Final Finalist

Robert Wells was born in Scottsboro, Alabama. His father was a physician who was forty-five when his son was born. His mother died when he was young, and he had no brothers or sisters. Young Bob was packed off to St. John’s Military Academy in Wisconsin by his father, and from there to Harvard. In his junior year he and his roommate were hired in the summer intern program at the Central Intelligence Agency. After graduating he was hired as an entry-level analyst. Writing reports on political activity in North Africa was interesting, but boring. Two years later the Agency agreed to pay for graduate study in Europe if he agreed to become fluent in Arabic. He spent two years in Berlin at Humboldt University learning Arabic, and taking Moroccan history at the University of Berlin. Then he got a major break. His college friend worked in the clandestine section of the Agency and introduced him to the section chief. He never returned to Alabama. And he never lost his southern accent.
Wells quickly learned the world of espionage is a closed one. After training at “The Farm”, where he finished top in his class, he went into the field to learn spy craft. Because of his language training in Arabic (Darija), he was posted to Tangier, Morocco. Tangier is where spying became legendary. Wells often took coffee at the El Minzah, a historical hotel where Humphrey Bogart, Barbara Hutton, and many other celebrities once stayed. Winston Churchill, his idol, was a guest there in the 1940s. Moreover, the ancient city is rich in the cultural history of the Phoenicians, Romans, and Carthaginians, and in the mythical history of the Greeks and Berbers. Its international importance is equally fascinating. In 1821, the United States bought its first foreign owned property – the American Legation. In short, for Wells, Tangier is more Casablanca than Casablanca, and more Hollywood than Hollywood.
The political temperature is hot when Wells meets with the head of the Mossad in Tel Aviv. The purpose of his visit is to discuss growing threats in light of developments in Iran. He receives an unofficial update on the overall Middle East “situation.” But the Israel/Iran situation dominates the conversation. Iran recovered a downed RQ-170 Sentinel several months earlier. The drone is a tactical operations platform, meaning it provides streaming video in real time, and monitors ground communications from a high altitude. The primary concern for the Agency is whether or not it’s possible to reverse engineer its classified technology, and sell the secrets to the Russians and Chinese. Wells’ intelligence sources suggest the drone was actually flying over Iran and caught in a powerful electronic cyber trap. The U.S. Air Force was aware the drone was not destroyed when the satellite signal was lost. Because of command failure to act in a critical situation, someone’s head will roll. Besides that, sources are confident the sensors are too complex to be reverse engineered.
Wells privately believes a nation’s behavior is linked to geography. And geography is linked with identity, and identity is linked to a lot of things, such as economics and history and language. None of these things do Iran and Israel have in common. He expects more violence, and the drawing of the U.S. into a conflict in support of Israel. Reliable peace seems light years away.
The next day, after making his report to the Agency, Wells is on a plane to Casablanca to confer with Moroccan intelligence officials, and unofficial private sources. It is his first trip to Casablanca since suicide bombers killed 45 people in 2003 and 2007. Casablanca is one of his favorite cities, ancient and modern, unchanged and changing. The city has the second largest Mosque in the world – the Hassan II Mosque – which opened in 1993. Thirty-five thousand craftsmen worked years to build it. It is simply magnificent. More than 25,000 believers can pray at the same time in the prayer hall, and part of the roof can be opened to the heavens.
Wells stops at the U.S. Embassy to meet with the C.I.A. Station Chief before going with Abdul Ishak to lunch at Rick’s Café. Ishak is an employee of CMI and serves as a “listener” for developments in North Africa. The food is excellent at Rick’s, and Wells indulges himself. For starters he orders the Salade de Gambas Tropicana (Prawn salad Tropicana). The main course is Espadon panne au pistou (Breaded swordfish with pesto). And for dessert he breaks his own rules and orders Tarte aux pommes, glace vanilla (Apple tart with vanilla ice cream), and a cup of strong coffee. Three bites into the apple tart his encoded smart phone vibrates. It’s a secure text from Adrian Soperton – Deputy Director of Intelligence at the Agency and his immediate successor – requesting a breakfast meeting in Virginia Beach as soon as possible. Wells still has a few hours before his plane leaves. He and Ishak visit the Hassan II Mosque. It is Wells’ third visit.
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Thomas Forsyth is the Political Section Chief at the U. S. Embassy in Costa Rica. He majored in international affairs and foreign languages at Middlebury College in Vermont. Middlebury is highly regarded in academic circles, and has been around for more than 200 years. After four challenging years as a student, Forsyth emerged from college a principled young man, a teetotaler, and an intellectual. He was a brilliant student – like most of his peers at the college – but oddly obsessive about words. His obsession with words never abated. In his fifteen year career to date, he takes pains to always find the right words, especially for cables to his superiors in Washington. Because of his love for words and foreign languages, he internalized the Middlebury expression “Life doesn’t come with subtitles.”
Forsyth has two hobbies: tennis and little theater. Costa Rica is a good posting for Forsyth because it affords him adequate time to indulge both in his off hours. The Embassy’s Legal Attaché (FBI special agent in country) is David Turner, his frequent tennis competitor. Turner is well connected with the local and national police, a major part of his job, and sometimes confidentially discusses with Forsyth happenings of professional interest. Forsyth is a good listener. One Sunday afternoon, during a brief break at the net on the Embassy’s tennis courts, Turner mentions the tragic death of a young man in Heredia, a suburb north of San Jose. Earlier he heard of another case – two, in fact, near the Panama/Costa Rica border, but the police couldn’t make any connections with either. The “Why” wasn’t answered. The “How” was.
“Anthrax?” asks Forsyth, his face dripping with sweat. “You sure?”
“That’s what the police report says.”
“Just the one case?”
“Uh-huh. Not counting the one on the Caribbean side,” he corrects himself, leaning lightly on the net. “Is that unusual?”
“I don’t know,” Forsyth says, blotting his forehead with wrist bands. He remembers reading a report about anthrax. The important question is: is it respiratory anthrax or ingested anthrax? If the answer is respiratory, that could mean it was spread in an aerosol form. A weaponize form. If it was ingested anthrax, then it could have been caused by bad food. Most likely a meat product. He has another source who has a different idea. He best make mention of it in his next report. “What’s the score?”
“Are you kidding me? 40-30.” Turner wipes his racket on his shirt and returns to serve game point.