The waiter appeared and took their orders. After their drinks arrived, Tanner and Dutcher reminisced about Hong Kong. Their memories were from different perspectives; Dutcher’s mostly from his days there as a CIA station chief during the seventies, Tanner’s mostly from his time there with his family.
For the better part of his first twelve years, Tanner’s family followed his father from one history teaching assignment to the next. Before he was ten, Briggs had lived in a dozen cities and countries including Paris, Geneva, Kenya, Beirut, Venice, and Hong Kong. He’d never missed what others would call a normal childhood. Traveling had opened the world to him.
When it was time for Briggs to enter middle school, they returned to Maine, where the Tanner clan had lived for 160 years, and settled into a more routine life as Briggs entered the world of high school, coed dances, football games, and girlfriends. He’d always admired his parents’ wisdom: They hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be an adolescent. While youngster Briggs delighted in the travel, teenager Briggs needed home and stability. The two lifestyles had made him well-rounded and self-assured. In that respect, he was the perfect amalgam of his mother and father.
“What happened to your face?” asked Dutcher.
Tanner touched his cheek. “Bone sliver.”
Dutcher nodded and was silent for a few moments. “Was it bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Anything more on your watchers?”
“No sign. I seem to have lost my popularity.”
“Good. You up to a little legwork?”
Tanner smiled into his drink. “So now I’m the Man Who Saw Too Much?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
“I was getting bored, anyway.”
“Finish your drink,” Dutcher said. “Have you ever been to Luk Yu’s?”
Luk Yu’s is a Hong Kong landmark that dates back to the early 1900s. Inside, past an authentic-looking Sikh doorman, Tanner found a polished marble foyer and humming ceiling fans. Booths were separated by stained glass panels. According to the brass plaque beside the grand staircase, the second floor contained a sitting room where British governors and aristocrats had once debated Hong Kong’s future.
Though the service and the meal—Szechuan was their mutual choice—were mediocre, Tanner decided Luk Yu’s decor made up for it.
After dinner they walked through the gardens surrounding The Peak Tram Station. “Umako Ohira was working for us,” Dutcher told Tanner. “CIA.”
“Agent or case officer?”
“Agent … a walk-in.”
Dutcher recounted the briefing he’d received from Mason. Tanner asked many of the same questions Dutcher had. “What was Mason’s take on Ieyasu’s suspicions about Takagi and the JRA?” Briggs asked.
“He didn’t have one.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“A bit, but the chemical angle is thin. What they found in the Iraqi SAM radars was tangible.”
“And that’s all they want from us—to check the network, nothing else?”
“In their eyes, Ohira was a tool. The network is all that counts now.”
Tanner didn’t like that mind-set but said nothing, knowing Dutcher felt the same way. That kind of brutal pragmatism made it too easy to use people, then dispose of them. Besides, remembering those few seconds he’d stared into Umako Ohira’s eyes made it impossible for Tanner to see the man as a tool.
“Do we know what Ohira was doing the night he died?” asked Tanner.
“According to his last report, a few weeks ago, he’d been approached by someone wanting to buy information about Takagi Industries. They were supposed to meet that night, but he didn’t say where or when. His impression was they were trying to false-flag him.”
False flag is an agent recruitment method where an enemy agent pretends to work for a friendly, or at least neutral, service. False flag recruits often go years without knowing the true identity of his paymasters, if ever.
“Did he make the meet?” asked Tanner.
“We don’t know.”
“I’ll need to see the details of the network.”
“I have a loaded laptop for you. Walter’s included a brief on Takagi Industries. You’ll find it interesting reading.”
“From what I gather, he’s probably the most powerful industrialist in Japan.”
“No doubt about it. One of the ten richest men in the world, in fact. If there’s any truth behind the Black Ocean connection, he’s probably pulling a lot of strings in the government.”
“Are they on friendly terms?”
“Not as friendly as Takagi would like,” Dutcher replied. “The current prime minister is a tough SOB. We think Black Ocean isn’t getting its way on a lot of policies, and they don’t like it.”
“What kind of support is Mason giving?” Tanner asked.
“The usual. I’m sending Ian over in a couple days; he’ll have light cover for status.”
Tanner understood the decision: They would be moving fast, and a fully backstopped cover for either of them was impossible. Either way, Briggs was glad to have Cahil along. As friends, they were as close as brothers, and as colleagues, their teamwork was uncannily empathetic, having been forged during their years in Special Warfare and IS AG. Early in training, Cahil’s gregarious nature earned him the nickname “Mama Bear” from his fellow candidates. Bear was genuine, fiercely loyal, and as reliable as the setting sun.
“The key you picked up from Ohira matches a locker at the Sannomiya Railway Station in Kobe,” said Dutcher. “Now, as far as this woman at the hotel, Camille …”
“Sereva.”
“Nothing turned up on her, either. The name Stephan Karotovic is real. He’s an immigration attorney in New York. She looks legitimate.” Dutcher saw Tanner’s half-smile and asked, “Something I should know about?”
“Not if she’s clear.”
“She is.”
“Then no.”
