Then he sees the video camera perched in the upper right corner of the room. It might as well be screaming at Langford that there will be no human appeal. Rykman’s not coming. Whether he doesn’t want to risk letting sentimentality turn to mercy, or whether Langford simply isn’t worth the effort to him, Langford can’t be sure. The only thing he is sure of is that Rykman will be watching the tape tonight, probably adding it to his personal collection. Goddamn if that fucking video camera, silently staring at Langford like a fucking Cyclops, doesn’t confirm his long-held suspicion that William Joseph Rykman, U.S. Army, retired, is one truly deranged sadistic motherfucker. And the acknowledgment of what Rykman is—not a soldier, not a colleague, not a friend, but a monster on the order of Mengele—makes a dam burst in Langford’s mind. It fuels a rage that shakes his body with such force that the dentist chair actually moves, as if his anger might provide the fuel necessary to rip his body from its confines. The leather straps moan in protest—though the sounds may be Langford’s, he really can’t be sure—but they hold. He feels a slickness on his wrists where blood seeps from his skin, moistening the leather straps. But his anger passes like a cloud, revealing a blue sky of recognition that this cold and narrow room, this clinical space, is the last place he’ll ever see.
Whoever’s watching the feed from the video camera must have seen Langford surrender, because that’s when the man in scrubs walks in. Although the man is wearing a surgical mask, Langford recognizes Tyler Donovan’s eyes. And although Langford’s rational mind knows there’s no point to pleading, rationality has long since left him. “Donovan, please—”
“I need to debrief you, Paul,” he says. “It’s standard operating procedure. Nothing personal.”
“Tyler, we—”
“It’s necessary to make sure you haven’t told anyone about the Overwatch,” Tyler says, his voice as cold and austere as the room they’re in. Langford’s eyes follow Donovan’s latex-gloved hand to a tray containing a selection of gleaming metallic instruments. Each one looks more medieval than the next. Forceps, wire cutters, and a scalpel are the only tools he can recognize. His mind races to come up with something that will get Donovan to reconsider. But getting Donovan to disobey an order from Rykman is like trying to convince the pope to renounce Jesus. He finally gives up his planning and strategizing and trades all his hopes for the prayer that Donovan’s work will be quick.
“Let’s begin,” Donovan says, and selects the wire cutters from the metal tray.
FOUR
CIA, NEW HEADQUARTERS BUILDING
8:24 A.M. EDT
FUNNY HOW it never gets old, Alex thinks as his blue keycard—referred to in the Agency as a badge—gets him through security at the New Headquarters Building. He’s been working at the Agency for six months now, gone through this specific security checkpoint multiple times, and he still gets a charge from entering the headquarters of the CIA. He also never fails to think of the NHB’s entrance as resembling an airport security line. All belongings need to be passed through one of two x-ray machines and everyone—blue badge or not—is required to enter through the metal detectors. But somehow all the security procedures combine to make the feeling more real: Alex Garnett works for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Alex takes his Johnston & Murphy leather messenger bag off the x-ray machine’s treadmill and says to one of the green jackets—as the security guards are known, due to the dark green sports coats they wear—“So did they pay up yet?”
The man shakes his head. “Not yet.”
The green jacket’s name is Tom Ciampa and this exchange has been repeated as faithfully as a catechism between the two men for some time. About two years ago, Ciampa’s wife was in a car accident that shattered her hip. Her convalescence took several agonizing months, during which she was unable to work at her job as a librarian. That was income that Ciampa and his wife depended on to support their three children. Fortunately, they had insurance for that sort of thing. The CIA was good about benefits and Ciampa believed in supplementing them when it came to important things like insurance. However, after filling out all the right forms, answering all the right questions, and providing all the right documentation, Ciampa couldn’t get the insurance company to pay what it owed. Ciampa was long past the point of knowing what bullshit excuse the company was now offering. The only thing he knew, all that he understood, was that he’d done his part, he’d paid all the premiums and jumped through all the bureaucratic hoops, and now the insurance company was failing to live up to its end of the bargain. It was a mugging, pure and simple—or, perhaps, more accurately, a con job. Either way, after a year and a half of haranguing without success, Ciampa would have marched into the insurance company’s fancy DC offices with his Agency-issued Glock 20 if he thought it would do any good.
Three months ago, Alex happened to catch Ciampa after he’d gotten off a particularly vexing call with one of the claim Nazis, as he referred to them. Ciampa’s poker face was pretty good, but Alex saw the genuine distress beneath. Perhaps Alex was the only one who saw through Ciampa’s façade, or maybe he was just the only one who cared to ask if Ciampa was all right. Either way, it was the first bit of luck Ciampa and his wife had had since that Camry T-boned her.
