“Here,” General McFadden said, handing it to him.
Naylor waited until Willis had read it, then said, “Brian, can you get on the horn to the FBI in Philadelphia and see what they have on this Lease-Aire corporation, and the pilot? I think we should have that.”
“So do I,” Willis agreed, after a moment’s thought, and then appeared to be wondering where he was to sit at Naylor ’s office conference table.
“How about doing that now, Brian?” Naylor asked, hoping his voice didn’t reveal his annoyance. “While we’re waiting for General Potter? Use the phone booth, if you’d like.”
He pointed to the cubicle with the desk, chair, and secure telephone.
Willis nodded, said, “Oh. Sure. Okay,” and walked into the small room.
He was still on the telephone when General Potter returned.
“Up and running, boss,” he said.
“Okay. Good.” Naylor looked around the room. “Everybody ’s here, and everybody’s read the two satbursts from Angola, right?”
Everybody nodded.
“Okay,” Naylor went on, “then let’s get started.”
He sat down, raised the lid of the laptop, and turned it on.
“Let’s do two things,” he began when all but Willis had taken seats. “Let’s do worst-case scenario; and, in the military order, junior man first.”
When it came to seniority among the liaison officers, somewhat important for some things, Naylor had used what he thought of as the George Orwell Theory of Seniority. All pigs are equal, but some pigs are more equal than others. All the liaison officers, he had decreed, were to have the assimilated rank of major general, and rank between them was to be determined by how long they had been assigned to CentCom.
That made Brian Willis of the FBI the junior man. He was the fourth FBI liaison officer. Naylor had sent back the first three as unsuitable. Fremont had had only one predecessor.
Willis slipped into a chair at the conference table.
“I talked to the SAC in Philadelphia,” he began. “He got the first message from the bureau, but not the second.”
“It’ll probably be there in a couple of minutes,” Naylor said. “Are they going to find out what they can about the pilot, and the company . . . what is it, ‘Lease-Aire’?”
“They already knew something about them, General,” Willis said, “and—out of school—Jerry Lowell, the SAC, said we’d give five-to-one that Hartford is somehow going to be involved.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand that,” Naylor said.
“Insurance, General,” Willis said, with a sly smile. “This Lease-Aire outfit has been stumbling along for a long time on the edge of bankruptcy. Their airplane is, quote, stolen, unquote, and they get paid.”
“You did tell him that the CIA guy said there was no indication that the pilot was checking out of his hotel?” Naylor said.
“That’s what they call ‘setting the scene,’ General,” Willis explained patiently. “It looks as if he wasn’t planning to leave. We decide he was forced to leave, to fly the plane. He turns up in South Africa, or someplace, and says, ‘Yes, that’s what’s happened.’ ”
“From our standpoint,” Naylor said, “if the airplane was stolen to collect the insurance . . .”
“He puts it on autopilot and aims it out over the ocean,” Willis interjected, “and then goes out the back door. By now, that airplane is probably on the bottom of the sea.”
“As I was saying,” Naylor said, a little sharply, “from our standpoint that’s a best-case scenario. The airplane will not be used in some kind of terrorist activity.”
“I know I’m speaking out of turn, Allan . . .” General McFadden said.
Yeah, you are. Shut up and wait your turn. And don’t call me by my first name in the presence of our subordinates.
“You have the floor, General,” Naylor said.
“I had a flash Armageddon worst-case scenario as soon as I came in here,” General McFadden said. “I mean, think about it. What’s missing is an old airplane without the range to make a nuisance of itself anywhere important. With one exception. Think about this: What these rag-heads are really trying to do is get all the other rag-heads united against us, right? And so far they’re not doing so hot, right? So what would really piss off all the world’s rag-heads? An American airplane crashing into that black thing—whatever it is—in Mecca . . .”
