by Barry Eisler
“On the other hand, the attack was fairly sophisticated. It looks like they attached the device to the bottom of a food service delivery truck, tracked it via GPS, and detonated when it was maximally close to the White House.”
“You see? Anything other than a direct hit, it would take a nuke to damage the White House. It’s the publicity they’re after.”
Remar didn’t respond. Anders waited, not comfortable with the man’s newfound reticence. Ordinarily he could tell what Remar was thinking. Not today.
After a moment, he gave up and said, “I need to get to the White House. Brief me on any further developments en route.”
Remar nodded, then said, “Ted.”
Anders raised his eyebrows.
“Those phones . . . they’re the same ones associated with that ‘letter bomb’ Delgado intercepted from FedEx.”
Anders didn’t blink. “Is that a problem?”
“I told you, those units are on several watch lists. They’re affiliated with Ergenekon. Up until now, a DEA narcotics thing, not terrorism, but still.”
Anders said nothing, not liking where Remar seemed to want to take this.
“So even if this is a coincidence, it’s a bad coincidence. We don’t need anyone looking into our relationship with those guys. Into what we use them for.”
“Nobody knows about that relationship except you and me.”
“How much do I really know? What are you not telling me?”
So that’s what was bothering him. Well, no one liked not knowing. Anders looked at his hands while he picked at a cuticle.
After a moment, Remar started to move toward the door, then turned back. “There has to be a limit, Ted.”
“Of course there does.”
“But do you know where it is?”
The intercom buzzed.
“That’s going to be Manus,” Anders said. “Give me a minute with him. And make sure I’m prepped with a set of razzle-dazzle slides on everything we’ve got regarding these jihadist mobile phones. Today is our show, not the Pentagon’s.”
Remar brought in the big man and then left, eyeing him warily before closing the door on his way out.
“Marvin,” Anders said, and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Please. Have a seat. I’m afraid I have only a minute—a meeting at the White House.”
Manus sat.
Anders waited a moment, but Manus offered nothing. First Remar, now Manus. Maybe there was something in the air today that was making everyone taciturn. Finally, Anders said, “Well? How did your loft-building go with Ms. Gallagher and her son?”
“It was fine.”
Anders’s instinct was to draw the man out by waiting for more, but he didn’t have time. Worse, he doubted it would work. So he simply said, “And? What are your impressions about her state of mind?”
“I think she’s okay.”
The response was anodyne to the point of being useless. Anders said, “Based on . . . ?”
“She invited me to stay for dinner. Pizza and wine. We talked for a while after the boy went to bed. She seemed happy to me.”
I’ll bet she did, after the washing machine, Anders thought. And then realized: He’s not going to tell you about that.
The realization was so astonishing it required confirmation. Anders said, “You just talked? Anything else?”
“I saw her interacting with her son. He helped me build the loft, which made the job take longer. So I was there for a while.”
Not only was Manus holding back about the details of his evening, and not only was he offering Gallagher at least a qualified clean bill of health, he was doing what he could to give his diagnosis greater credence by emphasizing the extent of his interaction and observation.
All at once, Anders realized he’d been wrong about Manus. The man was capable of feeling.
And right now, he was feeling infatuated.
Maybe Anders should have foreseen the possibility. After all, there was something . . . womanly about Gallagher. Her body, certainly, and her demeanor. But it had never occurred to him that she, or anyone else, could be interested in Manus, whose chief effect on people seemed to be to make them nervous, if not outright afraid.
It didn’t matter. The man was obviously compromised. Not fatally. But enough so that he had to be pulled off Gallagher—figuratively and literally—and assigned to something else.
“Well,” Anders said, standing. “That’s helpful information, Marvin, and I’m glad to hear it. As I mentioned, Gallagher is doing important work for us and it’s a relief to know she’s as reliable as I had hoped. If she needs further monitoring, I may turn to you again. In the meantime, I’d like you to steer clear of her. We wouldn’t want to take any unnecessary risks with your cover. Thank you, as always.”
Manus nodded and left immediately, perhaps relieved Anders hadn’t pressed him more closely for details.
Yes, the man was clearly smitten. Best to keep him as far as possible from Gallagher until the Hamilton situation was resolved. Of course, the woman would still need to be monitored. She might even need to be . . . neutralized, if the fever of her suspicions grew any hotter. Of course, if it came to that, Manus would now be completely unsuitable to handle the thing itself.
Well, there was always Delgado. He almost felt sorry for Gallagher when he imagined how Delgado would go about it. On the other hand, there was never any danger of Delgado falling for a subject. He loved his work too much for that.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 23
At the National Security Council meeting in the White House Situation Room, it was Anders’s turn to shine.
When the president asked, in a tone indicating he was expecting nothing but bromides, what Anders had managed to uncover about the perpetrators of the bombing, Anders waited a long beat before responding in his gravest, most confident tone, “Quite a bit, Mr. President.”
