Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  Alex swallows, then slowly nods. He understands far more than Dalton realizes.

  * * *

  BEIT RAHBARI PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, IRAN

  1635 HRS. ZULU

  Jahandar’s rib cage heaves hard enough to leave his chest. He’s vomiting for the third time tonight. His knees are pained from kneeling on the bathroom tile for the better part of two hours. The worst of it, however, is the headache. His brain feels as though it’s swollen to ten times the size of his skull and is trying to claw its way out of his head with every heartbeat.

  After he’s nearly certain he’s finished retching, he reaches out, leans against the wall, and pushes himself to his feet. He’ll wake one of the servants and get some aspirin. Maybe he’ll swallow it with some green tea in the hope that the warm liquid might do something about the chills coursing through his bones.

  He manages to take three entire steps before his stomach lodges a protest, spinning him around and sending him back to kneel before the commode. The attendant, the aspirin, and the tea will have to wait. Again.

  * * *

  OGC, NEW HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  2:15 P.M. EDT

  “What can you tell me about compartmentalization?” Alex asks Leah. They’re sitting in Starbucks, but not the one he and Gerald used for computer hacking in Virginia. This Starbucks is inside the New Headquarters Building at the CIA. Spies need their caffeine too—and apparently their fast-food fixes, judging by the Burger King and Subway in the NHB’s food court.

  “What about it?” Leah asks.

  “It came up in a case this morning. The Dalton lawsuit.” This is not quite a lie. “I got the impression that compartmentalization’s gonna be part of their argument and thought I should brush up.” This is closer to a lie but still manages to maintain a few kernels of truth.

  “There’s not exactly any mystery to it, Alex,” Leah answers, sipping her latte. “Information is provided intra-Agency on a need-to-know basis. If Dalton wants to argue that information was or wasn’t shared within the Agency, that’s his right, but he’s got to prove it. And as far as that’s concerned”—she shrugs—“good luck.”

  “Right,” Alex says as casually as he can manage, “but what if—hypothetically—what if there was a covert operation. Something very classified, paid out of the black budget. The need-to-know on something like that’s gotta be a very, very small group of people.”

  “So?”

  “So is there ever a situation where the Agency personnel behind a covert operation have authority or discretion not to report what they’re doing?”

  “Not to anyone?” Leah’s incredulity is obvious. “I don’t care how black an operation is, someone in the Agency’s gonna know about it. If it’s not the DNCS, it’s the DCIA.” The DNCS is the director of the National Clandestine Service—the operations arm of the CIA. The DCIA is the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, the person in charge of the entire organization.

  Leah leans forward and stares directly at Alex with a serious, albeit bemused, expression. “Look, you’re still relatively new here, and I know a few months isn’t enough to undo years of seeing how the Agency gets portrayed in books and movies. I also know how tempting it is to see conspiracies around every corner—particularly when you’re the guy whose job it is to respond to all the lawsuits about those alleged conspiracies.” She smiles. “It’s like first-year med students becoming hypochondriacs, thinking they’re coming down with every obscure bug in their textbooks. But truth isn’t stranger than fiction—it’s just a whole lot more boring. The fact of the matter is, operations can’t be undertaken without the knowledge and approval of the DNCS and the DCIA as well as a presidential finding, which means the president has to have knowledge as well. Bottom line, when you’re describing an operation that the DNCS, the DCIA, the DNI, and the president don’t know about, you’re not talking about a clandestine operation, you’re talking about an illegal one. You’re talking about treason.”

  Alex nods, his mind besieged by a flood of thoughts. Assassination by presidential executive order is illegal, so if the president was aware of Solstice, that meant he was complicit in breaking the law and was committing treason. And if he wasn’t aware, that meant he didn’t know what his people were doing. Both possibilities chill Alex to the bone.

  “It’s been a while since I read Dalton’s complaint,” Leah says, “but I don’t remember him alleging anything on the level of treason or presidential malfeasance. The guy’s just pissed off ’cause he thinks we’re keeping a file on him, right?”

  “Yeah,” Alex agrees. “I guess I just wanted to cover all my bases.”

