Also in the drawer was a scrapbook containing newspaper clippings and brochures about the Washington art community: gallery openings, shows, reviews, fundraisers. Judith sat on several committees, one of the articles reported. Fayyad quickly scanned the rest, including one that included a short biography of her interests and tastes.
Next to the scrapbook was a day planner. She was meticulous. Every lunch date, appointment and social event was noted. He examined every page for the past three months, as well as the upcoming three, taking careful notes as he went.
He returned the scrapbook to the drawer, scanned the bedroom for anything out of place, then smoothed the bedspread and pulled the bathroom door closed to its original position. He was turning to leave, but he stopped.
He walked to the senator’s side of the bed and opened his nightstand drawer. Inside were a pair of bifocals, a pulp detective novel, and a bottle of nasal spray. Near the back he found a neatly folded handkerchief. Fayyad opened it.
What he found surprised him. He slipped the item in his jacket pocket and then headed downstairs.
Langley
Judith was excited. She’d never been to CIA headquarters and, like most civilians, she expected an aura of intrigue to be wafting through its corridors. She was slightly disappointed to find the glass-enclosed lobby fairly ordinary except for the memorial wall and an imposing bronze statue of Wild Bill Donovan.
According to Herb, this dinner was given every year by the CIA for select members of the intelligence community and Senate IOC. As chairman, Smith was the guest of honor. Having listened to enough of her husband’s anti-CIA diatribes, however, Judith suspected Dick Mason would rather punch Herb than socialize with him.
With practiced ease, Judith followed the senator through the crowd, exchanging greetings and smiling. She knew most of the faces, and she disliked half of them. Even so, she laughed and mingled, the perfect actress. Sometimes she hated that part of herself, wondering if her own act made her as two-faced as the rest.
“Judith!”
She turned. “Bonnie! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.” Bonnie Latham was one of her few genuine friends. They had met a year ago at a gallery opening. “Is Charlie here?”
“Yes, somewhere … There he is.” Bonnie pointed across the room to where Herb Smith and the FBI agent were talking. “He hates these things.”
“I don’t blame him. Herb’s probably grilling him about the Delta bombing.”
“He’s going to have to get in line.”
“That bad?” Judith asked, accepting a glass of wine from a waiter.
“You didn’t read the story in the Post? Congressman Hostetler’s daughter was on the plane.”
“Oh, my God. Is she okay?”
“From what I understand, she’ll recover. So, how are you?”
“Wonderful. How’re your kids—”
“You don’t sound wonderful.”
Judith shrugged. “Just the usual. Nothing to worry—”
Bonnie placed her hand on Judith’s forearm. “Do you want to talk?”
“No, I’m fine, really.”
“That’s what you always say. We’re having lunch this week, no arguments.”
“Okay,” Judith agreed gratefully. “Thank you, Bon.”
“Sure. Now let’s go find a quiet corner.”
Across the room, Dick Mason, George Coates, and their wives stood at the head of the receiving line. “Judith Smith looks lovely,” said Mason’s wife.
“Too lovely,” Coates’s wife replied good-naturedly.
“I concur,” Coates added and got a poke in the ribs.
“Hard to believe he won her,” said Mrs. Mason.
“Harder still to believe he kept her,” Mrs. Coates muttered.
Herb Smith’s unsavory lifestyle was one of the best kept non-secrets in Washington. If not for his power, Smith would long ago have been railroaded out of town. Mason would have gladly shoveled coal into the firebox. Ironically, the widespread animus for Smith was countered by a widespread fondness for his wife. Depending on who you asked, Judith’s devotion marked her as either a saint or an idiot.
“Ladies, no gossiping,” said Mason.
“Richard, this is not gossiping,” replied his wife. “We like Judith.”
An aide approached. “Mr. Coates, the item you were expecting has arrived.”
“Thank you.”
“Kolokov’s mystery package?” asked Mason.
“Yep.”
