Laughing softly, Laura said, “Why don’t you ask her? I can certainly see the advantages—you get to know the language and the people, and have an excuse for being in someone else’s country. So why not Segolene?”
Maureen turned to her, interested. “Why not indeed?”
“Seriously? Because she’s too good at what she does. You can’t fake your way through archaeology, and no real archaeologist would throw away her career.” Absentmindedly, Laura polished her sunglasses, as though considering the matter further. “Gertrude Bell has been dead for decades. These days there’s too great a risk of getting caught, so I wouldn’t augment your day job by pursuing a life of adventure. Likely you’d be captured or killed. Besides, you’re much too competent to work for the CIA.”
Maureen had laughed at this. She was, Laura had already divined, a type she knew well from America—the reflexive liberal, an innocent living in a world more complex than she knew. Unless, of course, Maureen was not what she pretended. But Laura knew a considerable amount about lies and liars, and this was not how she read Maureen. One tool of her survival was a gift for separating casual liars from people like herself.
Now, dropping Maureen at the site, Laura drove back to the dig house.
In the next few hours, she would find an excuse to drive off in her jeep alone. She had scheduled another cell phone call, at one o’clock. A new and troubling secret made the call imperative.
SIX
Sequestered in his office before the next crucial meeting, Brooke sorted through his emotions.
For two years in Lebanon, he had acted on his own, operating under nonofficial cover—a “singleton NOC,” the definition of a loner. No past or future had tied him to anyone: He became Adam Chase, a young American businessman with a gift for languages and an interest in Arab culture. Chase was free to follow his instincts.
Now Brooke Chandler was a bureaucrat. The central purpose of his existence had not changed: to help ensure that the tragedy still echoing from 9/11—which had taken so many lives and changed countless others—never happened again. In recent days, fearing an event far worse, he felt his instincts quickening. But instead of acting, he must undertake the slow, patient, often frustrating work of persuading others who, for reasons good and bad, might not listen. He felt like a man in a straitjacket.
But the job, he reproved himself, was not about indulging his likes or dislikes. To be right—if he was right—imposed terrible responsibilities. And to fail meant living with a psychic burden too terrible to imagine, turning the last decade of his life to ashes.
Standing, he studied the photograph of Ben Glazer and his wife. “I’ll do my best, pal,” he promised, then headed for the meeting.
Around the conference table was the core group focused on the missing bomb: Carter Grey, Frank Svitek, Ken Sweder, Michael Wertheimer, and Noah Brustein. It was 7:00 A.M.; each man had a steaming mug of coffee. Projected on the wall were maps of India, Pakistan, the Middle East, and the shipping lanes to North America.
There were pouches beneath Grey’s eyes, suggesting a night too racked by pain for sleep. In a rough, tired voice, he asked Brustein, “What’s the situation in Pakistan?”
“Still holding. The secretary of state has extracted a promise from the Pakistani prime minister to find and prosecute anyone involved in the terror attacks in India.”
Grey snorted. “Does anyone believe that?”
“I don’t. But it may help to hold off a war, and slow down the wholesale slaughter of Muslims in India. If true, the only nuclear turd is in our pocket.” Brustein glanced up at the maps. “The task this morning is to think about where the missing bomb may be going, and how it gets there.”
“What are its specifications?” Brooke asked at once.
“According to our sources,” Brustein answered, “it contains enough HEU to destroy New York, but can travel in a container about the size of a coffin. The total weight is roughly two hundred pounds, meaning that you don’t need a lot of men to move it. Two men, perhaps. You could put it on a van, truck, boat, train, airplane, or conceal it in a cargo container. At that weight, even a small private plane could get it off the ground.”
“How detectable is it?”
“Not very. Even the most sensitive equipment probably won’t pick up radiation.”
“Do we know how it detonates?”
Brustein turned to Sweder. “It has an altimeter,” Sweder told Brooke, “set for one thousand feet. When the plane gets above that altitude, you unlock the bomb’s security system, then drop it. At a thousand feet, it goes off.”
“What’s the security system?” Michael Wertheimer inquired.