“They call that the ‘ka’ba,’ General McFadden,” General Potter interrupted. “Muslims believe that it was built by Adam, then rebuilt by Ibrahim and his son Isma’il. It’s a brick structure, a ten on the Holy Scale, where the Vatican is maybe a five, if you consider that at least the Catholics let others in to worship . . .”
“. . . to which,” General McFadden said, resuming the floor, “all the rag-heads make a pilgrimage.” He paused to glower at Potter for his interruption.
Potter, undaunted, smiled at him.
“Would the rag-heads believe another rag-head had done that? Hell no, they wouldn’t,” McFadden went on. “Especially when the plane was traceable to us and the body of an American pilot was found in the wreckage.”
“George?” Naylor asked.
“It’s a little far-fetched, sir,” General Potter said. “But it could be done, and I have to agree with General McFadden that it would indeed cause our Muslim brothers to think even less of us than they do now.”
“All of them, Potter,” McFadden said. “Every goddamned one of them!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Naylor saw activity on the laptop screen and dropped his eyes to it.
THIS JUST CAME BACK CHANNEL FOR GEN POTTER— SGTMAJ SUGGINS
SECRET
SATBURST 03 LUANDA 23 MAY 2005
FOR REGDIR SWAFRICA
SOURCES AT POLICIA NACIONAL LUANDA CONFIRM THAT SERGEI NOSTROFF (RUSSIAN NATIONAL AND KNOWN ASSOCIATE OF VASILY RESPIN, ALLEGED ARMS DEALER) AND PAOLO WALLI (ANGOLAN NATIONAL SUSPECTED OF VARIOUS CRIMINAL ACTIVITIES) ARE KNOWN TO HAVE BEEN IN LUANDA IN PAST WEEK. PRESENT WHEREABOUTS OF EITHER ARE UNKNOWN.
UNDERSIGNED SUGGESTS POSSIBILITY THAT BOTH MAY BE INVOLVED WITH DISAPPEARANCE OF LA- 9021. RESPIN REPORTED TO OWN AT LEAST THREE BOEING 727 AIRCRAFT. LA-9021 MAY BE FLOWN ELSEWHERE, POSSIBLY TO SHARJAH, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, WHERE RESPIN CONTROLS THREE OR MORE AIRLINES EITHER FOR USE WITH FALSE IDENTITY NUMBERS OR TO BE STRIPPED OF USABLE PARTS FOR OTHER AIRCRAFT.
STRONGLY RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE AND WIDESPREAD USE OF SATELLITE, AWACS, OTHER SURVEILLANCE ASSETS, AND HUMINTEL ON ALL POSSIBLE ROUTES BETWEEN LUANDA AND SHARJAH, AND OTHER POINTS IN MIDDLE EAST.
MORE TO FOLLOW. STACHIEF LUANDA
Naylor read it twice. It sounded slightly less far-fetched than General McFadden’s worst-case scenario.
And anything is possible. Let’s hope this is all it is.
Jesus. I hope McFadden’s not even close to being right!
Naylor laid his hands on the laptop and typed:
COPIES FOR EVERYBODY. NOW.
Naylor became aware that everyone but McFadden— who was enthusiastically buttressing his “Crash It into the Ka’ba” theory—was looking at him.
“Another theory has come in,” he said. “The sergeant major is making everybody copies. While we’re waiting for that, would you go on, please, General McFadden?”
[FIVE]
Office of the National Security Advisor The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 2005 23 May 2005
“Natalie Cohen,” the national security advisor said into her telephone. She was a small, light-skinned woman who wore her hair in a pageboy.
“It’s me, Natalie,” her caller said, the thick Carolina accent unmistakable.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I just finished reading the seven o’clock summary.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Natalie, as the last item, or the next-to-last item, there’s an airplane missing in Angola. What’s that all about?”
“We don’t
know much, Mr. President, but I checked with the Air Force and they don’t seem to think it poses a threat to the U.S., at least so far as making it a flying bomb is concerned. It’s too small and doesn’t have enough range to fly here. There was some concern that it might be used to crash into our embassy there, or in South Africa, but the time for that—if it was to be immediately done after it was taken—has passed. Right now, we just don’t know what happened to it.”
