Clark boarded another airliner, took his first-class seat, and closed his eyes, not to sleep but to run his mind over the events of the day. What had he done? What things had he done wrong? What had he done right, and why had it not mattered?
The short version was manpower. The Caruso boys seemed competent enough, and Jack did fine, but that was no big surprise. The kid had some good instincts. Heredity, maybe. All in all, not a bad op, given how hastily it had been assembled. They’d known he was headed to Chicago. Better to have split into teams of two and then forwarded the photo electronically to make it easier to carry forward? Could they have done that? Technically possible, maybe, but just because it might have been possible didn’t mean it would have worked. Stuff like this, you wanted multiple backups, because random chance could not be depended on to do anything but screw things up. Hell, carefully planned stuff could not be depended on, even with ample manpower composed of trained professionals. The enemy didn’t even have to be professionals for random events to screw up the best-laid plans. Might be a good idea, he thought, to walk through the European missions with the twins, just to see how good their fieldcraft was. They looked good, but looking good was something fashion models could do. It came down to training and experience. Heavy on experience. You grew your own training out in the field, and experience was something he’d tried hard to teach new CIA officers down at The Farm in the Virginia Tidewater. He’d never learned how well that had gone. Some came back and quaffed beers with him and Chavez. But what about the kids who had not come back? What lessons were to be learned from them? You rarely heard those stories, because not coming back meant never coming back, a gold star on the right-side wall in the CIA atrium, and usually a blank spot in the book.
Improve intrateam communications, for starters, he thought. If they didn’t have the experience to read minds, they damned well should have solid comm protocols. Hiring more troops would be a good idea, but that wasn’t going to happen. The Campus was supposed to run small and smart. Maybe they had the ability to do that, but damned sure there were times when a lot of people could solve a lot of problems. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Clark’s plane landed softly at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. It took five minutes to taxi to gate D-3, allowing Clark to walk off quickly. He made a head call and walked down the concourse, hoping that someone would be waiting for him. It turned out to be Jack, who waved.
“I know what you look like,” Clark said. “You don’t have to let other people know that you know me.”
“Hey, I mean-”
“I know what you mean. You never break fieldcraft until it’s over your first beer at home, kid. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Got it. What did you learn?”
“He flew on to Vegas, and he’s probably there now. Mainly I learned that we don’t have enough troops to do anything important at The Campus,” he concluded crossly.
“Yeah, well, we can’t do what we do if we have government oversight, can we?”
“I suppose not, but there are advantages to being part of a larger organization, y’know?”
“Yeah. I guess we’re kinda parasites on the body politic.”
“I suppose. Was there any attempt to track the bird to where he went?”
Jack shook his head as they walked out of the concourse. “Nope.”
“I’d bet he kept on going-maybe two or three more stops, but there’s no telling.”
“Why?”
“Complexity. Make it as hard for your adversary as possible. That’s a basic principle in this life.”
Outside McCarran International, Hadi was saying exactly the same thing to Tariq, who said, “We’ve discussed this at length. There is no danger that we know of. Our communications are as secure as money can buy, and no one has penetrated us, else we would not be here, would we?”
“What about Uda bin Sali and the others?” Hadi demanded.
“He died of a heart attack. We have all reviewed the official autopsy report.”
“And the others?”
“Men die every day from heart trouble, even the elect of Allah,” Tariq pointed out.
“Perhaps the Jews killed him, but the doctors in Rome said he died from a heart attack.”
“Perhaps there is a way-a drug, perhaps-to make it appear that way.”
“Perhaps.” Tariq turned left to go into town. “But in that case, we need not fear the Israelis here.”
“Perhaps,” Hadi conceded. He was too tired from his long travel day for a serious disagreement. Too much time in the air, too much wine, and too little decent sleep for him to summon the intellectual energy. “Your car is clean?”
“We wash the car every three days. When we do that, we search it for listening devices of every sort.”
“So how is he?”
“You will see for yourself in a few minutes. You will find him healthy and quite well, physically speaking. But you will also find it difficult to recognize him. The Swiss surgeons worked a miracle with his appearance. He could, if he wished, walk the streets here without fear of recognition.”
Hadi took the opportunity to look out of the car. “Why here?” he asked tiredly.
“No one ever admits to living here, except for the thieves who own the hotel/casinos. The city is notably corrupt, rather as Beirut once was-or so my father liked to tell me. Much gambling, but his highness doesn’t gamble with money.”
“I know, just his life. More dangerous in its way, but all men die, don’t they?”
“The local infidels act as though they have no fear of that. It is strange how many Christian churches there are here. People like to get married in this city-I do not understand why this is so, but it is. The Emir selected this city because of its anonymity. I think he was wise to do so. So many people come here to gamble and to sin against Allah. There is enough crime of the sort that keeps the local police concerned.”
Tariq made a right-hand turn for the final approach to the Emir’s country home, and Tariq thought of it. It was far more comfortable than the caves of Western Pakistan, much to Tariq’s personal pleasure, and that of the remainder of the staff, Allah be praised. He slowed and flipped his turn signal to turn left. He and his colleagues obeyed every law that they knew of in America.
