by John Altman
A guard dog was growling, low in its throat.
Finney saw the animal straining at its chain leash. The marine handler restrained it easily, but Zattout—despite the fact that the Doberman pinscher was tightly muzzled—panicked.
Suddenly Finney was a psychiatrist again; and suddenly Zattout was not a man but a puzzle to be solved.
He shied away, moving to Finney’s other side. “I’m ready to go back now,” he said sotto voce.
In the mental notebook where he kept an ongoing record of the subject’s reactions, his drives and fears, his passions and weaknesses, Finney opened another column. “Cynophobia,” the column might have been headed: fear of dogs. There was something here. Something that could be exploited.
If, that was, he was willing to exploit it.
Nobody would stop him, he knew, if he suggested tying Zattout to a chair and letting loose a Doberman. Noble was no longer on the premises. Hawthorne was supervising only the mechanics of the operation, not the content. And even if these men had been actively involved, they likely would have welcomed such a suggestion.
As they retraced their steps, Finney tried to return his mind to the present, to matters of consequence. If he could manipulate Zattout into telling the truth, instead of the half-truth, real lives would be saved.
But the experiment still was with him; and he raised a hand, as they walked, to touch the dull ache forming between his eyes.
On a leafy block in downtown Manhattan stood a six-story brownstone.
A wrought-iron fence encouraged admirers to keep their distance, although determined bystanders could steal a glimpse of a parlor filled with teak furniture or a third-floor library featuring a grand old fireplace. All onlookers were photographed—by a camera mounted above the front door, by a second camera mounted on the ornate roof, or by a third built into a streetlamp a dozen feet down the block, set between more turn-of-the-century townhouses and cozy French restaurants.
The room into which Thomas Warren stepped possessed none of the charm evinced by the brownstone’s facade. It had a low ceiling of flaking white paint, two cluttered metal desks, and smudged walls lined with heavy-duty filing cabinets. At one of the desks sat Anthony Cass, wearing a Yankees cap and matching Yankees jacket.
On the desk before Cass were stacks of folders, with photographs stapled to cover sheets. These were mercenaries, spies, and terror suspects culled from the CIA’s records and the FBI’s watch list. They were the subjects of Red Notices and Fugitive Diffusions provided by the American branch of the International Criminal Police Organization, which used the radio call sign Interpol. Over one hundred men between the ages of twenty and forty-five were represented by the dossiers stacked on the desk. One of them might be the man who had visited the post office, who had slipped so easily through their grasp.
When Warren entered, Cass looked up. “Any luck?” Warren asked.
Cass shook his head, then raised a hand to stifle a yawn.
He was palpably exhausted. But Warren could not urge him to take a break. Cass was the one who had come closest to the man at the post office; he was the one who had seen the man’s face.
“My father used to have a saying,” Warren said. “‘Be like a postage stamp. Stick to it until you get there.’”
Cass didn’t look inspired. He took off his hat, ran a hand over his brow, and grunted.
For a few seconds, Warren searched for another of his father’s chestnuts. Do not fear opposition; the kite rises against the wind, not with it. Or maybe—Great works are performed not by strength but by perseverance. No doubt that would motivate Cass to buckle down.
Of course, platitudes went only so far. But they had served the elder Warren well enough. By all accounts, Thomas Warren, Senior’s career with the agency had been undeniably first-rate.
His career had started in 1951 with CHATTER, a truth serum experiment then being undertaken by the Navy. During the following decades—as CHATTER had gone over to the CIA and become part of ARTICHOKE, as ARTICHOKE had become part of MKULTRA, as the drugs with which they’d experimented had evolved from Dexedrine to THC to LSD—the elder Warren had managed to chart himself an always rising path through a sticky and challenging course. Despite decades of effort, MKULTRA never produced solid results. Yet Thomas Warren, Senior, had come out smelling like a rose.
The son had tried hard to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d gone to the right school, played the right sport, worn the right varsity letter jacket. He’d mastered Greek so he could study the classics as they were meant to be studied, in the original language. He’d done everything as he’d understood he was meant to do it. And still he’d ended up here—in charge of an operation skidding out of control, on the verge of taking a hard fall.
His father would roll over in his grave if Warren were to be pink-slipped.
And rightly so, he thought.
Backbone was required in this world. Thomas Warren II clearly was not tough enough. Somehow he had absorbed the effete values of the Ivy League intellectuals, where his father had managed to avoid them.
The junior Warren’s shortcomings had become evident during his first major undertaking after graduation. One moment he’d been living in a world of Hasty Pudding clubs and white-wine soirees; the next, he’d been dealing in the locations of coastal artillery and minefields that might interfere with amphibious landings in southern Kuwait. A timely bon mot, he’d quickly discovered, didn’t count for much when serving as an agency liaison with the Pentagon’s Joint Intelligence Center.
But surely he could motivate Anthony Cass to try a little harder, as he pored over his dossiers. Any competent middle manager could do that much.
Coffee might do the trick.