“Let’s go take a look. Ladies, if you’ll excuse us—”
“Dick, you promised no shop talk.”
“Ten minutes, no more.”
In the elevator, Mason asked Coates, “Any word on DORSAL?”
“Last report I got, Dutch’s people were—”
“People? I thought it was just Tanner.”
“Dutch sent him some help. Cahil, Ian Cahil,” Coates said, then noticed Mason’s smile. “You know him?”
“You remember the Tromaka Islands thing last year?”
“Yeah…. That was them?” Coates asked, astonished. He’d read the postmortem on SAILMAKER. If not for Tanner and Cahil, the defection of Yurgani Pakov would have never come off, 300 sailors would be dead, and a billion-dollar destroyer would be lying at the bottom of the ocean. “No kidding.”
“No kidding,” said Mason. “You were saying …”
“Depending on what they find in the locker, they’ll service the drops and see if they get any response. If not, they’ll have to go hunting for this engineer of Ohira’s,” Coates said. “By the way, how was it with the boss yesterday?”
The day before, Mason, General Cathermeier, and National Security Adviser Talbot had briefed the president on the Mideast situation.
In Syria, the army exercise now involved five divisions of armor, two of mechanized and standard infantry, and two squadrons of strike aircraft. Assad’s government was still mute, having ignored requests for additional information. In Israel, where outspoken members of the Knesset were accusing Syria of trying to upset the peace process, Israeli defense forces along the Golan Heights and in the Northern Military District were on heightened alert, and the IAF was increasing its overflights of the border.
As expected, the wild card was Saddam Hussein. Elements from four Iraqi Army divisions were moving toward the Iranian border. This move would have three effects. One, Saddam, ever paranoid of his arch-rival Syria, would likely redistribute army units toward the Syrian border; two, since some Republican Guard and Baghdad units—Saddam’s personal guard—would likely be involved in such a move, the nagging question of whether the Iraqi president was fully in control of the army would finally be settled; and three, U.S. Central Command and regional U.S. forces would have to respond lest they be forced to play catch-up.
The president’s decision, based largely on the advice of Talbot, the secretary of state, and the prime ministers of Britain and Israel, was weak, in Mason’s opinion.
The Independence battle group would be positioned off the coast of Northern Israel, while the Enterprise group, including a Marine Expeditionary Force, or MAU, would be routed to the Persian Gulf to bolster CENTCOM forces.
From the start, both Mason and General Cathermeier advised the president to clarify their objectives before dispatching the groups. In failing to do so, they were ignoring what had kept the U.S. out of a quagmire in the Gulf War, namely the Powell Doctrine. Named after then Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Colin Powell who, like many of his contemporaries, had watched the U.S. military flail about in Vietnam, the doctrine demanded three conditions before military force was applied: the objectives must be clearly defined, the force must be overwhelming and decisive, and the achievement of the objectives must be virtually guaranteed.
The secretary of state argued that such “machinations” sounded too much like a call to war and that while Iraq certainly had a history of aggression, it was flanked by two neighbors who had shown equal if not greater aggress
ion in the past. Saddam’s response was clearly defensive in nature, he said.
The president agreed—but conditionally. “Tine. Just as long as we make it clear that any offensive action on Iraq’s part will result in immediate retribution. Nor will they be allowed to maintain their new positions once the Syrian and Iranian exercises are finished. Clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the sec state.
We’re giving the bastard the proverbial inch, Mason thought. To the Arab mind, such a toothless response was tantamount to victory. As far as Mason was concerned, the only appropriate response was the same kind George Bush had given in August of 1990: Get back where you belong, or we’ll put you there.
But that wasn’t going to happen. In response to Coates’s question, Mason simply said, “We’re moving a pair of battle groups into the area. The president’s making the announcement tomorrow.”
The elevator doors parted, and they entered Coates’s office. Lying on his desk was a Manila folder. Attached to it was a receipt—“Cleared, CIA Office of Security”—and the initials of Security Directorate Deputy Marie Calavos.
