The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “Why?”

  “That cowboy you talked to had a sharp ear,” Carstens began. “TV networks don’t want their key anchors to sound like snobs or Southerners, so they hire them out of the Midwest.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Jericho.

  As the car pulled alongside the curb, Carstens looked at her friend. “He’s a Midwesterner, Elaine…and probably a US citizen.”

  “A homegrown beast,” Jericho stated.

  Carstens popped the trunk release and both women got out of the car. With Jericho’s suitcase next to her on the ground, Thorill spoke bluntly. “Elaine, listen very carefully to what I’m going to say, because I can’t warn you enough.”

  “Okay.” Jericho felt her friend’s concern spill across the small space between them and smother her.

  “If this Ali turns out to be an American citizen, your infatuation with him is over, understand?”

  Jericho nodded.

  “You chase this guy too far and it won’t just be the end of your career, it’ll put you in jail. Federal time is no fun.”

  “I assure you, Thorill, it’s crossed my mind.”

  Carstens took both her hands and held them warmly.

  “This weekend will be just us having stupid fun.” She gave Jericho a hug. “Protect that attractive backside of yours. If need be, destroy whatever goods you got, despite your dogged desire to the contrary. Be smart! Keep what you’ve done so far to yourself.”

  Smiling, Carstens saluted. “Never given orders to an officer before. Glad we’re friends!”

  The flight home to Washington provided Jericho time to think. Managing satellite imagery was predictable; playing detective without precise images was disorganized and frustrating, a canvas that needed many more brushstrokes than she first realized. Interpretation of that data—she was learning—was much more difficult.

  One thing was clear: her detective days were over. What she was doing was illegal. Her duties were limited to nuclear geopolitics; snooping around well beyond that scope was a major breech of her jurisdiction. Ali was a matter for the FBI, and not her affair. She’d never know any more than she did right now.

  Fatigued, she returned to her book. The worn blue leather cover revealed habitual use and masked a world of rare but pleasant diversion. She affectionately thanked her mother for instilling the habit as a teenager. Romance novels were a simple way to escape life. Whenever at sea, she brought a boxful, but there was never time to finish them.

  After a few pages, she sensed a warm rush and tried to rationalize her present life with what she really wanted.

  The dancer got sex—but nothing more.

  She looked at the pages opened in her hands.

  An ice cube clinked in her empty plastic cup. Her life was hopeless. Washington was filled with young women and far fewer men. The males who played the game of government used those favorable odds to encourage the next conquest to lie on her back.

  Pigs at the trough, she conceded.

  Jericho sat upright.

  Her mind flooded with questions expecting instant answers—responses that would frustratingly have to wait until the next morning when she got to work. The first question plagued her the most.

  Why would Ali want to be around pigs?

  FORTY-ONE

  Washington, DC Monday, November 17, 2003

  “Richard, don’t play games with me,” Jericho warned. “Ms. Rushworth told me to find Sayyaf. I’d like the DNA sequence.”

  “She made a joke,” he replied sarcastically. “Didn’t you get it?”

  Jericho’s face was almost the color of her hair.

  “Besides,” Fields continued, “what’s a pig got to do with nuclear terrorism?” A yawn followed. “The forensic report was clear. Don’t you have better things to do? Like, you know, there is a war going on in Afghanistan…in case you forgot…and—”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Her voice controlled, she put down the cup of tea. “That specimen may suggest a country visited or place of origin…and help find both Ali and Sayyaf.”

  “You’re serious? A pig?” His tone was insulting. “How about satellites? We redirected two platforms so your analysts could look for those containers. I’m sure you’ll agree that verifiable data takes precedence. The Chair turfed Ali. If they find out anything, I’ll call you. He’s not on your priority list. Now…if Priscilla’s decision isn’t good enough for you…”

  Her face matched her hair again.

