Spy Trade

by Matthew Dunn

  Patrick exited his car and followed the man into the house. He’d been there before, and though many things had remained the same—­the oak-­paneled walls, gilt-­framed paintings, lavish furnishings, and other trappings of a government department that has an unaccountable budget—­some things were very different. There was a body scanner in the entrance, numerous armor-­clad penitentiary officers, and walls of iron bars that had been fixed in place from ceilings to floors. The ­people who’d taken over the building had transformed it into a high-­security prison.

  After Patrick emptied his pockets, removed his belt from around his suit pants, and walked through the scanner with his arms held apart, a middle-­aged man appeared on the other side of the bars. “You the CIA guy?”

  Patrick nodded, wishing the man hadn’t shouted out his vocation so loudly.

  “Give me the letter.” The man held his hand between the bars, expectant.

  “Are you in charge?” asked Patrick as he handed the man a sheet that contained the seal of the Agency and its director’s signature.

  “Temporarily while my men are temporarily here. You wouldn’t believe what we had to do to make this property fit for our purpose. There are so many better places we could have transferred the prisoner to. God knows why we were told to come here.”

  “It’s secret.” Patrick moved into a cage, its door behind him locked back into place while another was opened so he could proceed into the inner perimeter of the newly constructed fortress. “Your name?”

  “Henry Kane.” The prison governor was a plump man, with receding hair and glasses that were balanced on the tip of his nose. “I was in the special wing at Guantanamo before you guys thought me and my boys might like a whiff of Virginia air. Damn inconvenience.”

  “Where are you keeping him?”

  “In the living room. It was the only place big enough to house our cell. We need to see him from all angles.” Kane frowned. “The prisoner wasn’t in the special wing at The Bay, because he’s just some lowlife. He’s a terrorist alright but a nobody terrorist. Now, we’ve moved him here, and we’re treating him like Public Enemy Number One. We’ve given him the Hannibal Lector treatment. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “It’s not who he is that matters; the reason he’s here is because of who wants him.” Patrick imagined Will Cochrane telling him he was probably only partially right on that observation. “I need to see him alone.”

  Kane looked affronted. “The guards will have to stay.”

  “Your guards can grab a coffee. Read the letter.”

  Kane did so, his expression angry. “Jeez. You bunch of amateurs.”

  “And the file in your hands. I want it.”

  The file on the prisoner.

  Kane threw the file at Patrick, pointed at the entrance to the living room, and walked in. Inside resembled a gentleman’s club. But the interior’s fittings had been rearranged. Rouge sofas that had many times been used by cigar-­smoking men of many nationalities, talking to each other in hushed tones, sometimes sitting in silence while looking out of windows at the grounds, had been pushed to the walls. A billiards table was upended and flush against bay windows; once it had had pride of place in the center of the room. Patrick recalled playing a frame on it with a gravel-­voiced senior MI6 officer who’d potted a black before dusting the tip of his cue, looking at Patrick, and proclaiming, “Double agent Gregor is slipperier than a spunked-­over billiard ball.” Mahogany side tables that were usually dotted around the room so coffees or tumblers of whiskey could be rested on them were stacked in a pile. Rails supporting heavy velvet curtains now had the additional burden of surveillance cameras. Only the wall-­mounted library and huge paintings depicting scenes from the War of Independence and Civil War remained in their usual place. Ordinarily, the room was eye-­catching and exuded a powerful ambience of being a top secret retreat from the overt and covert worlds. Indeed, the whole mansion carried the nickname Purgatory because spies who came here thought it was a place in limbo. Today, everything paled into insignificance compared to the huge steel cage that was in middle of the room. Inside it were a bed, a table and chair, a portable latrine, a pile of books, and a dark-­skinned, thin young man who would have been handsome were it not for the long, unkempt beard that made him look like a mad monk.

  Arzam Saud. The ISIS terrorist jihadists wanted in exchange for Bob Oakland.