  Alex’s intent is to come off as overly conscientious, but Leah sees past the deception, although she misreads what she sees: “Don’t get in the heads of these plaintiffs, Alex,” she cautions. “Even the ones who are professors. Believe me, a PhD and tenure doesn’t prevent you from claiming membership in the lunatic fringe.”

  Alex smiles at that and forces a chuckle. But he’s burdened by having learned a few things that Leah doesn’t know. Not to mention having read a certain file that lays out in great detail a biological assassination scheme that the lunatic fringe could only daydream about.

  FOURTEEN

  TEHRAN, IRAN

  1710 HRS. ZULU

  IT WAS in the tea. The green tea Jahandar enjoyed with Dr. Jafari little more than twenty-four hours ago was tainted with influenza A virus subtype H1N1. This particular strain of flu had been weaponized to be 98 percent fatal and hearty enough to live within the Camellia sinensis leaves of the green tea for an extended period and strong enough to resist the boiling water it was steeped in. The process took several years and tens of millions of dollars. But time and money are two things the Overwatch has in abundance; the latter is steadily provided by the CIA through the kind of black accounts that Alex unwittingly stumbled upon.

  There’d been a recent outbreak of illness caused by the influenza A/H1N1 virus, dubbed “swine flu” by the global media. Given the Koran’s prohibitions against the consumption of meat cut from swine, there was a cruel irony to its deployment as a weapon in Middle Eastern countries such as Iran (though the virus is not actually related to the virus that infects swine). But irony didn’t play a role in its selection. Rather, A/H1N1 was the virus of choice because of its plausible deniability—it was a naturally occurring pathogen, one with fatal consequences.

  Biologic agents like anthrax were more efficient and reliable killers, but in the past decade they had become synonymous with bioterror and biowarfare. Swine flu enjoyed a comparatively benign reputation, although it wasn’t always harmless. On January 10, 1977, the San Francisco Chronicle reported that CIA “operatives linked to anti-Castro terrorists introduced African swine fever into Cuba in 1971.” This wasn’t mere conspiracy theory either. The Chronicle had a source who claimed that “early in 1971 he was given the virus in a sealed, unmarked container at Ft. Gulick,” a detail made damning by virtue of the fact that the CIA operated a paramilitary training center out of Fort Gulick at the time.

  The Overwatch avoided suspicion by burying all connections to its operations under several layers of shell corporations, subcontractors, and dummy entities. The project to weaponize A/H1N1 was undertaken in a research lab in a small college in Connecticut and funded by a private donation made by one of Overwatch’s many corporate fronts. Even the operative whose responsibility it was to plant the tainted tea leaves in the market that Jahandar’s servants were known to frequent had no idea of Overwatch’s involvement; he was a local, paid by a “private intelligence group”—less flatteringly referred to as mercenaries—to complete the task.

  That man, Sharim Kafir, is now walking through the same Tehran market. He has no idea why he was paid one thousand rials to “enhance” the tea merchant’s inventory (he didn’t know the tea leaves he planted were tainted, but he had his suspicions); he knows only that the job was easy and the money good. Very good. He has not made the connection
between his assignment and Jahandar contracting swine flu. In the past two months, Iran has been plagued by many a spontaneous outbreak of the disease. However, the strain of A/H1N1 at the root of these outbreaks wasn’t weaponized. There was simply no need. All that was necessary for the Solstice protocol were other incidents of swine flu infection so that Jahandar’s didn’t stand out. And although swine flu generally has a less than 1 percent mortality rate, Jahandar’s death will be written off as the work of a virulent disease on a seventy-three-year-old body.

  Nevertheless, there’s a possibility that Kafir might eventually tumble to the connection between Jahandar’s death and his own actions with the tea merchant. Rykman’s aides calculate this probability at less than 2 percent, but William Rykman lives in a world of absolutes, in a world where one in fifty are unacceptable odds. And so another calculation is engaged in—how much it costs to dispose of a poor, Middle Eastern single man with few social connections and absolutely no personal security. The resulting number is not even a rounding error in Overwatch’s budget.

