Mary Pat closed the door as instructed and took a seat across from Margolin’s desk. Outside, the operations center hummed with activity.
“They shit-canned our outreach idea,” Margolin said without preamble. “We won’t be using any of the Brits’ assets in Pakistan.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Above my pay grade, Mary Pat. I took it as far as I could, but no go. My best guess: Iraq.”
The same thought had occurred to Mary Pat just before her boss said the word. Up against pressure from its citizens, the UK had been steadily distancing itself, both in policy and in combat resource allocation, from the Iraq War. Rumor was, despite his conciliatory tone in public, President Kealty was furious with the Brits, who had, he felt, left his administration holding the bag. Without the UK’s even nominal support, any plan to withdraw U.S. troops would be slowed, if not jeopardized. Worse still, Britain’s arms-reach attitude had in turn emboldened the Iraqi government, whose calls for a U.S. departure had gone from polite but firm to strident and belligerent, a trend American citizens could not help but notice. First our closest ally, then the very people we’d shed blood to rescue. Having run his campaign on the promise to disentangle the United States from Iraq, Kealty was slipping in the polls, and some of the TV pundits had gone as far as accusing Kealty of stifling the withdrawal to put pressure on Congress, which had itself been wishy-washy on some of their new President’s pet projects.
The fact that their request to enlist the Brits in following the Peshawar-map angle was denied shouldn’t have surprised Mary Pat, a veteran of more intragovernment political squabbles than she could remember, but it did nonetheless. This damned cave was the best lead they’d had on the Emir in years. To see it slip through their fingers over what amounted to a presidential tantrum was infuriating. Of course, it didn’t help that their DCI, Scott Kilborn, was himself a weasel.
Mary Pat shook her head and sighed. “Too bad Driscoll lost his prisoners.”
“A little water inhalation tends to loosen the lips,” Margolin said.
A popular view, Mary Pat thought, but of little use in the real world. She was neither squeamish nor such a Pollyanna that she thought torture did not have its merit, but generally those techniques fell far short on producing reliable and verifiable information. More often than not, it was a waste of time. During and shortly after World War Two, MI6 and the OSS got more information from captured German generals with a game of Ping-Pong or checkers than they did with a pair of pliers or electrodes.
The “ticking bomb” scenario so casually batted about was a near myth. Most plots against the United States since 9/11 had been broken in their infancy, as the bad guys were recruiting, or moving money, or putting logistics into place. The image of a terrorist with his finger hovering over a button somewhere while the good guys tried to squeeze info from his compatriot was beyond rare, a Hollywood concoction, and bore about as much similarity to real-world intelligence work as James Bond did. In fact, there’d been only one instance of the “ticking bomb” during her entire career, and John Clark had settled that in a matter of minutes by breaking a few fingers and asking the right questions.
“Clichés are clichés for a reason,” Ed had told her once. “It’s because they’re usually so true, people overuse them.” As far as Mary Pat was concerned, when it came to interrogation, the cliché “You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar” was dead right. Morality was only one facet in the pros-and-cons argument. What really mattered was effectiveness. You do what gets you the best results. Period.
“So,” she said to her boss, “back to square one?”
“No fucking way. That old friend across the pond you mentioned… Give him a call, have an informal chat.”
Mary Pat smiled but shook her head. “This is what they call a job killer, Ben.”
He shrugged. “You only live once.”
Melinda was pleasantly surprised to see him again. He’d taken her out for a drive to see “John” a week before. He had paid nicely and done nothing overtly kinky, and all that was fine with her, especially the money part.
This guy-well, he was properly turned out, or what passed for it here. It was unusual for her to appear in public this way. She was a call girl, not a streetwalker, but this hotel had a particularly fine dining room, and the maître d’ knew and liked her. A freebie took a girl a long way in her business, and truth be told, he was a decent chap, married, like so many of her clients, and therefore dependably nice. Well, almost dependably. You could never be sure, but men in his position, the ones who lived around here, generally knew what the rules were. And if that failed, she still had Little Mr. Colt in her purse.
Eye contact. A knowing smile. He was cute, this procurer. A very short beard, like something Errol Flynn might have worn in a pirate movie. But she wasn’t Olivia de Havilland. She was prettier, Melinda thought, not the least bit self-consciously. She worked hard to stay slim. Men liked women whose waists they could encompass with their hands. Especially the ones with nice tits overtop of them.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly. A smile that was merely friendly on its face, but the recipient knew that there was much more that came behind the smile.
“Good evening, Melinda. How are you this warm evening?”
“Just fine, thank you.” A little teeth with the smile.
“Are you busy this evening?”
“No, not at the moment.” More teeth. “I never did get your name.”
