India studied the whiteboard. “And that’s it? A fourteen-hundred year old disagreement, when they basically agree on the same things, religion-wise. The same god. The same prophet.”
Jed replaced the markers and came back to sit on the corner of his desk. “Well, not quite. But Islam has become less about religion and more about politics. For example, Assad is Shiite in a largely Sunni country. And he is a close ally of Shiite-dominated Iran. Next door Saudi Arabia is mostly Sunni, as is a lot of northern and western Iraq, which is politically controlled Shiite. Yemen, Bahrain, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Lebanon have significant Shiite minorities. Hezbollah is Shiite, al Qaeda is Sunni. Sunnis make up about eighty-five percent of the world’s Muslims, including most of the U.S. Muslims.”
“Can we hope to stay out of this mess?”
“Islam is a global religion and America has strategic and military interest in many of those regions. Think, India. In many of the world’s largest economies, their countries have shrinking populations. The number of Muslims is expected to grow thirty-five percent in twenty years. Their fertility rate is much higher. As you might say, run the numbers.”
“When do you want me to go to your CIA headquarters?”
“Now, today, information is key. Anything current you have would help. Intelligence rules in today’s world.”
India was quiet. Did she want to do what Jed said? She knew she wanted some kind of revenge on the men who had raped her. But she could be patient if necessary. “I can’t go that soon.”
“I want you to as soon as possible. While everything is fresh in your mind. I also want you to go over the photograph books, see if you can identify any of your terrorists.”
India tapped a finger on his desk, her mind in a turmoil. She made up her mind. “Give me a couple of days. I want to write everything down. I’ll remember more clearly if I’m by myself for a while.”
“You got it. I’ll let them know at Langley when you’re coming, after I talk to you. I’ll arrange a flight. Someone will meet you at Dulles.”
“I appreciate that, Jed.” She stood, hesitated, and reached her hand over his desk. “Thanks. Talking to you has been, well…maybe cathartic. I don’t have many people I can confide in. I could have with Nadia, maybe.” Her voice shook slightly. “But, I lost her.”
She blotted Jack Spear from her mind. Would she have told him? He’d helped her twice now, when she’d been hurt. It had been nice. She didn’t have anyone now.
Jed slipped off the desk and came to put his arm around her shoulder. “I think we all did, India. I knew her, too. Fell halfway in love with her when I first got here.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. She and Jack Spear were heavy at the time, so I didn’t get anywhere.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a bad time for a lot of people.”
“Yeah.” He patted her shoulder. “Go home. Do what you have to do. Call me. Don’t wait too long.”
“I won’t, Jed. I promise.”
“And hey, India. I’m on your side.”
As she left Jed, India thought, why did he say he was on my side? Does everyone in Beirut know Jack Spear blames me for the infamous video of Nadia’s death? Does everyone in Beirut blame me?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
IN THE DARKENED conference room India and Earnhardt Clausen studied the large map projection of Lebanon and Syria. Two other agents watched as she began to get her bearings. India picked up a pointer. “I’ve driven from the city to my old nanny’s farm a couple of times, so I can tell you exactly the route there. I had been there several times when I lived at the embassy. So it jogged old memories.
“Now, that’s where I met Jamil to drive to the terrorist camp. It was eleven-thirty in the morning when we left the farm and headed south, toward Syria. We took the highway to Karak Abruh and then began a series of secondary roads until we reached Al Zabadani, at about ten after one.” She moved the pointer to the small city on the map. “As we left Al Zabadini we were headed due south for about a half an hour and then turned southeast. It was about two o’clock when we began a series of dirt roads, graded at first,” she followed the general direction with the pointer, “ but then giving way to some roads that were barely passable, turning here, turning there, but always heading southeasterly.” She made an arrow with a marker. “Jamil drove pretty fast until we hit the unpaved terrain, then it was slower going. We arrived at the camp about four o’clock. I would put the headquarters around this area. It’s in the mountains, and you could follow the passes, perhaps.”
She turned to the men and placed the pointer on the table. “Anything you can ask me I’ll try to remember. Maybe your questions will remind me of something.”
The group debriefed India for another forty-five minutes as she recalled details about the rebel band. She had described her ordeal in the night at the first meeting, and what she had seen of the camp. She had her camera and they had downloaded the shots that she’d taken of her dinner with Nazih.
Earnhardt Clausen turned to the group. “We’d like to talk to India again tomorrow, but she’s probably exhausted now. You guys put together anything you can from her map directions. India, I’d like you to come to my office for a short time. Then we’ll let you go and get a little rest. Take a drive around the Basin. The cherry trees are almost in full bloom.”
THE NEXT HOUR found India again with Earnhardt Clausen, speechless at what he was proposing. Finally, words came. “You want me to join the Agency? Earnhardt, I’m a journalist. I never wanted to be anything else. What you’re suggesting doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Don’t dismiss my suggestion out of hand. Let me outline my thoughts to you. You’ve had an experience that would destroy most people. In spite of the brutality of it, you kept your head. Observed. Perhaps what drove you were feelings of revenge, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve come away from it with valuable pictures and information. What I see for you won’t change your desire to be a journalist. We have many people cooperating with us in a variety of professions. When in the course of their careers they come across something that we can use, they contact us. Some never do, some only once or twice. A few, often. It all depends, for the most part, where they are. Where they find themselves. They operate under the radar, have opportunities. But they have our backup. They have had training, which I’d like to describe to you.”
