The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  Crouching, Morgan raced along the cliff until he dove into some bushes. He removed his shoes and put them in his satchel, hooking it over his shoulder. Footsteps approached as he sank below the rim, his toes and fingers searching for cracks.

  A deep voice yelled for silence then shouted, “Tawfik?”

  There was no answer.

  He called to the lookout on his radio.

  “Fire flares!”

  Dark trails streaked up from the ridge and popped. Hissing magnesium lit the world.

  “There!” someone yelled.

  Before the flares burned out, several more ignited. Ivory-white lightning sprayed from the floating meteors.

  “Tawfik?” they shouted together.

  “A rope!” a voice yelled.

  Morgan kept descending, invisible in the sputtering light. Nearly vertical, his fingers throbbed until his toes found a ledge. He paused to catch his breath.

  A rope dropped near him, then pebbles splattered as it began to sway. Someone was rappelling down. Morgan could tell his boots were desperate for contact. More stones tumbled as the rope whipped against the cliff.

  The night sky remained alive with flares.

  Morgan saw legs, and he closed his eyes. When heavy breathing came near, Morgan reopened them. The whites glowed.

  “Shabah alkhair!”—Good Morning!—Morgan said cheerfully, punching him in the face.

  The man’s grip slipped. Before he could cry out, his face shrank and the sound of a cracking coconut ascended. Taking hold of the rope, Morgan repelled to the meadow.

  FIFTY

  Santa Fe, New Mexico February 17, 2004

  Cottrell Herndon congratulated Jericho when she told him about the week off.

  “Good to go west for rest,” he said, trying to lead the next question without actually asking.

  “And…No, Cotty,” she said, answering his inferred curiosity. “I’m going alone.”

  For three days she let her stress dissolve as her skin was kneaded in oils and cleansed in salt rubs while the entrancing fragrance of sage calmed her mind. Each evening she ate in another distinct bistro then strolled to an obscure bar. Enjoying a glass or two of wine she let well-groomed men make conversation, and became one of the pampered women from her novels. Jericho enjoyed each fantasy, but as she lay alone in bed the last night, the weight of conscience returned. She knew the trip was a deception to everyone, especially herself, but hoped maybe someday it would be real.

  Jericho drove east into the bleak Texas Panhandle. Her methodical sifting through the handful of hog breeders and litters with the correct DNA sequence finally led her to the seller of the sperm. Despite the gloom of the overcast plains, she was glad to be away from Washington and the tedious briefings and the meetings.

  First she had to endure the smell of the pens while ignoring the yelps of jubilant pigs as the Demetri Kubiak pumped putrid sludge into their troughs. The proud farmer had insisted on a tour.

  “They like,” he gleamed. “Leftover prison food. They like after Thanksgiving best. Stuffing, potatoes, pumpkin pie.” He saw the remaining color leave her face. “You no like this.”

  No, she didn’t.

  “We go to house. Wife making coffee,” he said. “Feel warm and better.”

  Kubiak directed her to a dilapidated armchair, where she sat recovering, safe for a time from more banter. The coffee arrived.

  “Mr. Kubiak, as I explained on the phone, I’ve learned about your hog farm because of a sire named Aingeni Black.”

  “Aingeni,” he replied like a proud parent. “My best pig ever. Much money for sperm. Here to buy some?”

  The vision returned of a pig humping an artificial vagina, and she paused before answering.

  “As I mentioned,” her lie began, “I work for a private agency, and a man has listed being at your farm in his résumé. I know you’ve probably had a number of workers in your employment over the years…”

  “Not illegal,” Kubiak interjected.

  “Oh, no! I’m sure of that, sir,” replied Jericho, reaching for her briefcase. “I just thought if you saw his picture, you might remember him. I know how busy you are, and I don’t want to take up much of your time.”

  Jericho handed him the composite sketch.

  Kubiak’s wife sat down with them. The couple’s eyes met in a surreptitious exchange. They were quiet for a time, then the husband handed the picture back to Jericho.

