by Gayle Lynds
“You can’t talk, can you?” Methuselah decided.
“Abu Dhabi is a good place to lay over. Then where will you go?”
“Okay, got it. So you’re saying Kuhnert’s freelancing, and we don’t know what he’s up to. If Gul Shah catches Kuhnert in a lie, he’ll make sure he’s buried under the pines where no one will find him. You want me to make that happen?”
“Detained, I’d say.”
“That could still get him scrubbed, Chief.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Understood.” Methuselah turned off his cell and glided back through the trees.
33
Washington, D.C.
The morning’s early clouds had vanished, leaving the sky a brittle blue. Old magnolia trees and oaks cast long shadows across the rolling lawns of Capitol Hill. Litchfield and Bobbye Johnson hurried through the shade toward her armored sedan.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t fire you.” Bobbye’s mouth was a thin, ominous line.
Laurence Litchfield felt a wave of disquiet. The DCI was one of the few people in federal government who by law had unconditional authority to hire and fire without giving reason, to protect the security of the agency. He needed to survive only another day, then he would have the wherewithal to oust her.
“Because after what just happened, you’d look petty,” he said kindly, feeling a moment of pity. “And because you already sleep with the dead. You know your time’s up. Hell, it’s all to your credit you’ve lasted as long as you have, especially considering Jay Tice was arrested after you took the helm, and that Defense has been swiping more and more of Langley’s prerogatives while whispering bedroom promises in the Oval Office. You haven’t been able to stop that or the constant insults to Langley’s ability, integrity, and product. What I don’t know is why you hang on.”
Her driver stood at her rear door, holding it open. She climbed inside, while Litchfield hurried around and got in next to her.
She studied him appraisingly. “I stay because good-citizen backyard barbecuers like Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen lived lives of inestimable deceit. Because the politically ambitious wrap themselves in religion and use their god’s name to justify their personal lust for power. Because until peace drapes itself over this sorry old world, independent intelligence and analysis are critical.”
The sedan glided off, heading downhill toward the Potomac River. As she gazed away, he sensed a deep well of sadness, or perhaps disappointment.
She spoke to the world drifting past their windows: “And because someone whose only self-interest is three squares and a hot shower has to stand against the forces that look upon Langley as if it were a holiday roast, to be sliced and passed out to the greedy who buy places at the front of the line. Yes, Defense is on a campaign to militarize intelligence, but I’m holding them back better than anyone I know could—including you. Your sense of entitlement is bottomless, Larry. Trust me, the tide will turn, and someone like me needs to be at Langley’s helm, as you put it, to make certain we help the ship of state right itself.”
Taken aback, he said nothing. He busied himself by pulling out his laptop and reloading it with the Jay Tice CD. He had been working on it off and on, whenever there was a lull as they unearthed Whippet’s black history. Once he had explained what he was doing, she did not interrupt again. He was convinced the answer to where Jay would go was in his relationships with operatives—and that meant it was probably on the CD somewhere.
“Your turn,” she said sweetly.
But he was saved, at least for the moment—his cell rang. “Do you mind?”
“Fine. But we’re not finished.”
He nodded and answered the call.
“This is Methuselah,” the voice announced.
Methuselah was one of the undercover operatives Litchfield had personally sent to infiltrate U.S. cells of Islamic extremists. The men reported directly to him and only to him. He had learned how crucial such a firewall was from Jay Tice, and the tactic had paid off. His spies not only survived, a year ago three had relayed intel that had led to his discovery of the Majlis al-Sha’b.
He glanced at Bobbye, who was watching him quizzically. But as soon as he said into the cell phone, “Report,” she inclined her head, understanding.
The voice spoke coolly: “Ben Kuhnert’s resurfaced.”
Litchfield frowned. Ben Kuhnert was retired—what was he doing there? He listened closely as Methuselah repeated what Kuhnert had told Gul Shah about an arms shipment—it could easily be Ghranditti’s deal. Litchfield thought fast. Kuhnert was one of the longtime NOCs who had worked with Jay in Europe. He typed the name into the laptop and ordered a search. Dozens of abstracts appeared of operations to which both had been assigned. He needed to narrow them. He ran another search, this time for missions that included Palmer Westwood. There were far fewer.