Without another word, he turned and moved down the wood-floored hall, passing a second low-ceilinged room where Nathan Hoyle was speaking on a telephone. In the kitchen, he found a Silex bubble full of day-old sludge. He poured it into the sink, then opened a cabinet. As he prepared to sift coffee into a filter, the phone on his belt vibrated. “Warren.”
“I’m at the post office …”
It was Ron Moore—the agent charged with interviewing witnesses on the scene. Already he had been downtown for hours; Warren had ceased expecting results. He held his breath, not daring to hope.
“… speaking with a lovely young woman,” Moore went on, “who may be able to lend us a hand.”
“How so?”
“She’s a postal worker. And a few days ago, she noticed someone checking the box …”
“Bring her here,” Warren said.
The phone rang twice.
Between each ring came faraway clicking above a subterranean hoot. He was thinking that something might have gone awry—he had dialed the wrong number, or perhaps the woman had gone out, although where she might have gone he couldn’t imagine—when a breathless voice said, “Hello?”
“Ms. Miriam Lane?”
“Yes?”
“This is Jack Atelier, calling from Atelier Discount Auto Parts. I’m pleased to report that you’ve been selected as a final runner-up in our greater New York promotional campaign. You’ve been selected to be in the top three, Ms. Lane.”
“Top three?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In what?”
“As per our previous correspondence,” he said smoothly, “your name has been selected for a promotional event. Atelier Discount Auto Parts is the premier discount automobile part supplier for the greater New York area. Having reached the final runner-up stage, you’re now guaranteed a cash reward of five hundred dollars, and a chance at the grand prize: a brand-new Honda Accord.”
Silence on the line.
“Ms. Lane?”
“Yes?”
“The final drawing will take place tomorrow night, here at our home office. If you win the grand prize, you’ll also receive the chance to take part in a television advertisement. We’ll fly you down to New York City to arrange the taping. Three nights and two
days at the Parker Meridien Hotel, where a team of hair and makeup specialists—”
“What is this?” she asked.
“The promotional campaign,” he said. Had she even opened the letter?
“Have I won something?”
“Yes, ma’am. Five hundred dollars, at the least. And a chance at the grand prize. A brand-new Honda Accord.”
“Oh my.”
“As I said: The final drawing will take place tomorrow night. After that, I’ll contact you again with the results.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s very exciting.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Not a thing. I’ll contact you again with the results of the drawing. The day after tomorrow.”
“The drawing?”
“To see if you’ve won the grand prize.”
Again, silence.
“A brand-new Honda Accord,” he said.
“That would be wonderful.”
“Well,” he said. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
After hanging up, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the middle distance.
So he was going ahead.
Something had gone wrong. They had been watching the post office. Yet he was going ahead.
He would be cautious. With patience and vigilance, he would discover if Ajami had been identified by their enemy, or if he was colluding with them. With the information he gathered, he would make an informed decision about how to proceed. But he would go ahead regardless of what he found.
He moved to the floor. To escape the notice of the enemy—if indeed they were watching Ajami’s building—a calm mind would be required. A man without serenity could not be invisible.
The car would not be ready until Wednesday, the thirtieth. So there still was time. Tomorrow he would conduct surveillance of Ajami’s building and find out how they had learned of the post office box.
He would not hurry. Haste, if he gave in to it, would be his downfall.
His eyes drifted shut; his head bowed.
9
“Sometimes,” said Ali Zattout philosophically, “I wonder how things ended up this way—if this is truly Allah’s will.”
His tone was that of a man sitting with distinguished company before a fireplace, discussing poetry after a fine meal. But his physical appearance belied his carefully measured voice. His cheeks had continued to hollow; his right leg vibrated up and down more rapidly than ever. His eyes had achieved the yellowed, bloodshot intensity of a trapped animal.
Louis Finney made an encouraging sound.
Zattout indicated the cramped cell around them, managing to convey a world of disdain with a single gesture. “Once, I would have had no doubts. Life was much simpler then. But now …”
He paused. Had they been sitting before a fireplace, he might have used the opportunity to sip at his glass of port.
“Do you regret being here?” Finney asked.
Zattout stroked at his beard.
“In one way,” he said at last, “I’m thankful. Being here gives me the opportunity to correct my past wrongs—or at least to make a beginning.” Another pause. “But I don’t know that any man could be entirely satisfied living in a cell. It would be dishonest to say that I have no regrets.”
“Understandable.”
“Of course, I realize the arrangement is temporary. But it can be difficult to keep that in mind when the walls start to close in. Do you think I might be allowed outside today?”
“If we make some progress this morning—perhaps this afternoon.”
“I hope so,” Zattout said earnestly.
Finney waited to see if elaboration was forthcoming. When it was not, he turned a page in his notes and then described a smuggler’s route along the 1,500-mile border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. Recently, unmanned spy planes had noted increased activity on this desert route: convoys on horseback and foot, apparently composed of refugees. But the path was known to have been used by al Qaeda in the past. Could Zattout offer any information regarding it?
