by Larry Bond
“Ferguson, get the hell out of there!” screamed Rankin.
“Yo, Skippy! Don’t hit me,” yelled Ferguson.
“Come on, get the hell out of there,” said Rankin.
Guns pumped another tear gas grenade into the alley. The acrid smoke drifted back toward the car.
“Get out of here, come on!” yelled Yeklid.
Ferguson got up and trotted to the car. Two men with assault rifles came from down the block; Ferguson spun around and cut them down.
“Trail car! Trail car!” he yelled, seeing their way blocked.
They clung to the second as Yeklid backed out into the main street, barely missing a truck.
“I called the Egyptians, but I think it’s better if we lay low for an hour,” Yeklid told Ferguson when they collected themselves several blocks away. “I’m going to call one of the senior people I know. This may end up being a real pain.”
“You’re good with understatement,” said Ferguson. “I like that.”
~ * ~
~ * ~
1
CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA
Corrine Alston stood as patiently as possible in the small booth in the basement of CIA Building 24-442, waiting as the equipment behind the stainless-steel walls scanned her for high-tech bugs. Security here was so meticulous that no one—not Corrine, not CIA Director Thomas Parnelles, not even the president himself—could bypass the bug scan, let alone the weapons and identity checks. But the ritual only heightened her anger.
The small green light in the center of the ceiling lit. Corrine stared at the door, willing it to open. When it did, she walked down the hall to an elevator that opened as she approached. She didn’t have to press any buttons once inside, which was fortunate; she would have broken either the panel or her fingers with the jabs.
The elevator opened a few seconds later fifty feet below the level where she had started. Corrine walked to a stairwell at the far end, ignoring the two plainclothes CIA officers flanking the entrance. Downstairs, her heels echoed loudly on the cement floor as she strode to the small conference room next to the secure communications suite used to support First Team operations. The door to the conference room was ajar. Corrine pushed it open and found Jack Corrigan sitting alone at the far end of the conference table.
“Why wasn’t I told?” she demanded.
“I did tell you.”
“You waited three hours. I heard about it from the State Department first, for cryin’ out loud.”
“I know, uh, that was a mistake. My mistake. I called your office and Teri said you were with the president. So I waited.”
“You should have used the personal phone. That’s why I have it.”
Corrigan tried not to act intimidated, but Corrine Alston’s fury was not easily withstood. Though only twenty-six, she was one of the most powerful women in the administration, serving as the president’s counsel and his personal representative to the First Team, in effect, Corrigan’s boss.
Complicating matters was the fact that she was pretty good looking, too: touch up her nose, add a little makeup, maybe hire a hairstylist, and she could pass as a model or at least a B actress.
“The Egyptian reaction was better than expected,” offered Corrigan, trying to salvage what he could of the situation. “The tailor turned out to be Ahmed Abu Saahlid. They wanted him for terrorist activities, so—”
“Why was Ferguson in Cairo in the first place? He didn’t clear that with me. He exceeded his authority. He was told to proceed with caution on the entire operation.”
“I think getting Bob Ferguson to proceed with caution, Ms. Alston, would be well beyond even your considerable abilities,” said CIA Director Thomas Parnelles, striding into the room behind her. “And I think you would be doing the country a great disservice besides.”
Corrigan’s military training kicked in, and he jumped to his feet. “Mr. Parnelles.”
Corrine felt her face burn. “Special Demands will not be a rogue organization,” she told Parnelles.
“I quite agree,” said the CIA director softly. He pulled a chair out and sat down.
Corrine took a moment to gather herself, putting on what she thought of as her lawyer face: neutral, reserved, calm. She wasn’t exactly sure where she stood with Parnelles. The president had appointed him CIA director partly based on her recommendation; she had known Parnelles from her work as counsel to the Intelligence Committee, when as a retired CIA official he had acted as an informal and valuable consultant to some of the committee members. But they had had a few disagreements after his appointment, when as counsel to the president she recommended against some of his suggestions as a matter of legal principle. And now that the president had appointed her as his representative overseeing Special Demands, she wouldn’t blame Parnelles if he saw her as an interloper. The appointment effectively usurped the deputy director for operation’s authority over the First Team, and since the DDO worked for Parnelles, it tended to cut him out as well.
She had heard from others that Parnelles implied he had himself suggested that she take the position, acting as the president’s eyes, ears, and conscience on sensitive covert missions. It hadn’t happened that way; the president had had the idea himself. Or so she believed.
“I called over to your office to find out what was going on,” Parnelles told Corrine, answering her unasked question about why he was there. “When I heard you were on your way, I thought it would be wise to join you in person for an update. Unless, of course, you have an objection.”
