—
ON THE SURFACE, Crompond was the most stable of the three. He was married, with no financial problems. But he, too, showed signs of fraying. He’d picked up three speeding tickets in three years, and his wife’s insurance records showed several prescriptions for Valium and other anti-anxiety drugs. She might be filling those so they didn’t show up in his records.
Crompond had his own unusual connection to a prominent local Muslim. A couple of years before, he’d had a parking lot fender bender with Aziz Murak, an imam at a large northern Virginia mosque. In a note he sent to the counterintel desk, Crompond said he had recognized the imam and seen a chance to develop the relationship.
Imam Murak was pleasantly surprised I knew of his prominence in the Muslim-American community. I provided him my DoS [Department of State] business card, identifying me as James Jones, Deputy Assistant Secretary for South Asian Affairs. We spoke for several minutes. I believe that I can develop him as a source. However, given the sensitivity of this contact, I felt I should inform CI immediately.
Despite his prominence as an Islamic activist, Murak didn’t appear on any watch lists, and, after a short investigation, the counterintelligence desk encouraged Crompond to develop the relationship. He met with Murak several times but reported that the imam was not willing to provide valuable information. Murak remains polite but continues to resist efforts to develop him as a USGOV source. I will continue to meet him from time to time but will not pursue actively.
Like Shabazz, Murak might have connections to the Islamic State. But Crompond hadn’t needed to report the contact. If he were really passing information through Murak, why draw attention to their relationship?
On the other other hand, maybe Crompond wanted to insulate himself by explaining the contact in advance. That way, if the FBI happened to stumble across the meetings, Crompond would already have an excuse in place. He’d be hiding in plain sight.
—
HAVING LEADS on all three men gave Shafer the hope that he would find the mole before Wells did, maybe even before Wells wound up in Bulgaria at all. Both pride and his desire to keep Wells out of that particular briar patch were driving him.
You don’t talk to anyone, Duto had said when Shafer and Wells had first proposed the plan. You’re not throwing shade on these guys. A clear enough warning. But Shafer decided Duto meant it to apply only inside the agency, not out. Talking to someone’s cousin or mother-in-law hardly counted as throwing shade.
Shafer rubbed his eyes, forced himself to ignore the pain in his back and sit up straight. Not even noon, and he was exhausted. He was staying too late too often, grinding himself down. He knew why. He wanted to share the discomfort that Wells faced. Stupid. He wouldn’t help himself or Wells if he made himself a zombie.
But he couldn’t stop himself.
He wanted to check Pushkin’s finances again. He’d looked for accounts that carried Social Security numbers belonging to Pushkin. But Pushkin might have gotten tricky, setting up accounts with shell companies. Through the NSA, the agency had access to state tax and corporate records. Those nearly always contained the tax identification numbers of the shell owners.
In truth, Shafer thought the odds were against Pushkin stowing money in a shell account. The man didn’t seem like the type to keep his savings tucked away. But detective work meant chasing a thousand leads.
He was just about to log in to the corporate records database when his computer pinged:
KABUL STATION/URGENT: SUICIDE ATTACK ON WEST KABUL HOTEL
AFGHAN NATIONAL POLICE REPORT TWO DEAD, SEVERAL INJURED, AT WINTER INN HOTEL; NO REPORT OF IED OR SUICIDE ATTACK BUT HOTEL SEVERELY DAMAGED BY FIRE OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN.
ATTACK OCCURRED APPROX 0300 LOCAL TIME; NO US/ALLIED CASUALTIES REPORTED . . . MOTIVE UNKNOWN/UNCLEAR; PLACE AND TIME OF ATTACK CONTRARY TO TALIB CALLS TO FOCUS ON WESTERN TARGETS; TALIB HAVE NOT YET CLAIMED RESPONSIBILITY.
NO OTHER ATTACKS REPORTED AT THIS TIME, BUT RETAIN HIGHEST SECURITY POSTURE . . . UPDATES AS NEEDED . . .