“The Pakistanis’ version of our PAL—permissive action link—a sequence of numbers much like the code to an ATM machine. The purpose is to confine knowledge of the code, preventing unauthorized use.” Reflexively, Sweder straightened his tie. “That’s some comfort, I suppose. To detonate this bomb, al Qaeda—if that’s who has it—would need a technician sophisticated enough to bypass the system, or a Pakistani insider who knows the code.”
Grey reflected on this. “That’s a critical piece of this. I assume we’ve asked the Pakistanis for the identities of anyone with the wherewithal to do that.”
“Of course,” Brustein answered disgustedly. “Repeatedly, and vehemently. But anytime you seriously question a Pakistani about their nuclear program, and his lips start moving, he’s lying. And they certainly don’t want us tracking people who know the secrets of their arsenal. All they’ll say is that the information is ‘sensitive’ and they’re making their own inquiries—”
“Fuck them,” Frank Svitek snapped. “I’m sensitive about Chicago.”
“Please,” Grey said softly, “they’re a proud people.” He turned to Sweder. “Is Immigration checking out any Pakistanis entering the country, and the ones already here? Or will that offend their sensitivities as well?”
“They’re checking,” Sweder said tersely. “If this person exists, we need to find him. Follow him, and maybe we can locate the bomb.”
Grey nodded. “Speaking of which, how’s our surveillance over Pakistani airspace?”
“So-so. We’ve redirected our satellites to areas nearest to where the bomb was stolen. Of course, unmanned aerial vehicles would give us better images. But the Pakistanis won’t permit overflights of UAVs as long as they’re worried about the Indians.”
Grey grimaced in disgust. “Whoever planned this is an operational genius, with a sophisticated understanding of how it might play out.” He turned to Frank Svitek. “How are we using our assets in the Middle East?”
Brooke watched the wariness steal into Svitek’s eyes—this was a classic human intelligence problem, and the agency would succeed or fail based on its network of operatives and sources. Firmly, Svitek responded, “Our station chiefs are pressing foreign intelligence agencies and flogging every source we’ve got. We’re working on suspect jihadist groups, transfers of money, smuggling rings, suspicious convoys, private planes, and vehicles moving at night. We’re also questioning informants with ties to al Qaeda, which is how we got Khalid Sheikh Mohammad after 9/11. As for signals intelligence, we’re focusing on cell phones in Pakistan, India, and the Middle East.”
“That’s about a million calls an hour,” Brooke observed. “An operative this smart will be talking in code on a series of ghost phones. The only way to sort through all the garbage may be through samples of his voice. Do we have any for Amer Al Zaroor?”
“None.” Svitek scanned the group. “We have picked up some interesting phone chatter. On the surface, the contents are banal—too banal, perhaps. But from the location of the calls, and the repetition of certain phrases, they could suggest a suspicious package may have moved through Swat into Afghanistan.”
“What sense does that make?” Grey inquired. “Except for Bagram Air Force Base, there’s nothing in Afghanistan worth blowing up.”
“Unless it’s headed for Iran,” Svitek coun
tered. “For a country developing nuclear weapons, a Pakistani bomb would be a blueprint.”
“Then al Qaeda didn’t steal it,” Brooke said flatly. “They hate the Shia, Iran most of all.”
Brustein looked from Brooke to Svitek. “The chatter could be disinformation,” he said, “as Frank well knows. But we can’t dismiss it out of hand. I’ve told Frank that we have to follow up.”
Somewhere in the Middle East, Brooke thought, a man without a voice is laughing.
“Nonetheless,” Brustein pressed on, “our working premise is that al Qaeda has the bomb, and that it’s headed for the United States—possibly through the ports in Long Beach or New York. The principal concerns are Washington, D.C., and New York—although, as Frank suggests, we also worry about major cities like Chicago.”
Grey turned to Michael Wertheimer. “What about targets outside the U.S.?”
“There are a number of them. Given the apparent involvement of LET, India is one possibility.” He placed a finger on Afghanistan. “If they go after Bagram Air Force Base, as you suggest, Afghanistan actually would make sense.”
