an athlete. She turned on the sound and returned to the beginning. Two pieces of his advice struck her:
“Always have a good backup strategy and an even better way out.”
“Do the unexpected. As Goethe wrote, ‘Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.’ Being bold can be safer and yield greater results.”
Tice was a compelling subject. When he spoke to staff, he was down-to-earth and approachable while projecting wisdom and leadership. When politicians or high officials were listening, the skin on his face tightened to the bones, chiseling his features. His voice deepened, and he grew striking, aristocratic, while communicating a sense of unassailable authority. Fromcovert op to spymaster and intelligence chief, he was a chameleon, tailoring himself to his audience.
Still, she recalled hearing him tell a group of recruits, “To be memorable at the wrong time could be your death sentence.” She moved her gaze away and tried to describe him but found herself unsure. He was a man of flesh, bone, and quicksilver.
She set the computer on the seat beside her where she could glance at the screen and continue to absorb Jay Tice. As she picked up his dossier, an e-mail arrived from Silliphant:
Will do. If I find anything about the triangle pendant, it’ll be on the CD.
She opened Tice’s file and paused at a recap of his CIA service. During the Cold War, he had worked throughout Europe, a month here, six months there—Paris, Vienna, Rome, West Berlin, Madrid, other places both large and small. The list was chronological and two pages long. Most overseas spies operated out of embassies, pretending to be diplomats, but Tice had been a nonofficial cover operative—a NOC. It was Langley’s most hazardous line of work, not only because the assignments could be dicey, but because NOCs had no diplomatic immunity. If caught for spying, they usually ended up in prison, and some countries executed them. Tice was never caught.
Finally, in October 1985, Tice came in from the cold to head the West Berlin station. As she noted the date, she realized his first act of betrayal—Dr. Abendroth’s assassination—occurred a few weeks later. Was there something about his being station chief that had instigated a sellout to the Soviets?
She found the file photo of Tice and his family, then flipped through his biography, noting his marriage to Marie Dillon in 1975 and the birth of their two children in 1976 and 1978. Then:
December 15, 1985
Jay Tice was late leaving that morning to go to the embassy. His BMW was parked at the end of the drive, blocking Marie Tice’s car,which she needed to take Mariette and Aaron to school. While the children waited, Marie got into the BMW to move it. She turned on the ignition, which triggered a bomb planted beneath, killing her instantly. The children never regained consciousness and died in the hospital several hours later from injuries.
Tice was believed to have been the actual target. He was offered compassionate leave but refused. A week later he asked for personal time, which was granted. He was gone four days. The bombers were never found, but there were rumors at the time—although there was no evidence—that Tice knew who they were and terminated them. He had a reputation for going after anyone who attacked him.
Note: Three weeks earlier, on November 23, Mrs. Tice reported a dependency on prescription drugs to government doctors and filed an application for custodial medical care. The application had just been approved at the time of her death.
Elaine lowered the report, trying to absorb the tragedy. Tice’s wife and two children. All of them. Gone. Dead.
She focused on the son’s name—Aaron. He might have been named for Tice’s brother, who was killed in the DMZ between North and South Korea. Maybe “Mariette” was chosen as a variation of “Marie.” Whatever differences Tice had with Marie, the savage murder of her and their children must have hit
“Always have a good backup strategy and an even better way out.”
“Do the unexpected. As Goethe wrote, ‘Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.’ Being bold can be safer and yield greater results.”
Tice was a compelling subject. When he spoke to staff, he was down-to-earth and approachable while projecting wisdom and leadership. When politicians or high officials were listening, the skin on his face tightened to the bones, chiseling his features. His voice deepened, and he grew striking, aristocratic, while communicating a sense of unassailable authority. Fromcovert op to spymaster and intelligence chief, he was a chameleon, tailoring himself to his audience.
Still, she recalled hearing him tell a group of recruits, “To be memorable at the wrong time could be your death sentence.” She moved her gaze away and tried to describe him but found herself unsure. He was a man of flesh, bone, and quicksilver.
She set the computer on the seat beside her where she could glance at the screen and continue to absorb Jay Tice. As she picked up his dossier, an e-mail arrived from Silliphant:
Will do. If I find anything about the triangle pendant, it’ll be on the CD.
She opened Tice’s file and paused at a recap of his CIA service. During the Cold War, he had worked throughout Europe, a month here, six months there—Paris, Vienna, Rome, West Berlin, Madrid, other places both large and small. The list was chronological and two pages long. Most overseas spies operated out of embassies, pretending to be diplomats, but Tice had been a nonofficial cover operative—a NOC. It was Langley’s most hazardous line of work, not only because the assignments could be dicey, but because NOCs had no diplomatic immunity. If caught for spying, they usually ended up in prison, and some countries executed them. Tice was never caught.
Finally, in October 1985, Tice came in from the cold to head the West Berlin station. As she noted the date, she realized his first act of betrayal—Dr. Abendroth’s assassination—occurred a few weeks later. Was there something about his being station chief that had instigated a sellout to the Soviets?
She found the file photo of Tice and his family, then flipped through his biography, noting his marriage to Marie Dillon in 1975 and the birth of their two children in 1976 and 1978. Then:
December 15, 1985
Jay Tice was late leaving that morning to go to the embassy. His BMW was parked at the end of the drive, blocking Marie Tice’s car,which she needed to take Mariette and Aaron to school. While the children waited, Marie got into the BMW to move it. She turned on the ignition, which triggered a bomb planted beneath, killing her instantly. The children never regained consciousness and died in the hospital several hours later from injuries.
Tice was believed to have been the actual target. He was offered compassionate leave but refused. A week later he asked for personal time, which was granted. He was gone four days. The bombers were never found, but there were rumors at the time—although there was no evidence—that Tice knew who they were and terminated them. He had a reputation for going after anyone who attacked him.
Note: Three weeks earlier, on November 23, Mrs. Tice reported a dependency on prescription drugs to government doctors and filed an application for custodial medical care. The application had just been approved at the time of her death.
Elaine lowered the report, trying to absorb the tragedy. Tice’s wife and two children. All of them. Gone. Dead.
She focused on the son’s name—Aaron. He might have been named for Tice’s brother, who was killed in the DMZ between North and South Korea. Maybe “Mariette” was chosen as a variation of “Marie.” Whatever differences Tice had with Marie, the savage murder of her and their children must have hit
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