by Tom Clancy
The Emir looked at her face. It was imploring, sincere, earnest. Ridiculous. He would play along for now. “I would like a paper and pencil. I would like to make some sketches.”
“Sketches? Why?”
“Just to pass the time.”
She nodded, looked around the room. “I think I can persuade DOJ that that is a reasonable request. I will get to work on that as soon as I get back to my hotel.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Now … recreation. I would like to hear about what your recreation consists of. Would you care to talk about that?”
“I would prefer we talk about the torture I endured at the hands of American spies.”
Cochrane folded her notebook with another long sigh. “I will be back in three days. Hopefully by then you will have something to sketch with and some paper; I should be able to manage that with a letter to the attorney general. In the meantime, think about what I’ve told you today. Think about our ground rules, but also please think about ways you can benefit from a trial. You need to consider this as an opportunity for you and your… your cause. You can, with my help, stick a finger in the eye of the American government. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“And you have helped others stick their fingers in the eye of America?”
Cochrane smiled proudly. “Many times, Mr. Yasin. I told you I have a lot of experience in this.”
“You told me you have a lot of clients in prison. That is not experience that I find particularly impressive in an attorney.”
Now she spoke defensively. “Those clients are in prison, but they are not on death row. And they are not in a military stockade, unlike a lot of others. The supermax prison is not the worst fate.”
“Martyrdom is preferred.”
“Well, I won’t help you with that. If you want to be dragged into a dark corner of this place and given a lethal injection, you manage that on your own. But I know men like you, Mr. Yasin. That’s not what you want.”
The Emir kept a faint smile on his lips, but it was just for show. In his head he was thinking, No, Judith Cochrane. You do not know any man like me.
But when he spoke he said, “I am sorry I have not been more pleasant. I have forgotten my manners in the many months since my last conversation with a kind soul.”
The sixty-one-year-old American woman melted in front of him. She even leaned forward toward the glass partition, closing the distance between the two of them. “I will make things better for you, Saif Rahman Yasin. Just trust me. Let me get to work on the paper and pencil; perhaps I can arrange a little privacy for you, or a little more space. As I tell my clients, this will always be a prison, not paradise, but I will make it better.”
“I understand that. Paradise awaits me; this is merely the waiting room. I would choose it to be more luxurious, but the suffering I endure now will only serve me in paradise.”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Judith Cochrane smiled.
“I’ll see you in three days.”
“Thank you, Ms. Cochrane.” The Emir cocked his head and smiled. “I am sorry. How rude. Is it Mrs. or Miss?”
“I am unmarried,” replied Judith, warmth filling her fleshy cheeks and jowls.
Yasin smiled. “I see.”
24
Jack Ryan Jr. arrived at Liberty Crossing, the name given the campus of the National Counterterrorism Center, just after eleven a.m. He had a lunch date with Mary Pat Foley, but Mary Pat asked him to come early for a personal tour of the building.
At first Mary Pat had suggested she and Jack dine at the restaurant there at NCTC after the tour. But Junior had made clear that there would be a business component to the lunch, and for that reason he preferred they went someplace off-site and quiet where they could talk shop. Mary Pat Foley was the only person at Liberty Crossing who knew of the existence of The Campus, and Jack wanted to keep it that way.
Jack pulled to the front gate in his yellow H3; he showed his ID to a tough-looking guard who checked his name off a list of approved visitors on his computer. The guard waved the Hummer through, and Jack continued on to his meeting with the number-two NCTC executive.
She met him in the lobby, helped him get his credentials, and together they shot up an elevator to the operations center. This was Mary Pat’s realm, and she made certain to spend a portion of each day walking among the analysts working here, making herself available to anyone who needed a moment of the deputy director’s time.
The room was impressive; there were dozens of workstations facing several large wall displays. The huge open space amazed Ryan; he couldn’t help but compare it to his own shop, which, although possessing state-of-the-art technology, did not look nearly as cool as the NCTC’s setup. Still, Jack realized, he and his fellow analysts were privy to virtually every bit of intelligence that flashed across the monitors around him.
Mary Pat enjoyed the role of tour guide for young Ryan, as she explained that more than sixteen agencies worked together here at the National Counterterrorism Center, compiling, prioritizing, and analyzing data that came to it from intelligence sources across the U.S. intelligence community as well as directly from foreign partners.
This op center, she explained, was up and running twenty-four/seven, and she was proud of its impressive feat of coordination in a bureaucracy such as the U.S. federal government.
Mary Pat did not bother any of the analysts working at their desks as she and Jack wove through the busy operations center—if each person in the room had to stop what they were doing each time a VIP was ushered by, little important work would get done—but she did direct Jack to a workstation near the hallway that led to her office. Here Jack noticed a gorgeous girl about his age with mid-length dark hair in a ponytail.
Mrs. Foley finished her spiel on the virtues of interagency cooperation with a shrug. “That’s how it’s supposed to work, anyway. We do pretty well, most of the time, but like anything else, we are only as good as the data we analyze. Better product means better conclusions.”