India rubbed the frown between her eyes. “I just don’t know, Earnhardt. It sounds an awful lot like being a spy.”
Clausen smiled briefly, then snorted. “Spy is such a loaded word. But it is just a word. What I’m proposing is you take our course at the Farm. That’s where we train our people. What you learn is how to take care of yourself. How to make contact if you’ve come across anything interesting. You seem drawn to some pretty rough places. Even if you decide to sever relations with the Agency after the training course, I think you’ll find what you learn will be pretty useful.” Clausen sat back and watched India.
Thoughts clamored through her head. What he said was beginning to sound tempting. Some skills that might have been useful when she got in trouble. “When would I start? How long would this training take? And stop grinning like that. I haven’t said I’d do it.”
Clausen passed his hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. “There’s a group just finishing up. I’d have to check, but a new group will probably begin in a week. Would you need to go back to Beirut and settle your affairs there?”
Settle my affairs? she thought. No. There is nothing in Beirut for me anymore.
Jack Spear flickered for a moment, then went out. “No. I just need to pack up some of my belongings. Perhaps this is a good time to begin something new. I must tell you before I left New York to go to Beirut, Vogue magazine wanted to do a story on me. I’d like to do it. I have an interesting story to tell. I plan to get in touch with the editor and set up some dates. She’s a friend of my mo
ther’s. I could probably name my own time frame.”
“Why, that wouldn’t be a problem at all. As a matter of fact it would be terrific. We have had very resourceful agents …uh…people with public faces. Rather like hiding in plain sight. They’re known to us as Agents of Influence.” He studied India a moment, tapping his pen on the desk. “India? Were you going to bring up the terrorist attack on you in your magazine article? The rape?”
“Yes. I feel people should know what these people do. How they operate. The subjugation of their women. How they felt free to do what they did to me. An unthreatening journalist simply working on a story. I still shake with rage over it.”
“How would you feel if I told you to leave out that part? In the magazine write-up?”
India stood up. “No deal. I plan to expose Nazhi for the rapist, the monster he is.”
“Wait. Hear me out. Sit down. Let me tell you my feeling. Of course it’s up to you.” He was silent, finding words. “Even if you decide not to come to work for us, I believe your access to powerful people would be compromised if it was thought you were…getting even, say. It’s my feeling that as an extremely attractive, talented journalist, you would have more doors open to you, if, shall I say, played up the glamour angle for the magazine…the intrepid beautiful reporter, covering the danger spots of the world, interviewing dicey leaders.” He smiled. “See. I have watched a lot of the on air footage of you. Also, your parents are important people, which does rub off on you a bit.”
“That’s not who I am. Or want to be.”
“All right. Another angle. The cool-headed, brilliant, chance-taking foreign correspondent in the flak jacket, broadcasting while gunfire pops in the background.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Not at all. You have a persona that’s not fully developed at your age. But I have an idea I can guess what you want. An agent for us and a foreign journalist need a lot of the same skills. You want to be taken seriously, despite your looks, I might say.”
“You’re being very candid.”
“We’re pretty much realists around here. Believe me when I say I take you very seriously indeed when I ask you to join the Agency.”
She let his words sink in. Was he right? Would she be just shouting to the world her anger. She wanted in her career to be cool, level-headed, capable of “taking it”, unflappable with the “bombs bursting in air.” “I think I’d find it hard to let go of it. It’s what drove me, the idea of being un-ashamed of being raped by evil men.” She hesitated, rubbed her temples. “I’ll have to think about it. Maybe you’re right. I don’t want you to be.”
“Mull it over, India. You may or may not agree with me, but whatever you decide, my offer still stands. You’ll be known to us as an “agent of influence.” It’s a, shall we say, a looser connection than a full agent. If you consent, let’s get a calendar going. The course you would take is perhaps six weeks.”
“What does it cover? I haven’t said yes.”
“You’d have physical conditioning, of course.” He eyed her. “You shouldn’t have any trouble with that.”
“No. I’m in pretty good shape.”
“There’ll be vehicle handling. Everyone loves that one. Weapons familiarity and firearms training, photography, which you seem to be pretty proficient at, but we use cameras of all models. You’ll learn surveillance and also how to avoid it. You’ll get familiar with special methods to contact your handler. Interviewing, which you’ve had experience with. You wouldn’t have any trouble with any of it. We just sharpen a lot of those abilities to suit certain circumstances.”
The room was silent. A telephone rang in another office. A door slammed somewhere. India was thinking as she spoke. “I’m trying to decide if I agreed with anything you’ve said. I’m leaning toward believing it would work, but it’s shaking up some of my thinking. Let me sleep on it. I have to reconcile some things in my mind.”
“How about letting me know say, tomorrow afternoon? I can get you entered in the new group of trainees.”