No U.S. casualties. So Wells was fine. Unless somebody had mistaken him for a Talib. Shafer hadn’t heard from him.
Shafer’s phone buzzed. A blocked number.
“Ellis Shafer?” A woman. “Hold for the President.”
“I have to?”
By the time Shafer had finished asking, Duto was on the line.
“Hear about your buddy?”
Shafer’s heart pulled tight in his chest, the pain sudden and terrible. He’d known this call would come—
“He’s already making a mess.”
Shafer barely managed not to say, You scared me, Vinny. “This about that hotel, the Winter Inn? Just saw the cable. What happened?”
“Brits tell me he killed a couple of hostiles last night.”
“Then they know more than we do.”
Duto let the question hang, all the answer Shafer needed. What happened was what always happened. Wells was a one-man ambush.
“I’m having lunch with Mark Cuban and he’s ruining it.” Duto sounded as petulant as a grounded teenager.
“Why are you having lunch with Mark Cuban?”
“Because I want to.” Left unspoken, barely: And I’m the president, you idiot, so I can. “So now the Talibs are looking for an American who killed two of their own. He’d best not plan on staying in Kabul.”
“I’m sure he’s figured that. He get his package?”
“Indeed. SIS reports he’s hale and hearty. Their words.”
“There’ll always be an England.”
“I’m worried he’s overestimated his ability to go undercover.”
“I always knew you cared, Vinny.”
“What you know is, I’m right. Better hope he gets his Muslim mojo back—”
“Muslim mojo?”
“Before he winds up with his head on a stick in Kandahar.”
“Speaking of, I wanted to ask—”
But Duto was already gone. Shafer was talking to an empty line.
“Good. I’ll take that as a yes.”
—
SHAFER SPENT the afternoon scouring files, without success. He needed to escape the office. He decided to start with Ali Shabazz.
He called home. “Sweetie.”
“Husband. Will I see you soon?”
The hope in her voice made Shafer hate himself a little.
“I have an errand. Not too late. Maybe nine.”
“Okay,” she said, after staying quiet just long enough to let him know it wasn’t.
Shabazz lived in West Baltimore, a mile from the harbor. Not the worst neighborhood in the city. Those were on the east side of town. Still, the streetlamps looked to be mostly for target practice, and the potholes were big enough to form the foundations of a newer, happier city.
As he neared Shabazz’s house, Shafer noticed stores advertising halal meat—in English and Arabic—along with South Asian women in headscarves walking side by side. Maybe the Black Muslims and the Muslim Muslims really had found one another. A white supremacist’s worst nightmare.
An oversized white flag with the Muslim credo emblazoned in black hung over the stoop of Shabazz’s house. The flag wasn’t that of the Islamic State. Those were black with the credo in white. But a casual observer could easily have mistaken the two. Shafer suspected the chance for confusion was precisely the point.
No wonder Green didn’t talk much about his cousin.
A new pickup, a black Nissan with a PBUH sticker plastered to its shiny chrome bumper, sat in the driveway. The letters stood for Peace Be Upon Him, the words devout Muslims used when they referred to Muhammad. Shafer parked inches from the sticker and creaked his way to the front door. Stomach bleeding had made him cut down on his anti-inflammatory pills, but his joints hadn’t read the memo. Being old was one lousy choice after another.
&n
bsp; The door swung open as he reached it. A tall black teenage boy wearing a neatly coiffed Afro looked at him with undiluted contempt.
“My name’s Ellis Shafer. I’m looking for your dad—”
“Dad! Whitey’s here! An old one.”
“You can’t be serious.”
As an answer, the kid shut the door in his face.
“Nineteen sixty-seven called,” Shafer yelled. “It wants its hair back.”
A minute later, the door opened again, revealing a stockier, older version of the teenager. He wore a flowing white robe, a skullcap, and a frown. Shafer put out a hand. The man let it hang.
“Ali Shabazz?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m with Publishers Clearing House, and you may have won a million dollars—”
“If you’re trying to serve me—”
“If I were trying to serve you, I would have already.”