  “Jimmy Laymonjaylo,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” said Jericho, rubbing her dry tongue over what remained of her lipstick. “He worked around Aingeni?”

  “Maybe two times only,” he said. “Work more with sheep and goats.”

  “Was he a hard worker?” Jericho had to sound convincing for only a little longer.

  “Yes.”

  “How long did he work for you?” she asked, grateful the conversation was almost over.

  “Only…” Trying to remember, he squinted at the ancient chandelier. “Two weeks?”

  “Really!” Jericho said. “What a great impression he made on you for such a short time.”

  “Yes,” said Kubiak.

  “I must be off,” Jericho said, gathering her briefcase. “Your words are helpful.”

  “Why is working on my farm with Aingeni so important?” the farmer wanted to know.

  “As you said yourself, Mr. Kubiak,” Jericho began, amazed by her ability to improvise while this nervous, “Aingeni improved the quality of Hampshire hog back-fat for the breed…in general,” she added.

  Kubiak smiled proudly.

  “That Mr. Laymonjaylo was familiar with Aingeni underscores what we already know.” Her deodorant wasn’t working anymore. “That’s why I showed you his picture before I confirmed his name. We needed to be sure that he was who he said he was.”

  Jericho stood up, hoping her overcoat was close. “So again, thank you. I must be off.”

  “If you have more questions, Mees Jericho—”

  “I’ll be sure to call,” she answered, while shaking his hand.

  Jericho stopped for gas in Tucumcari, New Mexico. The February wind was dry and tinged with red dust as she filled the tank.

  Once she had learned the name Laymonjaylo, she had to get away from the Scurry Farms. Despite their salt-of-the-earth personas—friendly and never suspicious—Jericho’s conscience was pushing her heart so high in her throat she felt they knew she was lying. She wasn’t sure if anything they said had been worth her invested risk. None of it made sense. Why would Ali only have pig hair in his pocket, and not from other livestock? At least she now had a name she could cross-reference.

  Jericho got back in her car. It had taken an hour of driving before her trembling subsided, but with Scurry Farms now in the past, she finally relaxed again. She had a few vacation days remaining and thought about visiting a former colleague who was doing postdoctoral studies at Los Alamos. She glanced at her watch. Too late in the day to make the drive, she decided to get a hotel room in Santa Fe. When she reached for her phone, there was a missed call from an unrecognized number.

  It wasn’t the NGA. Jericho’s senior aide would have left a message. Cottrell Herndon would have too, and he would never bug her short of an emergency—not after his years of ribbing about vacations. Unless the call was a misdial, the person would have to try again.

  The Ford sedan merged back onto the interstate. She turned on the satellite radio and listened to jazz to pass the monotonous time during the drive back to Santa Fe.

  Her cell phone rang.

  The call came from the same number.

  Jericho answered it.

  “Hello…” she said.

  “Elaine Jericho?” asked a male voice.

  “Who’s calling?” she asked.

  “Agent Paul Cotsworth of the FBI, Chicago office.”

  “I’m driving,” she said over the music. “Hold on…”

  The phone dropped to her lap. She put on the turn signal, decelerated to the shoulder,
and returned the phone to her ear.

  “What is your name and title again?” she asked.

  “Paul Cotsworth, Special Agent, FBI, Chicago office,” he repeated.

  “Why are you calling?” Jericho asked.

  “Seems we have a mutual acquaintance,” said Cotsworth.

  “Pardon me?” she replied. “Is this official?”

  “I realize this is not a secure line, but I’d like to talk to you. I believe you might have information about a case I’m working on.”

  “I’m not able to speak freely with you,” she countered.

  “Sure you are,” he replied. “Let me be clear: you can…and will.”

  “What makes you think that?” she asked. These types of spontaneous calls were very dangerous.

  “Seems you and I both have mutual friends—Mr. Kubiak and James Laymonjaylo,” said Cotsworth.

