book.

“Uncle” Paul, “Aunt” Sally, and Zach Stewart, who always believed that it could be done and that I could do it; and Amy Dunafin and Glenda Mora, who thought years ago that an awkward, skinny kid just might be able to write a book someday. Everyone should have such friends.

Flint Dille, Sam Sarkar, and Nick Brondo for taking my writing more seriously than I took it myself; and Ken Freimann and Jason Yarn, my literary agent, for putting all the wheels in motion. Rachel Hanig, my friend, for years of support, who has shared in many of my professional successes and been patient with me when she didn’t have to be.

The Touchstone Team—Lauren Spiegel, my editor, for her wise suggestions and guidance; Lisa Healy, my copy editor, who saved me from many an embarrassing gaffe; and Cherlynne Li and Ervin Serrano who created that marvelous cover for the book.

Keith Blount and his Literature & Latte Team, for creating Scrivener, the app that ended four years of pain trying to write a novel with a word processor. A writer who’s trying to draft a novel without using Scrivener is probably a masochist.

The members of the CIA Red Cell who taught me the ropes, and who are some of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life—Bob, Paul, Dave, Tom, Donna, Harry, and Vincent.

And the other Agency officers who I’ve worked with, honorable public servants and good people all, who are dedicated to protecting a nation and do a fine job of it—Tom, Steve, Ken, Brad, Jennifer, Mike, Norm, Mali for helping with the Chinese language, and all the rest too numerous to list.