“Don’t you mean, Natalie, ‘they just don’t know’?”
“Sir?”
“Our enormous and enormously expensive intelligence community,” the president said. “We, you and me, Natalie, are supposed to get the intelligence. They are supposed to come up with it, and then give it to you and me. Right?”
“Yes, Mr. President, that’s the way it’s supposed to work.”
“And they haven’t been doing that very well, lately, have they?”
“Mr. President . . .”
“They haven’t and we both know it,” the president said.
She didn’t reply.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to unload on you,” the president said.
“I didn’t think you did, Mr. President. I understand your frustration. I’m often frustrated myself.”
“I wish I could think of some way to shake them up,” the president said. “Any ideas?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”
“Matt Hall and his wife are coming to supper. You interested? ”
“I’m at your call, Mr. President, but I really have made plans.”
“Well, I’ll see what Matt has to say, and then you can tell me tomorrow morning what you think.”
“What’s the buzzword? Buzz-phrase? ‘Thinking out of the box’?”
“Dr. Cohen, you are absolutely right. As soon as Matt walks in, I’m going to hand him a stiff drink and tell him to start thinking out of the box.”
She chuckled.
“See you in the morning, Natalie. Have a nice night.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And when you come in in the morning, I hope you’ll be able to tell me we have found this missing airplane.”
“I hope so, too, Mr. President.”
“I just realized, Natalie, that I’m not kidding. Maybe Matt will have some ideas.”
“I’m sure he will, Mr. President.”
“Good night, Natalie.”
“Good night, Mr. President.”
She broke the connection with her finger but did not replace the handset. She pushed a button on the base that automatically connected her to another instrument on the secure network.
“Hall,” a male voice said a moment later.
“A heads-up, Matt. I know where you’re going tonight. He wants to discuss with you ways to shake up what he described as our ‘enormous and enormously expensive intelligence community. ’ ”
“Oh, hell. Thank you, Natalie, I owe you a big one.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
“What lit his fire this time? Do you know?”
“Somebody stole an airplane in Angola. That caught his eye.”
“Mine, too. Thanks again, Natalie.”
“Have fun, Matt,” she said with a laugh and hung up.
III
[ONE]
The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 0845 24 May 2005
“Natalie, Matt,” the president of the United States said, “would you stay a minute, please?”
Dr. Natalie Cohen, the national security advisor, and the Hon. Matt Hall, secretary of homeland security, who were sitting on the same couch, and both of whom had started to get up, relaxed against the cushions. Hall then leaned forward and picked up his unfinished cup of coffee from the coffee table.
The president waited until the others in the room had filed out and then motioned to the Secret Service agent at the door to close it.
Cohen and Hall looked at the president, who seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Finally, he smiled and spoke.
“Maybe I missed something just now,” the president said. “But I didn’t hear from anyone that anyone knows any more about that airliner that went missing in Angola than anyone did yesterday.”
Cohen and Hall exchanged glances but neither said anything.
“And I think—I may be wrong; the intelligence community is so enormous that sometimes I just can’t remember every agency who’s part of it—that we had in here just now just about everybody who should know what’s going on with that airplane. Maybe not all of them. Maybe just a few of them, but certainly at least one of them. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mr. President,” Dr. Cohen said, “I checked with the CIA and the Air Force again this morning. They are agreed that there is virtually no possibility of that airplane being able to fly here—or, for that matter, to Europe—without being detected. ”
“That’s reassuring, Natalie. And is that the reason, would you say, that nobody mentioned this missing airplane? Or, maybe—I realize this may sound as if I’m a little cynical—was it because they hoped I wouldn’t notice that they have no idea what the hell’s going on with that airplane? ”
“Mr. President,” Hall spoke up, “I’m sure that they—and that means the entire intelligence community, sir—are working on it.”
