“Yeah, I guess that’s a little odd. Tailgate party of one.”
“She also said he watches the first half of the game on a portable television set, and then he packs everything up and goes into the stadium for the second half. Her description of his age and personality matches what the profiler says about the Stadium Killer, so we think it’s a good lead.”
“What kind of data do you have on him?”
“Driver’s license, criminal history, physical characteristics, the usual sort of thing.”
“You don’t have travel history, bank records, or cell phone data?”
She laughed.
It was a beautiful laugh.
“Who do you think we are, the CIA?”
“Speaking of odd ducks . . .”
* * * *
After I got back to the table, I found Mitchell sitting all alone finishing up an apple dumpling. When I asked him about the others, he said Delaney had gone off to the ladies’ room, and Taylor was over at the buffet table filling up his plate again.
Mitchell asked, “What did Douglas have to say?”
When I told him I’d prefer to wait until everyone was present before updating him about the phone call, he seemed okay with that.
Maybe that was because he had other things on his mind.
“Did you know Delaney’s from Nebraska? She grew up on a farm outside of Lincoln.”
“No, we haven’t had a chance to talk.”
“She told me she lived on the family farm the whole time she was attending the University of Nebraska.”
“That’s quite a contrast with the way you grew up; not to mention you lived in your own townhouse while you were attending Harvard.”
“How did you know I went to Harvard?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure you mentioned it at some point.”
“No, I don’t think I did. People have certain misconceptions about Ivy League schools, so I don’t usually bring it up.”
“What kind of misconceptions?”
He ignored my question. “I bet you bribed someone at the Agency to get a peek at my Personal Data Sheet. On second thought, it was probably the Senator. Did he tell you I went to Harvard?”
I smiled but didn’t say anything.
He looked annoyed. “I don’t think Delaney knows I’m related to the Senator, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. When people realize he’s my father, they treat me differently.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“Would you mind not saying anything to her?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“What sounds good to you?” Delaney asked, as she slipped into the chair next to Mitchell.
“Ben was just telling me I should try the apple dumpling. I think I’ll go grab one, and then I’ll update everyone on Douglas’ phone call.”
The dining room had gotten crowded by the time Taylor and I had finished eating, so I suggested the four of us move over to an area of the lounge designated Die Ruhige Zone, The Quiet Zone.
Die Ruhige Zone was a small alcove away from the main hub of the lounge. It was furnished with plush chairs for reading, leather recliners for napping, and subdued lighting. There were no television sets in Die Ruhige Zone, which may have been the reason it was completely empty.
I noticed Taylor was looking down at his cell phone as we were walking over to the alcove, and the moment we sat down, he said, “I just received the daily news bulletin from the DIA. Evidently, Hasan Amari, the Saudi Deputy Defense Minister, was murdered last night.”
“That’s the reason Douglas called me,” I said. “He told me our analysts believe Amari’s murder is connected to the political upheaval in the Saudi Defense Department.”
“What kind of upheaval?’ Mitchell asked.
“Some of the ministers aren’t that sold on the idea of the Saudi’s continuing presence in Yemen or the modernization of their military, and they’ve become more vocal about it in the last few months.”
“Being vocal is one thing,” Delaney said. “Murdering someone is taking it to a different level.”
I said, “I don’t know how much you were briefed on Jacob’s disappearance, but Amari was the leader of the Saudi delegation who went to Iraq five years ago and convinced Jacob to develop the MODD system for them. He’s also been overseeing Jacob’s work in Somahi, so it’s possible his murder may be connected to the drone detection device as well as to Jacob.”
“You mean the opposition group believes they can shut down the MODD program by killing Amari?” Delaney asked.
“That’s a possibility, but it could be more wide-ranging than that. We’ll know more tomorrow. The Israelis have eyes and ears everywhere in Riyadh, and the DDO is consulting them about Amari’s murder.”
“What effect will his murder have on the operation?” Delaney asked.
“That’s hard to say right now.”
Mitchell said, “If they killed Amari to stop the MODD system from being completed, wouldn’t it be logical to assume Jacob’s life is in danger as well?”
“Things aren’t always logical in the Middle East, Ben.”
“Maybe not, but my gut says Jacob could be on their hit list.”
My gut was telling me the same thing.
Chapter 29
Friday, December 4
Global News Service had reserved a three-bedroom suite for us at the Rosh Rayhaan Hotel on Olaya Street in Riyadh, not far from the American Embassy.
Once we’d eaten lunch at the hotel, Taylor drove our rental car over to the embassy for our scheduled appointment with Ali Abdullah Tariq, the Saudi official who had to sign the documents we needed to enter the Marlize Refugee Camp. Mason Barron, in his role as the embassy’s Public Affairs Attaché, would also be attending the meeting.
The first time I’d seen the U.S. Embassy in Riyadh, I’d been impressed by the architect’s ability to make the five-story building aesthetically pleasing, while designing a structure meant to withstand a terrorist attack.
Now, as we entered the perimeter of the embassy compound, I noticed some additional security precautions had been taken.
