The Venator Program - Part Two

The Minted Target... Miles Porter eyes his target...

Read part one of The Venator Program here!

The Venator Program – Part Two: The Minted Target

Langley, Virginia

Once the unpleasantries of handshakes and small talk completed, everyone took their appropriate seats. Colby and Saxon sat together at a dreamy mahogany table opposite the platformed row of tables that now seated their superiors. The meeting space felt akin to a lavished Ivy League library. What lacked in natural light, overhead lighting and lamps positioned appropriately casted an illuminating presence.

Linton Edwards – Director of the CIA, Elizabeth Shaw – Deputy Director, Fred Nielsen – Finance Director, and Leslie Mortimer of legal counsel were the heavy hitters in attendance. Several yes men saddled either end of the panel. The two lone supporters for Colby and Saxon were Albert Hernandez – Director of Special Activities Center and Ellis Price – Deputy Director of Operations. Each of them flanked on opposite end as if they were some metaphorical balance.

Despite the warm intentions of the room, it was everything but that. No matter how nice an area may be, how it is used and who by would supersede any attempt at hominess. The table positioning created an air of arrogance as if the higher ups peered down on their subordinates ready to thumb their nose at the slightest inconvenience.

“Thank you again, Mr. Hatton and Mr. Saxon, for joining us today. Our meeting will be the last installment to finalize the pending request.” Director Edwards said. “Deputy Director Shaw will lead this meeting.”

The words were like a gut punch to Colby. Saxon nonchalantly nudged Colby’s ankle as he let out a deep sigh. With the Deputy Director leading the meeting, Saxon was now certain red letters would wind up stamped on Colby’s proposal that read DENIED.

Saxon whispered to Colby. “Any word?”

Colby’s curt nod was all that Saxon needed.

After six weeks of drafting documents, reviewing financial budgets, and detailing every data point to avoid problems, Colby would never be more ready to move past the Agency’s red tape. The possibility of denial weighed heavily on his mind as the Agency had a bitter tendency to strike down new ideas, but he did not fear that to be the case today. Colby had a card up his sleeve, but would it be an Ace or a meaningless Joker card?

“As a refresher, we are reviewing the latest program proposal. Remind us of the program name.” Deputy Shaw spat.

“The Venator Program.” Colby interjected.

“Ah yes, The Venator Program.” Deputy Director Shaw’s short tone started the meeting off with an air of careless arrogance.

Saxon leaned towards the microphone positioned on the table. “That is correct.”

“Mr. Saxon, is it also correct that you have reviewed and signed off on this proposition?”

Colby internally rolled his eyes at the use of ‘proposition’. Besides her disingenuous comment, this was far from the first meeting conducted to review his newest program.

Deputy Director Shaw glared down to Saxon’s boss, DDO Price. “I see your approval has also been granted.”

DDO Price flipped his hands up in a gesture of peace. “The value is more than evident to me.”

Deputy Director Shaw snapped her attention back to Colby. “Mr. Hatton, please refresh my memory. Is venator some codeword?”

Like many operations or programs before its time and many to come, they were labeled a variety of names. The name was a point of reference to the operation or program’s objectives. Other operations or programs had meaningless names, often tacky or timely that didn’t hold up in the future. This program name connected to the very core of its objectives.

“Venator is Latin for hunter.” Colby’s gruff voice countered.

“Oh yes, the bounty hunting initiative, isn’t it? Please provide us a highlight reel if you will.” Shaw glared at Colby. Her voice grated as she spoke.

Colby nodded softly to keep his composure. Her lack of patience already wore him thin, but now was not the time to show just how little he had. “Deputy Director, allow me to explain.” Colby flipped open the manilla folder before him on the table. “We are all aware of the Most Wanted Lists, correct? From CIA’s own internal wanted lists, FBI’s, Interpol’s, and so forth. Every intelligence agency has a high-valued target or most wanted list. After 9/11, we had a full deck of cards that were more like baseball cards for terrorists.”

