The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “A few items belonging to Morgan and the girl…plus a letter asking the father to take care of them. The final remnants of Morgan’s life.”

  “That’s grim,” Jericho said.

  “The rest of his story is wrapped in shadows.” The FBI agent smiled. “I was getting ready to close the file, then…Who would have thought a pig would bring you and me to lunch?”

  “Why would Morgan go to Scurry Farms?” Jericho asked.

  “And play with barnyard animals? That’s a million-dollar question…” Cotsworth shrugged. “Morgan’s generated more than one of those. He’s left a trail of bread crumbs that don’t lead anywhere—that is, until I now find out he’s vacationing with a nuclear terrorist. Until an hour ago, that would have been too preposterous to invent.”

  “I echo that sentiment,” Jericho said.

  “I have whatever access I need to follow up on this thing, so I’ll dig around a little more.” He wet his throat with some beer. “You’ve given me another colorful thread to tie onto this fraying ball of yarn. Who knows how many more of those there are. I will say, a stop in Pakistan might not have even been on his itinerary, if he has one. That place sure isn’t safe for Americans.”

  Cotsworth sucked in his cheeks, shifting his jaw back and forth. “Anyway, assuming he’s alive, until he’s picked up by Interpol or tries to come home, there’s probably little else I’ll be able to discover.”

  He leaned forward again. “Elaine, you’re on a limb ready to snap.” Cotsworth’s tone grew serious. “Leave this thing alone.”

  Jericho’s cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me.” She saw the number. “Work.”

  The brief conversation was vague. After disconnecting, Jericho gave Cotsworth a perturbed look. “Duty calls. They need me for a meeting tomorrow.”

  “The ball and chain,” he said. “Got mine too.”

  She rose to leave but sat again. “Paul, what happened to his fiancée?”

  “Her name was Caroline.” His voice softened. “She was at a breakfast meeting at Windows of the World.”

  “Oh my God…”

  The thumbs of both hands rubbed little circles against her temples as she became absorbed in impassioned contemplation, her eyes motionless behind the caged space her fingers created in front of her face. Everything Morgan was doing was now clear.

  Shaking her head so Cotsworth wouldn’t suspect she was thinking too much, Jericho contemplated the reality a moment longer, then said, “That’s just awful! Her poor family…and Morgan!” She released an audible exhale. “I understand their pain completely. I lost friends that day too.”

  “We all did,” Cotsworth said.

  She took the last of her wine and sighed. “Could I just…see those pictures again? It’s just unbelievable. She was so beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was,” said Cotsworth, reopening the file. He handed it to her.

  Jericho looked at Caroline’s picture then held her eyes on Jon Pruitt to memorize his phone number and address.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Washington, DC February 21, 2004

  The Saturday-morning meeting surprised many. Ski trips to West Virginia were canceled and pancake breakfasts at home with the kids were missed. Despite a midnight arrival in Washington, Jericho was awake before her alarm clock.

  She didn’t really get any sleep. The revelations shared by Cotsworth melded her apprehensions into perplexity. It was easy to swap Ali’s name for Morgan’s, but if he was attempting to do what she believed, there was no way to validate it with only anecdotal evidence. No one would believe her anyway. Besides, with Cotsworth giving her the same stern warning as Carstens, it was best to let her exploits remain concealed.

  In low heels, she walked as quickly as she could to the Metro, then five blocks to the White House, her long legs getting her there a few minutes early. At the security gate, she paused to catch her breath, her intrigue growing by the sudden need to meet in the Basement.

  Several other ranking officers cleared security with her. After salutes they walked briskly together to the front portico door.

  Inside, her raincoat vanished in the hands of a marine corporal. In the washroom she adjusted her cap and tugged her uniform jacket taut. When she emerged, she was escorted to the briefing room. Crammed with gray and black suits and uniforms, Secret Service agents appraised every nuance. At the far end of the room, the current and former NGA directors, Bill Platter and Cottrell Herndon, were talking to President Reeves. When the admiral saw his favorite officer, he beckoned her over. She saluted the trio and Herndon introduced her. Handshakes followed.