Coates opened it and withdrew an eight-by-ten photo and a note:
My dearest George,
This was taken in Khartoum. Though the source of this photo is losing favor with us, we feel it is genuine. This man (the European) is wanted by us as well, but I believe you would find more use for him. Good hunting.
“If they know him,” Mason said, “why not mention him by name?”
Coates grinned, shook his head. “Pyotor’s sense of humor.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“No, but I know somebody who might. He’s got to be Russian, and the other two are obviously Arab…” Coates picked up the phone. “Art, come on up for a minute, will you?”
“Wonder what that means: ‘quickly losing favor with us’?” Mason said.
“Some of the third-party stuff we’ve been getting from the FIS looks like this. Like the photographer is being selective with his shots. See right there…. It’s daylight with no shadows to speak of. At that angle, he could’ve gotten a clear shot of all their faces.”
“But he only gets the one. The other two are just fuzzy enough to make a solid ID impossible.”
“Right. The theory is, this photo and the others like it come from a stringer who’s double-dealing with several agencies.”
Mason smiled grimly. “Same house, different paint.”
“Exactly,” Coates added.
Art Stucky knocked on the door, and Coates waved him in. “Art, what do you make of this?”
Stucky studied the photo. “Holy cow!”
“Somebody you know?” asked Mason.
“You could say that. Yuri Vorsalov.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. We knew he had a falling-out with the Russians, but he went to ground about two years ago. Is this recent?”
Coates nodded. “We think so.” To Mason, he said, “Last we heard he was doing some consulting in the Mideast.”
“Can we get him?” said Stucky.
“We don’t know, Art. Thanks for coming up.”
“Okay, boss.” Stucky turned at the door. “You know, the FBI has the real expert on this guy. Charlie Latham was on him years ago.”
“Thanks, Art.”
“What’s this about Latham?” Mason asked when Stucky was gone.
Coates told him the story. “He took the kid’s death pretty hard.”
“You think we should give him a look at this?”
“Definitely. Nobody knows Vorsalov better than Latham.”
“Okay. He’s downstairs; talk to him. If we can get Vorsalov, I want him. If we’re right about his Mideast connections, he’s a potential gold mine.” Mason tapped the photo. “Also, see what we can find on these other two. They were meeting for a reason. I want to know why.”
Downstairs, Bonnie Latham held Judith’s hand as she talked. Judith was near tears, and Bonnie knew why; the woman had put up with Herb Smith for twenty-five years, and his abuse tonight had been just more of the same. Usually, Judith suffered such episodes gamely and made light of them, but tonight she seemed almost … resolute. Bonnie wondered if her friend had reached a turning point.
“What does your therapist say?” Bonnie asked.
“The same thing you do,” Judith replied. “That I deserve better.”
“She’s right.”
“I just wish I could believe that.”
“Judith, when you come in a room, heads turn. For Christ’s sake, even Dick Mason, battle-hardened cold warrior that he is, fawns over you.”
“Oh, Bonnie, please—”
“Judith, you’re bright and sexy, and you’re one of the most intelligent women I know. That’s why you make me so damned mad!”
“What?”
“You’re ignoring the obvious. I tell you—and everybody who’s a real friend tells you—how wonderful you are. Listen, I want you to start thinking about something, okay?”
“What?”
“Just start to think that maybe, just maybe, we’re right and you’re wrong.”
Judith smiled. “Marsha said that, too.”
“Good! You don’t have to convince yourself overnight, you know. Just think that maybe Herb is the one who’s screwed up. That doesn’t sound so farfetched does it?”
“Not when you put it like that.”
“Good. Now, let’s go get another drink.”
Fayyad’s team consisted of hour other Arabs, only one of which he knew. Ibn, a former As-Sa’iqa freedom fighter, and he had fought together in the PFLP-GC during the ’82 invasion of Lebanon. Ibn and the other three had rented a house in rural Greenbelt, while Fayyad had chosen a condo in the Glen Echo area.
