Read Online Direct Action by John Weisman - Free Book Online
Authors: John Weisman
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Terrorism, Undercover operations, Prevention, Military - Intelligence, Terrorism - Prevention
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photo, print it in high resolution, write a report detailing what she’d found, then pass the package, which was always placed inside an orange-tabbed Top Secret folder, to Mrs. ST. JOHN, who would review it.
If the sin-gin lady thought MJ’s work had merit, she would pass it up the chain of command to the Counterterrorist Center’s senior analyst, a bookish, long-retired reports officer pseudonymed Percival G. LONGWOOD, who had also been rehired post-9/11. Percy LONGWOOD worked somewhere in the ever-expanding maze of offices that made up the CTC, which currently took up more than half of the sixth floor of the CIA headquarters main building.
MJ had met him exactly once in the twelve months she’d worked at the C-PIG. He’d come to meet the staff at Coppermine. His first words to her were, “Call me Percy, gorgeous.” He was just over five feet tall. He wore a shiny polyester blazer, sported a Ronald Coleman mustache, parted his slicked-down hair in the middle, and he stank of aftershave. When he’d called the next morning on the secure phone and asked her out, she’d had to stifle a huge guffaw.
MJ was bothered by the current level of creative tension at the C-PIG. She found the sin-gin lady’s professional views stiflingly inflexible. With the unhappy result that Portia M. ST. JOHN and Hester P. SUTCLIFFE had constantly differing opinions about what the term significant meant. To Marilyn Jean O’Connor, significant was whenever a face in a crowd caused the recognition software to hiccup. To Mrs. ST. JOHN, significance only occurred when the recognition software had a 100 percent positive ID— which meant all 127 points that formed the recognition criteria were matched perfectly.
The problem, as MJ had tried to explain, was that setting such an unyieldingly high bar precluded the possibilities of factoring in oldfashioned facial disguises, not to mention the sorts of appearancechanging prosthetic devices that CIA case officers commonly used, as well as more radical transformations, like plastic surgery. But whenever MJ brought the subject up, Mrs. ST. JOHN would remove her wire-frame halfglasses and finger her brooch, a sign that the individual standing before her was dismissed.
Despite the consequences this interpretational schism might have on her career, MJ continually pushed the edge of the analytical envelope. Indeed, if the software as much as twitched, MJ would immediately start the sophisticated IdentaBase program. If IdentaBase hit anything over eighty points, she’d forward the material to Mrs. ST. JOHN. MJ’s attitude was better safe than sorry, and if Mrs. SJ didn’t like it, to hell with her. C-PIG’s source material was delivered by armed messenger from Langley twice a day. Why the hell Mrs. ST. JOHN insisted on a guy with a gun on the bike was another unfathomable. The photos, after all, were open source. They’d been published in newspapers, magazines, and on the Internet, for chrissakes. In any case, the jpg files were downloaded onto C-PIG’s secure computer network, then scanned on ultra-high-resolution twenty-inch flat screens and run through the interpretation group’s databases, by region. MJ was responsible for the Middle East and North Africa.
6
8:22 A . M . This particular morning, MJ began by examining a series of Agence France Press pictures chronicling the aftermath of yesterday’s nasty attack on a U.S. diplomatic convoy in the Gaza Strip. There were eight photos in the sequence.
MJ shifted the Starbuck’s Grande out of the way, clicked on the first thumbnail, and brought it up onto her screen. The photo showed the rear end of a blown-up Suburban SUV. The big vehicle had been completely flipped onto its back by the explosion. MJ could read the license plate clearly. It was a standard Israeli diplomatic plate: black lettering on a white background. CD for Corps Diplomatique. The numbers began with 15, which was the Israeli Foreign Ministry designator for the United States,
If the sin-gin lady thought MJ’s work had merit, she would pass it up the chain of command to the Counterterrorist Center’s senior analyst, a bookish, long-retired reports officer pseudonymed Percival G. LONGWOOD, who had also been rehired post-9/11. Percy LONGWOOD worked somewhere in the ever-expanding maze of offices that made up the CTC, which currently took up more than half of the sixth floor of the CIA headquarters main building.
MJ had met him exactly once in the twelve months she’d worked at the C-PIG. He’d come to meet the staff at Coppermine. His first words to her were, “Call me Percy, gorgeous.” He was just over five feet tall. He wore a shiny polyester blazer, sported a Ronald Coleman mustache, parted his slicked-down hair in the middle, and he stank of aftershave. When he’d called the next morning on the secure phone and asked her out, she’d had to stifle a huge guffaw.
MJ was bothered by the current level of creative tension at the C-PIG. She found the sin-gin lady’s professional views stiflingly inflexible. With the unhappy result that Portia M. ST. JOHN and Hester P. SUTCLIFFE had constantly differing opinions about what the term significant meant. To Marilyn Jean O’Connor, significant was whenever a face in a crowd caused the recognition software to hiccup. To Mrs. ST. JOHN, significance only occurred when the recognition software had a 100 percent positive ID— which meant all 127 points that formed the recognition criteria were matched perfectly.
The problem, as MJ had tried to explain, was that setting such an unyieldingly high bar precluded the possibilities of factoring in oldfashioned facial disguises, not to mention the sorts of appearancechanging prosthetic devices that CIA case officers commonly used, as well as more radical transformations, like plastic surgery. But whenever MJ brought the subject up, Mrs. ST. JOHN would remove her wire-frame halfglasses and finger her brooch, a sign that the individual standing before her was dismissed.
Despite the consequences this interpretational schism might have on her career, MJ continually pushed the edge of the analytical envelope. Indeed, if the software as much as twitched, MJ would immediately start the sophisticated IdentaBase program. If IdentaBase hit anything over eighty points, she’d forward the material to Mrs. ST. JOHN. MJ’s attitude was better safe than sorry, and if Mrs. SJ didn’t like it, to hell with her. C-PIG’s source material was delivered by armed messenger from Langley twice a day. Why the hell Mrs. ST. JOHN insisted on a guy with a gun on the bike was another unfathomable. The photos, after all, were open source. They’d been published in newspapers, magazines, and on the Internet, for chrissakes. In any case, the jpg files were downloaded onto C-PIG’s secure computer network, then scanned on ultra-high-resolution twenty-inch flat screens and run through the interpretation group’s databases, by region. MJ was responsible for the Middle East and North Africa.
6
8:22 A . M . This particular morning, MJ began by examining a series of Agence France Press pictures chronicling the aftermath of yesterday’s nasty attack on a U.S. diplomatic convoy in the Gaza Strip. There were eight photos in the sequence.
MJ shifted the Starbuck’s Grande out of the way, clicked on the first thumbnail, and brought it up onto her screen. The photo showed the rear end of a blown-up Suburban SUV. The big vehicle had been completely flipped onto its back by the explosion. MJ could read the license plate clearly. It was a standard Israeli diplomatic plate: black lettering on a white background. CD for Corps Diplomatique. The numbers began with 15, which was the Israeli Foreign Ministry designator for the United States,
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