Outsourced

by R. J. Hillhouse

  “Could be a Web site problem. They go over Uzbekistan several times a day when they’re shooting Afghanistan. You think someone bought them all up?” The coffeemaker gurgled. Camille removed the pot before it was finished brewing and poured a cup into a mug with the Black Management black panther logo.

  “Doesn’t make sense. Why would you want to keep people from looking at some underground facility you couldn’t see from the sky anyway?”

  “Maybe SHANGRI-LA is above ground, though I’ll still put money on it that they’re using the old KGB haunts.”

  “That’s a given,” Iggy said. “You always use whatever’s already there. Look at what we do here. Not knocking down Abu Ghraib was obviously stupid, but we use all of Saddam’s old facilities. I’ll check in with the spooks and see what the KGB had going on in that neck of Kyzyl Kum. Looks like you’re going to be tripping down memory lane there.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

  He should’ve snapped Jackie’s goddamn neck when he had a chance, Joe Chronister told himself as he tried to find a chair with four legs in the former Iraqi Army brig. The place was such a dump that Rubicon hadn’t bothered to take it over even though it was in their corner of the sprawling Camp Tornado Point compound. It smelled like an old slaughterhouse and it probably was. But the cells were intact and that was all that mattered since he had to hold Stone incognito somewhere away from the temptation of Camille’s bounty. It sure beat an empty shipping container for ventilation. Three shooters, a black hood and an old key were all that he needed to hold Stone and a couple of his friends until he had the final piece he needed to start their transfer to Fuckistan.

  He heard a car drive up and one of his men escorted Larry Ashland inside.

  “My god, how do you stand this smell?” Ashland said, squinting his eyes.

  “Hadn’t noticed.”

  Chronister sat on the best chair he could find, then shoved one toward Ashland, who stared at the grimy wooden seat but didn’t sit down. The pussy didn’t have a clue they were on to him.

  “It won’t kill ya,” Chronister said.

  “Where’s Stone?”

  “You’ll see him soon enough.”

  “I did not appreciate the rough handing on the way in. And I don’t understand why they had to impound my weapons.” Ashland flicked imaginary dirt from his starched white shirt.

  “Can’t be too careful around operators like Stone.” Chronister pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to Ashland. “Want one?”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “Lot of things do that.” Chronister lit his cigarette, looking over Ashland. “Working the Iraqi side of the op, you have to be curious what it’s all about—how your little piece fits into the big picture. I was thinking it’s time to take you to check out BALI HAI. You know, you can get a good look at SHANGRI-LA from there.”

  “BALI HAI. Not SHANGRI-LA?”

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you? BALI HAI’s the prison; SHANGRI-LA’s the project.” Chronister took a long drag from the cigarette and felt an immediate rush. He had waited a couple of years for the opportunity to screw Ashland. He’d despised the fucker from the first time they had met. “Here’s the deal. We’re transferring Stone and a couple others overland to an out-of-the-way airstrip. No one’s going to be watching for him. A Rubicon rendition flight will ferry them from there to Uzbekistan. You’ll tag along.”

  “So SHANGRI-LA is in Uzbekistan?” Ashland nodded his head.

  “Yeah and you can send a postcard to Paris from there. They have some nice ones with those turquoise blue domes—”

  “What are you talking about?” His countenance fell and he was suddenly very serious.

  “You tell me.” Chronister drew his Glock and yelled for the guards. “My wife left me this morning. I’d love to kill someone right now, so don’t push me, you fucking spy.”

  “I didn’t touch your wife.”

  “Spoken like a true Frenchman.”

  A guard shoved Ashland down onto the gritty floor and plastic-cuffed his hands behind his back. “What the hell is this about?”

  “We nailed a spy a few days ago on the Syrian border. And that man was a talker. Something he said about a spy and SHANGRI-LA started ringing bells. Next thing you know, I’ve got a file on my desk about some DGSE agent with your ugly mug in it.” Chronister took a long drag from his cigarette, then blew smoke toward Ashland. “And what were you French thinking, calling your espionage agency the DGSE? Now KGB, CIA, SIS, those are cool, spy-cool. But DGSE sounds like some bankrupt trucking company.” Chronister grinned and shook his head. “You know, you can either cop to it now in a civilized conversation or later when we start plucking off those manicured fingernails. Make it easy on yourself.”

  “Then Stone didn’t tell you? You know about me from the other agent?” Ashland laughed. “He didn’t understand, did he?”

  “Stone didn’t tell me a fucking thing. I tried some dumb-ass new interrogation method I learned at a seminar from an FBI guy. Didn’t work worth a damn, but don’t worry, we don’t use that touchy-feely stuff at BALI HAI. It’s strictly old school.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to know what you French thought you were doing, nosing around a CIA operation. I thought we were all friends?”

  “We used to be. Then you started kidnapping innocent civilians and torturing them in your secret prisons. You start wars under the pretext of preventing Saddam from getting nuclear devices, even though you know he doesn’t have them—because you manufactured the evidence. Now America and its corporations are addicted to the War on Terror like a user to heroin. Your president flouts your laws and constitution. And what do the American people do? They supersize another order of French fries.”