Jack nodded. It was the same with him. He was looking forward to getting out of the building so he could share with Mary Pat the excellent product he had brought with him.
“Thanks for the tour.”
“You bet. Let’s go eat. But first, I’d like you to meet someone.”
“Great,” said Jack, and he caught himself hoping it was the good-looking girl busy at her desk right next to them.
“Melanie, do you have a second?”
To Ryan’s pleasure, the girl with the chestnut hair stood and turned around. She wore a light blue button-down shirt and a navy knee-length pencil skirt. Jack saw a navy jacket over the back of her swivel chair. “Jack Ryan Jr., meet Melanie Kraft. She’s my newest star here at the op center.”
The two shook hands with smiles.
Melanie said, “Mary Pat, when I joined, you didn’t tell me I would get to meet celebrities.”
“Junior’s not a celebrity. He’s family.”
Ryan groaned inwardly at being called Junior in front of this girl. Jack thought she was stunning; he had a hard time turning away from her bright, friendly eyes.
Melanie nodded and said, “You are taller than you look on TV.”
Jack smiled. “I haven’t been on TV in years. I’ve grown up a bit, I guess.”
Mary Pat said, “Jack, I kidnapped Melanie from her desk at Langley.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Melanie said.
“You couldn’t work for a better boss,” Jack replied with a smile. “Or do more important work than NCTC.”
“Thanks. Are you here because you are planning on following in your dad’s footsteps in government service?”
Jack chuckled. “No, Mary Pat and I have a lunch date. I’m not here looking for work. I appreciate what you guys do, but I’m a money guy. A greedy capitalist, you might say.”
“Nothing wrong with that, as long as you pay your taxes. My salary has to come from somewhere.”
They a
ll three laughed about that.
“Well, I’d better get back to work,” Melanie said. “It was nice meeting you. Best of luck to your father next month. We’re rooting for him.”
“Thank you. I know he appreciates what you all do here.”
Mary Pat had just shut the door on Ryan’s Hummer, he had not even turned over the engine, when she turned to him and smiled. He smiled back. “Something on your mind, Mary Pat?”
“She’s single.”
Jack laughed. With a slight affectation in his voice, he said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Mary Pat Foley just smiled. “You’d like her, she’s very smart. No, not smart. I think she’s damn brilliant. Ed and I have already had her over to dinner, and Ed is smitten.”
“Great,” Jack said. He did not get embarrassed particularly easily, but he was starting to blush. He’d known Mary Pat since he’d been in diapers, and she had never once even asked him about his dating life, much less tried to set him up with someone.
“She’s from Texas, if you didn’t notice her drawl. Doesn’t have too many friends around town. Lives in a little carriage-house apartment down in Alexandria.”
“This is all interesting, Mary Pat, and she seems nice and all, but I actually had another reason for coming down. Something a little more important than my love life.”
She chuckled. “I doubt it.”
“Just wait.”
They pulled into a strip-mall sushi bar on Old Dominion Drive. The little restaurant was as nondescript as any eatery in the city, stuck tight between a cleaner and a bagel shop, but Mary Pat promised the sashimi was as good as Ryan would ever eat this side of Osaka. As the first customers of the day they had their pick of tables, so Ryan chose a secluded booth in the back corner of the restaurant.
They chatted about their families for a while, ordered lunch, and then Ryan pulled the two photographs from his Tumi bag, placed them side by side.
“What am I looking at here, Junior?”
“The guy on the right is ISI. Head of Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous.”
Foley nodded, and then said, “And that’s also him on the left, younger and out of uniform.”
Jack nodded. “LeT operative named Khalid Mir, aka—”
Mary Pat looked up at Jack with astonishment. “Abu Kashmiri?”
“That’s right.”
“I was wrong, Jack.”
“About?”
“About your love life being more interesting than what you wanted to talk about. Kashmiri was killed three years ago.”
“Or was he?” Ryan asked. “Rehan is Khalid Mir. And Khalid Mir is also known as Abu Kashmiri. If Rehan is alive, then, to paraphrase Mark Twain—”
Mary Pat said, “The rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated.”
“Exactly.”
“I saw a digital image of a body, but it was after a particularly well placed Hellfire, so it could have been anybody. That’s one of the troubles with missile strikes. Unless you go in and get DNA yourself, then you never really know if you got the right person.”
“I guess we don’t have CSI Waziristan just standing by, ready to rush to every scene and swab for evidence.”
Mary Pat laughed. “I am so stealing that line.” She turned serious. “Jack, why don’t I know about this Kashmiri-ISI connection already?”
Ryan shrugged. Gerry had directed him to keep detail of Campus operations out of the conversation, so he couldn’t tell her that Dom and Driscoll saw this guy in Cairo and their photo actually made the connection in the recog software.
“Jack?”
Ryan realized he was just sitting there.
Mary Pat said, “Let me guess. Senator Hendley told you to show me the pictures but not to reveal your shop’s sources or methods that discovered the connection.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. That’s the business we’re in. I respect that. But you are here for some reason other than to just show me you’ve made this connection, right?”