Vehicles were now required to undergo a preliminary security check before entering the outer perimeter, plus reinforced concrete barriers had been set up around the compound to prevent a truck bomb from ramming the gate. In a bit of irony—perhaps to make them appear less intimidating—the concrete barriers were filled with colorful flowers.
Once we’d made it through all the security checkpoints, an embassy official met us in the lobby and escorted us up to the second floor where the Public Affairs Department was located.
A receptionist told us to make ourselves comfortable until our name was called, and we took a seat in the waiting room where three Saudi gentlemen in their traditional robes and an Asian businessman in a tailored suit were already seated.
The four of us were wearing black knit shirts with the GNS blue logo prominently displayed, and, of course, each of us had on a pair of jeans. I felt sure everyone knew we were Americans just by the sloppy way we were dressed.
We barely had a chance to sit down before Barron came through an unmarked door behind the receptionist’s desk and greeted us. Once he’d introduced himself to Delaney, she introduced the rest of us to him—solely for the benefit of the listening ears in the waiting room.
“This is our reporter, Austin Brice, our cameraman, Ralph Logan, and our translator, Conrad Barber.”
Barron shook hands with each of us, and then he pointed down the hallway to his left. “We’re meeting Mr. Tariq in the conference room. Unfortunately, he’s running a little late, but we can sign some of the preliminary paperwork before he gets here, so you won’t be delayed any longer than necessary. Follow me, please.”
After Barron had ushered us into the conference room and closed the door behind him, he said, “I took the precaution of sweeping the room for bugs before you arrived. Even though it’s not as secure as The Bubble, I assure you we can talk freely here.”
>
“Speaking of bugs,” I said, “Ben has the tracker you need to plant on Gault’s luggage.” I nodded at Ben. “Let’s do the handover now.”
Ben opened up his camera bag and pulled out a zoom lens attachment. After popping off the metal cover, he peeled back a thin layer of plastic, removed a small gray disc, and handed it off to Barron.
Barron looked it over and then slipped it inside his pants pocket. “Gault is booked into the Al Khozama Hotel on Olaya Street about two blocks south of your hotel. When he arrives tomorrow afternoon, I’ll try to plant the device then. If that’s not possible, I’ll do it when he goes out for dinner.”
He took the tracking device back out of his pocket and looked it over again. “Is this one of those new gadgets that activates as soon as it’s attached to something?”
“That’s right,” I said. “The exact location of Stephen Gault’s luggage will be up on the Grid the moment you attach the device.”
The Schematic Tracking Grid was used by the Ops Center to monitor all tracking devices. It was also used to pinpoint the location of operatives involved in an active mission whenever they were communicating with the Ops Center or downloading data.
Occasionally, an operations officer might order an operative to turn on the tracking device in his or her Agency phone, especially when entering a hot zone, but the reverse was also true—if an operative felt in danger, then he or she could enter an emergency code, and their location would immediately go up on the Grid.
After returning the device to his pocket, Barron said, “I know you spent some time with Gault in Detroit. Do you think he’ll leave his hotel room and do some sightseeing after he arrives tomorrow, or will he stick around the hotel?”
“I don’t have a clue. We only talked for a couple of hours.”
I gestured over at Taylor. “Jeremy was in charge of the surveillance teams monitoring Gault’s activities. He probably knows more about him than I do.”
Barron looked over at Taylor. “You’re the DIA guy, right?”
“That’s right. It’s hard to say what Gault might do once he gets here. Since he’s spent a lot of time in the Middle East already, he probably won’t be interested in doing any sightseeing. As far as I’ve been able to tell, he’s only interested in computers and money.”
“Is that so? Then maybe I could figure out a way to entice him out of his hotel room by combining those interests. I did that once with a terrorist who only cared about eating American food and accumulating a bunch of weapons.”
Barron went on to describe an elaborate scheme he’d come up with to get access to a Gitmo detainee who’d been released into Saudi custody, but who’d returned to his terrorist’s ways a few weeks after being released. Since I figured Carlton wouldn’t approve of Barron’s complicated strategy to get access to Gault’s room, I tried turning off the spigot of his creative juices by interrupting him.
“What’s the rush?” I asked. “Gault isn’t scheduled to leave Riyadh until Monday morning. That gives you plenty of time to plant the tracking device. All you have to do is have your watchers text you when he leaves the hotel; then you can slip up to his room while he’s out.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but where’s the fun in that?”
* * * *
Barron continued his freewheeling suggestions about how he could plant the tracking device on Gault’s luggage, but then, when Ali Abdullah Tariq was ushered into the conference room, he did his Jekyll and Hyde routine and allowed his bureaucratic personality to emerge.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Tariq,” Barron said, gesturing at an executive chair at the end of the table. “Please have a seat. May I offer you a beverage, perhaps some tea?”
Mr. Tariq declined the offer and quickly settled himself into the plush chair, tucking the billowing folds of his expensive-looking white robe around him.
