The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  Continuing to keep the owner’s attention on the Enfield, Morgan asked, “Have you had this beauty a long time?”

  “My great-grandfather killed a British soldier and took it as a prize.”

  It was honest pride, total bullshit, or a little of both.

  Morgan shouldered the rifle and peered down its sights. A bullet from an Enfield was powerful and flew true, making the rifle a Taliban favorite for long-range sniping. Through the corner of his eye, he continued studying the other rifle with its integrated silencer, night-vision scope, and large magazine.

  It was time to turn the deal.

  “You cannot sell this treasure,” Morgan said, pulling out a piece of cloth from a pocket. As a sign of respect, he thoroughly wiped the Enfield’s metal surfaces removing any oil left by his fingerprints before handing it back. “I sense your grandfather’s spirit.”

  The man looked disappointed.

  “Besides…” Morgan laughed, “it is too heavy for my hunting journey far into the mountains with my son.”

  To distract anyone who might be watching, Morgan gripped the barrels of both AKs.

  “These hunks of metal,” he said, “are too inaccurate for the sport.” He made sure the man saw him glance at the scoped gun to the side.

  The old man discreetly surveyed the crowd before touching the lightweight sniper rifle.

  “I killed a Russian for this.” He smiled and nodded his head at the memory. “Very accurate…deadly for many, many meters…easy to carry…and cannot wake the family. It will hunt in the dark, if you desire.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Can I examine it?” asked Morgan, also concerned that interest might raise suspicion of the wandering guards.

  “No.” The man added a vigorous headshake.

  “I understand.” Morgan nodded. He reached into his satchel. His fingers flashed a large wad of bills.

  The man whispered, “I’ll sell it to you if you wish, but we cannot trade here. You should buy my Enfield now even though the price will be high.”

  “I would be honored to have it,” replied Morgan.

  “It is yours,” the man answered. During a prolonged handshake, money, the AKs and a piece of paper exchanged palms. “We will meet later at my home for prayers and tea. Inshallah.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  NGA March 5, 2004

  With feet parallel, knees aligned and back erect, Elaine Jericho sat outside Admiral Platter’s office trying to control her apprehension.

  “Tea, Captain?” the second lieutenant and admiral’s personal assistant asked. He knew she always took some if the wait grew long.

  “No…thank you,” she replied quietly.

  Occasionally Jericho had daydreamed about the implausible chance she and the good-looking man might have dinner together. Because of protocol, she knew it would never happen. After Herndon had briefed her yesterday about the morning meeting with Platter, the fantasy was gone.

  The inner office door opened and Herndon walked out. She snapped to attention and saluted.

  “At ease,” he said, his familiar grin absent. “Lieutenant, if you’ll excuse us for a minute.”

  “Certainly, Admiral.” He rose, gave a quick salute and went into the corridor.

  “Elaine, one more thing you should know…and I just found out about it within the last hour…Rushworth insisted she be present to represent the CIA.”

  Jericho winced when he said that.

  “Platter and I balked at first, but then decided it was best to let her speak her piece here, in private.”

  There was an indisputable change in Herndon’s tenor. “I’ll stand by your side…the best I can…but for God’s sake—just let the woman talk.”

  “What do you mean?” Jericho asked. Worry spread over her face.

  “It’s got to be this way, Elaine,” Herndon said. “Sorry.”

  Saying no more, they went into Platter’s office. Jericho immediately snapped to attention. Herndon shut the door and stood with Platter as he came away from his desk. Rushworth put her coffee cup on a side table and uncrossed her legs. Choosing to stand away from the pair, she folded her arms, not letting the uniforms to one side alter the scowl she aimed at Jericho.

  “Stand at ease, Captain Jericho,” Platter said. “You understand the reason you’re here, Captain?”

  “Admiral Herndon briefed me, sir,” she answered.

  “Then I won’t labor through those details,” Platter said. “But I need to say this: Captain Jericho, I’m well aware of your desire to stand firm for your country…but your recent activities are highly irregular.”