Shabazz started to close the door. Shafer stuck his foot in the jamb.
“Dummy. You know I can shoot you for that. Entering my domicile.” Shabazz gave Shafer a sardonic smile at the fifty-cent word. “Even if you do look like every Jew lawyer in Baltimore”—Bal-more. The agency’s file said Shabazz had grown up in the Bronx, but somewhere along the way he’d acquired the mumbly local accent, words creased together. “Not the good ones. The cheap ones who hang around all day looking for clients.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Shoot me, that is.”
“Get your fool foot out of my door.”
Shafer did.
“And what are you doing blocking my driveway?”
“I didn’t see any spaces.”
In fact, the curb directly in front of Shabazz’s house was open.
“Now you’re just being provocative.”
“I’m not the one with the pretend ISIS flag. You’re gonna play, you might as well go all the way.”
Shabazz rubbed his fingers over his carefully trimmed goatee, the hairs salt as much as pepper.
“Last time I checked, I’m allowed to tell people I’m Muslim. Anyway, I see a man at my front door who’s too mouthy to be FBI. And too old to be a cop. You get one minute to explain what you want.”
“Name’s Ellis Shafer. I work for the CIA.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
“Like your cousin Vernon.”
Shabazz didn’t blink.
“You’re not surprised. He tell you?”
“Doesn’t matter what he told me. Me personally? I think signing up for the armed forces”—Shabazz put a sarcastic emphasis on the last two words—“is about as Uncle Tom as it gets. Shoot colored folk all over the world until you hit your twenty, and massa gives you a pension, VA benefits. Still and all, I admit Vern making the Deltas was cool. Gonna be a soldier, might as well be the baddest. Then he quits, tells us he’s going to work for the State Department. Please. Wasn’t one of us didn’t know what that meant.”
“So he didn’t explicitly mention the CIA?”
“You trying to get him in trouble, Mr. Ellis? Don’t like black people in your precious agency? Especially up top? Don’t like taking orders from a man young enough to be your son?” Shabazz smirked. “Though if Vern was your son, you might need some words with your wife.”
“Subtle. You see him a lot?”
“What’s it to you?”
“You two ever talk about religion? Your pilgrimage? Casting stones at the devil?”
“Don’t move, please.” Shabazz stepped away from the door. When he came back, he was holding a big black pistol in his right hand. “This is a .40 caliber Glock 19, legally registered in the state of Maryland. Now, remove yourself from my front step and your car from my driveway or I will exercise my Allah-given right to protect my homestead and put a cap in your ass.”
Shabazz grinned, a smile that said, Yeah, I’m posing, and I’m enjoying myself . . . but give me the excuse and I might shoot you.
Shafer raised his hands, backed away. Shabazz watched him into his car. Only when he was inside with the doors locked did he risk giving Shabazz a thumbs-up. Shabazz responded with a different finger.
After a few blocks, Shafer pulled over to think through the conversation. Sprinkled among his threats and his bluster, Shabazz had given up two crucial words: taking orders. A hint that Shabazz knew Green was at the very top of the agency. He shouldn’t have. Green was a stickler for rules. The rules said you didn’t tell family members that you worked at the agency, much less what you did. So why had Green told Shabazz? They were cousins, not husband and wife.
A small clue, sure, but small clues were all Shafer had.
On the other hand, would Shabazz really act so over the top if he had something to hide? Would Green risk using him? Most likely, Green had just talked too much after a couple of beers.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Shafer wished he could bounce these clues off Wells, or even his old friend Lucy Joyner. He felt faintly disappointed as he found 95 and turned south. He’d driven up here hoping to clear Green somehow so he could focus on Pushkin and Crompond. Turn three targets into two and have an excuse to call Wells home. He couldn’t, though.
He was stuck with three. And Wells was still going inside.
11
LANGLEY
THE ORIGINAL Headquarters Building, where the director and his deputies had their offices, had two permanently staffed entrances. The main lobby, with its wall of stars honoring dead officers, was the CIA’s public face. It had appeared in countless movies. But the headquarters had another, semi-private entrance a floor below, accessible via a tunnel from the garage reserved for senior officers.