  “Captain Jericho returns from her first vacation ever, Mr. President,” Herndon kidded, “just to join us today.”

  Reeves laughed. “Refreshed, I hope, Captain,” he said. “How was your time off?”

  “Marvelous, Mr. President,” she lied.

  “You’re lucky you got away,” Platter said. “We’re going to be busy.”

  “Please take your seats.” A pleasant but authoritative voice called to the uniformed and suited assembly.

  “That’s our cue, officers…duty calls,” said Reeves. “A pleasure meeting you, Captain.”

  “My honor, Mr. President.”

  “Gentlemen…” Reeves nodded to the admirals.

  “Sit behind me, Elaine,” Platter whispered.

  “I’ve been told,” she whispered back.

  Reeves approached the center seat.

  “Good morning, all.” Known for his relaxed charm, the man seemed embarrassed by the encircled formality. “Please…sit.”

  Chairs moved.

  “Thanks for coming on short notice…and on a Saturday. I know it’s time away from your families or…maybe a vacation.” The president found Jericho, acknowledging her with a concise smile. “However, you’re also cognizant of your responsibilities…such is their burden in our call to duty. I thank you and them.”

  He paused, his face filled with determination. “Time to get to the crux of this. Our Director of National Intelligence, Mr. Tomlinson, will discuss the reason. With that, I give him the floor.”

  Jericho recognized all the faces. The intelligence directors, the joint chiefs, and secretary of state were present; behind them were their immediate coadjutors. She saw Rushworth. Their eyes connected for the briefest instant.

  “CIA’s in charge,” Jericho said to Platter, who acknowledged with a single nod.

  “Good morning,” said the DNI. “I echo the president’s sentiment. Thank you for coming on short notice. My remarks will be thorough but brief.

  “Over the past few months we’ve been evaluating a rhythm change in our electronic and spectral surveillance, corroborated by recent human intel. We confirm with ninety-eight percent reliability actionable intelligence that our number one target, Osama bin Laden, plus al Qaeda and Taliban representatives and a liaison from Iran—the list is specific—will meet in Swat three weeks from yesterday. We have the location.”

  The DNI adjusted his reading glasses and took a sip of water. “This face-to-face meeting will finalize plans necessary to collapse the Pakistani government, with the ultimate goal, as you can suspect, of acquiring their nuclear arsenal. Some in ISI believe that much of the military will rally to that cause.”

  Even those who already knew sat in rapt contemplation.

  “Jamil Sayyaf, the limping nuclear weapons expert who worked on Pakistani bombs, is invited…if that tells you anything. He’s been unusually busy. We know he delivered centrifuges and reactor steel last fall through Bandar Abbas, and more recently has been coming and going through Pakistani border checkpoints—bypassing might be a better term—and has now taken residence close by in Mingora.”

  The DNI sneezed then blew his nose. “Sorry. It’s the February dampness. To accelerate fear in Pakistani citizens, a coordinated escalation of terrorist bombings has started in their cities. It’s a distraction…to terrify and rile the populace.”

  Tomlinson concluded, �
��We believe we have an opportunity to create a major interruption in al Qaeda’s plans, acquire and exploit site-sensitive information, and…without adding any unneeded emphasis, extract our friend Osama.” His face held a determined expression. “Mr. President…”

  “Thank you.” Reeves stood. “This will be an American operation only. In part for secrecy, but more so, the responsibility to interdict shall belong solely to the Unites States. I will notify the president of Pakistan before we enter their airspace, preventing any ISI mole from thwarting the plan. I will inform our NATO allies immediately after that.”

  He stopped to canvass their looks. “We want Mr. bin Laden. He’s going to be ours, and he will be brought to justice as the world watches.” He motioned to the DNI before sitting down. “Mr. Tomlinson, please continue.”

