The cash would get him out of the country and to his small house in the Guanacaste region of northwest Costa Rica. Once there, he would live off of the two million dollars he’d siphoned from the various projects he’d worked on over the years. After being laundering through banks on the Isle of Man, the funds now sat in a Cayman Islands account under the name of a Panamanian trust he controlled. Having access to off-the-books funding for black ops had its perks. In his line of work, you never knew when the political tides would turn against you.
He would just have to wait out this latest turn of events. His biggest fear was whether he would get another chance. He was seventy-one. Then he thought of the temperate weather, the exotic girls, and shrugged his shoulders. Living out his final years in paradise wasn’t the worse thing that could happen. He reached into the rear of the safe and removed two passports: his US one under his real name and a Panamanian one under the identity of an international businessman—an alias he’d created five years earlier.
He would simply disappear.
Rachel leaned across the table like a lioness readying to pounce. “You had me kidnapped! You had Wolfe’s goon shoot Chris, stab Mousa, and try to kill the two of us! You—”
Deputy Director Richards held up a hand, silencing her accusations. “Yes, Allen Wolfe reported to me, but you need to understand that he acted autonomously. The way my business works”—he took another drag from his cigarette and tilted his head upward to blow out the smoke—“sometimes it’s better if we do not know the details of the operations.”
“Bullshit,” Ethan said, the anger rising within him in spite of his attempts to remain calm. “Building the Monastery must have cost millions of dollars, and what Wolfe is trying to do with my Logos machine is potentially destructive to our relations with the Arab world. You must have known what was going on here.”
Richards evaluated him for a moment, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, and said, “I’m glad you understand the sensitivity of this project and why it must be kept absolutely secret.”
“Understand!” Ethan’s face grew hot. “What I understand is that an agency of my government has tried to pervert my life’s work, has murdered at least one of its innocent citizens, and is conducting human psychological brainwashing experiments that violate every ethical principal.” He turned his attention to Houston with his final comment.
“The reason we came here—” Houston began, but stopped when Richards rested his free hand on his shoulder.
“Son, I don’t need you to lecture me on ethics and morality from the top of your ivory tower. My job is to protect our country from dangerous men who have no sense of ethics, who are willing to murder innocent women and children indiscriminately to achieve their goals. War is not clean. War is not pretty.”
“But if we want to win this war,” Rachel said, “we can’t stoop to their level. If we lose the moral high ground, then we will never defeat terrorism.”
Richards tapped his fingers on the table. “Now, did Allen Wolfe overstep his authority? Certainly. Did Project Jericho get out of hand? No doubt. Wolfe, on numerous occasions, disobeyed my explicit instructions. He became a zealot for his own vision, and”—he took another drag on his cigarette—“actions may have been taken that were inappropriate. But sometimes, in my business, we have to give the operatives in the field leeway.”
“Leeway?” Ethan said. “With his leeway, Wolfe planned to take Jericho from a program designed to indoctrinate low-level terrorism suspects to widespread population control.” He faced Houston. “He had plans to build churches throughout the Middle East, incorporating the Logos into the pews in an attempt to indoctrinate the local civilian populations.” Houston’s eyes widened.
Richards raised his eyebrows as if he hadn’t known the full extent of what was going on in the Monastery. When he spoke again, his voice grew softer. “Maybe in Wolfe’s case I gave him too much freedom.”
Houston straightened, took his daughter’s hand, and cleared his throat. “What has happened here goes much further than an overstepping of authority.” The commanding tone that came from the administrator was one Ethan had heard many times before, but this time he was thankful he’d found his voice.
“The entire design of Project Jericho,” Houston continued, “and the significance of the name is not lost on me, is fundamentally anti-American. One of the founding premises of our nation is freedom of religion. The First Amendment protects us from the imposition of religious beliefs.”
When Richards opened his mouth to interrupt him, Houston slapped the table with his free hand, silencing the CIA man for once. “Don’t you dare tell me that the Constitution is only meant to protect Americans in our country. Forceful conversion of other populations runs contrary to the essence of the freedom we want to export to the rest of the world. The ends cannot justify the means in this case because the means and the ends are indistinguishable”—he locked eyes with Rachel and his voice turned icy—“especially when the means involves endangering innocent people.”
Ethan sat back in his seat, moved by the words of the man who had caused him so many problems over the years. For the first time, he better understood Houston. Then Ethan added, “Plus, it never would have worked.”
Richards raised an eyebrow. “I thought the anomalies in your programming that resulted in negative reactions in 10 percent of the subjects was something that could be solved.”
Ethan resisted the urge to point out the obvious fact that the deputy director knew more about the details than he had first claimed, but Richards’s comment also revealed another important piece of information: Axe must have taken his knowledge of the left-handed anomaly in the programming to his grave.
“I never figured out what was wrong with my programming. I think the problem is inherent in the nature of the whole project.” Lying about his success with the Logos, especially in front of Houston, was painful, but he wanted to ensure that the CIA man didn’t restart the project.