  More times than she preferred to acknowledge, Jericho had witnessed the same thing in bureaucrats. It was never about their sworn duties; it was all about their own self-interests—climbing to the top by any means available and avoiding pitfalls that might detour the ascent. What was even more disgusting was when open zippers helped leverage the way.

  Jericho dismissed the inconceivable thought, certain it was the result of her casual reading. Her singular desire was to get the DNA footprint. Fields’s rebuff would eventually flounder.

  “You think that, as CIA, you control the agenda,” Jericho said, “You’ll remember—as Priscilla likes to say—we’re in this together. I have clearance to review any concerns of the Nuclear Committee’s activities or details in reports.” She paused. “You can make this easy on both of us or hard on you. And if need be…I’ll speak with my director.”

  Carstens’s words bounced in her head when Jericho threatened to bring the admiral into the fray. Maybe now it was she who was overinflating her station. She softened her voice.

  “So, Richard…what’s it going to be?”

  “Have it your way.”

  “Thank you.” She added syrup to her words. “I do appreciate your time with this. If I discover anything, and that is a big if, you’ll know.”

  The DNA signature arrived by e-mail two days later. As expected, Fields copied Rushworth just to bait Jericho, but she didn’t care. She’d gotten what she wanted and went to Glen Sorenson, who beamed when she approached.

  “Do you have any clue how one cross-matches DNA?” she asked,

  “Well, no…but let’s see.” The keystrokes began. “Here we are, Commander, you compare what you have with a repository for such information…like CODIS.”

  “Suppose it isn’t human.”

  “Like alien? From the agency’s Roswell floor?”

  He looked too eager.

  “Perhaps closer to Earth…like farm animals…pigs, specifically.”

  A series of clicks.

  “Amazing!” Sorenson said. “This thing almost answers the question before the query’s finished.” He showed her the screen. “Several databanks in the world do it…biggest one is located at Purdue.”

  “Can you access the system?”

  “Give me a second.” More clicks. “Here we are…ready and waiting.”

  Jericho handed him a jump drive. It contained one small file.

  “Ask their library about that sequence…please.”

  Sorenson clicked and pasted. “Done.”

  “Really?”

  She, too, was amazed at the speed.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His disarming grin seemed incompatible with his intellect. “Their firewall was trivial. I cut through it like a knife in soft butter.”

  His enthusiasm made her heart pound more as she drew Glen deeper into her obsession.

  “Check it out,” he said proudly. Jericho leaned forward, a hand pressing on his shoulder for support.

  Sorenson tried to keep his mind focused, but his boss seemed less intransigent in recent weeks. She also appeared more ruffled, for reasons impossible to contemplate.

  “Any idea what this gibberish means?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” he said, his fingers fluttering again. “The specimen is from a…” Sorenson paused, scrutinizing the screen. “What’s called a Hampshire male…which we already know is a pig.”

  He took a swallow of water from a plastic bottle and gave a frustrated head shake.

  “There’s not enough DNA to verify iden
tity or lineage.”

  Regrettably, Jericho began to realize, Fields was probably right. The organic material meant nothing—another dead end.

  Sorenson watched her tongue hover over her clear lipstick and knew she was thinking intently. “Why are you looking at this, Commander, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “It has to do with the backpack, Glen,” she replied. Her stomach started churning again.

  “Well, I’ll admit, some men are pigs,” he offered, trying to subordinate any worry she might have about his curiosity.

  “Yes, they are.” Caught by her casual response, she amended her words. “Not all men, Glen, just a few.” She pointed at the screen. “Whoever this pig person is, well…he could be dirty.”

  “I would be too, hanging around with pigs.”

  She laughed, glad for his adroit joke.

  “Can I help you find out more?” he asked.

  “Thanks, but no.” Jericho downplayed his eagerness. “Call it…” Muting her words, she shook her head forcing a sincere smile. “There’s nothing here, Glen, and we’ve more important work to do. Great effort, though. It’s a waste of everybody’s time.”