“Not to me,” Grey rejoined. “We’ve got too many troops there for al Qaeda to risk it. If you want to take a flier, try the Chechens blowing up Moscow. Not that I’d mind.”
“There’s also every capital in Europe,” Sweder proposed. “Rome, Madrid, Paris, Berlin, and, most likely, London. If al Qaeda levels any one of those, no European country would help us fight our wars again.”
“Are they helping now?” Grey asked innocently. “Please, show me on the map.”
Sweder smiled a little. “There’s also the Saudi oil fields. Beyond wanting to cripple the world economy, al Qaeda hates the royal family. Finally, of course, there’s Israel.”
“I’d move it toward the top,” Brustein said, “if saving Israel was this agency’s job one. But it isn’t.” He looked around the table. “Taking the targets we’ve identified, how does the bomb get out of Pakistan?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” Grey suggested. “At least not right away. In al Qaeda’s place, I might hide it somewhere safe until everyone exhausts themselves looking.”
Sweder looked dubious. “Then how would you get it out?” he asked Grey. “Every day of delay gives the Pakistanis more time to turn their attention from India, tightening the net.”
“That might be true if al Qaeda was running it through the Punjab to Karachi. The Pakistanis have a functioning government there. But Baluchistan is filled with smugglers and Pashtun tribes who hate the government—the army barely goes there. So the smart move might be to smuggle the bomb through Baluchistan to the Makran coast, then head for open water.”
Brustein put a finger to his lips. “And then where?”
“Anywhere. You could fly it in, though that’s complicated by distance and the need to keep refueling. Another means is through normal shipping channels. If you’re going to America, you might put it in a cargo container and ship it from Dubai.” Grey turned to Sweder. “In an average year, how many cargo containers do we inspect once they reach Long Beach or New York?”
Sweder frowned. “About two percent.”
“Well,” Grey said philosophically, “at least they check my shoes at airports.”
Svitek emitted a mirthless laugh. “I think this bomb is coming to America. But a container also works for targets in the Middle East and Europe. If you’re headed for the Mediterranean, you could go from Pakistan through the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea. There’s too much traffic for any boat to stand out, and you can get to Israel or any port in Europe. The only choke point is the Suez Canal.”
Brooke leaned forward. “Why risk getting nailed at the Suez?”
“Depends on what the target is,” Svitek answered promptly. “If it’s Tel Aviv, you’d go through the Suez to Gaza. Then you’d tunnel it into southern Israel and fly from there.”
“Risk upon risk,” Brooke shot back. “First the canal, then the Israelis. They’d carpet-bomb every tunnel in Gaza with the bunker busters they’ve been saving for Iran. After that they’d reoccupy every patch of earth.”
“So what’s your alternative?” Svitek asked. “For al Qaeda, moving the bomb overland has too many problems. We could intercept the bomb in Afghanistan. The Iranians might take it for themselves. After that there’s the Turks, our more or less ally that loathes Bin Laden.”
“What about a land-sea-land route?” Brooke got up, pointing toward the maps of Pakistan and the Middle East. “As Carter suggests, you run the bomb through Baluchistan to the Indian Ocean. Then you take a route far shorter than the Suez Canal: through the Persian Gulf straight to the southeast corner of Iraq.”
Glancing at the others, Brooke noted the skeptical looks of everyone but Grey. “I know you served there,” Brustein told him. “But I wouldn’t have picked Iraq.”
“Still,” Brooke answered, “you know why I did. Our troops are drawing down and confined to certain areas. We’re leaving behind one of the most corrupt countries on earth—a fragmented mess riddled with al Qaeda cells and crisscrossed with smuggling networks. You can run anything in or out of Iraq and never get caught. Even a nuclear bomb.”
Brustein studied the map. “My bigger problem is with what’s next: Jordan or Syria. The Jordanians are our closest allies. Syria, like Iran, has a sophisticated intelligence service and a hatred for al Qaeda. Pick your poison.”
“I’d have to guess Syria. Because it’s the path to Lebanon.”
Brustein gave him a long, considering look. “Iraq. Lebanon. Those are the places you were posted.”