After Methuselah ended his report and severed the connection, Litchfield continued to speak occasionally into the phone so Bobbye would not realize he was buying time. He checked the trio’s joint missions—and stopped at DEADAIM. West Berlin, 1985. He had read the news reports at the time, but never the file. His gaze froze on “cut up a gold carnival medal so the five could identify one another.”
In his mind, he could see the triangular pendant Jay used to wear on a chain under his shirt. He recalled thinking at the time it was important to Jay, and now that he had read about DEADAIM, he understood why. But did it still matter? Because if so, the other old men mattered, too.
Again he ran a search, this time for the addresses of Elijah Helprin, Ben Kuhnert, and Frank Mesa. He did not bother with Palmer Westwood, since Langley was looking for him. Information about the three appeared at once. Yes, all lived in Northern Virginia, where CIA retirees and employees peppered the landscape.
Litchfield said a brisk good-bye into the dial tone. He needed to call Ghranditti with the news, which meant he had to get rid of Bobbye.
She was studying him. “All right, Larry. What in God’s name are you up to?”
He continued to scan the abstracts as if he found nothing compelling. “Right now, I’m working on that CD of information about Jay Tice. And I’m thinking it’d be a good plan to stop at a service station whether we need gas or not. It’s at least a half hour more to Langley, and I could use a restroom. How about it?”
“Nate’s the driver. Tell him.”
He did then caught her gaze probing him again. He infused his voice with compassion: “I admire you, Bobbye, but honesty isn’t enough for your job. DCIs also must be visionary and daring. Willing to gamble. But you’ve had too many bridges blown out under you, and you’re tired. You avoid risk. My advice is you should move on before you’re asked to.”
Her voice dropped twenty degrees. “What are you up to, Larry?” she repeated.
He looked directly into her chilly eyes. “I’m doing my job. That’s all that I’m up to. Right now I’m your DDO, and I’m damn good at it; otherwise, you really would fire me.” He felt a rush of excitement as he saw a service station. “And you’re wrong about what you call my sense of entitlement. All I’ve ever wanted was what was best for Langley. Stop over there, Nate,” he told the driver. “That one will do.” Then to Bobbye: “We both want only what’s best for the country.”
Before she could respond, he was out of the car and heading to the restroom, where he could lock the door and call Ghranditti.
The Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia
Gul Shah’s airy hut was both an office and a communications center. Sunlight flowed in through the two large windows, illuminating equipment and creating a chiaroscuro of shadows in the corners. Four wireless computers sat on desks next to satellite phones, landline phones, and wireless radios. Maps of Asia and the Middle East covered one wall. A second wall was devoted exclusively to maps of Afghanistan—evidence that more was at work here than nostalgia.
“Naswar?”
At the sound of Shah’s invitation, Ben turned. It would be impolite
to say no. “Manena,” he said in Pashtu, expressing his gratitude.
The warlord removed a mirrored lid and extended a circular steel tin packed with moist naswar—a green chewing tobacco made with ash, indigo, cardamom, and water, which was popular in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Ben rolled some into a ball and tucked it between his cheek and gum. Almost instantly he felt the heady kick.
“We have a saying in Pashtu,” Shah said. “Perhaps you’ve heard it—watch the walk of a man who says he comes in peace.”
Ben peered at him then turned to a map of Afghanistan. Wide arrows swept up from the southwest, indicating invasions by the Persians then the Greeks long before the birth of Christ, then the British in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Arrows down from the north meant more conquerors—Mongols and Moguls in the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries, then the Soviet Union just twenty-six years ago. Finally, an arrow up from the southeast stood for Britain in the years India was a lucrative jewel in her empire’s crown. Some victors stayed centuries; still, the Pashtun never really capitulated.
