WASHINGTON, D.C.
Paul Page wasn’t a particularly attractive individual—not on the outside, and definitely not on the inside.
He was in his late fifties, with a receding hairline and gray eyebrows that formed distinct peaks when he was angry or surprised. As a purveyor of global intelligence, rarely was he ever surprised.
He was a hard, calculating man who enjoyed Kentucky bourbon, Maryland crab cakes, and D.C. call girls. The word that best described him, though, was forgettable.
His ability to melt into the background had been an asset as a CIA officer—right up until the moment he’d been “let go.”
He hated the term let go. Cut loose was another he couldn’t stand. He’d been cut loose all right. As if he were an astronaut in the middle of a space walk, Langley had uncoupled his umbilical cord and let him drift off into the cold darkness of space.
Snatching the terrorist Imam off the streets of Milan had been his idea. He had planned it down to the tiniest detail. In retrospect, would he have done things differently? Probably. But he had never expected to get caught.
He had picked the team himself. They were good people, people he knew from his years at the Agency. They were hard workers. He was a hard worker. Creating fully backstopped covers was a pain in the ass and took shitloads of time—a year at least. They hadn’t had that luxury.
When the Imam popped onto the CIA’s radar, Page’s superiors had encouraged him to act quickly. He had made a judgment call. Ironically, no one on his team had given him any pushback.
They all traveled under their real names, used their own cell phones, and checked into their hotels with their loyalty program numbers so they could get rewards points. As long as the government was picking up the tab for the trip to Italy, why not? It wasn’t like they were skimming money out of petty cash.
What he hadn’t seen coming was that the intelligence about the Imam might be faulty. The thought hadn’t even entered his mind.
The thought hadn’t entered the minds of the Egyptian interrogators they were using either. After grabbing the Imam and rendering him to a black site in Cairo, Page and his team had gone back to the United States and waited for him to spill his secrets.
As it turned out, the Imam didn’t have any. He wasn’t involved in terrorism at all.
That was a problem.
It was a problem because during the year he spent in Egyptian custody, he had been beaten, tortured, and even raped—repeatedly.
Eventually, Egyptian Intelligence realized the CIA had made a massive mistake. The Imam was moved out of the black site and placed under house arrest.
In that house, though, was a telephone. And as soon as he was alone, the Imam called every friend and family member he had.
At first, they were overjoyed to hear his voice. Then, they were outraged as he described what had happened to him. Right away, they began reaching out to journalists.
The story spread like wildfire. The public was outraged. The CIA looked every bit as monstrous as the Egyptians. Not long after the story broke, the Italians launched an investigation.
Because Page’s team hadn’t bothered to take the batteries out of their phones while in Italy, much less use untraceable burner phones, the Italian authorities were able to re-create their every move. In the nine days they spent stalking the Imam, staking out his home and mosque, they had left a distinct trail of digital breadcrumbs.
The Italians issued warrants for Page and his entire team. Naturally, none of them complied.
A trial was held in Milan. In absentia, Page and his fellow CIA operatives were all found guilty. Prison sentences were handed down, as was a judgment that each operative pay one million Euros to the Imam and five hundred thousand Euros to his wife.
With the verdicts in place, the Italians issued new arrest warrants and entered red notices with INTERPOL. If any of the convicted CIA operatives ever set foot in Europe again, they would be arrested on the spot.
It was considered one of the most embarrassing moments in the Agency’s history and the blame-storming began immediately. The President wanted blood. The Intelligence committees wanted severed heads on pikes outside the Capitol Building. Everyone on Langley’s seventh floor ran for cover.
As they cowered under their desks, they conspired to come up with an appropriate human sacrifice. It didn’t take long for them to arrive at a name—his.
Page was expendable. Hell, everyone who worked at the Agency was expendable. But after years of dedicated service, he expected better. He expected someone in leadership to stand up and defend him. Of all people, he expected his mentor, Reed Carlton, to come to his defense.
That, though, hadn’t happened. Instead, Carlton sat on a board of review and voted against him. Carlton called the operation “misguided and unprofessional.”
Page was stung by the critique. Yes, he had made mistakes. Yes, Carlton had pulled him aside in the past and had warned him about his behavior. But this was different. Nevertheless, Carlton had chosen to put the precious Agency ahead of their friendship. That was unforgiveable in Page’s book.
Though he was well liked and had many other friends at the CIA, there was nothing any of them could do to save him. The decision had been made by the CIA Director himself. The angry Potomac gods downriver needed to be appeased. They would not be denied their pound of flesh.
Without the career that had defined him, the lesser of Page’s angels took over. He began drinking heavily. His marriage (his second) fell apart. His wife left him. He burned through his 401(k). He came inches away from suck-starting his Walther pistol.
Then, one of his old friends from the Agency had dropped an opportunity in his lap. A big, golden opportunity.
An American company looking to do business in several Russian satellites needed highly sensitive intelligence. With that intelligence, the company would have a strategic advantage over its competition. The contract it was chasing was worth more than a hundred million dollars.
It just so happened that Page’s friend had access to the intel that the American company was looking for. As an active CIA employee, he couldn’t deal with the company directly. Page, though, could.
And thus Page Partners, Ltd.—a global, private intelligence-gathering service geared toward multinational corporations—was born. Paul Page interfaced with the clients and kept the money flowing, while his pal inside the Agency kept the intelligence flowing. It was a lucrative, not to mention illegal, match made in heaven.
But while Page seemed to have everything he could want—an expensive downtown apartment, a new Mercedes, a flashy wardrobe, and money to burn—there was something missing. Something he wanted above all else. Revenge.