Beneath Brustein’s even tone, Brooke sensed an accusation: that he was recycling his own past, perhaps out of lingering resentment. Calmly, he said, “The boundary between Syria and Lebanon is a sieve. The Bekaa Valley is a smugglers’ refuge, with clans who’ve been running contraband to and from Syria for hundreds of years. The Lebanese government has no presence there—”
“But Hezbollah does. They’d love to take the bomb. So would their patrons, the Iranians.”
“Hezbollah’s all over,” Brooke conceded. “But they don’t control every inch of the Bekaa. The Anti-Lebanon Mountains are filled with places to hide.”
“But what then?” Brustein prodded. “Al Qaeda would have to smuggle the bomb across the border to Israel, which bristles with security.”
Brooke sat down again. “Not if they flew it in,” he answered.
Brustein shook his head emphatically. “A Lear taking off from Lebanon could never beat the Israeli air defenses. They’re the best in the world.” He paused, softening his tone. “Your idea has arresting elements. But there are too many gaps, and our primary focus has to be on protecting America. Given that, our challenge is to choose where in the Middle East to concentrate our resources. They’re not limitless, and neither are the field officers who know the region.”
“Especially in Lebanon,” Brooke rejoined. “Before my unplanned departure, I’d started disrupting jihadist cells. Since then, we’ve been searching for al Qaeda at diplomatic receptions. The work goes slowly.”
Brustein stared at him. “Maybe so,” he said at last. “But you can’t build up an intelligence capacity overnight, or start turning Lebanese off the street into spies. Given what we know, Lebanon isn’t a priority. Nothing you’ve said so far makes it one.”
Brooke stifled his frustration. “All I’m asking,” he responded in a milder tone, “is that we keep Lebanon on the agenda.”
No one answered. Brooke could hardly blame them. He had made mistakes before, notably the one in Beirut that had almost cost his life. Neither he nor his colleagues could know how this might affect his judgment now.
SEVEN
The rest of Brooke’s day—a task force meeting, reviewing emails from the field, ad hoc debates with colleagues—bled well into the evening. Only after a last hour spent running at the CIA gym did he leave Langley. It was close to midnight before he poured a snifter of brandy and sat in his living room, to
o wired to sleep.
His usual solution was reading. His shelves were full of books; on his night table was the new translation of War and Peace and a volume of poetry in Arabic. But he could not stop sifting his thoughts, or asking himself the same questions in a different way. At length, he put on a favorite album from his past, a Brazilian female vocalist with a terrific jazz pianist.
The last time he had seen them live was with Anit. Eleven years later, his thoughts kept doubling back to her, and the country to which she had returned.
“The singer is amazing,” Brooke had promised her.
They were entering the Zinc Bar, a subterranean nightclub on Houston Street, the air already dense with cigarette smoke and the whiff of marijuana. Brooke and Anit got there early enough to snag a corner table near the stage, giving them time to talk before the music started. As they sat, Brooke caught their reflection in a mirror above the bar: Brooke blond and rangy; Anit dark and exotic in the way Israeli women often shared with their Arab sisters. Sitting across from him, she struck Brooke as compelling.
Quiet, she sipped white wine, studying his face in a way far more direct than he was accustomed to from American women. “So you like jazz?” she began.
“I like all kinds of music—jazz, rock, folk, classical. But opera is my favorite.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Even Wagner?”
Brooke shook his head. “Too much historic resonance. I hear all that atonal thunder and start thinking, ‘a little less bombast, and a bit more melody, and the Germans wouldn’t have invaded Poland.’ I prefer the Italians—their armies were worse, and the music better.”
Anit’s expression mixed amusement and interest. “Perhaps I’m prejudiced. But I always thought people acquire a taste for opera when affluence meets middle age.”
“Not me. I came by it naturally—my father is on the board of the Metropolitan Opera. Even when I was young, my parents would take me to opening night.” Brooke smiled at the memory. “Unlike a lot of his peer group—captains of commerce dragged there by socially ambitious wives—Dad was in heaven. His rapture was contagious.”
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