  She’d say no more to him.

  FORTY-TWO

  Monday Afternoon

  “Them Hampshire hogs are ugly mothers!” Cottrell Herndon remembered too well. “When Pa cut ‘em…they squealed fierce!”

  As the pen clicked, Jericho sensed a memory swelling from his youth.

  “And, darlin’?”

  She held a blank expression.

  “When those boars escape to the wild, they get big…rooting around at night, digging up crops! Then they get hairy…and grow tusks! Once that happens, they are mean. I mean real mean. Don’t want to mess with them or they’ll charge you. Had a three hundred pounder chase our truck once.”

  “What happened?”

  “The old man blasted it with his 30-30. Good barbecuing that night.” He flipped the photograph back. “So what do you think about Priscilla moving up to deputy director?”

  The rumor had circulated for several days.

  “I hadn’t given it much thought,” she said. “I learned long ago not to listen to gossip.”

  “Will you ever give me a frank opinion?”

  “Sir…About intelligence, yes. In matters of people, especially her…let’s just say, I don’t want to be quoted.”

  “Circumspect as usual,” he said with a chuckle. “Plus, I expect you don’t want her to misunderstand your infatuation with pig DNA.”

  “That’s not my concern.” Jericho shook her head. “Ali got on that freighter one way but off very differently, and it has to be those containers, particularly with Sayyaf in the picture. Why Rushworth punted the thing just like that”—Jericho snapped her fingers—“to the FBI confounds me.”

  “She sees forests, never trees.” He laughed. “You’re a lot smarter than she is…and more astute. She knows she’s a political appointee. Maybe she’s jealous.”

  “Of what?” Jericho asked.

  “Your intellect…and, of course, your red hair.”

  “Stand down, Admiral.” Jericho winced. “I thought we were having a serious discussion.” An affectionate smile followed.

  “I read you, Commander.” His pen started clicking again. “Look, Lainey…ever stay at a Ritz-Carlton?”

  The memory of her only midshipman indiscretion came back.

  “Not for a while,” was the muted reply.

  “Mention something as insignificant as a room-service tray left too long in the hallway to the concierge, housekeeper, whoever—that employee owns the issue and makes sure it’s taken care of. Call it what you will—job security, pride of employment.” The admiral smiled. “That obsession is part of your job too. The same with your staff! They’re devoted because you are. Your crew evaluations were the same! Why do you think I picked you?” The pen clicking never ceased. “All those working research in the cubicles are just like you and me. We aren’t the problem. We’re the fixers.”

  Herndon sat back in the wooden captain’s chair. The glued joints creaked as he crossed his legs.

  “By ‘n’ by, truth is truth. Few in government take ownership of anything, and never after four o’clock. Superb benefits, though.”

  He paused, enjoying the rare opportunity for candid conversation.

  “I wouldn’t sweat over this Ali fellow, Elaine. Time will tell. Don’t let him distract you much.

  All she said was, “You’re right.”

  “Hmm, I sense your confidence on this whole episode remains subpar.”

  “Cottrell, the scenario is still troubling whether or not Ali’s in it. During multiple passes over Yemen, we traced the truck treads east for miles, until we found those containers at the bottom of a cliff.” Jericho rocked her head back and forth. “Along the way we saw no evidence of any change in tread depth—always shallow—so maybe those never had anything in them from the get-go.”

  “Even if the ship’s log doesn’t reflect another stop, the at-sea timeline is too protracted,” the admiral said. “Unless, of course, they just went sunbathing for a few days in the Gulf of Aden.” He added his usual chuckle.

  “They had to have made port somewhere during that window,” Jericho replied. She had learned over time to ignore his sidebar comments. “If the remaining two containers had maraging metal as NSA reported, it would make sense for the Sagar to stop in Iran, then the material was probably taken underground at Qom—frustrating we didn’t see any of it…all intentional.”