The president raised his eyebrows. Anders indulged just the briefest of satisfied glances at Jones, then stood and nodded to the aide he’d brought with him. The aide fired up the laptop he was manning, and the wall screen displayed the faces of the three men Manus had disposed of in Turkey—all looking suitably sinister with their dark complexions, mustaches, and stubble, and each with a graphic of a mobile phone and phone number alongside his profile.
“You’ll see these numbers,” Anders said, indicating each with a laser pointer, “are the very same geolocated units the Pentagon managed to identify in Turkey and to confirm as being in contact with jihadist units on the Syrian side of the border—the jihadists believed to be holding Ryan Hamilton.” He turned to Jones. “Vernon, nice work on that.”
Jones glared at him, recognizing the deliberate condescension behind the ostensible compliment.
“These units are now active in the DC metro area. Each has made several suspicious calls, information regarding which we have of course provided to the FBI and to the relevant section chiefs at the Department of Homeland Security, and on which we are otherwise following up.”
The attorney general and the secretary of homeland security nodded, the prerogatives of their agencies having been respected. In fact, both organizations depended on NSA for SIGINT analysis, so providing them mobile numbers was mostly pro forma. The only role of their FBI or HSI agents would be to carry out arrests once proper suspects had been identified. That identification, naturally, would come from NSA’s own intelligence.
A White House flunky knocked and entered the room, carrying a sheaf of photos. “Nine confirmed dead, sir,” the flunky said. “Fifteen more hospitalized, seven in critical condition.” He handed the photos to the president and left, closing the door behind him.
The president leafed through the photos, then passed them to the secretary of state, who was to his left. Anders judged the timing of the casualty report propitious. “Of particular note,” he continued, “is that one of the phones”—he paused and circled the number with the laser, then look
ed meaningfully at each of the people seated at the table, stopping at the president—“is the unit that was used to detonate the very device that went off this morning.”
There was a long, silent pause. “What does this mean?” the president said.
Anders clicked off the laser pointer and crisply returned it to his jacket pocket. “It means that groups affiliated with ISIS are moving out of the Syrian kidnapping business, and into the American mass-casualty bombing business.”
“Who, exactly?” the president said.
Anders was waiting for that. “Sir, if we had a biometric cell phone program like Pakistan’s, we’d probably be interrogating the bastard who did this in a black site right now. As it is, our information is unavoidably more general. But I can tell you this. The calculus we’ve been using to determine whether and how to rescue the journalist Ryan Hamilton has changed.”
Jones said, “Changed how, exactly?”
Anders didn’t even look at him. It was the president he was talking to, and the president was listening. “Sir, prior to this morning’s attack, we had the luxury of telling ourselves we could attempt a surgical rescue of a single journalist being held in Syria without increasing the danger to American citizens here in the homeland, on American soil.”
Anders knew that even with a crowd as cynical as this one, it was important to use the proper buzzwords, if only so the president could more easily imagine how his own subsequent speeches and interviews would sound. And he knew the president was a particular fan of the word “homeland,” derived by the government after 9/11 from the German Heimat. He even knew, through his access to God’s Eye, that the White House had discreetly employed a private polling company to gauge the word’s emotional resonance with the public, and had found that resonance very appealing indeed.
The president’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not answering my question, Ted.”
Oh, but I am, sir. “Sir, the Syrians the Pentagon believes are holding Ryan Hamilton have now been proven to be connected to a mass casualty attack on American soil.”
The Pentagon merely believes; NSA offers proof. He wondered whether anyone would seize on that sleight of hand. No one did.
“An attack that took place just blocks from the White House,” he went on, “the real and symbolic seat of American power and world leadership. In my opinion, sir, this group has demonstrated a global reach and a fanatical zeal that requires a response more robust than a mere rescue. For strategic reasons as well as symbolic, we have no choice but to eliminate the individuals behind this attack. And fortunately, we have the opportunity to do so. Right now. Today.”
Anders had smoothly transitioned from “connected to” an attack to “behind” the attack, but if anyone noticed, nothing was said.
Anders turned to Jones. “Vernon, you have a UAV base in İncirlik. Not far from the Syrian border. On the president’s command, how quickly could you have Reapers hit Azaz and take out the group behind this morning’s attack?”
Jones looked at him for a long moment, obviously trying to figure out what he was up to. Why was Anders dealing him in, when a moment earlier he seemed intent on dealing him out?
Jones looked at the president. “Sir, we’re ready for that rescue. But yes, if you decide to emulsify these bastards instead, we can have Hellfire missiles pounding Azaz in three hours.”
Anders was pleased. He had recognized he was coming dangerously close to usurping the president’s prerogatives in proposing the new course of action. The “on the president’s command” had been intended to mitigate any chafing he had caused. Jones’s attempt to save face by responding not to him but directly to the president could only help in that regard, by demonstrating that everyone recognized the only person in the room, indeed, the only person in the world, with the authority to make these decisions was the commander in chief. On top of which, that “emulsify these bastards” flourish suggested Jones had decided to accept Anders’s peace offering. He was signaling he was okay with Anders changing the destination, as long as the Pentagon could still own the glory when they got there.
Again the room was silent. The president leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stroked his chin. He looked first at Jones, then at Anders. “Are you certain the people behind this morning’s attack are at that location?”
