“A White House story? Why?”
“POTUS and FLOTUS are going, you know.” The president and the first lady. “Nora managed to get in the press pool on the plane up with him. So she’ll write the story with a Boston dateline. The Silver Fox was ranting about it, but I guess there was only so much he could say, since he’s the one who let you go to England in the first place.”
I nodded. “Hyde thinks I’m on a wild-goose chase over here.”
“Actually, I gather his language was somewhat more colorful than that.”
“Ouch. Did he say I should be chasing the goddamn bastard goose?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Forget it. But I do actually need your help.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“This wild-goose chase I’m on has to do with a guy named Nadeem Siddiqui. He was at a party Thom threw the night before he died. And then he may have broken into Thom’s room last weekend. And now he’s gone missing.”
“Gone missing how?”
“Well, I don’t know if he’s missing exactly, but he was supposed to have gone back to work in Pakistan and he hasn’t. He’s not replying to e-mail”—I’d finally gotten Syed Qureshi, the exchange coordinator, to give me the address—“and nobody seems to know where to find him.”
“Well, maybe he’s on vacation.”
“Maybe. There’s this other weird stuff, though, about a package that’s getting delivered to the States. The point is, I really need to talk to him, and I’m wondering if there’s a way to find out if he’s left the UK. What’s the Homeland Security–type agency for the UK, do you know? If we could find the right person, could they give us a steer, just as to when and where his passport last scanned?”
“I would say that’s a veeery long shot. I have no idea where even to start calling in the UK. And there would be privacy issues involved. They’re not going to just check up on a private citizen and leak his travel plans to a reporter, Alex.”
I took a deep breath. “Well . . . okay, fine then. What about trying to track him down through his employer. He’s a nuclear physicist. He works at someplace called . . . hang on . . .” I flipped through my notebook. “Here we go. Kohuto.”
“Kahuta? In Pakistan?”
“Yes. I think that’s right.”
“That’s the big nuclear facility. The headquarters.”
“I did say he was a nuclear physicist.”
“Right, but, I mean, it’s famous, Alex. A. Q. Khan and all that.”
“Oh.”
“Only the biggest nuclear-proliferation scandal in history. How can you not have heard of it? Have you actually read my byline in the last several years?”
“Darling, you know I live for your byline,” I said sweetly. “So, do you have any sources there? Anyone who could help me track down our friend Nadeem Siddiqui?”
“Sources at Kahuta,” snorted Elias. “Obviously, sure. They’re coming out of my ears. Those guys just won’t stop hassling me. Jeez. Hang on.” Elias was huffing and puffing now. The treadmill machine let out a series of beeps as he slowed it down to a walk.
“Seriously, Alex, they don’t exactly let you just fly to Pakistan, wander around the nuclear labs, and chitchat with folks. But let me think . . . . I tell you what. There’s a guy here in Washington who used to be a military attaché to Pakistan. He works Pak nuke issues now for INR—the intel guys at the State Department. And then there’s a very good source of mine out at Langley. Proliferation, Pakistan, some Iran stuff too, I think. He’s pretty high up. I can run your guy’s name past them, see if it raises any flags. But, Alex, these are good sources. I don’t want to embarrass myself. Do you really need this?”
“I really need this.”
“Anything else I can use? To drag these conversations out to sixty seconds before they hang up on me?”
I told him the address where Nadeem had been renting, upstairs at Mrs. Forsyth’s. “She says he’s really into weight lifting. And what else . . . oh, he ordered bananas there. From Pakistan. Like, thousands of them.”
“Bananas, huh?” Elias burst out laughing. “Yeah, that’ll get ’em talking. I’ve noticed that about spooks. Give them a Chiquita angle and they just can’t stop blabbing.”
I glared at my phone. “If you’re quite finished with the sarcasm, I’ll let you go now.”