  “When are you French ever going to get it through your heads that you don’t matter? La Grand Nation ain’t a superpower. Hell, France isn’t even a player. I’ll never understand why you think you guys have to butt into other people’s business.”

  “We have an obligation to defend freedom and democracy—something America used to understand.”

  “And I supersize my freedom fries.” Chronister crushed his cigarette out against Ashland’s cheek. “We’re going to have some fun together. I can tell.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The CIA has been hiding and interrogating some of its most important al Qaeda captives at a Soviet-era compound in Eastern Europe, according to U.S. and foreign officials familiar with the arrangement.

  The secret facility is part of a covert prison system set up by the CIA nearly four years ago that at various times has included sites in eight countries

  —The Washington Post, November 2, 2005, as reported by Dana Priest

  The current transfers mean that there are now no terrorists in the CIA [black site/prison] program….

  [T]he Supreme Court’s recent descision has impaired our ability to prosecute terrorists through military commissions, and has put in question the future of the CIA [black site/prison] program.

  —President George W. Bush, Address to the nation, September 6, 2006

  Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad

  Camille shoved a Leupold Mark 4 spotting scope into a small suitcase stuffed with clothes she didn’t like and planned on dumping along with her other props as soon as she passed Uzbek customs. She stuck an encrypted Iridium satellite phone into a day pack. A few years ago she would have been pushing it to take such an advanced communications device along, but with the proliferation of cell phones, she doubted the border guards would take a second glance. “Hey, I thought you were picking up everything in-country like a good little assassin,” Iggy said as he stood in the middle of the small trailer and watched her pack. “What’s with the scope?”

  “All you can count on getting there is old Russian equipment. I love Dragunovs, but their iron sights suck. The Russians have some great optics, but they can be har
d to come by.” Camille tossed a pair of Zeiss binoculars and a birding field guide to Central Asia into the small suitcase. “As long as I look like some nutty birder after a scissor-tailed whatever, Uzbek border guards won’t think twice about a good spotting scope.

  “Any sign of GENGHIS?” Camille said as she sorted through a stack of T-shirts, trying to lighten the load in the suitcase.

  “None and I don’t like it,” Iggy said, shaking his head. “He told Pete he was off to a massage parlor last night after she showed him his rack. Our boys have quizzed every whore in the bubble. No luck.”

  “You think he’s our mole?”

  “He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s no traitor. I think someone didn’t want him going with you.”

  “Not good.” Camille stopped packing and looked up at Iggy. “Any word on the overheads?”

  “That’s why I dropped by.” Iggy grinned. “I put the spooks to work on it. Best they could get from Ikonos was that two years ago some company called Tasopé bought up all their satellite images over Uzbekistan—for the next three years.”

  “Who owns Tasopé?”

  “It’s like opening one those Russian nesting dolls—a bunch of shells. The mother company was an outfit called CRH Salvage. It’s got a dozen names on its board of directors.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Most of them are high-net-worth types—the kind you’d expect to be doing angel capital investments. The interesting thing is they only own forty-eight percent. Controlling interest is held by three mystery men. The spooks said they went through something like forty-six databases and nada. Can you imagine three people who’ve never had a credit card or a piece of junk mail to their name?”

  “That has the Agency’s fingerprints all over it.”

  “Get this, their birth dates were all in the forties, fifties and sixties, but the social security numbers were all issued in the past five years. Here’s the kicker: they all have post office boxes in Arlington and Chevy Chase.”

  “So a CIA proprietary company is buying up every private satellite image of Uzbekistan for the next three years. The Agency is definitely up to something big there.” Camille zipped up the carry-on suitcase.

  “Hold on. We’ve got more. The boys at Lyon are good. When this is all over, we really ought to think about buying them up.” Iggy picked up Camille’s suitcase and carried it to the door of her trailer.

  “You’re not using our in-house spooks?”

  “They’re busy planning your trip. Had to outsource it to the friendly competition.” Iggy carried her suitcase down the steps. Camille reached for the handle, but he pulled it away. “I got it. As I was saying, one of the guys recognized a name from the work we threw them a few weeks ago researching Rubicon’s holdings.”

  “Overlapping directors?”

  “Yup. One name—Garry Hoyes. Someone messed up and used him twice. Hoyes shows up on the board of directors of both a Rubicon subsidiary and one of the Agency’s proprietary companies—Tasopé. The Lyon analyst caught it because he once had a neighbor in Philly by that name, so it jumped right out at him.”

  “So this confirms both the Agency and Rubicon are closely linked, but we pretty much knew that already. And we now know both are up to something secret in Uzbekistan, but we don’t know they’re working together on the same thing,” Camille said. She felt bad he was carrying her bag, but the sun-baked sand of the compound was as hard as concrete and he could’ve rolled it. “But I’d bet anything they are cooperating. Rubicon has to be working under an Agency contract, otherwise there’s no money in it.”

  “There’s more. I was talking to some old Agency compadres about the black sites—you know, the prisons. Seems the heat’s been on ever since that Post reporter broke the story that the Agency’s running its own gulag system. The Poles and Romanians kicked them out. That Supreme Court ruling extending the Geneva Convention to detainees really mucked things up.”