He could. The borderlands were dominated by ethnic Pashtuns who possessed no loyalty to the Pakistani government. These tribal leaders might well be harboring al Qaeda fugitives. In fact, Zattout said, the wrong question was being asked. Until the Americans understood that their enemy and the tribal leaders were two sides of the same coin, they would continue wasting their time.
The answer was both repetitive and evasive. Then Zattout used it as an entrée to a subject that was of no interest to Finney: the balance of oxides present in that region’s stones. Some of the world’s most brilliant sapphires came from this area, he reported, and from the legendary Himalayan mines on the opposite border of Pakistan, near India. Did Finney know that the word sapphire came from the Hebrew sapphir, meaning to tell a story? In ancient times a sapphire was believed to be an unripened ruby, and the Kashmir sapphires were the most coveted of all.…
Finney changed tack. “Let me jump to another subject, if you don’t mind—the connection between al Qaeda and the Syrian Muslim Brotherhood.”
Zattout nodded. He proceeded to speak of the decades-long war between the Syrian Muslim Brotherhood and the secular Syrian government. One result of the war had been a confluence of the SMB’s interests with al Qaeda’s. Before 9/11, members of the two organizations had worked together out of cells based in Aachen and Hamburg.
More insight into information they already had. And Zattout knew what he was doing, Finney thought. As he spoke, a louche smile flirted around the corners of his mouth.
“Interesting,” Finney allowed when he’d finished. “But dangerously close, I’m afraid, to ground we’ve already covered.”
“Is it?” Zattout asked blandly.
“I’d like nothing more than some fresh air myself, you know. But I have superiors to whom I must answer. I’m obliged to give them something of value in exchange for such a reward.”
“What do you call what you’ve been giving them—worthless?”
Finney shrugged.
“Is it the quantity of the results that concerns you,” Zattout asked, “or the quality?”
“I’m not the one who’s concerned. But it’s safe to say that they would like more quantity and quality. You know how it works. Nothing comes for free.”
Zattout gazed at him with a jaundiced eye.
“Speaking of fresh air.” Finney turned a page; the paper whispered secretly beneath his fingers. “During our last walk, I noticed your reaction to the Doberman. How long have you suffered from fear of dogs?”
“Fear of dogs?”
“Yes. You shied away.”
Zattout reached for the scar on his ear. He shook his head. “You must have imagined it.”
“Do you think so?”
He touched the scar again. “Most definitely.”
Finney moved on. With ironic courtliness, he invited Zattout to share any knowledge he possessed of a German arms dealer who had been selling rocket launchers to undercover CIA agents. Unfortunately, Zattout said, he did not know of the man. But this was hardly surprising. His organization was highly compartmentalized. This was its greatest strength—but then, Finney doubtless understood that fact already.
“I do understand that. But you occupied a high position in the hierarchy. You must have theories, if nothing else.”
“Guesses? If that’s what you want—yes, I can offer guesses. Whether or not they’ll satisfy your superiors …”
“Let’s return to the subject of sleeper al Qaeda cells on American soil. If you could recall something on the topic that hasn’t yet come to light … guesses, or anything else …”
“Are you implying something?” Zattout asked.
“Pardon me?”
“Twice already I’ve told you what I know of the sleepers. All I know.”
“I’m just making sure nothing was missed.”
“Nothing was missed,” Zattout assured him.
“Well, it’s good to b
e sure.”
“Of course.”
“If something does occur to you, please don’t hesitate.”
“Of course,” Zattout said again.
As Finney asked his next question—a long one, involving information gained from prisoners at Guantánamo Bay about possible methods used by future hijackers—the man’s attention drifted visibly. When he finished speaking, there was silence.
Finney moved an inch forward on his chair. Zattout was there, but not there. His nervous movements ceased, one after another, like a clock winding down. First his leg grew still. Then his hands stopped moving, lying fallow in his lap. He muttered something beneath his breath.
“Could you repeat that?” Finney asked.
Zattout’s eyes sharpened.
“My mind is wandering,” he said.
“Is it too much for one day? We can end the session, if you like. Although I’m afraid we haven’t gained enough ground to justify a walk today.”
“Let’s continue.”
“Future hijackings. We’ve heard rumors of edged playing cards … plastic weapons hidden in children’s toys …”
Again Zattout was drifting; his eyes turned hazy. They focused on the light and stayed there, transfixed.
Half a minute passed. Finney made a notation in his pad.
Then Zattout blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No need to apologize.”
“I can’t … I’m having trouble concentrating.”
“Hm.”
“If you want me to think clearly, you’ll need to let me out of this cell.”
His tone was dull. But his eyes, Finney noticed, were hostile and shrewd.
“Without better results,” he answered, “I’m afraid a reward is impossible.”
“If you’re displeased with my results, perhaps you should consider changing the quality of my environment. As you said yourself, Doctor: Nothing comes for free.”
They looked at each other.
“We seem to have reached an impasse,” Finney said.
“I’m doing the best I can. But without fresh air, once a day …”
“Perhaps it can be arranged.”
“Twice a day would be better.”
Finney said nothing.
