Blowback
Page 23
She’d picked up some magazines at a kiosk—airports were the only places she gave in to magazines like Vogue and People. She’d save her copy of Gourmet for the flight. But even as she thumbed through the glossy pages, she scanned the room with habitual vigilance.
When they announced her flight would be pushed back an hour, she knew she should get into gear and book a better flight on another airline. But the exhaustion of the months seemed to pull her down like an anchor. She closed her eyes, just for a few seconds . . .
• • •
“Miss?” Someone was tapping on her arm. Someone—she bolted up.
“Oh, I’m sorry I startled you.” One of the lounge attendants was watching her with concern.
“What time is it?”
“They are just calling your flight,” he said, and she heard the faintest Oklahoma panhandle accent, just barely. “It’s ten after seven.”
“Thanks for waking me,” she told him, already on her feet. She hefted her carry-on with her good arm and headed for the exit.
“But you’ve left something, Miss.”
Vanessa pivoted to see the attendant holding a bookmarked paperback.
She started to shake her head—but something stopped her. “Thanks, I’m not awake yet.”
She held the book gingerly, stopping at a row of phones on the concourse to examine it. Great Expectations by Dickens. When she tapped open the cover, the bookmark slipped out. It was a ferry ticket from Turkey to Cyprus, dated two days before Sergei’s murder. A candid picture of her had been glued to the other side. At first she didn’t recognize the location. Then it came to her. The photo had been taken in London—a shot of her standing on the steps of MI5. Beneath the photo, a message had been written neatly, in small, careful script:
Hello, Vanessa. I feel it is time that we get to know each other. You will hear more from me soon.
˜ Bhoot
• • •
Seventy minutes later, seated on board Lufthansa’s flight 4536 to Paris, Vanessa stared out at the night sky. She hadn’t touched dinner. Instead, she sipped a Bourbon. A worn manila folder rested in her lap. When most of her fellow passengers were asleep, she picked it up carefully. And still she kept the contents sheltered by the half-open folder. Inside, a photo from CIA Archives: Chechnya, 1996, legendary resistance leader Ibn al-Khattab astride a downed Russian Mi-8 helicopter; he is flanked by three other fighters, two of Middle Eastern descent (their AK-47s raised in the air), the third a scrawny, young Chechen, barely out of his teens. (She was almost positive the boy was Pauk: his Slavic cheekbones, the long-distance stare.) A fifth man, fit and muscled, stands aboard the helicopter’s runner, his weapon held at his waist. His face has been cut from the photograph.
But what caught Vanessa’s eye the first time she pulled it from a box she’d dragged from behind at least six other boxes down in Archives were his hands. Pale and delicate, fingers long and tapered, the hands of a musician or an artist, not the weathered hands of a rebel fighter.
What happened to you, Bhoot? How did you find your calling to sell massive death and destruction to the highest bidder? And, most important, what have you set your sights on now?
She slipped the photo back inside the folder on her lap. She took a final sip of the whiskey and set the glass on the empty seat next to her. She closed her eyes, letting the faces and the voices come to her—the people she’d lost in the last few months, and the people she loved, the ghosts and others from so very long ago. A child’s soft wail rose up, and then almost as quickly fell away to silence—but it wasn’t a cry from her dreams. It was a child and mother, seated a few rows away. Vanessa settled back into her seat, but now her eyes were open. She was awake.
From the authors
This project never would have gotten off the ground without the encouragement and belief from the extraordinary David Rosenthal. You have our respect and loyalty.
Thank you to Elyse Cheney, whose judgment and professionalism have come through in spades, time and again.
Deep gratitude to Theresa Park, for your unflagging guidance, wisdom, and friendship.
Aileen Boyle, despite having to drag us kicking and screaming into social media, we think the world of you and your staff for your help, your smarts, and your bountiful enthusiasm.
With admiration to Vanessa Kehren, who asks the most astute questions and whose composure and calm direction kept us on the right track.
• • •
We would like to acknowledge and express our sincere appreciation to the following friends, who have given so generously of their time and knowledge to help make this book a reality.
To Jane Baxter, for your sweet friendship and suggestions for WDC watering holes.
We owe a deep debt to Paul Evencoe, whose generosity with his encyclopedic knowledge of weapons is truly impressive.
If I’m ever in a bar fight, I want Larry Johnson to have my back. Thank you for your help in many ways.
To Porchista Khakpour: we are indebted to you for your unique assistance in unraveling the veiled mysteries of ancient Persian literature. To Catherine Oppenheimer and Garrett Thornburg for your friendship, support, and knowledge of fine wines.
To Howie Sanders, whose enthusiasm and suggestions kept our forward momentum.
Thank you to David Smallman; your wise counsel helped me navigate stormy waters many times.
With gratitude to Kathy and Chris Tone, for their friendship, wit, and help with Russian swear words.
With love and thanks to the best big brother I could ask for, Robert Plame.
With love to Joe Wilson, Samantha Wilson, and Trevor Wilson. Thank you for your patience with me. My world begins and ends with you.
• • •
Peter Knapp, Rachel Bressler, and Park Literary for always taking care of business with style and grace.
Natasha Powers, for basic weapons training 101.
Carole Poland, for your grounding humor and patience—our thanks for letting us know how bad guys clean up dirty money.
Juliette Lauber, for your grand heart, gentle wisdom, integrity, and friendship—and for your knowledge of all things French!
John Stroud: we are grateful for those street racing tips and kind corrections.
Ben Allison: your steadfast legal guidance was the beginning.
Cindy Shearer, for your heartfelt loyalty, wise words, and faith.
Fred Brown, for your unerring pendulum and your balance sheet.
Bill Geraghty: your money smarts helped keep the Lovett house afloat.
Maggie Griffin, for your friendship, humor, honesty, knowledge of everything bookish—and for insisting I buy the right shirt!
Beth Chitwood: the research stacks are a little neater because of your organizational skills.
Gay and Jenni Knight: you kept Pearl on the ground in NYC!
Alice Sealey and Suz Johnson, for all the years of good advice, laughter, and love.
Alexandra Diaz, for your wit, your laugh, and your sweet care of Pearl through the longest hauls.
Lupe Baca—twice a month you bravely fight back the chaos.
Pat Berssen, for your friendship, discretion, and amazing aplomb—you keep this house in order!
Valerie Plame’s career in the CIA included assignments in counterproliferation operations, ensuring that enemies of the United States could not threaten the country with weapons of mass destruction. She and her husband, Ambassador Joseph Wilson, are the parents of twins. Plame and her family live in New Mexico.
Sarah Lovett’s five suspense novels featuring forensic psychologist Dr. Sylvia Strange have been published in the United States and around the world. A native Californian, she lives with her family in Santa Fe, New Mexico.