Ben gestured. “Here’s the tragedy of Afghanistan: Invasion. Resistance. Invasion. It’s no secret the new government’s on the verge of imploding, and the Taliban are regaining strength and want to retake the country.” He walked to the window that overlooked the clearing. In pairs, men were practicing knife attacks. He looked back at the office, where no religious items were displayed. “You’ve got something planned, and it has more to do with your being Pashtun than Muslim. My guess is the reason you’re still listening to me is the contraband shipment involves not only my enemies—but yours.”
“Jihadists.” Shah’s lip curled with disgust. He paced the floor. “Pashtunwali is our ancient code of laws. If you don’t live by it, you’re no Pashtun. But it’s kept my people bickering in the mountains while others run the country, even though we’re the majority. Only tribesmen such as ourselves can convince the tribes.”
“You intend to convince them with M-16s?” Ben asked curiously.
“Violence isn’t the first answer. But only a Pashtun with a weapon is respected. That shows how much the tribes have to modernize.”
“Then it makes sense you tell me about the shipment.”
“You’re damn right.” Shah stopped. There was fire in his eyes. “I don’t have the details of time or place, or even who the seller is. But I’ve heard rumors. With what you tell me, I know the buyer now. They call themselves the Majlis al-Sha’b. They approached us to join about a year ago, but we turned them down. They present themselves as a combination U.N. and NATO for revolutionary groups. The vision took off like a Hellfire missile, and now the Majlis represent some twenty major organizations. Their treasury is a fat two trillion dollars.”
Ben’s throat was dry. That was more than the gross national product of all but a handful of countries. “Have the Taliban joined?”
Shah nodded. “That makes it inevitable the Majlis will do everything they can to stop us in Afghanistan. This arms deal is supposed to give the Majlis all the firepower they need to do whatever they want.” Shah’s sun-carved face was troubled. “Then not just us but the whole world really needs to watch out.”
“They’re buying submarines? Tanks? Nuclear missiles?”
Gul Shah shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.” But for several more minutes he added other details.
Ben listened carefully then asked, “Do you have any of their names?” “The man who approached us called himself Faisal al-Hadi. He seemed to be their leader, although he denied it. He didn’t take our refusal well.”
Ben hid his surprise. “I’ll bet he didn’t.” He extended his hand. “Thank you. There’s no time to lose.”
The warlord shook Ben’s hand then nodded to the guard at the door. “Escort Mr. Kuhnert out of camp to his car.”
Gul Shah dropped into his desk chair and picked up a report from his top spy in Kabul. But before he had finished two pages, a noisy scuffle erupted outside, and his door swung open. Noor Yusufzai skidded inside. Noor wore the ash-colored turban of the Wazir tribe. He was one of the oldest enlistees, nearing thirty.
“Says he has to talk to you,” one of the guards who followed explained. He carried Noor’s British Bullpup.
Shah repressed irritation. “Knock next time.” He focused on Noor. “Speak.”
Noor’s face was flushed with outrage. “A few years ago I checked out the trial of the Turk who was accused of smuggling explosives to blast the Brooklyn Bridge. The man who just left was one of the CIA witnesses. I don’t know who he told you he was, but I know he’s CIA. He must be spying on us!”
Shah felt a chill. “You’re sure he’s CIA?”
“May Allah strike me dead!”
Gul Shah scooped up his AK-47 and ran.
Ben and his escort were halfway out to the road when he heard men racing toward them from camp. Immediately he slashed the rigid edge of his hand into his escort’s windpipe and, when he fell, kicked his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs. The man scratched uselessly at his throat and grabbed at his chest.
Scanning the drive and trees, Ben confiscated the guard’s M-16 and a wicked-looking Afghan knife and jumped up as eight guerrillas rounded the bend, their assault rifles at high port, ready to fire. Ben plunged into the forest.
Shots erupted, biting into the dirt and sending puffs of dust mushrooming.