“This kind of intel is inherently uncertain, sir, but our confidence is as high as it gets in such matters.” Much further out on a limb than he would ordinarily be willing to go, but today certain risks had to be taken.
The president nodded and turned to Jones.
“Vernon, if you send in those Reapers, what are the chances—hypothetically—of a hostage making it out alive?”
Jones paused, clearly uncertain of what the president wanted to hear. “I would call those chances low, sir.”
The president sighed. “And therein lies the problem.”
Damn. “If I may, sir?”
The president extended a hand, palm up, in a go ahead gesture.
“Sir, first, with all respect to Vernon’s very impressive collection efforts, we can’t be certain the person we think is being held in Azaz even is Hamilton.”
“Respectfully, Ted,” Jones shot back, “you yourself just said this kind of intel is uncertain.”
“Respectfully, Vernon, you advised that the Turks you believe delivered Hamilton to the Syrians were simply drug runners. Yet this morning, they set off a bomb a few blocks from the White House.”
Jones had no answer to that other than to seethe, and Anders immediately regretted the riposte, which had been ego driven, unrelated to the goal he was trying to achieve. He held up his open hands in supplication. “What I’m saying is, what if we’re both wrong? It’s not Hamilton in Azaz, and it’s not our jihadists.”
Jones shrugged. “Then we have some collateral damage on our hands.”
“Unattributable collateral damage, yes. Which, while certainly unfortunate, is neither new nor particularly costly. Now, what if we’re both right?”
Jones watched him as though wary of being tricked. “We take out the jihadists,” he said slowly, “but we also take out Hamilton.”
“Agreed. Now, what I’m asking—what we all need to be clear-eyed about—is this: Are we willing to lose the opportunity to take out the people behind this morning’s attack because there’s a risk of a potential American casualty? How do we explain that kind of squeamishness to the American people if there’s another attack and this group turns out to be behind it?”
The president looked at Jones. “Are we certain the person being held in Azaz is Hamilton?”
Anders watched Jones and could almost feel the man’s calculations. Everyone had just agreed certainty was impossible. Which meant the president knew the answer would be no. And if he was asking the question anyway, it meant he wanted the answer to be no. Presumably because he had already decided the political risks and rewards of an immediate, simple drone strike were preferable to those of a slower, more complicated rescue attempt. The success of a rescue attempt was easy to grade: Was Hamilton really rescued? While the success of a drone strike was easy to fudge: If the bodies were military-age males and Muslim, and the government claimed they were terrorists, how could anyone prove otherwise?
Jones shook his head. “Not certain, sir, no.”
The president gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then said to no one in particular, “And is it possible the group behind this morning’s attack wants us to believe they’re holding Hamilton, even though they’re not, as a way of staying our hand?”
It was so obvious what the president wanted to hear that it was inconceivable anyone would argue with him. Still, it was an effort for Anders to wait. He wanted it to come from Jones. It would be the signal that Jones was in.
“It’s possible, sir,” Jones said after a moment. “We know they’re terrified of our UAVs. Pretending to be holding an American hostage—a kind of fictitious human shield—would be one way of dissuading us from pr
essing our technological advantage.”
The president smiled slightly, perhaps pleased to have demonstrated that, in the end, he was always the smartest guy in the room. “Vernon, you’re friendly with Mike Rogers at CNN, correct? The former congressman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If the worst should happen, could we give him our version of events on background, and count on him to explain why this was a difficult call, and why it was of paramount importance that we seize this opportunity to keep the American people safe?”
“I have no doubt of it, sir.”
The president nodded. “Make sure he’s properly briefed, then. And what about Declan Walsh at the New York Times? Didn’t he publish what our ‘counterterrorism officials and analysts’ fed him the last time an American hostage was killed? How valuable and successful the UAV program has been overall, that sort of thing?”
“Yes, sir, that was Walsh. Really helped us get out our version of the story.”
“Make sure to reach out to him, as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” the president said, “here’s the official narrative. If it’s not Hamilton, we carried out a successful reprisal against the terrorists behind this morning’s barbaric attack on our nation’s capital.”
The president paused for the assembled players to murmur their assent, then continued. “If, on the other hand, in the unfortunate event Hamilton loses his life in the course of the operation, the narrative is that the terrorists fear our UAV program so much they’re trying everything they can, including deliberately placing hostages in the line of fire, to get us to dismantle it. To deliver to them that sort of victory would itself reward the very terrorism with which we are at war. That the terrorists would do to a hostage what they did to Hamilton is, in a sense, proof of just how well the UAV program has been working, and criticizing the program would itself be a perverse reward for the terrorist propaganda strategy. Are we all clear on that?”
The president paused again while everyone nodded, probably enjoying the drama of making his national security team wait for their commander in chief to issue his decision. Then he said, “I took an oath to protect the American people. Today, that oath requires a difficult call. We can’t let this morning’s attack go unanswered. We can’t take a chance on the people behind it acting again. Vernon, how did you put it? ‘Emulsify these bastards.’ Without delay.”