  Jericho caught her breath. Did Kubiak just call the FBI? She wanted to kick herself. She should have used a pay phone and not her cell to call him. But why the Chicago office?

  Then she remembered Thorill Carstens’s words: He’s a Midwesterner.

  “Ms. Jericho?” Cotsworth asked. “You there?”

  “Yes…I’m listening,” she said.

  “Do you think we could get together for an off-the-record conversation? Casual, you know, maybe in a neutral place?”

  “I’m on vacation right now,” she answered.

  “Near Texas,” he said with a slight chuckle. “How about lunch Friday in Chicago? Would that give you enough time to get here? I admit, February weather might be less appealing than where you are, but my accent will be easier to decipher.”

  “I’m not liking this,” Jericho said.

  “Captain Jericho…” said Cotsworth.

  When she heard him use her title, she had no option.

  “Yes, Agent Cotsworth?”

  “I give you my word,” he said again. “Our lunch will be private. Shall we say Friday, twelve thirty, at the Berghoff? It’s on Adams.”

  “A restaurant? Isn’t that too unsecure?”

  “Naw,” he replied. “The place will be noisy as hell at lunch time.”

  “Guess that works then,” answered Jericho. “How will I recognize you?”

  “Don’t worry,” Cotsworth replied, “I’ll see your hair.”

  The FBI agent tipped back in his chair and read the officer’s biography. A lot of the specifics were redacted, but there was enough of her career there to impress him.

  It was damn fortunate that Demetri Kubiak thought to call him. Why the NGA was interested in a missing pediatric surgeon was most intriguing—particularly because an assistant director of a major government agency had visited the same pig farmer with a different drawing of Morgan.

  Until that afternoon Morgan’s file contained too many nothings for Cotsworth to further investigate his disappearance. Given enough time however, the FBI agent knew every narrative filled. What he hadn’t imagined was the answers might come with the help from a Wisconsin-born naval officer who worked with spy satellites.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Swat District, Pakistan February 19, 2004

  The bus stopped near a crumbling roadside bridge. While Morgan waited for the noisy diesel hulk to disappear in its dust cloud, he glanced around to make sure he was alone. With the early-morning sun stretching his shadow, he climbed down the weedy embankment and stepped into the stream fed by the snowfields thousands of feet above him to the east. His boots startled a trout.

  “Damn…water’s cold.”

  Morgan walked several yards until he was hidden under a canopy of tree branches. He removed a belted holster from his satchel and buckled it so the Makarov hung within easy reach under his coat. His finger checked the silencer. Bought several days before from a purveyor in a side-street shop in Kohat, Morgan went out of the city that afternoon and fired a number of practice rounds at a can. Quiet as promised, he cleaned and oiled the pistol, reloaded the magazine, and slipped the piece in his bag.

  He looked around again. Nursed by the cool water, wild crocuses prepared to bloom under budding skeletons of peach trees while falcons suspended themselves in the updrafts. The serene surroundings tempted him to relax, but he knew better. Death remained imminent. He’d already been upright and motionless for too long, offering an invitation for a sniper to practice.

  Morgan’s walk upstream began. The soaking trek had purpose. He’d leave no footprints, and moving water was less likely to have mines.

  Turning around, he scanned the receding valley floor for movement.

  A pair of wild sheep grazed along the bank, munching tender spring grasses, ignoring him. He moved his satchel to the other shoulder and continued his ascent.

  The pine forest thickened, and the creek’s mouth ended in a rippling pool fed by a waterfall. Beyond was a high mountain pasture filled with sheep tended by an older man and two boys. Tethered by a leash to the smaller boy’s wrist were two hoggets straining to run off.

  Morgan waved and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

  The man beckoned for him to come close. They shook hands.

  “I am Abdullah.” He introduced his sons. “Essam and Mohammed.” The father’s words were thick, making him difficult to understand. “Where do you come from?” he asked, offering Morgan fresh sheep’s milk.

  “Kohat,” Morgan replied.

  “A place very hospitable to strangers!” the father said. “I remember from when I was younger.”