“Even if it could be perfected,” he continued, “Wolfe never understood the Logos. In fact, until recently I didn’t fully grasp Elijah’s vision for the machine either. The Logos doesn’t cause one to believe in a Christian God—or even any god, as we traditionally think of that word. It does the opposite: the Logos opens up the mind to the possibilities of the infinite, to seeing beyond our everyday reality to an ultimate reality that isn’t exclusively Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or Buddhist.” A pang of sadness passed over him as he remembered his mentor. “Elijah Schiff, who dreamed up the Logos, explained to me once that these religions may point to this ultimate reality in ways that can be understood by their adherents, but that the reality itself is much greater, and it isn’t something that can be put into words.”
He sensed Rachel and Houston both staring at him. “The success Wolfe achieved with the Logos was only in a limited number of cases with uneducated terrorists who had already been subjected to brainwashing by the Islamic fundamentalists in their countries. As we learned in the case of a Jordanian doctor in the Monastery, the Logos could not convert an enlightened Muslim to Christianity; it instead made him a more devout, while also opening his mind to the truths and the limitations of all religions.”
“All of this is moot now anyway,” Richards grunted. “I’m shutting down Project Jericho.”
“What exactly do you mean by shutting down?” Rachel asked.
“Professor Houston, the Yale President, your congresswoman from Connecticut who chairs the House Subcommittee on Intelligence, the CIA Director, and I spoke before I came here.” He shifted in his seat. For the first time, he appeared uncomfortable. “We decided the risks of exposure are too great relative to the potential payoff. The Logos machines will be destroyed, the Monastery dismantled. No one will ever know what happened in the desert of Egypt.”
“I can’t imagine Wolfe just giving up on his vision,” Ethan said.
“We are used to cleaning up after ourselves. Allen Wolfe will not be a proble
m.”
The ominous tone of the CIA’s deputy director sent a shiver through him.
Richards slid two single sheets of paper across the table, one in front of each of them. Ethan glanced at the legal document. “Confidentiality agreements?”
“These contracts cover anything you two may have seen or learned while you were here. Project Jericho is classified as top secret, and this contract binds you to silence in the name of national security. You may not even mention the existence of the Monastery.”
“Why would we even consider signing that?” Rachel asked, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. She glared at Richards and then her father.
“In exchange for your agreeing to stay quiet on these matters, Ms. Riley, you will be safely returned to the US, where you can continue your studies. And you’ll be compensated for your traumatic experience.”
“Compensated?”
“For the trauma you experienced from your detainment. By the time you arrive in New Haven, we will have deposited three hundred thousand dollars into your bank account, tax free, no questions asked.” Richards cut his eyes to Houston. “And should you decide that you would like to stay at Yale next year and pursue your PhD, we have worked out an arrangement with the university that your tuition will be gratis.”
Rachel picked up the paper, sat back in her chair, and studied the text.
Richards turned to Ethan. “Professor Lightman, we have cleared up the accounting irregularities from the NAF grant that funded the Logos project. I explained to Professor Houston and the university president that you’re innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“You mean how Wolfe made it seem like I was embezzling money from the project so I would have no choice but to work for him.” Anger flushed Ethan’s face at the memory of how his life had been turned upside down. “And how Wolfe’s man, your employee, James Axelrod, murdered Elijah Schiff, a tenured university professor, the most gentle and kind man I’ve ever known!”
Richards reached for another cigarette from the red-and-white pack in his shirt pocket and tapped it on the table. “Any suspicions the New Haven police had about your involvement in Professor Schiff’s tragic death will also be resolved.”
Ethan started to rise out of his seat but settled when Houston raised a hand. “Please, let him continue.”
Richards clicked open a silver butane torch lighter and lit the cigarette. “In recognition of the groundbreaking research you and Professor Schiff accomplished, the university has agreed to offer you full tenure. The Agency will provide funding for your next project, whatever you choose to study, no questions asked.”
“You want to buy me off!” He glanced over at Rachel, who looked up from her contract. “You expect us to stay silent about these abuses?”
The deputy director leaned forward on his elbows. “Do you want to be the cause of a religious war? A war that will bring terrorism to our country in a way that makes 9/11 look like a warm-up? A war that will cause tens if not hundreds of thousands of deaths?”
“No,” Ethan whispered. He stared at the dishes of food on the table. He hadn’t eaten yet that day, but he wasn’t hungry. As much as it pained him to admit it, Richards was right. Nothing that had happened could become public. “So Wolfe and his men just get away with everything”—he glared at Richards—“with no consequences for their actions?”
“There are always consequences.” Richards blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “First, I’ve lost millions from my budget that I’ll never recover, James Axelrod has died, and Wolfe will be held accountable for his failures. This program has to disappear.”
“So I’m supposed to return to Yale, pick up where I left off, as if none of this ever happened?”
“You’re free to do as you wish.” Richards rubbed his shiny head as if polishing it. “But you must give up on the Logos experiments. The machine in the hands of the police that contains your programming will be destroyed. The potential for abuse if your technology falls into the wrong hands is too great. Some frontiers are better off not being explored.”