  “Thank you, sir. Admiral James Llewellyn, in charge of Joint Special Operations Command and Operational Security, will now give a summary of the National Command Authority plan. The items relevant to each agency will be distributed following this meeting, so your offices will be your next destination. Advise those on your staff they’ll be working today, tomorrow, tomorrow night, and so on. Tell them to bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes, but tell them nothing else until it appears in the timeline.”

  His lips became straight. “I’ll say it anyway: don’t plan to sleep until it’s over.”

  “Captain Lainey Jericho, lovely to see you,” said Herndon, emerging from his private office, grinning his familiar disarming smile.

  Her hand trembled when it met his. Swamped with work, the appointment was delayed until late in the week, and that only worsened her anxiety.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be working on the world peace initiative?”

  She looked thinner beyond her usual slender self.

  “Admiral, we need to speak in private.”

  Her familiar kinetic tendency wasn’t there. In fact, she seemed on the brink of panic.

  “Of course.” He guided her to his inner office. “No calls,” he said to the officer at the closest desk, “and please bring the captain some tea and milk.”

  Herndon shut the door.

  “Sit down, Elaine,” he said gently.

  She sank in the armchair. There was a polite knock, and a steward presented the tea to her. When the door closed again, Herndon said, “You haven’t been sleeping…”

  “No.” Her conscience hadn’t let her.

  “To be expected…we’re all under stress now.”

  Jericho grimaced. “That’s not it, sir.”

  “Drinking?”

  She shook her head. “No…sir.”

  The admiral pulled his wingback chair closer, condensing the space to make the conversation feel more private.

  “Okay. I’m no longer your superior officer…just your friend…which I am, by the way.” He put his hand over hers. “What’s going on, Lainey?”

  The years of discipline returned. She sat erect.

  “Cottrell, I have to report my exploits to you and ask your advice, even…even if it means disciplinary action. I also…do not request any special favors or leniency.”

  “Jesus, Elaine, spill it.”

  “I’ve been over and over it,” she said.

  She detailed her activities surrounding Ali, the farm, and Cotsworth. At one point she thought Herndon was enjoying the tale.

  “You discovered this yourself?”

  “Yes. Well, no…not in the beginning, at least. Glen Sorenson helped, but I didn’t know what I was looking for.” She cast a wary look. “Please keep him out of this. He was acting under my direct authority.”

  “No problem.” He sat for a time. “So what do you think Morgan’s doing?” he asked.

  Jericho said, “I believe he’s hunting for the same person we are.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “He’s certainly smart and shrewd enough to try. A man who believes he is going to die is dangerous…worse than a tiger stalking prey.”

  “Do you really think he could survive in the tribal frontier?” Herndon’s lips formed a half frown. “I’ll bet he’s been dog food for months.”

  “Suppose not…and he’s found out about the meeting? It could devastate the operation.”

  “That isn’t going to happen, Elaine.” He shook his head with conviction. “One man can’t get in. CIA’s tried to get in time and again. When they out you, it’s your head. Impossible to get close.”

  Jericho didn’t even hear the pen clicking.

  “As to your extracurricular activities…I’m impressed…but you did go way overboard in your research. I warned you.” He grinned slyly. “I think I can say with confidence I doubt anything will come of it. I’ll discuss it off the record with Platter. It’ll go away…I reckon.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Jericho sighed. “Back to work, I guess.”

  “I think so,” he said.

  “Thank you again, sir.” She rose to salute.

  “Captain Jericho, our country needs you.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Pruitt Farm March 2, 2004

  “Edward Gordon, Assistant Director of the FBI, calling for Mr. Jon Pruitt, please.”

  The number was blocked.

  “Yes, sir,” Gordon said. “I’ll be happy to have you call me back.”

  Connie was by his side as Pruitt wrote down the exchange.

  “FBI…” Pruitt said to her after hanging up. “Senior enough.”

  His expression grew worried. Connie’s followed in empathy as Pruitt dialed the number.

  “Edward Gordon.” It was the same voice.