  “Be assured, my friend, Kohat has not changed.” Morgan smiled, gently squeezed the shoulders of the boys and handed each of them each a small chocolate bar.

  “I commend you, Abdullah!” Morgan said. “Your sons are sturdy. Your blood is strong!” He offered his hand again. “I must continue. I have many miles to go before dark, Inshallah!”

  “Where are you going?” asked the shepherd.

  Morgan tapped his chest, pointing in the distance.

  The father’s eyebrows lowered while he shook his head in disapproval.

  “Dangerous. Taliban patrol,” he said. “You should camp here tonight. We would be honored.” His concern was clear.

  “You are most kind,” Morgan replied but pointed again and started walking. “But, I must go. May God bless you and your sons.”

  “May He make your path safe,” the father called. “Inshallah!”

  Morgan turned, put his hand over his heart then waved.

  The sons stood close to their father, his arms resting across both boys’ shoulders. They answered the wave and continued to tend their flock.

  The trail continued for miles until it squeezed to a narrow ridge leading to an overhang and rock pillar. Morgan knelt, rolled on his back, and shimmied until he could see around the vertical outcropping.

  The trail zigzagged higher. With his binoculars he studied the marred cliffs dotted with caves and stone porches, inventorying several and their heights above the ground. He briefly admired the colors splashing the soaring peaks, then before slithering to look over the edge, he placed shades on the lenses so the binoculars wouldn’t reflect the sun.

  On a promontory half a mile away was a three-story building. Morgan saw no movement and the doors were shut. The chimney was cold.

  He lowered the binoculars, laid his head flat, and waited motionless for several minutes. Then he began a more detailed appraisal.

  The highest terrace of the building commanded a view of the entire valley. A camouflage tarp covered a large irregular contour. He adjusted the focus to study more carefully the angular outlines under the other tarps.

  “I bet that’s a fifty caliber gun and extra ammo.”

  On the second level, a door led to a deck with a table and several chairs facing the steep, protective bluffs. The ground-floor patio had cracked tiles and a gravel path that led to a small nearby building.

  A resolute smile came across Morgan’s dirty face.

  It had to be an outhouse.

  A metal gate barricaded the
entrance while the decaying masonry wall surrounding the compound held coils of barbed wire strung along the top through twisted rebar except for a small space in back.

  There were three directional spotlights. One was mounted on the high deck and two more on the wall.

  He continued his survey west across the amorphous rocks, grass and sagebrush now covered in the twilight’s haze that blended with twirling sand. A long serpentine road ascended from the flatlands to the compound’s front gate—the sole entrance.

  While drinking some of his sticky porridge, Morgan estimated the distances from his location to various places around the building and grounds. When he was finished, he crawled into a deep rill and fell asleep.

  Two frustrated voices woke him. The men were loud and had walked the entire night without finding the stranger who had stepped off the bus at the trailhead wearing hiking boots and carrying a shoulder bag. When the hiker wasn’t waiting to board the bus on its return trip, the driver called it in.

  The men discussed what the sheep herder had told them: that the hiker had left the meadow on the path that led to the cliffs even after warning him not to go that way. One of the men said the father should have killed him, and come into town to report it.

  “The fool!” said the other.

  Morgan removed the Makarov from its holster and held it ready.

  They stopped outside the crevasse where he lay. Laughing, one of them urinated into the dank hole near Morgan’s face while the other man used a radio to report their lack of success so far in their search.

  Breathless, Morgan waited to move until he could no longer hear their tromping footsteps. He wiggled out of the crack into the sunlight and peeked at the cliffs. Struggling up the path, their guns swung behind their backs, he saw the men talking with animated hand gestures, expressing gladness their uphill search would end soon. Morgan knew they’d have to return the way they came.

  Keeping off the trail and in the woods wherever possible, Morgan started back. From time to time, he hid behind trees listening through the insects and birds for sounds that didn’t belong. When he was confident he remained alone, he resumed his quick pace.