  He was standing by one side of his prison, wearing an orange jumpsuit, his feet bare, his hands gripping the bars, while he watched Patrick.

  Four guards were outside the cage, on each corner of the asymmetrical cubicle. Reluctantly, Kane told them to leave.

  “And you,” said Patrick to the governor.

  “God damn it!”

  “Please. Go.”

  As Kane walked out while muttering threats about making official complaints, Patrick grabbed a wooden chair and sat opposite the young ISIS member, only bars separating them. He said nothing for five minutes, just stared at the prisoner, with his legs folded and his hands clasped. “You speak English?”

  “Is that a statement or a question? The intonation in your voice suggests the latter though your absence of a proper sentence construct instructs me that I speak better English than you do.” Saud’s accent was barely noticeable.

  Patrick smiled while flicking through the file. “Schooled in England. Wealthy Bahraini parents. They allowed you to access some of their wealth. You used it in business. Then you joined ISIS.”

  “I’ve lived a rich life.”

  “You’re only twenty-­three.”

  “Then I’m doubly blessed to have so much good fortune squeezed within so few years. I must be the envy of many.” Saud sat on the floor, his legs crossed in the lotus position, his hands resting on his lap.

  “You know why you’re here? Who I am? Why I’m here?”

  “Three questions in rapid succession. How can you value the answers to those questions if you toss them all at once at me? Surely, you’d prefer to give me each question piecemeal in the hope of fuller and more instructive answers. Instead, you strike me as a pathetic blue-­collar gambling addict who’s throwing all his dimes into different slot machines, hoping one of them will pay out.”

  Patrick didn’t respond.

  Saud shook his head, an expression of contempt on his face. “I’m not afforded the luxury of a television, access to the Internet and newspapers, and nor do I have friends and family visiting me and telling me what’s happening in the outside world. I’m not clairvoyant. It would be impossible for me to know why I’m here and why you’re here. But, as to who you are, I would imagine you’re CIA, NSA, or FBI.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “That’s better—­one question at a time.” Saud’s expression softened. “It’s a case of interested parties. Who’s interested in me? Of course, ­people who are interested in the ranks of ISIS. That would include special divisions of the United States military, but you don’t belong there.” Saud frowned. “Actually, a long time ago you might have been in the military, I’d guess.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Saud looked exasperated when he replied, “A guess negates certainty. But you have the deportment of a military man, and your cheap clothes have been cared for by you in the way a man who’s spent a bit of time in the military can’t break the habit of ensuring he never leaves the house without pants that are immaculately pressed. A further guess would be army, possibly infantry.” He held up his hand in case Patrick was going to interject. “But once again, it’s a guess.”

  “You have an eye for detail.”

  “When you spend all day in places like these, it’s easy to notice the little things.” Saud lowered his hand. “Something that isn’t a guess is a deduction about your expression. It suggests lack of conventional thinking. Blindly following orders in the army was a long time ago. Since then, you’
ve been allowed to break rules. I suggest that means we can drop the possibility of the FBI. That leaves NSA or CIA. But you don’t look like a computer number cruncher to me. So, I’m betting you’re CIA.”

  Patrick held his stare.

  “Strange, though, that the CIA would employ an illiterate man who doesn’t know how to interrogate ­people.” Saud grinned, showing off immaculate white teeth.

  Patrick closed the file and smoothed a hand over its cover. “You’re here because a bunch of crazies want us to release you in exchange for an American hostage. Why do you think you’re of value to them?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Nor do I, and that’s the problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I knew why they wanted you, I could make an informed decision whether to keep you locked up or not.”

  Saud’s grin remained. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Perhaps if you’d improved your interrogation technique, things might have been different.”

