By John Weisman
During this compulsive page-turner, six-time ny instances bestselling writer John Weisman blows the lid off one among Washington's private real-world secrets and techniques. The CIA, at the moment incapable of appearing its middle venture of offering severe and time-sensitive human-based intelligence for the worldwide conflict on terror, needs to now outsource the paintings to personal contractors. Drawing on real-world crises and real CIA operations, Direct motion takes readers deep within this new and unreported covert war that's being fought each day through nameless shadow warriors all around the globe.Racing opposed to the clock and shuttling among Washington, Paris, and the center East, a kind of shadow warriors, former CIA case officer Tom Stafford, needs to slip lower than the radar to discover, objective, and neutralize a dangerous al-Qa'ida bombmaker ahead of the murderer can release simultaneous a number of assaults opposed to the United States and the West. And as though that were not adequate, Stafford needs to at the same time open a moment entrance and mount a clandestine conflict opposed to the CIA itself, simply because for mysterious and possible inexplicable purposes the folks on the very best of the crucial Intelligence supplier wish him to fail.The characters and operations in Direct motion are drawn from true-life CIA group of workers and their real-world missions. With Direct motion, John Weisman confirms once more Joseph Wambaugh's declare that "nobody writes greater concerning the darkish and soiled international of the CIA and black ops."
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You’ll report to me,” said Tom. “Encrypted e-mail using steaganography backed up by one-on-one meetings with a control ofﬁcer. Like Rudy said, this is Espionage 101, Jim. ” He gave McGee an encouraging smile. M. McGee’s big Seiko told him they were behind schedule. He squirmed impatiently as a green-bereted Israeli border guard waved the two FAVs through the checkpoint. Sass threaded his way between the barriers, then pulled off to the side of the road behind the two ﬁlthy Subarus. As he stopped, McGee reached down, grabbed the M4, opened the door, slid out onto the dusty road, and approached the Palestinians, who were climbing into their cars.
That was when McGee saw the mustached man. He was dressed in the same olive-drab shirt and trouser uniform as any minor PSS ofﬁcial. A red-and-white-checked kafﬁyeh was draped around his neck, and an AK hung from his left shoulder. But there was something . . different. What drew McGee’s attention to him was that he was out of position for a security ofﬁcer. S. convoy through a pair of binoculars. He held a cell phone in his left hand. McGee focused on him. It was a ﬂip phone and it was open. But the guy in olive drab wasn’t holding the phone to his ear: his arm was dangling at his side.
Still, she couldn’t argue the money. Tom had resigned as a GS-15, step 5. He’d made just over $110,000 a year. The 4627 Company gave him a vice president’s title, a $250,000 salary—most of it tax-free—and a a250,000 signing bonus so he could buy an apartment in the fashionable sixteenth arrondissement. Moreover, he was returning to familiar turf. Tom had served at Paris station for almost four years in the mid-1990s and he’d always said he felt more at home in France than he ever did in Washington.