“Come on, Matt,” the president said. “We know that.” He paused and then looked at Dr. Cohen.
“Remember what we talked about last night, Natalie? I told you when Matt came for supper, I was going to ask him to think out of the box—I have no idea what that really means— about this?”
“Yes, I do, Mr. President,” she said and looked at Hall.
“That I wished I could think about some way to shake up the intelligence community?” the president went on.
“Yes, sir,” she said and paused.
Dr. Cohen was fully aware that the man sitting at the desk across the room was the most powerful man in the world. And that she worked for him. And that meant she was supposed to do what he said, not argue with him, unless she was absolutely convinced he was dead wrong, when she saw it as her duty to argue with him.
And she wasn’t absolutely sure he was right about this. Or absolutely sure he was wrong.
“Are you sure you want to shake them up, sir?” she asked. “Even more than the 9/11 commission report did?”
“If they’re not doing their job,” the president said, “they deserve to be shaken up.”
That, Dr. Cohen thought, is a statement of policy. And I don’t think it’s open for discussion.
“And doesn’t this missing 727 business give us the chance to find out whether they’re doing their job or not?” the president asked. “Something real-world and real-time above and beyond what the 9/11 commission report called for?” He paused. “This could put us ahead of the curve.”
“Very possibly it does, sir,” she said.
“It looks to me, and Matt, like an ideal situation to run an ’internal review,’ ” the president went on, “without it interfering with anything important. And without anybody having to know about it unless we catch somebody with their pants down.” He heard what he said. “Sorry, Natalie. That slipped out. But wouldn’t you agree with Matt?”
So Matt, too, has decided arguing with him about this would be futile?
“What’s your idea, Matt?” she asked.
“As I understand what the president wants,” Hall said, “it’s for someone—one man—to check everybody’s intel files and compare them against both what he can find out, and what the others have found out, and when.”
“Isn’t that a lot to throw at one man?” she asked.
“That’s a lot of work for one man, but I think that if we used even as few as three or four people on this, the question of who’s in charge would come up; they’d probably be stumbling over each other trying to look good; and the more people involved, the greater the risk that somebody would suspect something like this was going on.”
“That’s the idea, Natalie,” the president said. “What do you think?”
I think Matt has resigned himself to there being—what did he say? “An internal review”?—and he wants to keep it small, low-key, and, if at all possible, a secret.
“Have you got the man to do it?” she asked.
“I asked him last night to think about that,” the president said.
“I think I have the man, sir,” Hall said.
“Who?” the president asked.
“My executive assistant,” Hall said.
“That good-looking young guy who speaks Hungarian?” Cohen asked.
Hall nodded.
“You know him, Natalie?” the president asked.
“I don’t know him, but I saw him translating for Matt at a reception at the Hungarian embassy,” she said.
“Why do you need a Hungarian translator, Matt?” the president asked with a smile.
“The Hungarian came with the package,” Hall said. “He speaks seven, maybe more, languages, among them Hungarian. ”
“He’s a linguist?” the president asked.
Hall understood the meaning of the question: How is a linguist going to do what we need here?
“Well, that, too, sir. But he’s also a Green Beret.”
“A Green Beret?” the president asked, his tone suggesting that the term had struck a sympathetic chord.
“Yes, sir,” Hall replied. “He’s a Special Forces major. I went to General Naylor and asked him if he could come up with somebody who had more than language skills. He sent Charley to me. He’s a good man, Mr. President. He can do this.”
“Makes sense to me,” Cohen said. “Matt thinks he’s smart, which is good enough for me. And no one is going to suspect that a Special Forces major would be given a job like this.”
“I’d like to meet this guy,” the president said. “Okay, what else do we need to get this started?”
“We’ll need all the intelligence filings,” Hall said. “I suppose Natalie will have most of them—or synopses of them, anyway.”
“Mostly, all I get is the synopses,” Cohen said. “I have to ask for the original filing, and raw data if I want to look at that.”
By Order of the President Page 6