“This is the big one!” Rencke had shouted. “The whole enchilada.”
“I’m on my way,” McGarvey had said, and when he’d hung up Kathleen turned on the lamp on her side of the bed and sat up, an owlish expression on her face.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked.
“No, but soon, Katy,” he told her.
“Will I at least be told where you’re going?”
He nodded. “As soon as I find out.” He reached over and kissed her. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be back later this morning.”
“Shall I pack something?”
“Something dark,” he’d told her, and when he’d driven off he’d glanced back at the house in his rearview mirror. The lights were on upstairs.
The riot at Guantanamo Bay three days ago had made all the newspapers and television networks, even though the military had tried to put a lid on the story. Amnesty International was saying it had been warning about just such an event because of the inhumane way in which Taliban and al-Quaida prisoners were being treated. Congress was calling for a full investigation, but the president was standing fast with the position that the White House had maintained all along. The detainees at Camp Delta, as well as at Abu Ghraib and other facilities in Iraq and Afghanistan, were combatants and therefore came under the jurisdiction of the Unified Code of Military Justice. They did not have the same rights as civilians.
What had begun in the late afternoon as a scuffle between several Delta POWs in one of the exercise yards had rapidly escalated into a full-scale riot. Windows had been broken, doors ripped off their hinges, and bedding and anything else that could burn had been piled outside the barracks and set on fire. Eight prisoners had been shot to death, twenty-seven others injured, and nine American personnel had been hurt, two seriously, before the riot had finally been put down.
So far the media had not found out how close the situation had come to being a major disaster. Before General Maddox had finally given the order for the guards to use deadly force, sections of the inner and outer fences had been torn down by the mob, and all the POWs who’d been killed had been shot to death outside the facility. On Cuban soil.
Nor had the media learned that four POWs were still unaccounted for. ONI’s top-secret Preliminary Incident Report presumed they had drowned trying to swim out to sea. But their names had not been included, nor did the PIR mention that the four had been the same men questioned by the CIA two days before the riot.
“Curiouser and curiouser.” Rencke had laughed when he’d hacked into the ONI’s computer and brought the PIR up on one of his monitors.
McGarvey had been there, monitoring the four GPS signals that had moved, apparently by boat, down the coast to Santiago de Cuba, the city not far from the famous San Juan Hill. They’d remained there together until yesterday when they’d been flown up to Havana.
Now they were on the move again, and it was nearly time, he thought, for him to go back into the field and do his thing. Already his thoughts were narrowing to the mission. He was already in the process of leaving Washington and his wife and friends, placing all of that life in a safe corner of his head, so that he would be traveling without the baggage that could slow him down. More than one field officer had gotten into serious trouble because his mind had wandered back home at the wrong moment.
Rencke had called the main gate, so the guards there were expecting him. But even though they recognized him, they didn’t let him pass until they’d checked his ID. Security had become very tight at the Company.
The parking lot was a third full with the night shifts in the directorates of operations and intelligence, which had gone into high gear because of the increased threat level.
The OD sent an intern down to sign McGarvey in and escort him back upstairs to the Directorate of Operations Ops Center, which was called the Watch. It was a large, windowless room in the center of the building on the third floor that was electronically and mechanically scanned 24/7 for bugs. Operators manned dozens of computer stations, most of them in cubicles, filled not only with one or more large monitors and keyboards, but desks and file cabinets piled high with files, and maps, and reference books. The worldview was on display here, in one form or another. Political situations in dozens of problem nations around the globe, current hot spots where fighting was going on or was expected to start soon, and especially ongoing or developing CIA missions were kept track of. From the information gathered in real time here, and from written reports by our assets on the ground, called Humint, for human intelligence, and by electronic and satellite information-gathering techniques, called by the broader term Elint for electronic intelligence, National Intelligence Estimates and Watch Reports were produced for the National Command Authority.
Activity in this room was never at a lull, and when McGarvey walked in most of the operators didn’t bother to look up, they were too absorbed in their tasks.
Tony Mackie, the officer of the day, was waiting for him with Rencke and Gloria at a long conference table in a glass-enclosed office at the front of the room. Mackie was an ex–New York City detective who’d gone to work for the CIA after an early retirement because he had become so accustomed to being on the inside that it drove him nuts to be a mere civilian. Although he would never get to work in the field he was in his glory here, he was the perfect deskman.
McGarvey thanked the young man who’d escorted him upstairs, then went into the conference room.
“Here he is,” Mackie said, looking up.
Gloria turned around and gave him a dazzling smile of triumph. “You were right, Mac,” she said.
Rencke was at the head of the table, hopping from one foot to the other, and clapping his hands. “Oh boy, Mac, you hit the jackpot,” he cried. He turned the large-screen laptop they’d been watching so that McGarvey could see it. “We got them all,” he said. “All four.”
The laptop’s screen was divided into four quadrants, each of which was overlaid with a fairly small-scale map on which a small red dot moved slowly. Several lines of data scrolled across the bottom of each quadrant.