“One more thing,” Dutcher said, stopping. “Ieyasu’s story about all the dead and missing Takagi employees is true. In fact, one of them was in Ohira’s network.”
Tanner thought about this for a moment. “It seems our Mr. Takagi takes his downsizing seriously.”
Khartoum, Sudan
In the old Berber’s cafe on the street of canals, Fayyad watched Mustafa al-Baz approach the table. Two steps behind him was a European with pasty skin and flat, blue eyes. Dangerous, Fayyad thought.
“Ibrahim, this is Sergei,” said al-Baz.
The two men shook hands. “Hello,” said Sergei.
Russian.
“He is here as an adviser,” said al-Baz. “He is trustworthy.”
“Very well.”
After tea was ordered, al-Baz got down to business. “We have a job for you, Ibrahim. Your specialty.”
“Where and who?”
“The where is America—”
“Pardon me?” The United States was the last place he wanted to be right then.
“You will know the who when you accept”
“When and for how long?”
“It would begin in a week. We will handle the logistics. As for duration, we’re estimating three to four weeks.”
In the back of Fayyad’s mind, he was hearing No, no, no. “And my fee?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars, in an account of your choosing.”
Fayyad’s teacup froze halfway to his mouth. “Three hundred thousand?”
“That is correct.”
With that kind of money, Fayyad would be free. If handled wisely, he could leave this business forever, find a plain, simple-minded wife, and settle down. Three hundred thousand! Whatever the risk, it was worth it.
“I accept,” he said. “Now: Who is the target?”
“Once you are committed, there can be no—”
“I understand. Who is it?”
Al-Baz told him.
“You can’t be serious.”<
br />
“We are very serious.” Al-Baz slid a photograph across the table along with a sheaf of papers. “Can you do it?”
“I can do it.” Fayyad turned to Sergei. “This is your area of expertise?”
“One of them.”
“Is it feasible?”
“As I told Mustafa, yes. The woman fits the profile, but the target may or may not have the information you seek. If he has access to it, it will be through secondary sources. His inquiries may draw attention. Also, the timetable is too ambitious. You’ll have to move fast and put great pressure on the target.”
Fayyad asked al-Baz, “Is all this true?”
“We think Sergei is being overly cautious.”
The Russian said nothing, his face blank.
“Are you still willing?” asked al-Baz.
Fayyad had no choice. Between the lure of the money and the consequences for backing out now, he was committed. He nodded. “I will do it.”
Across the street, hidden behind a pair of cracked shutters, a man watched the trio as they talked. Every few seconds, as one of them turned or inclined his head suitably, the man raised a Nikon camera and took a photograph. He was careful with his selections, occasionally changing positions as necessary. After taking two rolls of photos, he packed his case and slipped out into the alleyway.
Now would come the tricky part, the man told himself. Who would pay the best price? If his guess about the men’s identities was correct, he knew of at least three potential customers. It would take delicacy, for these customers were unforgiving. But that didn’t worry him.
It should have.
In addition to being a master at surveillance and a savvy entrepreneur, the man was greedy and naive—naive to think he could play stringer agent to not only the Israeli Mossad, but the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service and the PLO as well without eventually getting burned. None of this entered his mind, however.
He hurried down the alley, already calculating his profits.
Washington, D.C.
Charlie Latham scanned the report of the samples collected from the La Guardia crash site. His phone rang. “Charlie Latham.”
“Charlie, Jed. Step over for a minute, will you?”
“On my way.”
Report in hand, Latham started down the hall. He passed a man wearing a visitor’s badge. The man stopped. “Agent Latham?”
“Yes?”
“Stanley Hosteller,” the man said, extending his hand. “I understand you’re handling the Delta bombing for the bureau.”
“That’s right, Congressman.”
“Where do we stand?”
“I assume you’ve just spoken with my boss.”
“I have, but—”
“He’s got the same information I have, Senator.” Most of it, at least, Latham added, conscious of the report in his hand. “It’s still early into the investigation, sir, but it’s coming along.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“How is your daughter?” asked Latham.
“Physically she’ll be fine, but that’s only part of it.” Hostetler hesitated. “You interviewed her. … You know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I think what that son of a bitch did to her …”
As a father, Latham understood Hosteller’s rage. Someone had defiled, used, and then tried to murder his little girl.
“At any rate,” said Hosteller, “I told your boss I have every confidence in you and the bureau.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And I’m sure you understand the need for decisive results, Agent Latham?”
“Clearly, Congressman.”
“Good. I look forward to hearing more from you.” With that, Hostetler strode toward the elevator.
Latham walked into his boss’s office. “I just got buttonholed in the hall.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the assistant director. “We’ll handle Hostetler, you concentrate on the case. Where are we?”
Charlie Latham liked his boss. The man wasn’t an investigator by nature and made no pretense about being one. He was a superior administrator who had enough sense to let his people work and stay out of their way.
Latham handed him the report. “Just got it. Pretty sophisticated device. A pound of Semtex molded into the lining of the suitcase. The steel toe rivets had been wired to act as a circuit for the detonator.”
“What kind of actuator?”
“A combination barometer-timer. That’s where it went wrong.”