The second entrance gave foreign leaders, the heads of rival spy services, and even corporate executives the chance to enter headquarters discreetly. Just as important, it served as a status symbol. Theoretically, any employee could use it. But the guards knew who belonged, and they weren’t shy about discouraging those who didn’t.
Wayne belonged.
So as he approached the gate, agency identification in one hand, gym bag in the other, he didn’t expect questions. He put his card to the gate and its glass barriers swung back—
“Sir.”
Wayne shot the guard an annoyed look. The real threats were on the edge of the campus, where troublemakers could snipe at vehicles waiting to enter or blow themselves up. No would-be intruder had come close to the headquarters buildings in at least a generation. Watching these gates was a cushy job for security officers in their forties and fifties, a last stop before retirement. This guard was wearing a boxy gray suit that didn’t hide how much weight he’d added in middle age. Wayne had exchanged pleasantries with him hundreds of times. His name was—
“Frank. What’s up?”
“I hate to bother you, but I need to scan that.” He nodded at the bag in Wayne’s hand, blue nylon, the faded words Washington Athletic Club faintly visible in white.
“I’m in a hurry, Frank. You really need to see my gym clothes?”
“Afraid I do.” The guard held out his hand.
Wayne hesitated, then handed over the bag.
An X-ray machine was mounted behind the counter where the guards sat. Frank put the bag on the conveyor, watched the screen as it rolled through. Wayne did his best to look annoyed, not angry—You know our security guards, they have to dot every i and cross every t—
“Can I look inside?”
They both knew the guard was asking only to be polite. Security officers had the right to inspect every package that everyone, no matter how senior, brought in or out of headquarters. As David Petraeus had learned too late, no one was exempt from the government’s strict rules on secrecy.
“Sure. You may want to wear a mask.”
“Sir?”
“I have a couple of old T-shirts in there.”
&n
bsp; “Of course.”
Trying to joke with the guards was always a mistake. Frank unzipped the bag, poked through the T-shirts and shorts, came out with two bottles of Gatorade, one full and unopened with red liquid inside, the other about three-quarters full of clear liquid.
“Can’t bring these in.”
“Come on, Frank. You’ve never seen me at the gym”—the agency’s new fitness center had free weights, treadmills, even a climbing wall—“but if you did, you’d know I’m a sweater. Buckets of it. Gotta stay hydrated.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t make the rules.” The guard unscrewed the cap to the bottle with the clear liquid, sniffed it. “In fact, would you mind taking a sip for me right now? This doesn’t look like Gatorade.”
Wayne gave the guard a Know your place stare. “It’s water.”
“You don’t have to, but, in that case, I have to confiscate the bottle and maybe send it to the lab—”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Afraid not, sir.” The guard looked at Wayne with the first hint of real suspicion and Wayne realized that he’d pushed this game as far he could. The guard waggled his fingers—Here—and handed it over, and Wayne looked at it like it might be poisoned—
And took a long sip of what he knew was plain Virginia tap water.
“Happy now, Frank?”
“This one, too.”
“The Gatorade? I know you’re just doing your job, but look at it. It’s not even open.” Wayne’s annoyance was genuine now. The guard backed off slightly.
“All right. Look, that one you can take back to your car, if you want—”
“I’ve wasted enough time. Just give it here.”
He unscrewed the bottle, took a swallow.
“Can I take these up to my office now, Frank? Or do you want to swab them for DNA, too?” Without waiting for an answer, he flashed his identification at the turnstile scanner and marched through.
But he couldn’t even make a clean exit.
“Your bag, sir—”
Frank handed it over. Wayne rode to seven, holding the bag in one hand, the bottles in the other. He wanted to put a hole in the wall of the elevator, but the feeds from its cameras went straight to the guard stations. He kept himself calm until he reached his office, closed the door, where he could safely curse under his breath.
The Prisoner Page 18