Several nodded, including the Director, but the Deputy Director refrained. Her thin face retained the stone, cold glare.

Colby continued. “What if we had a program designed specifically to target these lists?”

Shaw flipped her hands upwards. “Is this not the business of Special Activities?” 

“What Mr. Hatton speaks of is different.” Albert responded.

Albert Hernandez was the head of the Special Activities Center and Colby’s lone ally on the seventh floor. Long before Albert had taken over as head of SAC, the pair worked close together on an array of operations. Even now, the two continued to manage joint operations when it suited the desired outcome. Colby and Albert were known to be the renegades of the Agency, yet Albert operated the office politics with more tact unlike his friend. Colby didn’t give a damn until it was absolutely required.

Three years ago, the director of Special Activities Center became vacant after the previous Director retired. Highly classified and respected division of the CIA, the paramilitary arm of the Agency posed a difficult position to manage. Saxon had planned to guide Colby to promotion. His skillset and tactical prowess would have been as good, if not a better fit than Albert. Instead, both DDO Price and Saxon championed Hernandez as the top candidate which led to his promotion.

In fact, it was Colby who pressured Saxon to push Albert for promotion. Saxon thought it was Colby’s own office politics at play, which he wasn’t wrong. Colby knew Albert was dependable and his stubbornness would prevent him from falling into the rabbit hole of backscratching that seemed inevitable in Washington.

With the change, Colby could retain his operational focus in the recesses of the basement of one of the many unmarked buildings in Northern Virginia to make a difference each day. Avoiding office politics, Colby had a mission to accomplish. He served his nation and he sought to maximize his time instead of kissing higher up’s behinds or becoming entangled in bureaucratic red tape. Perhaps the biggest benefit of Colby remaining in the shadows was to avoid direct reporting to the Director and Deputy Director of the Agency.

“I continue to circle back to this sticking point. This program should be operating under Special Activities.” Shaw sighed.

For Colby’s needs, his widespread focus on targets would provide a lack of grandeur. SAC’s focus remained on top terrorist leaders, disassembling sleeper cells, or installing clandestine military operations among many other types of operations. There were plenty of high valued targets simply not worth the time, effort, or funding to pursue. That still left an array of the world’s worst people worthy of being behind bars. The daily arms dealer, thief, or underworld crime boss that typically features a selfie on the list of agencies around the world were just asking to be captured…or killed.

“As previously stated last week.” Shaw pursed her lips. Her eyes narrowed on Colby as she spoke. “How does your program differ from something Special Activities could whip up?”

“It goes without saying, Special Activities acts as the ground force branch of the CIA. Team operations, a proto-military approach to getting a job done. The action arm of the CIA when things need to go dark, but you need a big bang.” A corner of Colby’s mouth peaked upwards. “Special Activities needs no compliment from me. We have all seen their value. While they have the element of surprise, they can run clandestine operations. The Venator Program is aimed to be smaller, sharper, focused. Or the way I see it…less militant, more surgical. Like having a hunter stalk a deer. Special Activities is the hammer, my program provides the scalpel.”

“A scalpel? Mr. Hatton, what this agency needs is success in our operations. Not chasing people around the world and getting embroiled into legal predicaments on continents east or west.” Shaw pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why is this not under Special Activities, you yourself claim they can operate in clandestine manner, why should this hunter program exist?”

Colby’s nostrils flared for only a few split seconds. He took a shallow breath as not to instigate an argument. Today’s session had turned into some sort of witch hunt. Feeling pressured to bite back, Colby drew in a soft breath before he continued.

Turning to Albert, Colby asked. “Between Special Activities and my Venator Program, we may have crossover with targets, is that fair to say?”

“Some yes, most no.” Albert responded. “We look to dismantle entire operations, install military presence, not always drilled down on the lone target unless it is the Bin Laden type.”

Shaw’s patience vanished. “Then who is the ideal target?”