“Ernest,” he replied with a gentle smile. The man had a certain charm, but of the foreign sort, Melinda thought. Not European. Somewhere else. His English was okay, some accent… He’d learned English in a different place. That was it. Learned it well, and… and what? What was different about him? she wondered. She started cataloging him more fully. Slim, taller than she, lovely dark eyes, rather soulful. Soft hands. Not a construction worker. More a money type, this Ernest, which was surely not the name he’d been born with. His eyes were evaluating her. She was used to that. The How good is she in the sack? look. Well, he had reason to know she was pretty good. His boss had not complained, had even overpaid her. She was used to that. Yeah, she was that good. Melinda had lots of repeat customers, some of whom were known to her by their real names-or what they said were their real names. She had her own names for her regulars, frequently related to their dick size. Or color, in this case, she thought with a suppressed chuckle and a not-suppressed smile that Ernest might take for himself. That was something she did almost on instinct. In any case, she was already counting the money.
“Would you like to come with me?” he asked, almost shyly. Men knew by instinct-the smart ones anyway-that shyness is a major turn-on for all women.
“I’d like that.” And being demure worked just as well in the other direction. “To see your friend?”
“Perhaps.” His first mistake. Ernest would not be displeased to sample these goods himself. Filthy whore though she might be, she was a good lover, with much practice in her trade, and his drives were the same as those of most men. “Would you please come with me?”
“Surely.”
It was only a short drive, rather to Melinda’s surprise. A place right in town, an upscale condo with its own underground parking garage. “Ernest” got out of the car and gallantly opened the door for her. They walked to the elevator bank, and Ernest hit the button. She didn’t know the building, but the outside was distinctive enough to remember the image of it. So John had a place in town? More convenient for her, and for him? she wondered. Or maybe he remembered her fondly. That happened quite a lot in her experience.
“John” was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, holding a nice glass of white wine.
“Well, hello, John, what a pleasant surprise,” she said in greeting, with her best smile. It was a particularly good smile, sure to warm the cockles of a man’s heart, and the other cockles, too, or course. Then she walked over, kissing him sweetly before taking the offered glass. The
n a tiny sip. “John, you have the best taste in wine. Italian?”
“Pinot grigio,” he confirmed.
“They do the best food, too.”
“Is your ancestry Italian?” John asked.
“Hungarian,” she admitted. “We do good pastry, but the Italians do the best veal in the world.” Another hello kiss. John was a little odd but a really good kisser. “How have you been?”
“Travel is such a problem for me,” he admitted, falsely at the moment.
“Where did you have to go?” Melinda asked.
“Paris.”
“Do you like the wine there?”
“Italian is better,” he replied, a little bored with the conversation. She wasn’t here for her talking ability. All women had that, but Melinda’s talents went to other areas. “You are nicely dressed,” he observed.
It comes off quickly enough, she didn’t say. She selected her business clothing with that in mind. Some men like their women nude, but a surprising number liked the partially clothed quickie: skirt hiked up, bent over a table or couch, bra on but tits out… John liked on-the-knees oral, too, something she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t get carried away. “Just something I threw together. So this is a nice apartment.”
“It is convenient. I like the view.”
Melinda took the opportunity to look out the plate-glass window. Okay, good. Now she knew exactly where she was. There were a lot of people on the street, insofar as they had streets here, ways to walk from one lavish hotel to another, for those too cheap to get a taxi. Not much in the way of sidewalks, though. You didn’t make money from the sidewalks. John just stayed back and looked at her.
“Melinda, you are a vision,” he said with a smile. It was a smile she was used to-the “wannafuckyou” smile. Polite on the surface, yearning underneath. A brief glance below John’s belt line confirmed her guess.
It was time to walk toward him for another kiss. Could have been worse.
“Mmm,” she murmured. Okay, time for business, John. His arms went around her. Rather strong arms, maybe to let her know that she was his property. Men were that way. Then, gently, he led her to the bedroom.
Wow, she thought. Whoever had decorated this room had been one who knew what the condo was for. Probably not his/ her first such commission, Melinda was sure, down to the cute little chair for her to disrobe on, by the window. At sunset it would have been fucking perfect, she thought. She sat down and first of all removed her Manolo Blahnik shoes. Pretty though they were, taking them off was more pleasant than putting them on. They were made for looking, not for walking, and she had cute, girly feet. Men always liked them. The wraparound top came off and was laid on the dressing table, and she stood. She never wore a bra while at work, which was fine with her. No sagging yet on her B+ (almost C) chest. Men always liked that. A moment later she was nude, and she walked to see John more closely.
“May I help?” she asked. Men always liked to have her undress them, especially if you threw in a little “do me” urgency.
“Yes, please,” John replied, with a dreamy smile. Wherever he came from, he wasn’t used to this sort of worship. Well, he paid top dollar to get it, which was one of the things she was good at. In a minute she saw the reason she remembered him. Red, a perfect moniker for him. Of course, she delivered a kiss.
And, of course, he reacted favorably to it. At what he paid, she wanted him to become a regular. She was thinking about a new car. A BMW, or maybe all the way to a Mercedes. He could help her with that. As with business, she liked to pay cash for things. Well, a certified check for the right car. An E-Class Benz, she was thinking. She liked the solidity of the German car. You felt safe in one of those. She liked feeling safe. She stood.