  “Yes, Yemen was a grand illusion.” He was clicking his pen as his jowls wagged. “Our enemies are smarter than we are sometimes.”

  “They knew from the beginning there was a good chance we’d be looking, and for the most part their scheme went well.” She sighed. “We did chase the bait, but what they didn’t anticipate was that Ali—”

  “That smart guy—Sorenson’s his name—did a great job,” interrupted Herndon wishing to move on to a topic that he hoped would delight her.

  “Thank you, Cotty. I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “Lots of unexplained elements in play, Elaine.” He added, “So now this whole thing will get passed on to somebody else.”

  “Let me just add this thought,” Jericho said, not yet willing to take the hint. “I’ve no doubt that Ali was getting off in Karachi. If he did kill the others—and I suspect that was the case—it just hastened his plans. I’m convinced Sayyaf and Ali will meet again—on purpose, but finding either of them will not be easy.”

  “I agree…but we’ll see,” said the admiral shifting forward in his chair. “On a lighter note…”

  “There is one?”

  “Would you like to be shiny brass again?”

  Her green eyes fluttered when she heard the words. A promotion in rank was coming, but with good came bad.

  “I’ve been offered a seat with the Joints,” Herndon said. “So there’s a new billet for you! Yours for the taking...”

  Jericho swallowed hard.

  “I’m recommending you for Assistant Director of Global Operations, starting next year…Captain.” He belly-laughed. “That means, of course, that immediately your workload will pour on you like a manure truck at an organic farm.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true, Lainey. You’ll be at the epicenter, as they say, of intelligence. We’re going have to win this war in little steps.” He beamed with pride. “Who’s better than you? You’ll fight to cut through the crap.”

  “While dying in bureaucratic hell…”

  The current meetings she attended made that concern very real.

  “Commander, your devotion to this country is the finest example of American patriotism.”

  She blushed. “Sir, I don’t deserve it.”

  “You don’t wear allegiance on a lapel, you live it. I can’t think of anybody better than you to find the sons of bitches before they spoil tailgating with a dirty bomb after the Tide crus
h Auburn.” He clenched his jaw shut. “Ah! I just hate it!”

  A moment passed for his repartee to return.

  “Mostly I know you’ll take the job…because you enjoy Priscilla’s company so much. Watching you annoy her these last weeks has been a pleasure.”

  “I hope you’re kidding, Cottrell.”

  “Can’t stand her.”

  “I meant about the promotion, Admiral,” she replied. “You honor me, sir.”

  “You honor our country, Elaine Jericho.”

  “You know I don’t care about anything but the security of the United States of America.”

  “Because,” he laughed again, “you think the safety of her citizens lies in understanding the life story of a hairy pig? I’m still working on that one.”

  “Yes, I do, and that’s my final Jeopardy answer.” She shook her head in frustration. “I’m not a libertine. I’m an officer with a sworn duty.”

  “Lainey, you’re already learning the art of bullshit.”

  “I’ll live with my frustrations,” she said. “We lost so many that day—so many good people! My God!”

  The admiral saw her eyes grow moist as her voice became subdued.

  “You invest your entire career protecting a great country…and every election cycle we go backward, dealing with new self-righteous appointees.”

  She sniffled, clearing her nose while her hands opened in frustration. “Then we’ve got the politicians…They’re the worst. It’s bad enough they’re snide to you in private while you’re trying to do your job, but then…they feel empowered to do the same thing in public.”

  “Good feeling, huh?” replied Herndon. “Try dealing with a House Subcommittee on Intelligence. There’s a misnomer if I ever heard one.”

  “Maybe I am playing my cards now,” said Jericho. “I’m tired and hoping you were just kidding me about the appointment.”

  “Lainey, we’re all tired.” He reached over and affectionately placed his hand on her shoulder. “Just so you know…Bill Platter will be moving up, taking over for me.”

  “Admiral Platter’s a good man,” she agreed. “Fair too. Just not as sweet as you.”