by Gayle Lynds
With a dark smile, al-Hadi used a CD containing new encryption software to convert Ghranditti’s manifest into ciphertext that looked like garbage—a mixture of symbols, numbers, and letters. Then he activated the CD’s steganography program. All computer files—text, images, sound recordings—had unused or insignificant data areas where the program could hide material.
A series of Arabic-labeled buttons flashed onto his screen. Working quickly, he inputted the file path and added the location of his encrypted text. The program prompted him for a pass phrase. He typed in iHna hena—“we are here”—and clicked FINISH. Within seconds the data was invisibly integrated into the tenth photo on the obscene Web site. He activated the Internet trace destructor and exited.
Confident, he removed his credit card and CD and dropped them into his long gym bag, next to his M-4 and pistol. He stood erect, a silent man of moral rectitude, a warrior for Allah. Gym bag in hand, he drifted back outside into the godless crowds of glittering Miami, remembering the last time one of his messages had been discovered by the infidels.
They had been so baffled they’d had to send it to the National Security Agency, where their best mathematicians needed a supercomputer and a year of work to decode it. They did not have the luxury of a year now. He would own the shipment in hours.
Outside Herndon, Virginia
In Ben Kuhnert’s country kitchen, the fire in the stone fireplace had burned down to nervous flames. Everyone was focused on Jay. Almost imperceptibly, the flesh of his face tightened against his bones just as Elaine had seen on the video. Jay looked aristocratic, radiating a confidence that made her want to believe anything he said, accept anything he decided. Even Palmer seemed riveted.
As if anointing them, Jay’s eyes swept the team: “We need to uncover exactly what’s in the deal, who’s behind it, who’s getting it, what it’s intended for, and when and where it’s going to change hands. And we need to do it fast—remember, it’s happening today.” As they nodded soberly, he looked at Elijah. “You know about the StarDusts. They were probably stolen somewhere along the line. Check into them.”
“I’ll find out who manufactured them and take it from there,” Elijah said instantly.
Jay slid the Briare’s across the table to Palmer. Palmer stopped it with a quick motion. “Same assignment, Palmer. You take on the drones.”
Palmer’s nod was so curt that Elaine was reminded he was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them—even from Jay.
“Today it’s mostly Islamic or Arab terrorists who are buying illegally,” Jay continued.
Ben interrupted, “Consider it handled.”
“What about me?” Frank, the consummate gray operative with the bland countenance, had an eager glow to him.
“You still have sources among international traffickers?” Jay asked.
“I do. Some had such intimate relationships with Washington that they bought estates around here.”
“Okay, your job is to find a Mr. G who employs a Jerry and a Rink. He’d have insider intel about Whippet and the power to pull in Larry Litchfield and put together a shipment that includes StarDusts and Gyro-Birds. Jerry said Mr. G’s ‘been doing this for years. He’s at the top. He’s the best in the business.’ ” He paused. “I remember several significant players whose last names began with G—Manucher Gorbanifar, Werner Glatt, Mark Allen Grady, Tim Gutterman.”
“There’s a whole new crop since 9/11,” Elijah assured him.
Jay nodded. “Before you go off, there are two more details. First, I told you Milieu Software hired Kristoph and that Milieu was a Whippet front. I don’t know for sure why they chose him, but my guess is it was because he was something of a hotshot programmer.”
“He could’ve created some kind of special software to keep track of Mr. G’s deal,” Elijah said.
“Exactly,” Jay agreed. “Raina’s set up three alternate meets for today. If anything happens to me, someone has to find out what she knows and help her.” He related the times and locations.
“We’ll take care of her,” Palmer assured him. “What’s the second detail?”
“Moses. Since he came up in the story about DEADAIM—have any of you heard anything about him? Is he still working?”
Palmer peered over his reading glasses at the others. “I told Jay it’s been at least five years since anyone even mentioned the name to me.”
“Sounds right,” Elijah agreed. “I figured he’d retired. But then, I never got any of his famous calls promising intel in exchange for big bucks. He phone any of you?”