Ethan looked at Houston. The administrator had never respected his research, and that had always grated on him. But, he had to admit, Houston was right. Not about whether the technology would work. It had, and spectacularly so, but the head of Yale’s Human Research Protection Program had been most concerned with his protocols regarding human experimentation. In his zeal to progress the research, to push the boundaries of psychological knowledge, he’d minimized the risks. Risks that came to be realities. Elijah had sensed the potential for abuse, too, since he’d experienced firsthand during his graduate school days how human psychological experimentation could be taken too far in the name of national security. But he’d chosen to blow off his mentor’s concerns.
He looked at the two men waiting for his response. His first instinct had been to tell Richards where he could shove his money, but then a new idea came to him. What if the suffering Wolfe caused could be turned to something good after all? As he outlined the idea, the words spilling out of his mouth, he noticed Houston smiling at him.
When he finished, the CIA man nodded in agreement with his plan and then wiped his mouth with his napkin.
Rachel asked, “What will happen to the Arab men who are still in the facility when you close it down?”
“They will be treated on a case-by-case basis.” Richards dropped the napkin on the table. “We’ll move them to another facility, where they will be rehabilitated, and once we feel that they are no longer a threat they will be returned to their countries. Don’t forget that these men belonged to terrorist organizations.”
“Mousa was not a terrorist,” Ethan said. “Axe tried to kill him in Luxor, and we haven’t had any news of him.”
Richards took a drink from his glass of water. “The Jordanian doctor was airlifted to a hospital here in Cairo where he is being treated. His injuries were serious but not life-threatening.”
“He’s here?” Rachel asked. “When can we see him?”
“We’ll have to check with his doctors, but we’ll see what we can arrange. He’s scheduled to return home to his family in Amman in a few days.”
Richards’s mannerisms and vague responses made Ethan uncomfortable, especially since just moments earlier he’d been so confident when detailing his demands.
“I want to be perfectly clear on this.” He leaned forward and pointed at the deputy director. “If anything happens to Mousa, I will go straight to The New York Times and CNN with this story. I don’t give a damn what this agreement says or how much money you promise to put into our research. If I hear that Mousa has had a car accident, a mysterious fall while hiking, a drug mishap at the hospital”—he stabbed his finger at Richards to emphasize each point—“anything at all, then all of your shenanigans become public, regardless of the diplomatic consequences.”
Richards visibly swallowed, nodded, and then said, “You have my word. Mousa will be safe.”
CHAPTER 66
THE MONASTERY
Allen Wolfe snapped the locks closed on his briefcase and snatched the keys to one of the SUVs from the top of his desk. He would drive himself to Aswan Airport, where the chartered jet would pick him up in forty-five minutes.
“Hey, Boss.”
He looked up. Nicholas Dawkins stood in his office doorway.
“Where’ve you been? I called you hours ago.”
“Claiming Axe’s body from the Luxor police took longer than expected. Had to call in some favors to get them to look the other way.”
Wolfe tried not to show his surprise or concern. He should have been the one to place the call to the Agency, not his field operative.
“Yeah,” Dawkins continued, “the big man caused quite a scene.”
“He was acting strangely lately. Not himself.” He started toward the door, but Dawkins blocked his exit. “The subjects?”
“Axe got to the Jordanian, but the girl and the professor . . .” Dawkins shrugged. “Once the authorities moved i
n, we had to back off. They vanished in the crowd.”
Wolfe shook his head. How did everything fall apart so quickly? If only he hadn’t been in Cairo during the escape. Without his direct supervision, these muscleheads were incapable of accomplishing anything.
“Where are your men now?” He used his most authoritative tone.
“Came back with me to regroup.” Dawkins demeanor was relaxed, almost nonchalant.
“Well, I’m running late for a meeting with our assets in Cairo. We need to close in on Professor Lightman and Ms. Riley before they can get help. Without passports, they can’t go far.”
Dawkins stepped to the side, giving him room to pass. “We’ll have this place back up and running in no time. Right, Boss?”
“Certainly.” He grinned at his man. “We’ll have to implement a stricter security protocol this time.” He turned to walk down the hallway.
I’m free, he thought.
The stinging sensation in his neck caught him by surprise. He swatted at what he thought might be a mosquito biting him. Immediately, a rush of warmth spread like hot water from the veins in his neck down his torso. His limbs grew heavy and he slumped to the ground, his legs no longer able to support his weight.
“Dawkins, help me up.” His speech was slurred. He tried to push to sitting, but even that required a strength he no longer had. “What’s happening to—” Before he completed the question, he noticed the expression of curiosity on his deputy’s face—an expression that should have been one of alarm.
Dawkins stood over him, silhouetted by the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. A syringe dangled in his hand. The lack of returned calls, the sketchy details he’d received about the operation to find Riley and Lightman, Dawkins’s cavalier attitude: everything made sense now. He recalled Richards’s warning about terminating Jericho with prejudice. Strangely, though, the reality of his impending demise didn’t concern him. The fire in his blood had removed his desire to fight.
The Jericho Deception: A Novel Page 36