“High value targets. Ones that have a bounty, either from domestic agencies or international operations. Special Activities cannot tend to every inconvenience in the world.”

Shaw shifted her gaze towards Albert. In turn, he nodded in agreement with Colby.

Director Linton cut in. “Yes, then Mr. Hatton, who would be the first target of this program?”

Colby grunted. “Alistair Drevik.”

Albert’s face contorted as the name caught his attention. “The newly minted man himself.”

To be minted or minted, referred to a target’s bounty increasing over a million dollars. Bounty rewards could be offered by any nation usually with Interpol aiding in management of most contracts. Some contracts and bounties could also be clandestine in nature to be managed by an intelligence agency like CIA, MI6, DGSE, and others.

“Mr. Hatton, what brings up Drevik? Have you located the target?”

The faintest of smiles refused to be contained. Colby turned his palms upwards. “Perhaps.”

XXXXX

Rome, Italy

An overwhelming sense of desperation swept across the lavished gaming floor. Late into the night, many had nothing better to do than labor over the tables and sweat any winnings away. Waves of excitement followed by jeers of failure echoed back and forth. Cards slid across the green baize fabric as dealers dealt cards that would make or break an evening. The oppressive chimes of slots on the other end of the floor still radiated to the table games.

Miles Porter stood at the Roulette table with a mob of other fools. He put his last few chips on Black 7. The Croupier unleashed the marker’s frenzy upon the roulette wheel. Each hop provided the briefest sense of hope to the many players.

As the marker dashed about, Miles had little concern if he recovered his losses.  His focus was split among his game and the craps table thirty meters away. That was where the largest payout awaited. With little interest in the game itself, the winnings he desired shook a pair of dice in his palm.

A thin man dressed in a tuxedo shook his fist in violent furor. He extended his shooting hand across the table. The dice zipped forward in chaotic fashion. As the white cubes rolled and bounced to a finish, the dice turned up the winning combination. Three black dots on one die, with the other showing four dots - seven in total for the win. Folks stirred about with great cheers at the man’s good luck. The splendor caused a crooked smile to flash across Alistair Drevik’s face. 

Miles sauntered away from the Roulette table. A waiter provided Roy Rogers, a mixture of Coca-Cola and Grenadine, to Miles. Now perched at one of several high-top tables, he thumbed the screen of his phone while he enjoyed the drink. Heavy on the Grenadine, just how he liked it. As he removed himself from losing more money, he instead watched as his target continued his hot streak at the Craps table.

Freshly minted target, I could get used to a bounty like this, Miles thought to himself.

As Drevik began to rattle his clenched fist, two men in undersized suits approached and pushed through the growing audience. Flanked on either side of Drevik, one of the men leaned and spoke into his ear. Both of his hands shot up with the dice still clenched in one fist. Ignoring the game, Drevik’s happiness vanished as he spewed vitriol at his bodyguards.

The boxman running the Craps game protested as Drevik moved the dice out of play. In Craps, one must not use both hands to shake the dice nor remove the dice from the table. The efforts were to prevent any sleight of hand that would inject a loaded die into the game.

Drevik tossed the dice back on the table. The dice danced around before landing on double ones. “Do you think I’d have loaded dice to lose to snake eyes!” He yelled as he walked off with his two bodyguards in tow.

“Crapped out.” Miles referenced the Craps term to when a player lost on a roll. Yet he started to wonder if the term was meant more for Drevik or himself.

A spurt of worry flashed in Miles’ head. Something was off. Drevik’s itinerary had him on the gaming floor for at least another hour before he would leave. The private chartered flight wasn’t scheduled for departure for another two hours. What could be so important, Miles wondered.

Miles gulped one last bit of his Roy Rogers before he began to move into pursuit. He wasn’t certain, but his internal alarms rang. Something felt off. Concerned the opportunity to capture Drevik could vanish, he knew it was time to act. Now was the time for Miles Porter to be the hunter.