As they shook their heads, Jay asked, “Does anyone know his true identity?”
Again the men around the table shook their heads.
Ben looked puzzled. “What’s this about, Jay? Have you heard from Moses?”
“Never. My interest’s personal.” Jay’s face was a mask. He reached back and snared his backpack and changed the subject. “The people we’re up against are more than good, and maybe not just because of the help Larry Litchfield’s giving them. They fooled Elaine and me three times.” He took out five new disposable cell phones and handed them out. “We can’t take the risk you’ll be tracked through your personal cells. I used a fake identity to buy these. Each phone has a hundred prepaid hours, and we can hold six-person conference calls.”
“What’s my assignment?” Elaine wanted to know.
“Too many people are looking for you, so you’ll be low-key. You’ll drive me.”
“And I can watch your back,” she said.
Ben looked up from examining his new cell phone. “I’ll leave Houri here while you and Elaine get some sleep. If anyone moves out there, she’ll let you know.”
“We appreciate that. Turn on the cells,” Jay ordered. “Figure out what your number is. We’re going to have to memorize all of them, but they’re sequential. I know I don’t need to say it, but just to make sure we’re clear—I’m relying on each of you to keep everything that’s been said among ourselves. I’ll sleep with my cell phone. Call as soon as you learn anything or you run into trouble.”
“Just like the old days.” Ben’s eyes glittered with anticipation.
She watched as Jay looked at them with pride. In seconds they were on their feet, picking up their pieces of the medallion and exchanging numbers.
Jay slid his gold triangle into his pocket. “Our turn.”
But she was already walking away, weary to the bone. Their rooms were adjacent on the second floor. As he followed her up the long staircase, their steps fell into rhythm. Beneath them, the voices of the operatives faded. The front door closed as Ben left to contact his Muslim source.
At the top of the stairs, she and Jay turned down the hall together. She lengthened her stride to match his. But then in the quiet, she heard Billy’s voice again, his heartbreaking plea to Jerry to spare his life, and the muffled pop of the bullet that killed him. Her breath caught in her throat. She remembered the description of Pavel Abendroth’s assassination in the CIA’s list of Jay’s treacheries—it had launched Jay’s career as a mole.
She looked across at him and worked to keep her tone neutral. “Tell me about Dr. Abendroth.”
“What about him?”
“Did you have him assassinated?”
As they continued on, she kept glancing at him.
His profile was granite. “And if I did?”
“I . . .” She was speechless. She had expected him to deny it. She wanted to shout, Why! The question ricocheted through her brain, but she had told him she would not ask why again.
And he did not offer. “Good night. Get some sleep.” He vanished into his room.
Northern Virginia
In the distance, traffic on Route 7 rumbled. Watching all around the lit parking lot, Ben Kuhnert ran to the mosque’s porch, yanked off his shoes, and stepped inside, hoping he was not too late. He sped through the ritual washing of hands and face at the hamam then hurried to the imam’s office and through to the private patio.
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When he saw Imam Mustafa Nawwi, he exhaled with relief—the coffee and tea ceremony had not begun. He calmed himself, showing no sign of his worry that he could extract information from the imam about the identities of any terrorists involved in Mr. G’s deal.
Surprised, Mustafa stared, the carafe in one hand. “Salam, Binyamin. Ahlan wa-sahlan!” It was a Bedouin expression: Our house is as open to you as the plain. “You’re just in time. Let me serve you.”
“Salam, Mustafa. It’s good to see you, too.” The spicy scent of the cardamom-flavored brew steamed in the cool dawn air.
Like a saint from the past, Mustafa Nawwi was cadaverous and dark-bearded, dressed in his usual long black robe. He took two cups from a cupboard above the high table, poured, and handed coffee to Ben.
Because Mustafa had poured first, it was his responsibility to speak first: “I remember when we were boys, and your khall visited from Jerusalem. He’s the one who taught us this tradition. We were such Americans.”