India stood and held out her hand. “Don’t count on it. I may, probably will, say ‘no.’” She stopped at the door. “By the way, would I be on some kind of payroll? Running around on my own gets kind of expensive.”
“Yes. We’ll work it out.”
Riding back to the city in the unobtrusive gray Company car, India’s mind swirled with the things she’d just heard. What should she do? Was he right in what he said about compromising her access to the Big Stories? Did she, in fact, sound whiny. Poor me? Would taking Clausen’s Agency course further her ambitions. Yes? No? Maybe?
Her preoccupation was interrupted by the driver taking her back to the hotel. “If you’ve got time, we could swing by the Tidal Basin. The cherry trees are just about hitting their peak. Be a shame to miss it.”
Her mind swam out of her indecision. “Sure. You’re right. I’ve only seen them bloom at their best once before. Doesn’t last very long.” She had to smile. Washingtonians were so proud of the cherry trees. It was almost funny, like they’d planted them themselves.
As the car pulled along the Basin, India caught her breath. Yes, it would have been a shame to miss it. She let the talk with Clausen slide away. The entire parkland round the water was afoam with blushy pink. “If this isn’t quite the peak, it’s pretty darn good,” she remarked to the driver.
“I’ll drive slow.”
“Tell you what. Just let me out where you can. The Willard’s not that far. I can walk back.”
“Well, if you’re sure. Colonel Clausen might get mad at me if he thought I’d made you take a hike.”
“It’s fine. I’ll be okay. I need some air anyway. And I’ve got some things to think about.”
India walked the rosy paths along the Potomac River, an occasional puff of a breeze brought a shower of petals settling onto her hair. She tried to empty her thoughts, enjoy the moment, the breath of spring, a hope of beginnings, feeling she was on the brink of something new.
BACK IN HER hotel room, as she changed for dinner with her parents, she abruptly decided to call Hamilton Ivorson in New York. She wanted to run up to the city after she decided what she would tell Clausen and it would be good to see Ham again. He’d been so kind when she’d been shattered with Nadia’s death. Hearing his voice she realized she’d vaguely missed him. More than vague. Abruptly it occurred to her that he was the only man who had made her feel safe.
Ham’s voice smiled, pleased. “India, what a terrific surprise. Are you in town?”
“Not yet, but I will be. Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue has wanted to do an article on me. I’ve talked to her and it seems to be an ideal time for the magazine and for me, too. I have to go up to the city to talk about it. Right now I’m in Washington, but are you tied up day after tomorrow?”
“For you, no. And I know you don’t know this. I was going to call you. The board met over the weekend. Sumner was canned. The trustees weren’t happy with his decision about showing the Nadia part of the Beirut blast. Yours truly is going to be the new head. It’s not been announced, but it will be by the time you’re here.”
“Ham, that’s wonderful. Fabulous. Now I’m sorry I was fired.”
“We can talk about that, India.”
“Oh, I’m not really sorry. It’s been kind of liberating.”
“We can talk anyway. God, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Ham, I have to run. Meeting Mommy and Daddy downstairs for dinner. I’ll let you know when I get to town.”
His voice turned throaty. “Today just turned into a very special day.”
The Occidental Restaurant, Willard Hotel
INDIA FOLLOWED THE maître d’ into the Willard’s Occidental Grill, the clubby, redoubt of the capital city’s powerful, their historical portraits lining the paneled walls since the early 1900s. One who kept up with those things could always tell who was “in” and who was “out” by the placement of their framed likenesses on the walls of
the booths and bars. India stopped momentarily. Ahead of the maître d’ her parents were seated in a booth in animated conversation, martini glasses already at half. “God what a beautiful couple,” she whispered. “The hotel should put that scene in their brochure.”
Her mother’s glowing blonde head turned in India’s direction and her face lit up. She gestured to India’s father, who rose and came toward her, arms open wide, his face beaming with delight.
“India. You look wonderful, and what a surprise to get your call. Come sit down. Your mother and I are bursting to hear what brings you here. How is Beirut getting along without us?”
India gave her father a hug and leaned to brush kiss her mother’s smooth, cool cheek.
“Hello, Mummy. I was just admiring the way you both looked and that you should be in the hotel’s brochure.” She slid in beside her father. “Beirut’s changed, of course, but it’s still an exciting place. You must drop in to see Ambassador Masterson when you’re in the neighborhood. She asks about you whenever I see her.”
Justine Fox appraised her daughter. “You look well, dear. Anna’s told me about doing an article on you. I told you four years ago you should be in the magazine. Well, you were, as my daughter when they featured me, but now you have a promising career. It should be a big plus for you.”
“Well, now I do have my own story to tell. Several as a matter of fact.”
“You look like you’ve lost weight.” Her glance swept over India. “But that photographs well. I’ll get Anna to let me help decide some wonderful things for you to wear.”
“Really? I wasn’t planning to wear anything outlandish, Mummy. This is about my journalism experiences. Not my closet,” she said dryly.
“Oh, nonsense. Never not be as fabulous as you can. There’s too much shoddiness in the world. One must always look as if one tried.”
I Am India Fox Page 18