“John, is this all night? That costs more, two and a half.”
“So much?” he asked, with a smile.
“There’s an old saying: You get what you pay for.”
“Not tonight. I must be off later.”
You don’t overnight here? she wondered. Is this just your fuck pad? He must have a ton of money to throw around. This place must have set him back a million, maybe a million and a half. If he were a man who enjoyed sex that much, then she sure as hell wanted him to be a regular customer. Men never appreciated how women like her evaluated men, and in what depth. Men were such fools, Melinda thought, even the rich ones. Especially the rich ones. She watched him reach for an envelope. This he handed over.
As always, Melinda opened the envelope and counted the bills. It was important that men knew that this was a business transaction, even one delivered with the best simulated love that money could buy. Quite a few men had leaned toward wanting their relationship to be more than that. She had a supremely charming way of steering the conversation in other directions.
The envelope went into the Gucci purse, next to Little Mr. Colt with his mother-of-pearl handle. When she arose, it was with the best of smiles. The business part was over. Now love could begin.
41
W AS IT a mistake? the Emir wondered. Things were rarely entirely clear at his level of operational responsibility. The target country was inconsequential, actually, but the target itself of great significance-or potential significance. The effects of the attack would spread like ripples in a pond, lapping soon enough at the shores of their true target.
Of all his worries about the current operation, his commander on the ground did not count among them. Ibrahim was ambitious but also careful and thorough, and he’d kept his team small and well organized in every detail. Then again, the real test would come when the plan went operational, which was the decision that he presently faced. Timing was everything, along with the ability to focus on the “big picture,” as the Americans called it. There were a number of pieces moving about the board, and each had to move in the right direction and at the right pace, lest any one of them get caught alone and without support. If that happened, the rest would fall in turn, and Lotus would collapse. And he would likely die before seeing Lotus come to fruition. If he moved too fast, his life could end before it bloomed; too slow, the same result.
So he’d let Ibrahim continue with his on-scene reconnaissance, but he’d withhold final approval on the operation until he knew the disposition of the other pieces.
And if Ibrahim succeeds? he asked himself. And what then? Would this Kealty react as they expected? Their profile of him-code-named CASCADE-seemed certain of it, but the Emir had long ago learned to be wary of the vagaries of the human mind.
CASCADE… an apt title. He found both it and the concept behind it amusing. Certainly the Western intelligence agencies had psychological profiles of him-he’d read one, in fact-so he found it entertaining to be largely basing their most ambitious operation on a profile of their own.
Kealty was the consummate politician, which in American politics was taken as synonymous for leader. How and when this ignorance had started he didn’t know. Nor did he care. The American people had chosen for themselves the politician who had most ably portrayed himself as a leader, never asking whether the image matched the character behind it. CASCADE said it did not, and the Emir agreed. Worse still-or better still, depending on your perspective-Kealty had surrounded himself with sycophants and favor-holders who did nothing to improve his credentials.
So what happens when a weak man of flawed character is faced with a cascade of catastrophes? He crumbles, of course-and with him, the country.
As promised, their charter boat was waiting for them. The captain, a local fisherman named Pyotor Salychev, sat in a lawn chair at the end of the deserted plank pier, smoking his pipe. Bobbing in the black, cold water was a twelve-meter wide-beamed British Halmatic trawler. Salychev grunted as he rose to his feet.
“You’re late,” he said, then stepped off the pier onto the afterdeck.
“Bad weather,” Adnan replied. “You’re ready?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
During their first negotiations, Salychev had as
ked few questions about who they were or why they wanted to go to the island, but Adnan, playing the role of an ecological zealot, had dropped several hints during their conversation. Watchdog groups had long been coming here to document the ravages of the Cold War, Salychev had replied with a shrug. As long as they paid and as long as they didn’t hazard him or his boat, Salychev was happy to take anyone to that godforsaken place. “No accounting for stupidity,” he’d told Adnan.
“It’s smaller than I’d imagined,” Adnan said, nodding at the boat.
“You were expecting a battleship? She’s tough enough. One of the only good things the British ever built, the Halmatic. I’ve had her lying on her beam and she still snaps to. You worry about yourself. Come on, then, we push off in ten minutes.”
The rest of Adnan’s men finished unloading their gear from the truck, then hurried down the pier and started loading it onto the afterdeck as Salychev barked orders about where and how to place everything. Once satisfied all was in order, Salychev cast off the lines, propped a foot on the pier, and pushed the Halmatic off. Seconds later he was in the wheelhouse, turning over the engine. With a belch of black smoke from the manifolds, the diesel engine roared to life and water frothed at the stern.
“Next stop,” Salychev called over his shoulder, “hell.”
Two hours later the island’s southern headlands appeared through the fog off the starboard bow. Adnan stood amidships, watching the coastline through a pair of binoculars. Salychev had assured him military patrols would be no trouble, and Adnan could see none.
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