“I have no objection at all,” Corrine told him. “You’re CIA director.”
Parnelles smiled. He pressed his finger to his lip in a thoughtful pose, inadvertently emphasizing the scar on his cheek that was a souvenir of a nasty incident during his salad days as a CIA officer.
“Mr. Corrigan was just giving me a briefing,” said Corrine. “And I would be pleased for you to hear and offer your insights.”
Corrigan recounted the events in Jerusalem and Cairo, adding very little to what Corrine and Parnelles already knew. With the First Team operation over, the FBI had made a dozen arrests in the Seven Angels case earlier m the day; Corrine had been with the president when the attorney general personally briefed him. Among the charges were conspiracy to fund terrorism and several counts of tax evasion. From what she had seen, Corrine thought the terrorist case would be hard to prove, but the tax evasion and related currency violations were slam dunks. She kept that opinion to herself.
She also didn’t share her opinion that the group was a collection of schizoid crazies who would have been ignored if they hadn’t had access to a few million dollars and if the FBI didn’t need a political score to shore up its standing with the administration.
“The FBI felt it had to go ahead with the arrests,” said Corrine. “With Thatch dead, there was little prospect of gathering more information about the groups that Seven Angels may have been trying to contact.”
“Good timing with the president’s visit to the Middle East coming up,” said Parnelles.
That was the sort of comment from the CIA director that threw Corrine. She knew—and she suspected that Parnelles did as well—that the president thought just the opposite. Anything involving the Middle East had the potential to throw off the delicate negotiations he was trying to foster between the Palestinians and the Israelis. The arrests were preferable to terrorist activity, certainly, but only just.
“So Seven Angels is wrapped up?” Parnelles asked.
“From the FBI’s point of view, yes. But there are a few things Ferg wanted to look at,” said Corrigan. “He thinks he may be able to get more information about the group’s contacts, maybe leverage that into information about terror groups that we have poor intelligence on. There were some phone calls preceding Thatch’s visit to a dentist’s office in Tel Aviv. It may be a wild goose chase, but you know Ferguson.”
“He does love wild goose chases,” said Parnelles.
Parnelles didn’t say anything els
e. Corrine sensed he had come not about this—the briefing could have been done over the phone—but because he wanted to talk about something else.
“I think we’re in a wrap-up stage on Seven Angels. The action in Cairo was unfortunate,” she said.
“Unavoidable, I would say,” said Parnelles.
“The Egyptians used that word,” said Corrigan, sensing he might escape without further roasting.
“Is there anything else at the moment, Jack?” asked Corrine.
“No, ma’am.”
“I think the director and I might spend a few minutes reviewing some budgetary matters,” she said.
Corrigan was only too happy to be relieved.
“You dealt with Senator Sondborn masterfully,” said Parnelles when they were alone.
“I simply told the senator that executive privilege is an important principle that must be maintained,” said Corrine, aware that she was being buttered up for something else. The head of the Intelligence Committee had asked for a public session on the recent attempt by terrorists to explode a dirty bomb above Honolulu; his inquiry would have undoubtedly revealed enough about the First Team that its efficiency would have been threatened. Turning him back was a no-brainer and one of the easier tasks Corrine had accomplished the week before.
“Ferguson exceeded his authority by going into Egypt without clearing the operation first,” said Corrine. She knew Parnelles and Ferguson had a long-standing personal relationship, and guessed that was his concern. “I don’t think there’s a question about that. This was an FBI operation, and he went overboard. It was just Ferg being Ferg.”
“That may be.” Parnelles smiled wryly. He had known Ferguson for a long time, and would have been surprised if Ferguson hadn’t gone off in his own direction. Getting the First Team involved in the Seven Angels operation had been overkill, but it precluded the possibility of a mess if the FBI, as usual, bungled. More important for Parnelles, it positioned the First Team for a more serious task.
“I wouldn’t want to micromanage Ferguson,” Parnelles said. “Sometimes a horse has to be given his head.”
“Or a man enough rope?” suggested Corrine.
“If we have the proper people in place, we learn to trust their judgments,” said Parnelles. “I’m not here to second-guess you or to stick up for Bobby.”
“Okay.” Corrine folded her arms. Talking to Parnelles was like playing three-dimensional chess blindfolded: sometimes it was a struggle simply to know where the pieces were, let alone dissect his strategy.
“Mossad has developed information that a member of the Iraqi resistance will be en route to Syria for a meeting within the next few days,” said Parnelles. “Nisieen Khazaal.”
“Khazaal would leave Iraq?”
“Mossad’s information is almost always correct, especially if they’re passing it along. Nonetheless, we haven’t been able to confirm it. Not through the ordinary channels. Our dedicated resources in Syria are skimpy. The NSA is sifting through intercepts, and the staff in Damascus and down at the farm are sifting the wheat, but we have no verification.”