“Oh, man.” He was wheezing now, whether from laughter or the treadmill, I couldn’t tell. “I needed that. I was just reading something interesting about bananas, actually. Can’t think what it was. Or where.” He giggled again. “Probably some article my mom forwarded, telling me to eat more fruit. Anyway. I’ll keep you posted on what I hear back. Talk soon, okay?”
“Okay. Bye, Shorty.”
“Bye, Ginger.”
25
Two hours later, at the US embassy in London, the phone rang. Jake Pearson answered on the second ring.
He was glad for the interruption. It had been an unusually slow day so far, and the prospect of spending the afternoon sorting through the paperwork piled up on his desk did not excite him. He had already fit in a long session at the embassy gym, three sets of pull-ups, squats, and free weights followed by half an hour on the StairMaster. He took pride in maintaining the physique of his college-football days. He was now approaching middle age, and long days sitting at a desk had added a bit more . . . substance to his frame, but he liked to think it made him look imposing.
Pearson worked in the embassy’s commercial-affairs office. He was senior manager, charged with promoting exports of American goods and services into the UK market. At least, that is what it said on his business cards. In reality, Pearson knew little about trade issues. When he reported to work at the great hulking building on Grosvenor Square each morning, he took the elevator straight down, to the windowless, underground floors that housed the CIA’s London station.
He had worked here for three years. It wasn’t entirely clear what his job was—the responsibilities kept evolving—but essentially he was a logistics guy. He organized planes and passports for colleagues heading off to more exotic destinations. He knew where the safe houses were, and how to move money in ways that no foreign spy service—or US congressional committee—would ever see. He knew how to get things done. And he had one other key attribute, which was that he had no scruples. He did as he was asked, efficiently and quietly, because that was his job. He left the legal and ethical dilemmas to his bosses. Jake Pearson was that rarest of creatures at the CIA: a man who slept well at night.
Now, as he listened down the secure phone line to this latest request, he did allow himself briefly to wonder, Why me? It seemed a task better directed at one of his cloak-and-dagger colleagues. Pearson might serve on the operations side of the CIA, but he was a facilitator, not a spy. He used his real name at work. It was on the buzzer at his apartment building. But for this one assignment, the caller was suggesting he use a false identity. Anything would do. He would only need to use it for a few hours, and the cover did not need to stand up to scrutiny.
Pearson shrugged. It was really not in his nature to ask questions. The request was clear enough. He finished listening, nodded, and hung up the phone. He was about to have quite a different afternoon than he had planned.
26
That afternoon found me wedged into a blue plastic chair at the Cambridge train station.
I was waiting for the 2:35 p.m. express back down to London. Even I couldn’t think of any good reason to stay on in Cambridge. Or England at all, for that matter, not when I seemed to be spending all my time on the phone either to Pakistan or to the United States. I’d made up my mind to catch the first flight back to Boston in the morning. I could keep working the phones from there. And it would be better to face the wrath of Hyde in person.
Meanwhile, I was hatching a plan to do a bit of shopping in London this afternoon. There’s a little shoe shop on Marylebone High Street that I make a point of visiting every time I’m in London. It’s just opposite my favorite
place for afternoon tea, Patisserie Valerie. My mood was already improving at the prospect of a new pair of heels and a pot of Darjeeling.
I was pondering whether to try to squeeze in a stroll through Regent’s Park after tea when my phone rang. I shifted my notebook and my copy of the Guardian onto the chair next to me and pressed the button to answer.
“Miss James?” came the voice.
“Yes, speaking.”
“Oh, that’s great. Excellent. Glad I caught you.” It was a man. Friendly sounding, American. A touch of a southern accent, perhaps. “I’m calling from the US embassy in London. I understand you’re looking for some information, and I thought I’d get in touch and see if we might be able to help.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“This is Crispin Withington.” He sounded rather pleased with himself.
“Crispin . . . Withington?”
“Yes, ma’am. I wonder if you might have a moment to meet me.”
“And . . . where exactly did you say you’re calling from?”