  “To say the least,” Rushworth fumed.

  “Madame Director…if you don’t mind, I’ll have the first words,” he retorted. “As you know, Captain Jericho, you’ve been working outside your position and responsibilities, investigating a US citizen without proper authorization.”

  Rushworth charged immediately. “And Captain…this is what gives the government, my agency, and the PATRIOT Act a bad name! And, gets us smeared by the press—all of which makes it impossible to do our jobs…properly!”

  “As I was saying—” Platter continued.

  “What about your oath, Captain Jericho?” Rushworth gulped for more air. “Along with being insolent, you’ve violated the public trust! You could undermine future intelligence efforts! And right now, you may have risked our plans to capture bin Laden! What the hell were you thinking?”

  She came within an arm’s reach of Jericho.

  “Ma’am—” Jericho began.

  “Don’t call me ma’am! I’m not military!” the woman corrected her. With a whine, she said, “I worked a long time for my title. It’s Madame Deputy Director.”

  “I apologize, Madame Deputy Director.”

  “Okay, let’s settle down,” said Herndon.

  “Cottrell, I’m not finished!” Rushworth almost shouted. “Jericho, if you had information, you should have informed CIA instead of chasing around…talking to pig farmers…the FBI!”

  Rushworth gave her a chilling stare. “And how did Cotsworth get involved? Somebody pulled his strings, I’m certain! I’d just love to know who!”

  She pushed her glasses up her nose, stepped back and snarled. “By the way, he submitted his report—and will keep his job. He thanks you very much!”

  Her lips rolled inward while her cheeks puckered. After a hard sniff through her nostrils she continued. “I’ve been instrumental in finding that bastard bin Laden…and now, two damn weeks before the most major, important covert operation since the Manhattan project, and I have to worry about this?”

  Both admirals looked shocked by her presumptive audacity.

  “But God help you, Jericho,” one corner of Rushworth’s mouth drew in and up to form a unilateral smile, “if your antics cause the President to violate Pakistani airspace to assault a family picnic!”

  Herndon chuckled out loud.

  “You get what I mean, Admiral,” said Rushworth.

  “Response, Captain?” asked Platter.

  “Madame Deputy Director,” Jericho began, “you quashed the Ali investigation. If it weren’t for me, this information would have never been discovered.”

  “What!” Rushworth shouted. “How dare you? Of all the unmitigated gall!”

  “Captain Jericho,” Platter said, trying to regain control, “what do you believe Morgan is doing?”

  “You value her opinion why?” asked Rushworth, her voice snippy.

  Jericho looked at Platter. “I don’t know any longer, sir.”

  “You sure did until recently!” injected Rushworth.

  “Go ahead, Elaine,” Herndon said.

  “What? You address a subordinate by her first name?” Rushworth interjected. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t just end with her.”

  Herndon looked severely at Rushworth. “Be careful with your threats, Priscilla.” By using her name maybe she would smolder long enough for Jericho to answer. “At present we are discu
ssing intelligence information. Do you understand?”

  Rushworth’s jaw stayed firm.

  “Captain…if you please,” Platter said.

  “Sir, Agent Cotsworth searched for Morgan and discovered nothing.” Her voice trailed off. Regaining focus, Jericho continued. “Now we learned that he left a trail of death…which is very different from saving babies. Everything he’s done appears calculated, so even if his passport showed up in a car bombing…he might not be dead. What’s he doing? I really believe he’s over there trying to kill bin Laden.”

  “Compelling fantasy, Jericho, a doctor turned vigilante,” spewed Rushworth. “Over the death of a woman? Not a chance! Men get over women when they see the next skirt! Doctors are the worst.”

  Herndon’s eyes rolled.