Nisieen Khazaal had been a member of the Iraqi army before the war. He had been identified by the new government’s intelligence service as well as the CIA as the leader of “New Iraq,” a resistance movement responsible for more than two dozen strikes against various American and Iraqi targets in the last twelve months. Capturing him and putting him on trial would be major coup. Especially now, with the Iraqi government just starting to gain legitimacy.
“We have to get him if we can,” said Corrine. “Even if it’s a long shot.”
“I quite agree.”
~ * ~
S
everal hours later, back in D.C., the president poked his head into Alston’s office.
“Well, now, Miss Alston, I am glad to see you here so late,” he told her in his gentlemanly Georgian voice. “The taxpayers are getting their money’s worth.”
“We have to talk, Mr. President,” Corrine said.
“So your note said, my deah. And here I am.” He slid into the chair across from her desk. “So what do you want to tell me?”
President Jonathan McCarthy came by his twang honestly: he traced his ancestry to an indentured servant who’d come over before the Revolution. The accent could range from a very light note to a thick brogue, depending on political requirements—and how tired he was. Since it was going on eleven p.m., she supposed fatigue was responsible for its thickness . . . though she was never one hundred percent sure.
After Corrine relayed what Parnelles had told her about Khazaal, the president’s smile turned to a frozen frown.
“Why would he be going to Syria?” he asked.
“We’re not sure. Our theory is that there is some sort of summit planned, with outside groups meeting to coordinate strategy and possibly pass money. Khazaal’s organization needs funds. The new government has had some success clamping down on the money that was coming from outside religious groups.”
“I find the timing curious.”
“It may have nothing to do with your trip to Iraq,” she told him. “Or it may have everything to do with it.”
The president had decided to visit Baghdad to help dedicate the new Parliament building there a week and a half from now. It was a critical symbol of democracy in the struggling country, and McCarthy was convinced that his presence would demonstrate how far Iraq had come. At the same time, it would allow him to make what would seem like a spontaneous visit to Jerusalem as well, with the idea of helping the peace process along. The side trip was a closely guarded secret since it was supposed to seem like a spur-of-the-moment idea, but the visit to Baghdad was not. As McCarthy put it, the president of the United States was not some skunk who snuck into town at midnight to sniff around the garbage cans. Iraq was a struggling democracy; his visit would help convince others that the outcome of the struggle was not in doubt. Or at least that was what he hoped.
“I’d like to use Special Demands to investigate this,” said Corrine. “The First Team and the supporting Special Operations elements are already in the Middle East for the Seven Angels case. That’s just about wrapped up. It would be quite a coup to capture Khazaal. And who knows what it would avoid? The possibilities are immense.”
“Do you know what the old farmer thought of possibilities, Miss Alston?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.”
McCarthy didn’t bother telling her the punch line. “Use the Team. Find this man and arrest him. He should be brought to justice. Just remember, Miss Alston, that my trip to Baghdad is very important. I would not like anything to disrupt it.”
“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” she said.
“I know you will, deah. I know you will.” He rose. “There is one other item I’d like you to possibly attend to, if you have the time and inclination.”
A request from the president was more than a mere request, and they both knew it. But McCarthy hewed to his well-taught manners, asking rather than demanding. It was one of the reasons his staff worked so hard for him.
“Of course I’ll do it. What do you need?”
“Our ambassador to Iraq, Mr. Bellows. I believe you know him fairly well.”
“My father does.”
McCarthy smiled. Peter Bellows had been a business partner of Corrine’s father two decades before. McCarthy, who had known Corrine’s family since before she was born, knew that. Ten years before, Bellows had left business to become an ambassador. While his first appointments were made mostly as political paybacks, the previous administration had found him very useful, and he was now seen as a very capable man, though McCarthy himself had not had an opportunity to test his mettle.
“I am thinking that with the initiative to the Middle East, I will need a special envoy, someone the Palestinians especially would be comfortable with. And Bellows would be a prime candidate,” said the president.
“I’m sure he’d be fine.”
�
��How do you know?”
The truth was, she didn’t. Corrine had had no dealings with him, not even when she was working in the senate for the Intelligence Committee. Special envoy was not only an important position, it was also the sort of post that might lead to a Nobel Prize, certainly if the president’s initiative brought the two sides closer together.
“I have only one outstanding requirement for the job,” continued the president, “but it’s critical. I need a man, or a woman, who will tell me the truth, even if it is something I do not want to hear.”
“That sounds like my job description,” said Corrine.
“I’m sorry, deah, but you would not be qualified for this job.”