“I’m with the embassy,” he repeated. “It’s come to my attention that you have a few questions you’d like answered, and I’d love to talk them over with you.”
I sat still for a moment, puzzling this over. Then it came to me.
“Elias, for Christ’s sake, if this is supposed to be funny . . .”
“Miss James, I assure you, no one’s playing with you here. Your colleague conveyed your questions, and since I’m local, they were conveyed to me. Shall we meet in, say, half an hour?”
I fell silent again. Was it remotely possible that this guy was for real? That Elias’s feeble inquiries on my behalf had already been relayed to the American embassy here in England? And that someone there thought they were enough of a priority to set up a same-day meeting? I didn’t have much experience working sources inside the federal government bureaucracy, but this seemed implausibly efficient. Maybe Elias had more clout than I realized.
“I’m not quite sure what to make of this, Mr. . . . Withington,” I managed finally. “But, yes, I’m trying to find out whether Nadeem Siddiqui—”
“Hold on, hold on. It really would be so much better to do this in person. How about we meet at Claridge’s Hotel, the main lobby on Brook Street?”
“Or—why not at the embassy?”
“Oh, no need to make this complicated. Kind of a hassle to get you cleared in through security and all that. Claridge’s is pretty close by. Shall we say in twenty minutes?”
“No. I could—I could make it by four o’clock or so.”
“Actually, now would be good, Miss James,” he said, sounding a bit less friendly than before.
Then again, so was I. First Petronella, and now this guy. What was it with the last-minute summons to mysterious meetings in London? Also—and I realize this is pathetic—but I was irritated at the prospect of my shoe-shopping splurge slipping away.
“I’m not in London at the moment, just so you know, so that’s impossible,” I said coldly. “I can be there by four. As I said. And, yes, I know where Claridge’s is. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”
“I’ll be waiting,” he said, and hung up.
AND SO HE WAS. HE’D obviously done his homework, too, because he recognized me the instant I walked through the door.
“Alexandra,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Great to meet you.”
I was caught off guard. I’m not sure what I’d expected Crispin Withington to look like, but this wasn’t it. I suppose I’d imagined someone who worked at the embassy would look more . . . diplomatic. Sophisticated, slender, fluent in five languages, that sort of thing. Instead he was built like a bouncer. Beefy. He looked utterly, unmistakably American. Withington was wearing a yellow polo shirt that strained around his biceps. It was tucked tight into a pair of neatly pressed, front-pleated, slightly too short khakis. His hair was short and sandy and his teeth were perfect. Crispin Withington would have fit right in at a meeting of the Wichita Kiwanis Club. In the lobby of a posh hotel in Mayfair, he stood out.
“How do you do, Mr. Withington.” I shook his hand.
“Great.” He flashed the perfect teeth. “How about we go for a walk? It’s a nice day. By London standards, anyway. It’ll give us a chance to stretch our legs while we talk.”
He had his hand on my back and was steering me back toward the front door when I had the sense to object. I had no idea who this man really was. No way was I leaving a well-lit, public space.
“You know, I’d rather not. I’ve got my bag and everything.” I nodded at my suitcase. “And it’s easier if we sit down so I can take notes.”
“Well. Let’s just start by talking, why don’t we?”
“Let’s just start by ordering tea.” Before he could answer, I grabbed my suitcase and headed straight back into the hotel. He had no choice but to follow me.
The room where they serve tea at Claridge’s is legendary. I’d been there before, years ago, with one of my Scottish aunties. If it is possible for a place to be ostentatiously tasteful, Claridge’s succeeds. Everything gleams in ivory and cream. The silver sparkles. The waiters manage to convey both fawning politeness and the absolute certainty that they are superior to you. I suspected it was usually impossible to get a table, but by this hour of the afternoon, the ladies-who-lunch crowd had moved on, and only a few Chinese tourists dotted the tables.