“Is this in real time?” McGarvey asked.
“Real time minus a thirty-second delay for the data from our satellites and a whole bunch of international air traffic control radars and computer systems to get here and be collated,” Rencke said.
Three of the quadrants showed the same map of the eastern Mediterranean Sea from just west of Cyprus to the coasts of Syria, Lebanon, and Israel. The red dots, which were the uploaded signals from the nano-GPS units that had been injected into the four men at Guantanamo Bay, showed those three bunched on top of each other and moving directly toward Syria.
“Those three are aboard an Air Mexico jet. Once they clear Israel’s northern border they’ll hang a hard right, which will take them south to Damascus,” Rencke said. “They’re not running home to papa, they’re heading to safe pastures. All-ee, all-ee, in free.”
The fourth map, however, was of south-central Iran, heading eastward to Pakistan.
The data scrolling at the bottom of that quadrant showed latitude, longitude, heading, and speed. The one target was aboard a Pakistan International Airlines jet inbound to Karachi.
“Do we know which one it is?” McGarvey asked.
Rencke was grinning like a kid with a new toy. “Al-Turabi, the guy who masterminded the hit on you at Arlington.”
“It could mean that bin Laden is hiding somewhere in southern Pakistan, probably Karachi,” Gloria suggested. “If he was hiding up in the mountains, like ISI is telling us, al-Turabi would have flown directly up to Peshawar rather than taking a chance of being spotted switching planes.”
“If he’s trying to get to bin Laden,” McGarvey pointed out, staring at the monitor. “He might simply be running to one of his own hideouts.”
“I don’t think so, and neither do you,” Gloria said. “He’s running home to Uncle Osama.” She was grinning. “What do we do now?”
McGarvey shook his head. �
�We don’t do a thing. You’re staying here to help Otto backstop me.”
Gloria flared. “Not a chance,” she said. “I’ve had a partner killed and some serious guys shooting at me—including the one on his way to Karachi. I have to see this through.”
McGarvey had been too distracted earlier to consider what her reaction might be. “I’m sorry, but I work alone.”
“Sorry my ass!” Gloria shouted.
“If need be I’ll talk to your boss, and have you pulled from the field,” McGarvey told her coolly.
“I’ve got plenty for you to do here,” Rencke said. “This op will have no official status. So far as the Watch goes, it doesn’t exist. What we’re doing here with Tom is nothing more than an exercise.”
Gloria turned away, but not before McGarvey saw a sudden glistening in her eyes. “Goddammit,” she said softly.
McGarvey could understand her frustration, but he was going up against bin Laden alone, and for more than one reason. And he wasn’t going to stop to explain it to her now.
“I can get you an Aurora by the time you get home and pack,” Rencke offered. The Aurora was air force. It flew nearly to the edge of space at speeds of more than mach six. Officially it did not exist. “You can be in Ramstein in a couple hours.”
“I’ll fly commercial,” McGarvey told him.
“I can do that,” Rencke said. “Which one of your work names do you want to use?”
McGarvey had given that bit of tradecraft a lot of thought. “I’ll go in under my own name,” he said.
Gloria had turned back. “He’ll know that you’re coming, and why,” she said.
“That’s right,” McGarvey said. He was counting on just that.
At that moment Gloria very much reminded him of his daughter. They were both bright women, but both of them were impetuous. They didn’t have the field experience they thought they had. Spying was a funny business. By the time you got it down to a fine art you were getting too old to work in the field, and too well known by the opposition. They were lessons the women had yet to learn well enough to manipulate them to their own uses.
FORTY-NINE
TUNIS
Noon traffic was heavy as the cab worked its way from the Hotel Cirta near the train station and post office out to the grounds of the new U.S. Embassy on Liason Nord-Sud, the Marasa Highway. The driver, spotting a break in traffic, recklessly shot around a bus that was starting to pull over to pick up several passengers, nearly hitting one of them, and just made the green light at the corner.
Halim Subandrio, seated in the back, didn’t notice any of that. He was lost in thought on how best to approach the Americans. He needed to convince them of the truth of his story so that he could negotiate for a reward, while at the same time keep himself out of trouble.
It had taken him three days to convince the Libyans that he’d been hijacked and his ship sunk out from under him, but it hadn’t seemed to him that they really cared very much. They were more interested in the exact spot where his ship went down than a description of the hijackers, or how he’d been stopped and boarded, and why he’d not had a chance to send a Mayday.
The Libyan doctor had treated him for a mild case of hypothermia and dehydration, and the police had even allowed him to telephone Athens to speak to Hristos Lapides, the owner of the Distal Volente, who had not been the least surprised by the news.
“Well, we made good profits from her!” he’d shouted over the phone. “I’ll contact our insurance agents, so we’ll make even more, eh?”
“I need a temporary passport and some money,” Subandrio had told the Greek.
“Yes, of course. I’ll send that by FedEx this morning. You should have it by tomorrow. But how about another ship? Will you be staying in Tripoli?”