Since then, Alex has been navigating Ciampa through the insurance company’s maze of bureaucracy. “So did they pay up yet?” has become the opening volley in a humorous call-and-response. Ciampa usually replies with the latest update, often a variation on “left a message.” But today’s a little different. Today, after Ciampa says, “Not yet,” his polite, professional smile is a little wider.
“Yesterday was a good day, Mr. Garnett,” he explains. “I made it through voice-mail hell to speak to an actual live person.”
“You never know, Tom. Those automated call centers are getting pretty sophisticated. You might’ve still been talking to a computer.”
“That’s a fact,” Ciampa admits. “When I finally got a human voice, I was so surprised, I almost didn’t know what to say. But then I remembered what you said—I had it all written down, actually—and I told ’em everything you said to tell ’em.”
“And?”
“And the claim’s still under review. I gotta admit, though, it felt good just to speak to a human being.”
“I bet. But still not good enough. Time to drop the hammer, Tom.” He produces a thick stack of documents from his bag and hands it to Ciampa, who looks the papers over with confusion.
“What’s all this?”
Alex points to each document as he explains. “This is a complaint. This is a first set of interrogatories. This is a request for production of documents. You’ll need a process server to serve all these.” He points to the business card paper-clipped to the top of the stack. “That’s the name and number of a guy I like.”
Ciampa eyes this gift with equal parts gratitude and abashment. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Garnett—”
“Alex,” he corrects, and not for the first time.
“I want to sue those fuckers back to the Stone Age, but…” He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I can’t afford an attorney.”
Alex knows. Just as he knows the CIA’s code of ethics prevents him from pursuing the claim on Ciampa’s behalf, even pro bono. “There’s a difference between filing a lawsuit and taking the case all the way to trial, Tom.” Ciampa nods, a dutiful pupil. “Insurance companies have the time, money, and manpower to process only ten percent of claims. Ten percent. So they stonewall, like they’ve been doing, knowing all the while that ninety percent of people will get fed up, take less than what they’re owed, and go away.” Alex taps the complaint with his finger. The caption at the top reads Molly Ciampa v. Equix Insurers, Inc. “You’re not suing anyone. You’re just telling them you’re in the ten percent they have to deal with and that continuing to blow you off is gonna be more trouble than it’s worth.”
Ciampa considers that…and smiles.
* * *
Alex enters Leah’s
office but starts to make a U-turn when he sees her on the phone. She keeps him planted, however, with a raised index finger in the universal sign for Give me one more minute.
As Leah listens to whoever it is droning away on the other end of the line, Alex takes in her office. It’s clean to the point of immaculate, a paragon of minimalist organization that borders on Zen. The only concessions to the existence of a life outside the office are framed pictures of her nieces.
“The extradition-order draft looks good and we’ve got grounds for the injunction in Jerusalem,” Leah says. Alex assumes she’s talking to her counterpart in the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency. “I understand your concern, Avi. But if you’re so inclined, you can confirm this with my superiors. My AIN is four-five-eight-seven-nine-six-three.” She pauses to listen, frowning. “Tell you what, why don’t I get back to you with a memo. I’ll have one of our guys put something together.” She ends the call with a perfunctory yet polite “Thanks, Avi. Talk to you later.” She sets the phone down with less exasperation than most people would but still more than she cares to show in front of subordinates like Alex.
Before Alex can ask about the call, she hands him a Redweld file folder. This is what she summoned him into her office to discuss. “Harling versus Harling?” Alex asks.
“One of our case officers is getting divorced. Case officers are what other people might call spies or secret agents, but we obviously don’t use those terms. You can imagine how common marital problems for these men and women are. The divorce rate hovers around eighty-five percent.” Leah points to the file. “CIA case officer Harling is getting deposed by his wife’s lawyer today.”
“I’ve got absolutely zero family-law experience. None.”
“You don’t need any,” Leah says. “Harling is already represented by counsel. An actual divorce attorney.”
“So then why am I—”
“All you need to do is sit there and make sure Harling’s testimony doesn’t cross into any classified areas.”
“Like Agency-enhanced lovemaking techniques?” Alex jokes. But the humor is lost on Leah.
* * *
BEIT RAHBARI PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, IRAN
1605 HRS. ZULU
Ayatollah Seyed Ali Hoseyni Jahandar looks up from his tea at the spy sitting across from him. He looks competent enough. Jahandar places the man in his early forties—old enough to have seen something of how the world works, but young enough to play the game of espionage. He wears a neat Savile Row suit and was polite enough to remove his Ray-Ban sunglasses upon entering the presidential palace. All in all, there is nothing remarkable or, for that matter, memorable about the man. Jahandar supposes that’s entirely the point: Members of Iran’s secret police and primary intelligence agency, the Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye Iran, or VEVAK, should come and go as ghosts.
Jahandar makes it a point to keep his interactions with the VEVAK—or Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran, as it’s also known—to a cautious minimum. But it’s been over three months since the agency uncovered the six American spies within his country’s borders and it’s time for a report. The VEVAK agent hasn’t brought any files or notes. But this is not surprising. Secrets are best not committed to paper.