“I’m still American, Mustafa,” Ben said quietly. “But I’m also Muslim. If you don’t feel American, why do you stay?” He knew the answer, and from it he hoped to build his argument.
“Ah, but I do feel very American. We have no disagreement, except that you want me to turn against some of my flock. But they’re not accountable to me, Ben—only to Allah. I see now why you haven’t been here in months. I’m saddened.”
Following the imam’s lead, Ben tipped back his head and drank. The coffee was as hot as the desert and as bitter as disappointment, cleansing the palate and the soul. Each step in the ritual had a purpose, each reflected a Bedouin philosophy of life. Many bloody fights on the sands had been averted in this way. By using the traditions of the ancient ceremony, Ben was gambling he could persuade his old friend to give him information about the arms deal.
It was Ben’s turn. He poured and returned the imam’s cup. Now he would speak first. “Ideas are one thing. Actions entirely different. I’ve shown you evidence—all on the public record. They’re fanatics claiming jihad as an excuse to murder anyone who won’t follow them, while you and I know the truth is in the Koran—‘Thy task is only to exhort; thou cannot compel them to believe.’ ”
Mustafa’s olive features were thoughtful. But then he frowned. “Still, it’s not for me to judge their sincerity.”
“Don’t you think we have a responsibility to stop evil, old friend? You and I know the essence of Allah’s laws is justice for all of humanity.”
Mustafa looked at him sharply. “You didn’t come here at this early hour to debate, Ben. What’s happened?”
“I’ve been doing some contract work for State and stumbled onto an illegal weapons deal.” The State Department was his longtime cover. “And it’s in the District. The objective could be anywhere nearby. A block away. Even here at the mosque. You know they target nonextremist Muslims now.”
As the imam’s face sobered, Ben faced east, toward Mecca. The imam joined him, their shoulders touching, the physicality to remind them that humanity was a community, its diversity necessary and beautiful.
As they drank the last of the strong brew, Ben said a silent prayer that his argument had penetrated.
The imam set their cups aside and poured tea—sweet mint, symbolizing life itself—into two tiny cups. This was the only tea, and the end of the ritual. As they drank, Ben felt a chill of worry, wondering about Mustafa’s decision. When their cups were empty, they set them on the high table and hugged, pounding each other’s back.
It was the imam’s turn to resume the conversation. As Ben watched anxiously, the cleric stepped back. He crossed his arms, his expression grave.
“As Bedouins, the sands of the desert run like blood through our veins,” he said thoughtfully. “I spent quite a bit of time with our tribe when I was in Jordan. Their lives are hard, but they live in joy by praising Allah for what every moment brings. They feel showered by Allah’s love—not hate.” He hesitated, then nodded to himself. “You’re right—we’ve allowed extremists to redefine Islam not just to the world but to too many of us.” He squared his shoulders. “Stay for the prayer service, Ben. Afterward I’ll give you the name of a person who may know something.”
31
Washington, D.C.
Inside his redbrick Federalist house, Laurence Litchfield hurried downstairs through the morning’s gloom. He turned on the lights in his office and sat at his desk. Behind him, his grandfather clock ticked softly. Above him, his wife and children slept. He liked the quiet, the lack of any activity but his own, the sense of complete ownership.
It had been one hell of a night, dismally capped with the news that Ghranditti’s people had lost Jay Tice and Elaine Cunningham in rural Virginia, even though the ambush should have been a slam dunk. Every time he thought about it, he wanted to scrub them himself. Not only were the pair very much alive, Cunningham must realize his role in the failed trap, and if Jay were at his charming best, she might tell him.
Still, all was far from lost. Before he went to bed, he’d had a long talk with the Silver Spring police chief, who understood the importance of national security and would notify him the instant they found Cunningham.
The situation with Raina Manhardt was also hopeful. Her son’s friend in Paris and the Genevois who gave her the security videos of the Milieu Software building had been eliminated. And with a list of her BND identities from Volker Rehwaldt, Alec discovered “Melissa O’Dey” had bought a plane ticket in Geneva. Then when they screened the video record of boarding passengers, Rehwaldt spotted her in disguise.