  The man for this task has no connection to the private security firm that enlisted Kafir. All he knows is that he’ll receive one hundred rials for sending a man he’s never met before to Allah. He watches Kafir make the last of his purchases in the market and begins following him, careful to keep at a safe remove.

  Kafir’s route home takes him through a narrow alleyway. The passage between buildings is just narrow enough for the hit man to bump into Kafir and then keep on walking. He’s out of the alley and back into the brilliant Tehran sunlight before Kafir’s body hits the ground. Once his remains are discovered, the police will note that his wallet—which had just been used to pay for his purchases at the market—is missing; it was lifted by the hit man’s hand while the other plunged in the dagger. The missing wallet is all the police will need to write the murder up as a robbery. Mr. Kafir simply chose the wrong alley to turn down on his way home.

  The hit man, for his part, is eager to return to his apartment. Although they didn’t prevent him from doing his job, chills have plagued his body, and now that the post-kill adrenaline’s wearing off, he’s feeling the fatigue that almost kept him in bed today. Damn, he thinks, hoping that he’s not coming down with that swine flu he’s been reading about lately.

  * * *

  NEW HAMPSHIRE AVENUE NW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  8:13 P.M. EDT

  “Okay,” Grace says, “so we kill someone. Either a terrorist or the head of a terrorist state. We give him SARS or AIDS or H1N1 and we kill him.” She pauses for effect, looking Alex in the eyes. “So what?”

  Alex has asked himself this question many times since becoming acquainted with Solstice. The question is often posed to the ceiling of his bedroom as he stares up at it late at night or too early in the morning, making sleep frustratingly elusive. “People didn’t bat an eye when we killed bin Laden,” Grace points out.

  “Actually,” Alex interjects, “some people did. We didn’t give him a trial or even make much of an effort to take him alive.” Alex wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He and Grace are preparing dinner—a Mario Batali recipe Grace has been wanting to try—and the fumes from the onions he’s cutting are really starting to get to him. He sets the knife he’s working with aside and takes a sip from his wineglass. He goes on: “But bin Laden’s death wasn’t an assassination, at least not technically. He wasn’t a head of state or a member of any recognized government. And even if he had been, the president knew about the operation that killed him. He authorized it and he monitored it. This Solstice thing…the whole point is that it’s so covert that the president, the DNI, and the DCIA don’t know about it.”

  “You think they don’t know about it,” Grace rebuts, jabbing the air with her knife for emphasis. “You don’t know for sure. You’re making assumptions.” Then, lowering the knife to the carving board, she resumes mincing garlic as she continues: “Isn’t your train of thought bringing you full circle? You don’t know that the head of the CIA doesn’t know all about Solstice.”

  “I don’t think he does.”

  “Really?” Grace sounds incredulous.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean”—her mincing takes on a more urgent tempo—“if you can’t live with the possibility that the director doesn’t know about Solstice, then I respect that. But—and I say this with love—”

  “Uh-oh,” Alex responds with a smile that says he knows where she’s going.

  “But if this is really some deep-seated, self-destructive way to get yourself fired, then I’d strongly urge you to”—chop—“think”—chop—“twice.” She puts the knife down and fixes him with a look.

  Alex grins, somewhat busted. “I’ve thought about this,” he says. “Both possibilities.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know. I honestly don’t.” He shrugs with a sincere helplessness. “But I can’t seem to get the idea of taking this to the DCI out of my head. So regardless of the reason, I think this is something I have to do.”

  “So you’re not really asking my advice, are you?”

  Alex grimaces, definitely busted now. “It’s a bit like a covert assassination, honey. If it’s happening anyway, shouldn’t the president or whoever’s in charge at least be brought into the loop?”

  “And I’m the president in this scenario?” Grace asks.

  “More like the person in charge.”

  “Even better.” And she hugs with a warmth hot enough to cook their dinner.

  * * *

  OGC, NEW HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  9:04 A.M. EDT

  Alex studies Leah. Leah studies the Solstice file. Her eyes dart back and forth across the pages, but her face remains impassive. She is deliberate in her review, so the process takes an uncomfortably long time. Alex feels his palms getting moist as he waits for a sign that he’s crazy, out of work, or both.