  “Interesting, but what does that have to do with Hunter?”

  “Hold on. The Agency’s been scrambling to come up with a new way to keep control over prisoners and interrogations. Word is they’ve privatized.” Iggy raised his voice, trying to be heard over the roar of the generators.

  Camille stopped walking and looked at him. “You’re kidding? You mean the Agency is using contractors to run their secret prisons?”

  “Privately run prisons are a billion-dollar industry back home. Makes sense to me. They’re a proven concept.”

  “Let me guess, another sole-source provider contract so they didn’t have to open it up for competitive bids. Damn. I’d like to have had that one. We never get anything decent from them other than knuckle-dragger gigs from the SAD.” She hated prisons, but knew they could be a good way to diversify her company if they could somehow land a contract. She could always hire someone else to run them.

  “I heard that Fred Avocet gave Rubicon the contract right before he retired to work for them. Cofer was furious when Fred outmaneuvered him. He was sure Total Intel and Blackwater had it in the bag.” Iggy stepped into the shade of a palm. Its fronds rustled in the light breeze which carried smoke and soot from the burn pit.

  The sun burned Camille’s face and she moved into the shade with Iggy. “Last I heard, the Agency only outsourced torture to shifty governments, not private companies.”

  “They use their own guys for the heart-to-hearts. It’s the facility management they’ve outsourced, along with detainee transport. Remember the president’s speech about how the CIA was no longer in the business of black sites? He was telling the truth, more or less. The CIA isn’t doing it anymore—Rubicon is.”

  “Any idea what the money’s like?”

  “Margins are supposed to be terrific. I’ll make some calls and get the specifics.” Iggy’s Gargoyles sunglasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back into place as he started walking toward the helicopters. “You know, it’s brilliant. The Agency for once is actually looking ahead and positioning itself for the future. Bush isn’t going to be around forever. If the next president’s a bleeding-heart liberal, first day in office he’ll repeal the presidential finding that allows black sites. Even Clinton let us outsource interrogations to the Third World, so I’m sure that’ll still be an option, but so much of what they give you is self-serving shit. You need control of your own interrogations. That’s the beauty of outsourcing: you can do whatever the fuck you want. You don’t need a presidential finding because you’re not the SOB doing it—the contractor is. Things go south, the contractor went too far. And god only knows if any laws apply to them. Geneva Conventions sure as hell don’t. So much for that Supreme Court ruling. It’s a beautiful workaround.”

  Pete pulled up beside them in the Gator as they approached the rows of helicopters. A Little Bird lifted into the air.

  “News?” Camille shouted over the roar of engines.

  “The spooks are buzzing that the spy our boys nabbed a few days ago in Syria led to the bust of some big French agent,” Pete said as she turned the Gator off and pulled up the parking brake.

  “I meant about GENGHIS.”

  “Not a trace. He must’ve split. Guys here do that sometimes—or maybe he was our mole and he couldn’t take it.”

  Camille didn’t believe for a second that GENGHIS would betray her, but she wouldn’t put it past any of the guys to suddenly take off or shift over to another company. They did it all the time. “Guess I’m off to Ukraine alone.” Especially after GENGHIS’ disappearance, Camille wanted to keep the final destination as compartmentalized as possible and tell only those who absolutely had a need to know. Rubicon had to keep believing she was after their wild Ukrainian goose so their Uzbek operations weren’t put on the alert. She walked under the giant rotors of a Black Hawk and waved at Beach Dog, who was sitting in the pilot’s seat. He pointed his thumb and little finger to the ground in the Hawaiian wave he always did.

  “You need two shooters for your plan to have half a chance,” Iggy sai
d as he lifted Camille’s suitcase into the crew area of the helicopter.

  “You coming with me?” Camille looked over the top of her custom-made Oakley sunglasses.

  “You asking? Thought you didn’t want to risk taking along a tin man.” He knocked on his artificial hand.

  “Where we’re headed, there’s no chance of rust. I thought about what I said earlier. I was wrong. I need someone I can trust and right now, the three of us are the only ones I’m absolutely sure about.”

  “I’ll go.” Pete glanced at a Little Bird as it seemed to circle central Baghdad. “I’m a damn good shooter and you won’t find anyone better at scrounging up whatever you need.”

  “I’ve got to grab my dumb leg and extra batteries for my combat arm. Like it or not, I’m going to snag a third operator. We need someone for a third position to provide security. I’ll be back in a flash.” Iggy sprinted over to the Gator and drove off. Camille remembered that he’d had problems with the smart leg in loose sand before and she assumed he wanted to minimize the risk of electronic failures since the bendable ankle wasn’t all that critical to the mission.

  Camille took off her sunglasses and wiped the lenses on her shirt. Pete stood there, staring at her, waiting for something.

  “Pete,” Camille said. “I need someone I can trust back here just in case.”

  “We all know you can trust Virgil. He’d be the one you’d call anyway. I’m a good spotter, too, and you’re going to need all the help you can get if Hunter’s going to have half a chance. I’ve watched your back for years. Don’t cut me out of the real action.”