With a chilly smile, Litchfield turned on his computer and loaded the CD about Jay Tice that Cunningham had ordered compiled. He bypassed a file of e-mails and went straight to the meat—the data about Tice. It had been grouped into categories—people, places, years, missions, and so forth. He skimmed through, pausing occasionally to make a note.
He had just clicked onto Jay’s operations when he heard vehicles pull into his drive. He whirled his chair around and peered out through his ivy-framed window, across the green lawn and the redbrick walks and the goldfish pond. Jaw clenched, he jumped to his feet, sped out of his office to the front door, and yanked it open.
Nate Harroldsen from Langley’s Office of Security was standing on the brick stoop, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Mr. Litchfield,” he said cheerfully. He had pale blond hair and a broad pug nose. “I saw the light was on in your office, so I figured I wouldn’t ring the bell. Didn’t want to wake anyone else. She wants you to ride into Langley with her.”
Litchfield put a smile on his face while inwardly cursing. In the driveway sat the DCI’s armored black sedan. Behind it was an SUV—her chase car—its blue lights flashing. He smiled wider and nodded toward the sedan’s darkened windows, acknowledging Bobbye Johnson’s presence.
He told Harroldsen, “Give me a minute.”
“She’s in a hurry,” Harroldsen warned.
“Got it,” he said curtly.
He left the front door open and hurried back to his office, shutting that door. As he pulled the CD from his computer, he checked his cell for messages. There was one from Alec St. Ann. As he put the CD into his briefcase, he speed-dialed. While he was with Bobbye, it would be impossible to talk with either Alec or Martin Ghranditti.
His briefcase was fully packed, the electronic lock was activated, and his annoyance was escalating by the time Alec answered.
“Make it fast,” Litchfield snapped. “The DCI’s sitting in my driveway.”
Alec had the audacity to chuckle. “Lucky you.” Then his tones sobered. “Now I believe the stories about Raina Manhardt’s Cold War escapades. She damn well vanished into thin air in the Milan terminal.”
Litchfield swore loudly. “What happened?”
“I sent one of our local ops to make sure she boarded her flight then to ride along to keep an eye on her until we could snatch her in D.C. He picked her up easily, but while they were at the depart
ure gate, she was there one minute and gone the next. He hunted but finally boarded, thinking she might’ve slipped on and was hiding. She wasn’t. So when we got into Milan, my team searched the terminal while Volker and I checked airlines’ manifests. None of her other BND identities is in use. Now we’re in the air. I have no idea whether she’s still flying into Dulles, but we are.”
Before Litchfield could respond, his doorbell sounded. The underused power behind it annoyed him far more than the noise.
Alec heard it, too. “Bobbye Johnson again?”
Litchfield ignored him. He related the names and contact information for the three surviving local Whippet operatives. “I want one at Reagan, one at Dulles, and one at Baltimore. I’ll feed you more people as I can take them off other assignments.”
Without waiting for an answer, he broke the connection and plastered another smile on his face and left. He marched past Harroldsen, hurried down the walk, and slid in next to Bobbye. She handed him a Starbucks venti latte. It was what she drank—not what he liked. She wore a navy skirt suit today, not her usual suit jacket and pants. She had good legs, considering she was at least fifty. Her short auburn mane was perfect, not a hair out of place, swept back from her broad forehead.
He started to thank her for the coffee, but she was already talking: “We’ve got a command performance,” she told him brusquely as the two vehicles backed out of the driveway and rolled away on the secluded street. “The joint intelligence committee is holding a closed session to focus on Jay Tice, Whippet, and Elaine Cunningham.”
He ignored a tremor of worry. “Ah, yes. Just as you predicted.”
She nodded with resignation and drank her latte. “Is there anything you want to tell me about Whippet, Larry?”
A warning sounded in his mind. “Has something else happened?” “I’d appreciate a straight answer to my question.” Her face was so neutral it was almost blank.