“No, as soon as they release me I’m going back to Tunis,” Subandrio said. “But listen to me, Mr. Lapides, I don’t know who the hijackers were, they all wore balaclavas. They murdered my crew.”
“Bastards,” Lapides said, but without much feeling. “How is it that you managed to escape?”
“I saw what was happening and I jumped overboard.”
“And the Libyan navy rescued you?” Lapides asked, but Subandrio had never mentioned who’d rescued him.
It suddenly came to him that he had been manipulated. The deal to use the Distal Volente to bring Graham and his crew out to meet the Libyan submarine had only been one part of an arrangement with Lapides and Macedonia Shipping. The entire deal had been to hijack the ship, kill him and his crew, as well as the Libyan crew, and sink it.
Lapides knew everything. Now Subandrio was a loose end that would have to be taken care of. But away from Libya, so that no blame could be attached to them. It wasn’t a ship that would be waiting for him on the waterfront in Tunis. It would be a bullet.
“Yes, and now they’re interested in the exact position where my ship went to the bottom.”
“Did you tell them?” Lapides asked, his voice guarded.
“Yes, of course,” Subandrio lied. “I cooperated completely.”
“That was the correct decision, Captain,” Lapides said. “When you get to Tunis, telephone me, and I will make arrangements for another ship for you.” He laughed. “We are not finished doing business, my old friend. You’ll see.”
Subandrio looked up from his thoughts as they approached the sprawling twenty-one-acre complex of buildings, gardens, and fountains that had been built a few years ago, reputedly at a cost of more than forty-two million U.S. dollars. He’d gotten to Tunis by bus late last night, and checked into his hotel, but he had not telephoned Lapides, nor would he.
So far as he could figure, he had two options. He could retire right now with the money he had salted away in a Swiss bank account. It was enough to live well, though not in luxury. Or he could go to the Americans and try to sell his story.
And exact his revenge.
The cabbie turned down a side street that connected with La Goulette Road and pulled up at the main entrance. A pair of U.S. Marines stood just inside the front gate, which was guarded from the street by four concrete dolphins meant to protect the compound from a car bombing. The American flag flew from a staff above the main entrance of the embassy building that was fronted by a large fountain in the middle of well-tended gardens and olive groves. The place managed to look very modern and yet somehow traditionally Arabic.
Subandrio paid off the driver and made his way across the broad sidewalk, between the squat concrete posts. He’d purchased a Western-style business suit and shoes this morning, so that he would look presentable here, but the jacket and especially the silly tie were uncomfortable in this hot climate.
“Good morning,” he said to the marine. “I’m here to see the military attaché, on a matter of some importance.”
The very tall marine gave him the once-over. “May I see your identification, sir?”
Subandrio handed over his temporary passport. “My ship went down four days ago, so my papers are new.”
A second marine came over and searched Subandrio’s body with an electronic wand as the other marine stepped back to a call box just inside the gate and telephoned someone.
A few moments later he hung up, returned, and handed Subandrio’s passport back. “The receptionist at the counter will help you, sir.”
Subandrio felt the eyes of the two young soldiers on him as he passed through the gate and walked down a broad path between the trees to the main building. He had passed his first, and possibly most important, hurdle. They could just as well have denied him entry to the building.
The embassy was busy this morning, with many people coming and going. A youngish female receptionist was seated behind a low counter in the middle of a soaring atrium entrance, a computer monitor and a multiline telephone set in front of her. Two dozen people were queued down a corridor to the left, obviously applying for visas to travel to the United States.
“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked.
&n
bsp; “I wish to speak to your military attaché.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. He is currently out of the country.” She smiled. “In any event, you would need to first set up an appointment, in writing.”
Subandrio returned her smile. “I understand,” he said pleasantly. He leaned closer so that she would be certain to hear his next words. “But you see, al-Quaida has gotten its hands on a submarine. Just four days ago. And I have the details.”
The woman didn’t blink. “Yes, sir. May I have your name?”
“I am Merchant Marine Captain Halim Subandrio. A citizen of Indonesia.”
She picked up a telephone with an odd-looking handset and began talking. Although Subandrio was only one meter away from her he could not hear her voice. It was oddly disconcerting. He’d just stepped from one age into another, and he was no longer very sure of his decision to come here.
The receptionist hung up the phone. “It will be just a moment, sir.”
A man in his mid-thirties, short, slender, mild-looking, came down the stairs from the second floor. “I’m Walt Hopper, the assistant military attaché,” he said, shaking Subandrio’s hand. “Why don’t you come with me, and we can talk.”
“Very well,” Subandrio said. He followed the American back upstairs, down a short corridor, and into a room with no windows. It was furnished only with a small conference table on which was a telephone.
“You say that you have some information about an al-Quaida plot to steal a submarine, or something like that,” Hopper said nonchalantly, but it was obvious that he was interested.
“I’ve come to sell you the information,” Subandrio corrected the man. “And they’re not trying to steal a submarine, they already have it. A Russian Foxtrot, I think, and crew. But what might be most interesting to you is the captain.”
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