“Yeah. This guy, Brigadier General Riaz Rehan. There was a sighting of him a few days ago in Cairo.”
“And?”
“He was meeting with Mustafa el Daboussi.”
Foley’s eyebrows rose. “Well, that’s not good. And it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. El Daboussi has a benefactor already; he’s Muslim Brotherhood. He doesn’t need the ISI. And the ISI has militant organizations doing their bidding right there, in Pakistan. Why would Rehan need to go to Cairo?”
Jack knew what Mary Pat Foley was thinking but not saying. She wasn’t going to come right out and mention el Daboussi’s work on the training camps in western Libya. That was classified intelligence. It was also something The Campus had intercepted from CIA traffic to NCTC, which is how Jack knew this in the first place.
“We don’t know. We are surprised by it, too.”
When the food came, they ate in silence for a moment while Mary Pat Foley multitasked, using her iPad to look at some sort of database. Jack assumed it was classified intelligence, but he did not ask. He felt a little uncomfortable knowing that he and his organization were, in a manner of speaking, spying on the NCTC and the work they did, but he did not dwell on it long. He needed only to look at this conversation here, where Jack and his colleagues had exploited intel derived from U.S. intelligence community sources, improved on it with their own work, and now fed the new-and-improved product right back to them, free of charge.
The Campus had been doing this for much of the past year, and it was a good relationship, even if one of the members of the romance was not aware of the other.
Mary Pat looked back to Ryan. “Well, I now know why this General Rehan was not on my radar. He’s not a beard.”
“A beard?”
“An Islamist in the Pakistani Defense Force. You know they are split down the middle in the Army over there, the ones pushing for theocratic rule, and the ones who are still Muslim but want a nation ruled under a secular democracy. There have been two camps in Pakistan for the past sixty years. ‘Beards’ is the term we use for the theocratic government proponents in the PDF.”
“So Rehan is a secularist?”
“The CIA thought he was, based on what little was known about the man. Other than the name and one photo, there is literally no bio for the guy, other than the fact he was promoted from colonel to brigadier general about a year back. Now that you have shown me that he is also Abu Kashmiri, I’m going to go out on a limb and say the CIA was wrong. Kashmiri was no secularist.”
Jack sipped his Diet Coke. He wasn’t sure how important this information was, but Mary Pat seemed energized by it.
“Jack, I am very glad to hear you guys have been working on this.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because I was a little worried you were involved in that shootout in Paris the other day. Not you, personally, of course, but Chavez and Clark. I guess if your shop is working in Cairo, then you weren’t operating in Paris at the same time.”
Ryan just smiled. “Hey, I can’t talk about what we are and are not involved in. Sources and methods, right?”
Mary Pat Foley cocked her head a little. Jack could tell she was trying to get a read on him right now.
Quickly he changed the subject. “So … Melanie is single, and she lives down in Alexandria, huh?”
25
Judith Cochrane took her seat at the little desk in front of the window into Saif Rahman Yasin’s cell. He was still seated on his bed. He held a notepad and a pencil in his lap. Upon seeing his lawyer, he stepped up to the window and sat on his stool, bringing his pen and his pad with him.
With a smile and a nod, he lifted the receiver of the red phone on the floor.
Cochrane said, “Good morning.”
“Thank you very much for arranging for me to get some paper and a pencil.”
“That was nothing. It was a reasonable request.”
“Still, for me it was very nice. I am grat
eful.”
Cochrane said, “Your writ of habeas corpus was denied. We knew it would be, but it was a motion we had to go through.”
“It is of no consequence. I did not expect them to let me walk away.”
“Next, I am going to petition the courts to allow you to—”
“Do you have any ability, Miss Cochrane, to draw?”
She wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. “To draw?”
“Yes.”
“Well … no. Not really.”
“I enjoy it very much. I studied art for a short period in England at university, and I have continued it as a pastime. Normally I draw architecture. It fascinates me very much the design of buildings all over the world.”
Judith did not know where, if anywhere, this was going. “I can arrange perhaps some paper that is a better quality if you would like or—”
But Yasin shook his head. “This paper is fine. In my religion, it is a sin to photograph or draw the face of any living, walking thing.” He held up the pencil in his hand as if to clarify the point. “If you are doing it for no reason. It is not a sin if you are doing it to remember a face for some important reason.”
“I see,” Cochrane said, but she didn’t see the point in this conversation at all.
“I would like to show you some of my work, and then, perhaps I can teach you a bit about art.” The Emir reached into his notepad and pulled out four sheets that he had already torn from the pad. He held them up, one at a time, to the thick bulletproof glass. He said, “Judith Cochrane, if you would like to assist me with my case, if your organization has any interest in holding your nation accountable to its own laws, then you will need to copy these pictures. If you work slowly on the desk there with your pen, I can watch you and help you along. We can have an art class right here.”
Judith Cochrane looked carefully at the drawings. They were sketches of four men. She did not recognize them, but she had no doubt that they were real people who would be recognized by anyone who knew them, so detailed and careful were the renditions.