“Let me guess: single-route circuit?”
“You got it.” They’d seen this before.
A single-route barometric detonator measures air pressure—thus altitude—and is designed to trigger the bomb when a preset limit is reached. A double-route circuit, however, must reach two of these limits for detonation. A combination barometric/timer detonator is designed to work in two, and sometimes three stages. Stage one occurs when a timer activates the first barometer; once its limit is reached, it in turn activates yet another barometer, which finally detonates the bomb. Such a trigger lets the bomber set the device to explode far from its point of origin, oftentimes well into other countries and after several landings and takeoffs.
In this case, the lab found the bomb’s engineer had mis-wired the timer, so instead of sending the detonation signal when the plane reached cruising altitude, the barometer had to settle for the next best thing, which was the plane’s landing at La Guardia.
“That tells us they’ve got access to sophisticated equipment, but they screwed it up,” said Latham. “The irony is, if they’d gotten it right, we’d have a better idea of the engineer.”
“And we’d have a hundred eighty dead instead of five.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, the device isn’t going to lead us anywhere. But this guy Cynthia Hostetler described rings a bell. It’s a textbook honey trap. Hostetler matches the profile to a tee: single woman traveling alone, swept off her feet by a stranger; a romance ensues; plans are made to have the man return home with her, but he’s delayed at the last minute; he asks her to take a package with her as he can’t fit it in his suitcase; she gets on the plane, and—”
“Boom.”
“Right. Israel’s Shin Bet thinks the technique was perfected by Ahmed Jabril and the PFLP general command. Whether this incident is theirs or not…”
“You recognize Hostetler’s mystery man?”
“Maybe. We sent a sketch artist over to the hospital, and she gave us a few more details. Her description matches others. But the kicker is the name and nationality he used: Ricardo, Italian. He’s used it before. Sometimes it’s Ricardo, sometimes Paolo or Antonio, but always Italian.”
“Bad habit for a terrorist. So where do we go now?”
“I have a friend in Shin Bet,” said Latham. “I want to call him, see if he can point us in a direction. But I’m betting Liaison is going to scream bloody murder.”
“Make the call. I’ll handle the bullshit,” said the assistant director.
White House
“We’re behind the game on this one, Gentlemen,” National Security Adviser James Talbot told the members of the National Security Council. “The administration has yet to state its policy, and it’s starting to show. The president needs options.”
Sitting at the table were the secretaries of defense and state, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Chuck Cathermeier, and Dick Mason.
Mason heard Talbot’s words but was having a hard time concentrating. Between both DORSAL and SYMMETRY, his plate was becoming increasingly crowded. He’d averaged four hours of sleep a night for the past month, and judging from the tone of this meeting, that average was about to plummet. Someone had pushed the near-panic button at the White House.
The NSC, which met at least once a week—more often as events dictated—was only one of the dozens of committees on which Mason sat, including the NFIB (National Foreig
n Intelligence Board) and the PFIAB (President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board). Often, however, their agendas overlapped, and Mason found himself rehashing the same topics. It was maddening.
DORSAL and SYMMETRY. Two separate operations, 5,000 miles apart, yet they had one thing in common: Both their primary agents were gone, one dead, the other kidnapped. Movie portrayals aside, the loss of an agent was not a common occurrence. Was there a connection? If there was, they had yet to find it. Worse, they still had no idea what had gone wrong.
Today the NSC’s agenda dealt with Syria, Iraq, and Iran. The Syrian military exercise was gaining momentum, and Assad’s government was stonewalling; all back-channel inquiries through the State Department had been politely brushed off.
Next door to Syria, Iraq was reacting to Iran’s military exercise by beefing up its own maneuvers along the border. Caught in the middle was CENTCOM, forced to play watchdog. The commanding officer of CENTCOM was frying the phone lines to the Joint Chiefs, warning this was a perfect excuse for Saddam to mobilize. If that happened without the U.S. having a strategy to deal with it, escalation would surely follow. Mason agreed, clearly remembering those dangerous months back in 1990 when the U.S. had been forced to play catch-up with the Iraqi Army.
Soon after his appointment as DCI, Dick Mason began studying Middle Eastern history, culture, and politics. He quickly realized why the word byzantine was so often used to describe the region. It was a millennia-old quagmire of imperialism, tribal squabbles, and religious discord. And nothing epitomized this better than the relationship between Syria, Iraq, and Iran.
Syria was perhaps the most Machiavellian of the players. As a member of the country’s minority Alawite sect, President Bashar Assad’s power base lay in his ability to keep the country militarized and enmeshed in conflict, whether in Lebanon, in Iraq, or covertly against Israel.
The examples of such serpentine agendas were countless: Iran making back-channel overtures to Israel during the Gulf War while supporting Hezbollah terrorists in Lebanon; Syria temporarily lowering its anti-Zionist banner and joining the Gulf War coalition against Iraq; Lebanese Muslims, fearing Syrian Alawite rule more than Israeli intervention, tacitly aligned with Israel during its 1982 invasion of Lebanon; Saddam Hussein harboring exiled Ayatollah Kohmeini from Iran while murdering his own Shiite population.
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