“This is it?”
“Yes,” Tariq confirmed.
He’d chosen well, Hadi didn’t say. The Emir might have chosen a better-defended dwelling, but that might well have attracted the interest of his neighbors, and been counterproductive in this age of helicopters and bomb-laden aircraft. On the approach to Las Vegas, the pilot had called attention to a large U.S. Air Force base just north of the city. Another clever move on his friend’s part, to settle close to a major American military installation-on the face of it, not a good idea, but brilliant for that very reason. His desire to live in the Infidel West but writ large, Hadi thought in admiration. How long had he planned it? How had he arranged it? Well, that was why he’d come to lead the organization: his ability to see that which others could not see. He’d earned his place in the world, and in that place he had the ability-the right-to have his way with men… and women, according to the man behind the wheel. All men have their needs, and their weaknesses, Hadi told himself. That one wasn’t particularly disabling. For his part, Hadi had partaken in some of the joys of Rome. Often enough that he felt no guilt for it. So his friend did the same. No surprise there.
The car pulled into the garage. One space was empty, he noted. So did he have another servant? He got out of his car, fetched his bag from the trunk, and walked toward the door.
“Hadi!” boomed the voice from the door to the house. The garage doors were already coming down.
“Effendi,” Hadi called in return. The men embraced and kissed in the manner of their culture.
“How was your flight?”
“All four were fine but tiring.” Hadi took the time to look him in the face. The voice made him more recognizable. The face did not. S
aif Rahman Yasin was transformed. The nose, the hair, even the eyes somewhat-Or were they? he asked himself. Only the expression in them. Clearly he was pleased to see his childhood friend, and the mirth they contained was so different from his formal face seen on TV and in the newspapers. “You are well, my friend,” Hadi said.
“It is a gentle, comfortable life I live here,” the Emir explained with a rare smile. “Praise Allah, we have no hills to climb. There is much happiness in living under their noses, as they say.”
“When I learned of this, I thought you mad, but now I can see your wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The Emir pulled him into the house. “You choose to travel as a Jew, do you not? That is well. There are many of them here.”
“Is this city as corrupt as they say?”
“Much more so. The population is very transient. People here do not recognize anyone, except perhaps their closest friends; it is as Lebanon used to be.”
“Or Bahrain still is?”
“That is far too close to home.” He didn’t have to explain. Many Saudis drove there in their chauffeured cars to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, but too many of them might recognize his voice, if not his new face. The Saudi royal family wanted him as dead as the Americans did. Indeed, they’d set up viewing stands in Chop Chop Square in Riyadh for the infidels to see his last minutes with their mini-cams and other recording systems. There were many prices on his head… And the American one was not nearly the highest. “Come. Let us find you a proper bed.”
And Hadi followed him through the kitchen and into the house, thence left toward the bedroom wing.
“You are secure here?” Hadi asked.
“Yes, but in a few minutes I can be away. It is not perfect, but it is the best a man can arrange.”
“Do you test your escape route?”
“Weekly.”
“So it is for me in Italy.”
“Rest!” the Emir said, opening the door to the bedroom. “Do you require anything?”
Hadi shook his head. “I could eat, but I need sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
“Good night, my friend.” A shake of the shoulder, and the Emir closed the door. The man had flown almost six thousand miles. He’d earned the right to be exhausted.
51
BELL AND GRANGER were waiting in Hendley’s office when Jack and Clark walked in. “Washed out in Chicago,” Clark told them, falling into a swivel chair. “He flew as far as Las Vegas. After that, who can say? McCarran has flights to everywhere. Maybe L.A., San Francisco, hell, back to the East Coast, maybe.”
“His traveling name?” Bell asked.
“Joel Klein. Jewish, would you believe? Makes sense, I suppose. I suppose we can surf the computers to see if he booked a flight on from there, but who’s to say he doesn’t have numerous other identities?”
“Already being checked,” Granger assured him. “No hits yet. I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“If I had to bet, I’d say he’s bedded down somewhere, maybe scheduled to continue his travel regimen tomorrow. Not enough manpower, Rick. We need more bodies and more eyes to do this.”
“We got what we got,” Bell said.
“Yeah.”
“There is another possibility,” Jack said. “What if Las Vegas was his destination? Then what?”
“Damned scary thought,” Granger replied. “It means we’ve got an operational URC cell here.”
Tell us about Peshawar,” Hendley said a few minutes later.
Clark dug into his carry-on and laid Masood’s drive on the desk. He gave the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the trip. “Why they didn’t toss the house I don’t know,” he said. “According to Masood, he copied everything he did for the URC. Have to assume the guy who helped them move was the Emir.”
“For now we will.” Hendley nodded to Bell. “Rick, can you get that down to Gavin? Have him send up the contents asap?” To Clark: “You want to call Mary Pat?”
“Already did. She’s on her way.”
Hendley picked up the phone and called the lobby. “Ernie, Gerry here. Got a visitor coming. Mary Pat Foley. Right, thanks.”