Since most Saudis considered it offensive to attend a business meeting wearing anything less than formal attire, I wondered if Mr. Tariq was insulted by the casual way we were dressed. If so, he hid his feelings from us. In fact, as the GNS news crew was introduced to him, he smiled and graciously greeted each of us in perfect English.
Once the introductions were made, Mr. Tariq and Barron engaged in a few minutes of social chit-chat, and then the Saudi opened up the leather messenger bag he’d brought with him and removed several documents. Delaney took that as her cue and pulled a manila envelope from her oversized handbag.
It was a critical moment for Operation Rebel Merchant, and I’m sure everyone in the room knew it.
Although the Agency’s Legends division always did a superb job of crafting the documentation necessary to maintain a cover story, whenever the time came for me to present those documents to an official bureaucrat of a country—especially someone who might be able to tell when something wasn’t quite right—I always got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Today, I breathed a silent prayer and tried to look bored with the whole process.
After Mr. Tariq slowly examined each of our passports, he read over the letter from the president of the GNS corporation. Basically, it was the formal request asking the Saudi government for permission to enter the Marlize Refugee Camp in order to broadcast a series of news stories on the Yemenis displaced by the ongoing civil war.
The last thing Delaney handed him was a one-page biographical fact sheet on each member of the GNS crew, information which Josh Kellerman had emphasized each of us should commit to memory.
“Mr. Barber,” he said, addressing Taylor, “I see you are the Arabic translator for your group. Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”
Taylor took a deep breath and said, “My parents were Syrians who immigrated to the United States and later became citizens. They settled in a Syrian community in Paterson, New Jersey, and continued to speak Arabic, so I grew up hearing the language on a daily basis.”
Taylor’s recitation of these facts sounded stilted—like he’d memorized them—but I wasn’t sure Mr. Tariq noticed this because the second he heard Taylor say his parents were Syrian, his pleasant facial expression changed to one of disgust, and he immediately set aside the bio sheet on Conrad Barber.
Next, Mr. Tariq picked up the sheet on Austin Brice.
* * * *
Whenever Legends created a cover story for an operative whose false identity was supposed to have the same nationality as the operative’s nationality, an effort was made to incorporate certain aspects of the operative’s own background into the false identity to make it seem more natural.
In other words, there were parts of Austin Brice’s phony bio that were familiar to me.
Brice grew up in Flint, Michigan. I grew up in Flint, Michigan. Brice went to the University of Michigan. I went to the University of Michigan. Brice left Michigan immediately after graduation. I left Michigan immediately after graduation.
From that point forward, our paths diverged.
After Brice graduated from the University of Michigan, he went on to get his master’s degree at Columbia University’s School of Journalism in New York City. After I graduated, I went on to become a covert operative in the CIA.
While Brice was writing his thesis to finish up his two-year stint at Columbia, I was trying to recruit an asset in Nicaragua who had access to intel on a Sandinista general.
As Brice was reporting on a city councilman embezzling funds in Joliet, Illinois, I was recording the conversations between two drug lords in Central America.
When Brice was making a resume tape of his reporting skills for a television station in Philadelphia, I was studying with an Arabic tutor in Pakistan.
However, there was a possibility our paths had crossed again after he was hired by the Philadelphia television station.
Not long after he’d gone to work for them, the First Gulf War had broken out, and a few months later, they’d sent Brice over to Iraq to report on the fall of Saddam Hussein. I was in Baghdad at the same time—assigned to an operatio
n called Broken Wing.
Like me, Brice had been sent to a number of hotspots in the Middle East after that, although his weapon of choice had been a microphone, and mine had been a Glock.
As I sat in the conference room at the American Embassy in Riyadh preparing my Austin Brice persona to be questioned by Mr. Tariq, I was grateful someone in the Legends department had decided the timeline of Brice’s activities in the Middle East should parallel my own.
I felt certain I could easily field any questions thrown at me about his reporting of those stories.
On the other hand, I was a little uncertain about Brice’s earlier career experiences.
Truth be told, I had intended to do some research on Columbia University, and I’d also planned to look up the television station in Philadelphia where Brice had been employed before joining the GNS news organization.
But, on our flight from Washington to Frankfurt, when I’d powered up my laptop to look up some information on Columbia University and familiarize myself with a few faculty members in their School of Journalism, I’d seen an advertisement about exotic honeymoon destinations, and I’d spent my time researching that topic instead.
Regrettably, I didn’t expect Mr. Tariq to ask me anything about Bora Bora.
* * * *
After Mr. Tariq had perused Austin Brice’s biographical summary, he laid the document back down on the table and picked up the bio on Ralph Logan. A few seconds later, he laid it aside and picked up Brice’s biographical sheet again.
“Austin Brice,” he said slowly, as if he were trying to place the name. “I confess I’m a fan of American news broadcasts, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one of your news stories.”
He tapped his finger on the document listing my television experience. “It says here you’ve done numerous broadcasts in Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon. Why haven’t I seen any of your stories?”
Five Years in Yemen Page 27