  After an eternity spent contemplating what his next career will be, he watches Leah calmly set the file down. Maintaining her poker face and keeping her voice level, she says with characteristic dryness: “Well, I think this puts yesterday’s conversation into a slightly clearer light…” She gives the file a tap of her finger. “How did you get this?”

  “It came out of discovery in the Harling divorce case.” Like most good lies, this one is inspired by the truth.

  “Documents like this one”—Leah holds the file up—“don’t generally come out of a litigation’s discovery process.” The magnitude of this understatement is hard for Alex to quantify. “How did you get it?” she asks again.

  “I can’t answer that,” Alex says, bracing for the onslaught of Leah’s fury. Fortunately, all she does is raise her eyebrows, so he continues. “For the moment. I’d be violating someone’s confidence. I’m willing to risk my job over this, but I’d like to avoid widening that particular circle for the time being.”

  Leah nods, considering it. A few seconds pass like months before she answers. “I can respect that. I also find myself surprised to realize I have some grudging respect for you bringing this to my attention. You could’ve shredded it or buried it.”

  “Oh, it crossed my mind,” Alex interjects, with a bit more levity than he was really intending.

  Leah takes a few more seconds to think, much more comfortable with the silence than Alex is. The file is now resting on her desk and she scrapes a fingernail across it, scratching. “How many copies?”

  “That’s the only one I have.” This is true, but Alex can feel Leah’s eyes on him, looking for any sign of a lie.

  Leah either believes him or decides to table the issue for another time because she moves on. “First step is to verify that this is legitimate.” Alex nods, having anticipated this course of action. “That will be harder to do without knowing where you got it,” she adds pointedly. But Alex remains firm. He won’t budge on this. “But I’m pretty confident I can do so quietly.”

  “And then what?�
��

  “Assuming it’s authentic?” Leah asks. The silence stretches between them like a chasm. Finally, she answers her own question: “I honestly have no idea.”

  FIFTEEN

  BEIT RAHBARI PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, IRAN

  2030 HRS. ZULU

  DR. HEERAD Yazdani was the first to arrive. He has been the ayatollah’s personal physician for the past thirty-six years and has successfully nursed the supreme leader through countless ailments from shingles to, most recently, a bout with prostate cancer. Given the control the government exercises over the local media, it’s not surprising that none of these illnesses made the news. But Yazdani is particularly proud of the fact that Jahandar’s medical travails over the years have never been picked up by any international news gathering organizations either. He’s also reasonably confident that foreign intelligence services such as the Mossad and the CIA remain unaware of Jahandar’s medical history. (Although this belief is in error. In fact, both agencies, as well as Britain’s MI6, have detailed files on Jahandar’s health, down to his high cholesterol.)

  Part of keeping the circle of medical trust closed is limiting knowledge of the ayatollah’s heath to his close attendants and Dr. Yazdani himself. Even the oncologists who made the initial the diagnosis of prostate cancer and the ones who oversaw his treatment were reacting to the films and bloodwork of an anonymous patient. Jahandar’s current condition, however, so alarms Yazdani that he’s taken the unprecedented step of trading security for safety and brought in a consultant, a specialist in infectious diseases. The consultant, in turn, recommended bringing in a team of physicians. There was a direct correlation between the number of medical personnel in the presidential palace and the amount of concern Yazdani had over Jahandar’s worsening condition.

  Tonight, the palace is filled to capacity. Medical personnel outnumber attendants, staff, and concerned bureaucrats three to one. Everyone speaks in whispers, chattering, gossiping, planning, and debating among themselves and on their cell phones. The building buzzes with a war-room-like intensity. President Tehrani is home, presumably asleep, but six of his eight vice presidents are here, as are three members of the council of ministers and Gholam-Hossein Elham, the government spokesman. Elham’s presence, perhaps more than any other person’s, signals the gravity of the situation. Elham wouldn’t have been invited to this vigil—there is no other word for it—if the government weren’t planning on making Jahandar’s condition public.