Shadow War by Sean McFate

“That’s Greenlees.”
    â€œWho’s Greenlees?”
    â€œJohn Greenlees, an old station chief, put out to pasture ages ago. He comes into the office every so often to talk to Baker, the deputy station chief. They must have worked together, but I don’t know, he’s in the wind. Nobody has cared about him in years. I only recognize him because I happen to have an office next to Baker.”
    An office? She almost laughed. She knew Hargrove stamped visas in the morning and spent his afternoons in a cubicle, typing up Baker’s cables. It was the fate of all greenhorn case officers who were undeclared.
    â€œWhat’s Greenlees up to?”
    â€œNothing, as far as I know.”
    â€œHe doesn’t work for, um, your people?”
    â€œGreenlees? No, he’s out of the game. But he’s got contacts, I’m sure, since he’s been around forever. He’s burned at the organization, though. Left under a cloud, not too happy about it, I hear. Something about a local mistress.”
    â€œEveryone has a mistress,” she said.
    Hargrove shook his head. “He left his wife for her. A CIA station chief doesn’t leave his wife for a sex worker. It’s blackmail material. And it’s not professional.”
    She’d heard him use the word before. Professionalism was a sacred concept to earnest young men like Hargrove.
    â€œSex worker?”
    â€œWhore, I guess. That’s the word Baker used.”
    Which could mean anything. Whore was a generic insult used by old glad-handers like Baker, a way to put a woman in her place. Underneath.
    â€œHe may have been compromised. That’s not something for print, of course,” Hargrove said, “although I can’t imagine anyone would care. That was years ago. And I assume nothing was proven, or they would have pulled his passport. But you know how rumors are. They can ruin a career.”
    She knew he intended to stay clean, but she also knew he wasn’t above exploiting a rumor or two, if the timing was right. That’s what reporters were for.
    â€œAny idea where to find him?”
    Hargrove shrugged. “At the embassy, I suppose. He comes in every now and then. I could ask Baker.”
    â€œNo,” she said too quickly, and saw Hargrove hesitate. He was an ambitious FNG; he wouldn’t miss the implication that this was important to her. But there was no use not nailing it down.
    â€œCan you just let me know if he comes in?” she said too casually.
    Hargrove reached for the bottle of Scotch. She had been right about him, she thought as she watched him pour. He was well built. Wide, but in a bulldog way, unlike Locke, who was lean.And Hargrove was fresh. Clean. He had good instincts and a sharp eye, and he wanted to learn. He was a young man who could be molded—who wanted to be molded—if a woman knew how to handle him.
    â€œSo who’s the other guy?” he said, handing her a glass.
    It was almost too easy.
    She handed him Locke’s card, with its bullshit consulting business. “It seems legit, but he’s ex-military. I knew him years ago. In Africa.”
    â€œKnew him?”
    She shook her head. “Just because I used to be a nun—”
    â€œI know,” Hargrove said.
    And I know you love it, Alie thought. She licked her lips and sipped her Bowmore. “Everybody makes bad decisions, right?”
    She was laying it on thick, but what the hell. She had been flirting with Hargrove for weeks, practically since he arrived in Kiev, and the longer something like that goes on, the more inevitable it becomes. And besides, she was lonely. It was a hard life on the road, where every story was temporary and every relationship short-lived. If she didn’t sleep with sources like Hargrove, who would she sleep with? Those were the only people she knew anymore.
    â€œYou don’t think he’s a merc, do you?” she asked. One of the CIA’s new