  “Here’s a far more plausible scenario.” Rushworth again moved close to Jericho. “We know that freighter was dirty, and by happenstance one of the crew was a nuclear terrorist, whose brother mules him toward a terrorist camp. So what I think is going on is that after the woman’s death your Dr. Morgan went crazy…developed Stockholm Syndrome, and headed to Pakistan thinking he’d polish his jihadi skills, then come back to America with an armful of doll-shaped WMDs for his patients.”

  Jericho winced. “I can’t believe—”

  “It’s no wackier than what you suggested, Captain, that is unless you think Morgan’s movements are just the result of a series of coincidences,” impugned Rushworth. “But if for some far-fetched chance he is still alive and attempting to do what you say—”

  “Priscilla,” Herndon said, intentionally using her first name again, “I’d wager big money Morgan’s long dead, either in that car bombing or beheaded somewhere along the way. I can’t imagine any of this is going to affect bin Laden’s extraction.”

  “Unless the ISI has picked him up!” Rushworth’s anger flared again. “They’ll think he’s CIA and pry any information out of him they can use, then they’ll backchannel a warning to the Taliban…and…” Rushworth snapped her fingers. “That’s that!”

  “Collaborative sources tell us the meeting’s still on,” Herndon replied in a controlled tone.

  The hush lasted a moment.

  Rushworth smacked her fist on the top of the closest wingback chair. “It really would have been helpful to know this crap, oh—shall we say—in January, so we could have factored it in!”

  “Madame Deputy Director,” Jericho began, “I informed Admiral Herndon as soon—”

  “The road to hell is lined with lame excuses!” Rushworth scoffed. The corners of her lips curled slightly. “And actually, Cottrell, I agree. This idiot is dead, or our sources would have told us otherwise.”

  After the intensity of her harangue, neither admiral could believe Rushworth agreed with Herndon’s conclusion without argument. There was something more she was waiting for.

  The lioness seemed to salivate. “So let’s move on to a more pressing problem. Gentlemen, what are we going to do with”—she thumbed toward Jericho—“her?”

  “Madame Deputy Director…Admiral Herndon and I have discussed Captain Jericho’s misconduct,” said Platter. “Captain?”

  “Sir.” Jericho came to attention again.

  “The Navy and the Department of Defense want you to go away…and there are only two ways that will happen,” Platter said. “Neither is negotiable. Admiral Herndon, continue, please.”

  Jericho felt like she was about to tumble down a crater opening beneath her feet. She had no idea if her friend was going to help push.

  “Captain Jericho,” Herndon began, “you may request a trial in military court. That is choice one.”

  He paused so she could consider her chances for success in that venue.

  “Here’s choice two. Your service records indicate you have three years and change until your twenty-year mark. You may take a one-month leave of absence effective immediately, be given two hours under guard to clear out any personal effects from your office, surrender clearances and badges, and vacate the NGA. You will be demoted immediately, and in thirty days’ time report to the commanding officer at the navy base in Kingsville, Texas for your new assignment. There you will serve your country as instructed until discharge.”

  Jericho knew Herndon had fought hard for her. His career was probably ruined as well.

  “Number two is what I recommend,” he suggested.

  “But—” Rushworth began, but Herndon held up his hand to silence her.

  “This situation is a military matter, Madame Deputy Director, not civilian,” Herndon said. “These options were approved by DOD legal affairs and signed off by the Chief of Staff.”

  He looked at her. “Lieutenant Commander Jericho, do you have anything more you’d like to say?”

  Addressed in the lower rank, she knew her fate was sealed—the final act by her friend to save what was left of a shattered career.

  “No, Admiral Herndon, thank you, sir!”

  “Then…you are dismissed.”

  She saluted. Neither officer acknowledged the gesture.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Virginia March 6, 2004

  Jericho called Jon Pruitt from a pay phone.

  He called back.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “A friend.”

  The woman sounded nervous.

  “Do you perhaps have a name?”

  “Wesley—”

  “Hmm…” Pruitt cut her off. “You don’t sound like a Wesley.”

  “May I come to your home for a visit?”

  Pruitt thought about it for a minute.