A waiter swept over. If I couldn’t have my shoe splurge, I would at least get proper afternoon tea. I waved away the menu. “A pot of Darjeeling, sandwiches, scones, and clotted cream.” I glanced at Withington. He looked lost. “For two,” I added, and smiled at the waiter. He bowed decorously and backed away. Then I took out my notebook, opened it to a clean page, wrote Crispin Withington and the date across the top, and looked up. “Did I spell that correctly?” I pointed at his name.
He stared at the words as if he needed to consider the question.
“And can you give me your full title? You’re from the press office? I don’t know quite how it works here in London.”
He leaned over, took the pen from my hand, and quietly tore the piece of paper with his name out of my notebook. “Let’s just talk. Off the record.”
I shook my head. “No. Let’s at least start on background, meaning I can quote you, just not by name. We can figure out whether I identify you as a ‘US official,’ or something more specific. Otherwise this meeting isn’t really much use to me.”
“I’m afraid you’re not grasping the point of this meeting.” His tone had changed. He moved his arm close to mine on the table, not quite touching it, but the message was clear: I was not free to go.
“We are off the record, Miss James. I’ll give you any guidance I can. But let’s do this by my rules. Now, I understand you’re interested in a certain gentleman from Pakistan, and what his current whereabouts might be. Have I got that right?”
I didn’t have much choice. “Yes. That’s right.”
“And who exactly is this gentleman, and how do you know him?”
I wasn’t sure where to begin, or how much to tell this man, whoever he was. It seemed a good bet his real name wasn’t Crispin Withington. Elias had failed to answer his phone or respond yet to my e-mails asking if he knew Withington and why he’d invited me to tea. So I started with a basic summary: that in the course of my reporting the name Nadeem Siddiqui had popped up, that Siddiqui might have useful information for a story I was working on, but that he had disappeared and I needed to find him.
“And what do you know about Siddiqui? What do you want to ask him?”
Again I weighed how much to say. Then again, what did I have to lose? And journalism is like any business. There’s a give-and-take; to get information sometimes you have to give some.
“Well, he is a scientist. Pakistani, as you know. He seems to have been one of the last people to see Thomas Carlyle. The White House counsel’s son? Who died at H
arvard last week?”
“Yeah, I remember. You’ve been writing about him. I read your stories before I walked over. But what’s the connection to Siddiqui?” Withington looked genuinely bewildered.
“I don’t know. That’s the point. Just . . . Siddiqui was in Thom Carlyle’s room. Twice. The night before he died, and then again just this past weekend. I don’t know why. He also seems to have some . . . strange habits. And some loose ends back in Pakistan.”
That seemed to get Withington’s attention. “Such as?”
“No, my turn now. You haven’t told me what you know. Or why any of this is of interest to the US embassy.”
“Just trying to help. It’s one of the embassy’s missions to do press outreach to US reporters abroad.”
I sighed. “With respect, give me a break. I’ve dealt with my share of press officers. And I would bet money that’s not what you are. For starters, you haven’t tried to present me with a souvenir memo pad or a coffee mug with the embassy seal on it yet.”
This got a small smile. “I was saving them for the way out.”
“Seriously. If you’re not going to let me quote you, or tell me anything, why are you here?”
Withington stared into the far corner of the tearoom. He picked up a watercress sandwich, chewed it slowly, swallowed, then spoke quietly. “Nadeem Siddiqui is a person of interest. That’s all I can tell you.”
“But why is he of interest?”
“Oh, lots of people are of interest. For all kinds of reasons. You wouldn’t believe the number of people the US government takes an interest in. See, that’s your tax dollars at work.”
“Come on. If you’re here meeting with me, you must have some idea what makes Nadeem Siddiqui so bloody fascinating.”
“You come on. You seem smart enough. I wouldn’t think it would take a wild leap of imagination for a reporter to figure out that since 9/11, nuclear scientists from Siddiqui’s part of the world might be of passing interest.”
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