  Patrick was very still when he responded, “I didn’t come here to interrogate you. I came here to look at you. And what I see is a dumb kid who thinks a good education has made him smart when in fact it’s just given a rich brat a few words. Mom and Dad had to give you their money so you could play at being successful. And when that didn’t work out, you thought you’d play at being a fundamentalist. Thing is, though, you sucked at that as well. Got yourself caught in Iraq. In prison. In here. Just some dumb kid who’s looking at me through bars.”

  Saud’s smile vanished.

  Patrick stood. “The president isn’t going to cut a deal with ISIS over some loser like you. And that means you’re going to rot in here until you die.”

  To Patrick’s surprise, Arzam Saud burst out laughing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Simpson’s in the Strand was usually Will Cochrane’s favorite London restaurant at lunchtime. It unashamedly harked back to bygone Victorian and Edwardian sensibilities about how one should fuel one’s mind and body. Chess masters once practiced their craft here; authors including E. M. Forster, P. G. Wodehouse, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, dined in the venue and used it as a location in their works of literature; and everyone who came here did so because it was one of the last bastions of a traditional English roast dinner. Today was not much different from how Will imagined the restaurant had been throughout its near-­two-­century existence. For sure, outside, noisy cars jammed the bustling Strand wherein once there would have been the soporific sounds of horses’ hooves tapping the road as the beasts pulled carriages. But inside, time had stood still. Then and now, deferential waiters in starched white shirts and black uniforms pushed huge trolleys containing roasted lumps of cow and pig toward expectant diners, and the waiters were wearing looks of pride and appreciation while they brandished razor-­sharp knives and asked customers if they could be tempted by some slices of the meat. The majority of the restaurant was taken up by exposed tables that were positioned a respectful distance from each other, but along one wall oak booths were available for individuals who cherished their privacy. Simpson’s was an establishment that catered to those who wished to be seen and those who didn’t.

  Will was sitting alone in one of the booths.

  Though he found them in equal measure amusing and endearing, it wasn’t the pomp, ceremony, and cuisine that drew Will to Simpson’s. It was the ­people who came here. Today was no different from other days, and Will should have drawn wonder from the ­people he could see—­a three-­star general dining alone in full parade uniform and washing his meal down with a bottle of Pouilly-­Fumé, a stoic expression on his face suggesting he was partaking of his last meal before battle; a bishop and rabbi gesticulating madly at each other over their plates of calves liver and lamb rump before laughing in unison as if they suddenly realized the absurdity of their conflicting passions; a well-­known female Member of Parliament blushing and slapping her good-­looking young male political aide; and a party of high-­ranking civil-­ser­vice mandarins—­all men, all wearing pin-­striped suits, and all with eyebrows the size of combs—­speaking to each other in grunts, carefully crafted haughty looks of disdain on their jowly faces. But Will’s mind was elsewhere as he halfheartedly picked at his meal of venison. He thought only of Bob Oakland and his Jordanian translator, shackled in a stifling hot room, no food, no liquid of any kind to satiate their parched bodies.

  Patrick sat opposite him, grabbed the menu, and tossed it back down.

  “Don’t you want to eat?” Will’s voice sounded as distant as the thoughts in his mind.

  “Damn airplane food’s given me the shits.”

  “Delightful.”

  “Not for me, it ain’t.” Patrick’s irritability was as palpable as the fatigue etched on his face. “I was downgraded to economy. Mother and kid were next to me. Kid was screaming the whole flight. I bought him toys from Duty Free, plus a cool kid’s watch that I thought would distract him. I think the poor boy’s ears were suffering from cabin pressure.”

  “Encouraging him to yawn would have helped.”

  “Next time, I’ll keep that in mind.” The CIA officer glanced around. “Why do you insist on meeting me in public? We could’ve met at your home.”

  Will shrugged. “You’re still a spook. I’m not, and that means I need witnesses when I meet with you. Plus, I’m refurbishing my home. It’s a mess.”

  “Witnesses?” Patrick laughed. “Nobody notices you. Or me for that matter.”