Ibn assured him the others were reliable. They were sleepers, he said, three of hundreds of men and women stationed throughout the world—usually as full-fledged citizens—to lend help on such missions. As citizens, it was easier for them to find housing and vehicles. Two of the men even had wives and children.
From the beginning, Fayyad suspected the operation was being backed by the Syrians, but that was a question best left unasked. If these men were in fact sleepers, they were the first Fayyad had heard of in America. Al-Baz’s group had committed substantial resources to the mission. Why? Fayyad wondered. What could be so crucial?
The operation was proceeding well. While he and Hasim were in the Smith home, Ibn and his team followed them to CIA Headquarters in Langley. It was a social function, Ibn reported, with hundreds of guests. After three hours, the senator and his wife left separately, she home in a taxi, and he in the limousine to an apartment in Georgetown, where they found he was keeping a mistress, an early-twenties blond named Suzie Donovan.
Fayyad was unsurprised at the senator’s indiscretion. Simply keeping a mistress wasn’t enough for Smith’s ego; he had to flaunt it; he had to show he could do it with impunity. How humiliating that must be to Judith. But then again, Fayyad thought, that, too, could be useful.
Fayyad returned to Judith’s diary. He was beginning to understand her. She fit the profile perfectly. His approach would be textbook. Like all women, she was emotionally complex, but her basic needs would be simple, whetted by twenty-five years of the senator’s neglect and abuse.
For me, Fayyad thought, she will open like a flower.
14
Washington, D.C.
Despite a throbbing headache, Charlie Latham was in his office by seven. It was only after three glasses of wine at the CIA reception the night before that he remembered he had no tolerance for the stuff. Bonnie had smiled indulgently, called him a dummy, then got him some aspirin.
Yuri Vorsalov. My God. Even if the photo was recent and even if Vorsalov was still in Khartoum, it didn’t matter. Sudan and the U.S. weren’t exactly on good terms, so capture was out of the question, as was extradition.
His phone rang, sett
ing off waves of pain in his temples. “Charlie Latham.”
“Charlie, Avi Haron here. You don’t sound so well.”
“I’m fine, Avi. How about yourself?”
“Avi is wonderful. Listen, our friend Fayyad is traveling. If he returns to one of his hideaways … Who knows?”
“Don’t take too long. I’ve got a U.S. congressman breathing down my neck.”
Congressman Hostetler was a prominent figure on the AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) as well as a powerhouse on the Appropriations Committee, which influenced how and where U.S. dollars were spent, including foreign-assistance subsidies. Hosteder was strongly opposed to further support for Israel since Rabin’s assassination, stating that the current leadership wasn’t dedicated to the peace process.
Haron was silent for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
“Hostetler’s daughter was on that plane, Avi.”
“Oh my.”
“What I’m saying is, Hostetler’s got his teeth into this case. Eventually, he’ll hear about our conversation. He’s already growling, Avi. Just think what he’ll do if he thinks you’re withholding.”
“I see. Will you be in your office?”
“I can be.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
The call came fifty minutes later.
“We have a photo, Charlie. It appears your man was in Northern Africa last week with two others. We don’t know why nor do we have their identities.”
“Where exactly?”
“Khartoum.”
“Describe the photo.” Haron did so, and Latham asked, “One Arab, one European?”
“Yes, that’s right. What—”
“Where is Fayyad now?”
“We are not sure. He left the same day but by a different route, via Cyprus. If he follows routine, he may return to this area, but it will be to one of our tougher neighborhoods.”
Lebanon, Latham thought. “Can you confirm that?”
“Perhaps. I’ve passed this information along, of course, and I expect it will draw some interest,” said Haron.
Latham knew the Israeli’s method of obtaining confirmation would probably come from a cross-border raid by one the IDF special forces groups. Such a mission could only be authorized by the chief of staff.
End of Enemies Page 14