  “Do you know where it is?” he asked.

  “Sort of,” she answered.

  “Our place is on the left one half mile after the last church, just before the highway ends.”

  “Is tomorrow afternoon okay…maybe fourteen—er…two?”

  “That would be fine.”

  The Thunderbird’s top folded down. Jericho wrapped the scarf around her neck, turned the radio up, and headed for the interstate.

  “Arrest me for speeding!” she screamed to the wind.

  No longer having to dress formally, blue jeans and a leather jacket were her chosen uniform. An hour later, after she exited the highway, she felt like she was flying above the country road, passing cars whenever she could. The freedom was irresistible!

  “Crap!”

  Jericho missed the fluttering American flag topped with long white ribbons. She pulled into the next driveway and turned around. Slowing the car to look longer, she held back tears as she entered the lane.

  Stopping on the circular driveway near the broad porch steps, she used the rearview mirror to help her fingers tame the red hair.

  Jon Pruitt came out the front door; Connie followed several steps behind.

  “Hi,” she called, smiling. “I’m Elaine Jericho.”

  “Hello.” Pruitt walked down the steps with a hand in his coat pocket. “Could you please tell me more?”

  “Sir, I am…” Her hands stayed visible on the wheel. “Well…I was a shipboard intelligence officer for the navy.” There was a grimace. “Then I worked at the NGA…in charge of Middle Eastern Nuclear Recon…then became an assistant director…and…now…Now…I’m former everything…Exiled in four weeks to a navy base in Texas.”

  “Good fishing lakes there,” Pruitt said.

  “I’ll have to learn.”

  Motioning toward the house, he said, “Come in. It’s warmer.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They climbed the steps, stopping on the porch.

  “My wife, Cornelia.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Connie, not Cornelia or ma’am,” his wife corrected them both.

  They entered the house.

  “Ms. Jericho…” Connie said.

  “Elaine…please.”

  Connie began again. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “Elaine,” said Pruitt, “you look like you could use Scotch.”
>
  “No, sir, but thank you, sir…and thank you, Ms. Pruitt. Tea would be wonderful…if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. Let me put your jacket on a hanger.” Connie sensed the woman needed a moment. “I believe you’d like to freshen up. Come. I’ll show you the washroom.”

  After the women left, Pruitt chuckled. She was typical military, but much more attractive than most.

  Jericho returned.

  “Come on into my study, Elaine,” said Pruitt, opening the door and motioning her to an upholstered chair with a footstool. Jericho watched as Pruitt pulled a Glock from his tweed coat pocket, opened a desk drawer, and laid it inside.

  “Please, take your shoes off and relax.” He led the way by sitting in an adjoining chair and letting his loafers drop to the rug.

  The tea arrived a few minutes later.

  “Elaine, I didn’t know if you took anything in yours, so I brought some milk and sugar.” Connie served them both and said, “Let me know if there’s anything else you need…and, if he gets talking about orchids, I’ll rescue you.”

  Jericho smiled.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Pruitt said to her.

  Connie shut the office door.

  Noticing her unsteady teacup, Pruitt stayed silent, letting Jericho settle down and relax.

  “Blue’s an unusual color for orchids,” she said, looking at a tall terrarium full of them.

  “Cattleya minervas,” he said, his face showing no emotion. “Wes gave them to my daughter because they matched her eyes.”

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “Elaine, I don’t understand yet why you sought me out, but you’re with a friend,” he said. “I assure you, you can speak openly about whatever is on your mind. Once I had all the clearances you’ve had. My respect for their intent has never changed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please…Jon.” It was wonderful having a young woman in the house. “Washington’s a hundred miles from here…and you drove out for a reason.”

  “Okay.” She was calming down. “Sorry I was obtuse when I called. For so long, I’ve worried about being overheard.”

  “I know that feeling,” Pruitt said with a smile. “Our home gets electronically swept every couple of days, and this room in particular was designed to be safe. So…what would you like to tell me?”