Ben raced past boulders and around a blue spruce and flopped down behind a log. His heart pounded. Sunlight shafted down around him, leaving him in shadows. He raised his head. The men had hesitated over the fallen escort. Some crouched in an effort to get him to talk, to reassure them he was all right, showing how young and inexperienced they were.
Still, it would not be long before their training reasserted itself. He needed to slow them and at the same time lure them. He opened up with a long burst over their heads—but not too far over.
They dropped flat. He fired three more bursts, provoking them to scramble into the timber for cover. As he watched them vanish, he rose. They would expect him to go in the opposite direction, deeper into the woods, to escape. Instead, he checked the angle of the sun and trotted south, paralleling the pitted drive, thinking. Just eight pursuers. That meant Gul Shah had likely ordered the rest on a variety of paths to cut him off.
Soon he heard the eight again, back on their feet and running carefully, some toward him. He loped to the road’s edge, fell onto his belly, and crawled to where he could check both directions. A brisk wind had risen, whistling along the route. Tree shadows wavered. The road was deserted.
Cradling the M-16, Ben crab-walked across and ran again, looking for duff to muffle his footfalls. In his mind, he pictured his goal—his camouflaged Range Rover—parked not at the entrance to the camp and not before it, but two miles beyond. He had come prepared for escape.
His strides ate up the distance, but his chest heaved, and his years began to weigh heavily on him. Tree leaves brushed his face. Briars tore at his clothes. A low rustling sounded behind him. The volume rose quickly. Men were approaching.
He quickened his pace. But when he finally spotted his Range Rover, covered with branches, a team of armed guerrillas hurtled out from the forest to his left. Praying he had time, he dove inside, fired up the engine, and gunned out of the timber, leaves and branches flying off. As his wheels hit the mountain road’s blacktop, he was already turning east, toward Washington.
At the same time, another team spilled out onto the blacktop. Their heads swiveled as they took in the situation. There was an explosion of noise as bullets rained into the Range Rover’s tail. He floored the gas pedal. His back tires spun, and the car shot forward like a cannonball. They raced after him, firing.
In his rearview mirror, he watched them grow smaller until at last they stopped in the middle of the road. They looked young and confused. Ben shook his head, fearing for them in Afghanistan. Then he put them from his mind and took out his new cell phone. He had calls to make.
34
Alexandria, Virginia
Frustrated, Elijah Helprin ran his fingers through his brush of wiry hair as he trotted up the spiral staircase in the darkened town house. He had spent hours on the phone and interviewing people before arriving at this pricey place. Upstairs was his best hope for information about the StarDust sub-miniature computers.
Elijah slipped back into the bedroom. It reeked of last night’s booze. Karel Dudek flung an arm out from beneath the covers of the king-size bed and reached across to the other side. His eyes were still closed.
“I told her to leave,” Elijah said. “You can send the escort service the money.”
“What?” Dudek sat up, long hair a sweaty mess, eyes wide not with fright but with outrage. “My wallet’s in the bureau drawer. Take what you want. Get out!”
Elijah nodded to himself. You did not rise to be CEO of a high-tech electronics giant like Nanometrics, Inc., by being fainthearted. “Tell me about this.” He tossed the Bubble Wrapped package of StarDusts onto the bed and held up his CIA identification.
Dudek snatched up the StarDusts and stared at Elijah’s ID. “These are top-secret—DoD cleared, not CIA. How did you get them?”
“From a killer’s car. Your contract doesn’t allow you to sell StarDusts to anyone but DoD. So either you’ve been flogging them illegally or you’ve had a robbery. DoD will breathe down your neck with a flamethrower—if I tell them.”
The CEO seemed to disintegrate. He collapsed onto his pillows. “Someone stole them from our headquarters in Santa Barbara. My people are investigating.” He rallied. “We’ll find out who did it. Believe me, it’ll never happen again.”
“When were they taken?”
“Yesterday. We didn’t realize it until late afternoon.”
The crime might seem last-minute, but Elijah had no doubt it was planned carefully and long before. He glared. “You were at a big DoD dinner last night, Dudek. Who else has had military product stolen recently?”