Mary Pat appeared in Hendley’s doorway forty minutes later. “Nice digs,” she said. “Looks like I’m in the wrong business.” She walked across the carpet and shook Hendley’s hand. “Good to see you again, Gerry.”
“You too, Mary Pat. This is Rick Bell and Sam Granger. And I think you know Jack Ryan.” More handshakes, and a surprised look from Mary Pat. “Keeping up the family legacy?” she asked Jack.
“It’s early days yet, ma’am.”
“Mary Pat.”
Hendley said, “Have a seat.” She took the chair next to Clark. “You look tired, John.”
“I always look this way. It’s the lighting.”
“Let’s get on the same page,” Hendley said.
Clark gave Mary Pat the same recap. When he was done, she let out a low whistle. “A mover. That tells us something. You don’t need somebody like Masood unless you’re leaving the region.”
Granger said, “We should have the hard drive contents shortly.”
“It’s not going to tell us where he is,” Mary Pat predicted. “The Emir’s too slippery for that. Probably used more than one mover. Used them to hopscotch himself somewhere he could drop off the radar. Best we’re going to get is close.”
“Which is a damned sight closer than we are now,” Rick Bell observed.
While Biery and his geeks dug into Masood’s drive and Clark and Chavez caught a power nap on the break-room couches, Jack turned his attention to the flash drive Ding had taken off one of the Tripoli tangos. Having determined that it contained stego-encoded images, he and Biery had decided to try a brute-force algorithm crack, with a free steak dinner for whoever got there first. Busy as he was with Masood’s drive, Jack felt confident in his head start.
After two hours of crunching, one of the algorithms struck gold and an image began depixelating on his screen. It was a large file, almost six megabytes, so the decoding would take a few minutes. He picked up the phone and called Granger. Two minutes later Jack had an audience of eight standing over his shoulder, watching the monitor as the photo resolved.
“What the hell is that?” Brian asked, leaning in.
The photo was blurred and desaturated of color. Jack imported it into Photoshop and washed the file through some filters, working the contrast and brightness until the image came clear.
There was ten seconds of silence.
The 8×10 image was done in 1940s pinup style: a dark-haired woman in a white cotton peasant skirt, sitting on a bale of hay, her legs crossed demurely. She was naked from the waist up, her impossibly massive breasts drooping to her thighs.
“Tits,” Sam Granger said. “My God, Jack, you’ve discovered tits.”
“Oh, shit,” Jack muttered.
Everyone burst out laughing.
Dominic said, “Jack, you little pervert… I had no idea.”
Then Brian: “So, Jack, exactly how much ‘depixelation’ do you do in your spare time?”
More laughter.
“Very funny.” Jack groaned.
Once the laughter died down, Hendley said, “Okay, let’s break it up and let Mr. Hefner carry on. Nice work, Jack.”
At four o’ clock, Jack woke up Clark and Chavez. “Show-time, guys. Conference room in five minutes.”
They showed up in four minutes, both armed with an extra-large cup of coffee. Everyone else was already seated: Hendley, Granger, Bell, Rounds, Dominic, and Mary Pat. Clark and Chavez took their seats. Rounds took the lead. He looked up from the summary Biery had sent up a few minutes earlier.
“A lot of this is nuts-and-bolts stuff that may help us down the road. The big-picture items are three. He picked up the remote and aimed it at the forty-two-inch wide-screen TV. The frontspiece of a passport appeared on the screen. “That’s what our guy looked like at some point in the last six to nine months.”
There was
ten seconds of silence around the table.
“Bears a resemblance to the few pics we’ve got of him,” Bell said.
Rounds said, “Forged French passport. High-quality work. The stamps, the backing, the threading-all perfect. According to Masood’s hard drive, the Emir used this three months ago. Peshawar to Dushanbe, Tajikistan, then to Ashgabat, Volgograd, then Saint Petersburg. Then nothing.”
“That’s as far as Masood took him,” Dominic added.
“Can’t be his final destination,” Jack replied. “Another mover took over, maybe?”
Clark said, “If you average out his hops, he was heading generally northwest. Extend that a little and you’re into Finland or Sweden.”
“Sweden,” Mary Pat said. “The plastic-surgery thing?”
“Maybe,” Granger said.
“The Hlasek Air thing?” Chavez wondered aloud.
“That, too, maybe. If Saint Petersburg was as far as Masood took him, that means he dumped the French passport for a new one. If he went into Sweden or Finland on a new one, he wouldn’t be able to land anywhere after that-at least not legitimately.”
“Explain that.” This from Hendley.
“He couldn’t use his old face for the next passport, and there’s no way he gets one all bandaged up, so he sits still until all the swelling and bruising are gone, then gets the passport.”
“Let’s back up a second,” Jack said. “Who took over as the mover in Saint Petersburg? That’s the question we need to ask.”
“Needle in a haystack,” Bell said.
“Maybe not,” Mary Pat came back. “Masood was ex-ISI. The URC chose him because he was a pro at it. They’d want the same thing in Russia. Maybe we’re looking for ex-SVR, or ex-KGB.”
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