  “Isn’t that the point? Nobody notices us. Such a shame.” Will pushed his plate away, deciding he’d feign lack of appetite and apologize to the waiter. “What have you got for me?”

  Patrick told Will about his encounter with Arzam Saud, his impressions of the young man, and the scant data on him within the prison file. “He joined ISIS eight months ago and was captured by pro-­US Yazidis in northern Iraq two months ago. He’s believed to be a foot soldier in ISIS and carries no rank owing to his junior status.”

  Will frowned. “His profile’s wrong for a prisoner exchange. There are hundreds of men and women in US captivity who’d make far more important exchanges—­al Qaeda commanders, Taliban leaders, a whole bunch of high-­profile lunatics. Why aren’t the ISIS wannabes asking for the release of one of them?”

  Patrick replied, “Saud’s got money. Inherited. Probably oil cash. I reckon they want him sprung so he can help fund ISIS.”

  “Any details about what he did with his money before he joined ISIS?”

  “Mostly property deals in Europe.” Patrick looked around again to ensure he wasn’t being overheard. “The biggest ones were in partnership with Russian billionaire Viktor Gorsky. Gorsky’s a private man, very little known about him. He’s a recluse. But, there’s one guy who knows more about Gorsky than most. Investigative journalist called Eddie Lanes. Works for the British newspaper The Independent. Trouble is, he’s in hiding after receiving death threats.”

  “Death threats from Gorsky or ­people employed by him?”

  “Could be. Or maybe they’re from someone else Lanes has investigated. Either way, there’s no proof.”

  Will was deep in thought. “I need to find out about Gorsky.”

  Patrick slammed his hand on the table. “We’re running out of time! Most likely Saud and Gorsky have no relevance to helping us find Oakland.”

  “Most likely.” Quietly, Will added, “But Saud’s profile is all wrong. The British police will know where Lanes is. Pull some strings, so I can meet with him.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The great and the powerful filed into the White House’s subterranean situation room. Sight of the politicians made chief of staff Donny Tusk feel like an exasperated schoolteacher who was witnessing his Ivy-­League-­destined charges saunter into class late, all of the pupils with egos the size of small planets. The president had told Tusk many times that the reason he was chief of staf
f was because he understood public ser­vice and had no aspirations for the top job in politics. This was true, and it made the president trust his loyal aide. And it made Tusk despise the Machiavellian agendas of the men and women he had to marshal at meetings like these. It was like trying to herd cats, he often thought, all of them preening themselves, wishing to be the center of attention, and going in whatever direction they damn well liked.

  The president was sitting next to him; Tusk could sense his unease.

  When all were seated and had exhausted their greetings to one another and fake pleasantries, Tusk banged his fist three times on the rectangular table as if he were a judge with a gavel. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The room was silent; all faced the television monitor on the wall. Donny Tusk turned on the TV and prepared to press Play on the video that had been sent to him an hour ago by NSA technicians who’d been looking out for it on the Web. Probably, some in the room had already seen the video, hopping onto YouTube or similar with their insecure smartphones or other gadgets that Tusk had no care to understand. Nevertheless, all were expectant. It was a rare moment in the situation room when you could hear a pin drop.

  Tusk pressed Play.

  The image of the dead room was blurred at first, but then someone behind the camera brought the lens into focus. Bob Oakland was on his knees; his face was a swollen pulp, his shirt was ripped and smeared in blood, and his hair was lank and plastered to his scalp. Behind him were two men, one tall, the other shorter yet with a broad physique. They were two of the men who’d appeared in the first video Tusk had seen of Oakland. The taller was holding Oakland on a chain leash that was wrapped around the CIA officer’s throat. In the corner of the room, the Jordanian translator Ramzi was chained to the wall. Ropes around his legs, torso, and arms, would have made it impossible for him to move though they looked unnecessary right now because Ramzi’s head was slumped onto his chest. He was either unconscious or dead. And behind Ramzi were the red Arabic letters.