  “Jon Pruitt returning your call,” he said.

  “Sir,” Gordon began, “I know you’re aware the FBI has been investigating the disappearance of Dr. Wesley Morgan, who, I understand, was in a relationship with your daughter.” He paused, cleared his throat and said, “And let me say this before I go any farther…I’m sorry for your tragic loss.”

  “Thank you,” said Pruitt.

  Reality began to sap his longstanding denial.

  “Regarding Dr. Morgan…” he said, “and I don’t know how to say this easily…”

  “None of it’s been easy,” replied Pruitt. “Please…speak freely.”

  “Sir…” Gordon sighed and continued. “Dr. Morgan liquidated his assets and left the country last fall. His movements after that were completely unknown until recently. Although details are sketchy, we believe he was traveling under a false passport—”

  “That’s odd,” interrupted Pruitt. “Why so?”

  “Unknown. There are gaps in our information,” Gordon answered.

  “I’ll say…”

  “Unfortunately, sir, I have bad news.”

  “Please.”

  “Earlier this year there was a car bombing in Peshawar…that’s in Pakistan, sir…”

  “Just tell me,” said Pruitt.

  His eyes began to well with tears. Connie sensed the worst.

  “According to sources in another of our agencies that I won’t identify, Dr. Morgan’s passport…at least the one he was traveling under…the false one…”

  “Get on with it, man!” Pruitt raised his voice in frustration. “I can already guess what you’re going to say!”

  “Well, sir…We can neither confirm nor deny the circumstances with certainty, but we think that Dr. Morgan was an occupant in the vehicle…and lost his life.”

  “Was his body recovered?” asked Pruitt.

  “That’s a problem, sir,” said Gordon. “The specifics of the tragedy were only recently clarified to us by the Pakistani government. There were…multiple parts of several bodies…burned beyond recognition in the wreckage. They were cremated together.”

  “Christ on the cross,” Pruitt said. “Is that all you can give me and my wife?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, remorse pouring from each word. “There’s nothing else to share.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Darra Adam Khel Arms Bazaar Ma
rch 4, 2004

  It was a time for Morgan to be audacious. Serene and disinterested, he stepped around the notorious guides hustling safe passage and walked past the wind-tanned faces guarding the bazaar’s gated checkpoint.

  For barter, he sauntered in with the two AK-47s from the truck; he had rupees to pay the balance and buy whatever else he needed. A hidden grenade would provide a final gesture if warranted. But it wouldn’t likely come to that. The huge arms market was a neutral zone where sworn adversaries and centuries-old tribal feuds were placed in check at the entrance. Business was business. Trading in guns and other lethal gadgets of human ingenuity possessed rituals that were both historical and absolute.

  Make your best deal and get out.

  From the beginning Morgan knew he was being watched—at least until the eyes found another fresh subject. Then he felt released to wander and converse, no longer suspected of being a rogue. His scraggly looks and body odor offered more than enough evidence.

  For a time he drank tea and talked to men with blown-off hands and fingers while inventorying what lay displayed proudly in the stalls under corrugated tin roofs. Behind a distant razor wire fence lay pallets stacked with large wooden crates—many with Russian or Chinese lettering. Guarded by heavily armed men whose foreheads were wrapped in keffiyehs, the tarantula eyebrows, long eyelashes, and almond-eyed gazes told nothing of the menace hidden behind.

  “Enfield.”

  A gray-haired bearded man elevated the rifle near Morgan’s face as though he was offering his firstborn grandchild for inspection.

  Morgan leaned the AKs against the table and took the piece. With deference he ran his fingers over each square inch of the stock and faded blue metal. He opened the breech, looked down the barrel, then placed his ear close to the action and opened and closed the bolt several times.

  “Smooth,” he said.

  “Like baby’s skin,” replied the man.

  With the buttstock blocking his face, Morgan glanced past the cartons of American cigarettes, fake antiques, and stacked flasks of brandy to evaluate a rifle with a synthetic folding stock, short barrel, and scope.