The operative sips his tea and observes, “Good tea.” He takes another sip.
Jahandar nods, acknowledging the compliment, and prompts, “The six Americans.”
The operative sets his tea down. His emotionless affect doesn’t shift. He speaks with quiet deliberation. “They each worked for an American company, Vogle Electric. Its headquarters are in Lansing, Michigan. It is a wholly unremarkable corporation.”
“Any corporation that constructs nuclear power plants should not be described as wholly unremarkable,” Jahandar says. The operative nods. “What were they doing in Iran?”
“Officially, providing consultation services with respect to the operation of our nuclear power plant in Bushehr.”
“The Americans’ capacity for hypocrisy never fails to astonish me. Their Congress rails against our nuclear ambitions yet permits their citizens to aid us in them.”
“They do value capitalism above all things.”
“So, were the consultants in Bushehr there merely to earn money?”
“No, Supreme Leader. They were spies.”
“You sound quite certain of that.”
“I am.”
“Might I ask why?”
The operative leans forward, picks up his tea, and takes another sip. It’s a small gesture, but it’s the first outward sign of discomfort Jahandar has detected in the otherwise collected man. “Once we developed our suspicion that they might not be all they appeared, they were taken into custody and questioned.”
“Questioned?” the supreme leader asks, sensing something more to the story.
“Subjected to enhanced interrogation techniques,” the operative allows, retreating into the in-vogue euphemism for torture. “Despite what many Americans contend, the intelligence gained through such measures is extremely reliable.”
“They confessed to spying on Iran?”
“They admitted that they didn’t work exclusively for Vogle Electric,” the operative confirms.
“The CIA?”
At this, the operative shakes his head. “These Americans were well trained. Although they were quick to surrender information about their activities within our borders, they were particularly obstinate with regard to their real employer’s identity. After two weeks of interrogation, however, the last one gave us the name of the agency they worked for.”
“The last one?” Jahandar asks, confused.
“Before dying, Supreme Leader.”
Jahandar offers a sage nod. He’s troubled by the taking of any life—much less six—but acknowledges the necessity for the sake of his country’s security. In truth, he cannot muster more than feigned sympathy for the death of Iran’s enemies. “I see,” he says, “but I do not understand. These six did not work for the Central Intelligence Agency, and yet you say they were spies…” Jahandar spreads his hands to indicate his confusion.
“Don’t be misled, Supreme Leader,” the operative cautions, “the United States maintains twenty-two separate agencies with intelligence-gathering duties and capabilities.” He pauses for a moment to let the truth of that sink in. “Of greater concern is the fact that this spy claimed to work for an organization previously unknown to us.”
Jahandar raises his eyebrows in surprise. As if Iran doesn’t have enough to contend with. The CIA, the Israeli Mossad, and a host of other foreign intelligence services operate against his country, and the thought of yet another agency is almost as troubling as the fact that the VEVAK didn’t know about it until a few months ago. “An American organization?” he asks.
The operative nods. “The man said it is called the Overwatch.”
Jahandar takes that in, considering the word. “What is an overwatch?”
“It’s a military term, an article of U.S. military doctrine. An overwatch is a small unit that supports another unit, often taking a position that permits observation of the terrain ahead.”
Spies working for the American military are of even greater concern than those working for the intelligence community. “And what is the connection between this agency’s designation and its mission?”
“We’re still gathering intelligence,” the operative demurs. “We are compiling a full analysis of this new intelligence agency and its suspected capabilities.”
“I want to go to Darkhovin,” Jahandar announces. He sees the color drain from the operative’s face. He’d anticipated the man’s concern. Both men know that Jahandar isn’t requesting merely to visit the Khuzistan Province.
“There are numerous security concerns that must be considered before undertaking such a visit,” the operative observes.
“I understand. I trust the VEVAK implicitly. With both,” he adds, “my safety and the security
of our country’s secrets.” His tone remains polite, his voice level, but his face and eyes make it clear that this is not a topic he will debate.
“With respect, sir, may I ask: Why do you want to visit Darkhovin?”
“I want to see the future of our nation.” But this is only partially true. He is suspicious about the six American spies and their specific objectives in Iran. But those suspicions are unfocused. He has an instinct, however, that they will be sharpened once he sees Darkhovin with his own eyes.
* * *
OFFICES OF ELTON, CARCETTI, AND MORENO
11:48 A.M. EDT
Alex sits in an impressively large conference room overlooking Washington, DC. It’s the kind of room he grew up in, bearing a strong resemblance to the White House and private-practice conference rooms that are his father’s domain and sanctuary. The plush leather seats, the long table of walnut polished to a mirror-quality shine, and the credenza stocked with pitchers of water and coffee feel as familiar to Alex as his family’s living room.
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