by Brad Thor
“The Agency must have thought so, too, at some point if you ended up over there, right?”
“They did,” said Wise, taking another sip of his drink. “It was at a time when they were experimenting with a lot of interesting programs. They made me an offer that the Army couldn’t even come close to matching, so I moved over to Langley.”
“Where you continued what you had been doing for the Army?”
“But with much bigger budgets.”
“Off book or on?” asked Harvath, referring to where the money had come from for these interesting programs.
“What do you think?”
Completely black and off the books, thought Harvath. Wise’s area of expertise was not something the CIA would have likely wanted congressional input on. The politicians would have only watered it down, if not shut it down completely. Members of Congress barely understood the complexities of the military battlefield. What they knew of the intelligence battlefield you could fit in a shot glass.
“Okay, so you’re Dr. Kill, armed anthropologist,” Harvath continued. “Why am I here?”
Wise had been called that so many times, he’d lost count. Normally, it made him smile. This time, though, his face was dead serious. “You’re here because Reed Carlton thinks I might be able to help with your case.”
“Can you?”
“Maybe, but first I want to see how much you know about your victim.”
“Victims,” Harvath replied. “Plural.”
Wise shook his head. “There may be hostages, plural, and a dead body, singular,” he said, gently chastising Harvath for correcting him, “but the object of all this is a singular victim and the sooner you understand that, the closer you’ll be to solving your case.”
CHAPTER 17
BOSTON
MASSACHUSETTS
He had spent the afternoon taking pictures. He liked taking pictures. He took shots of King’s Chapel, the Old North Church, and the Paul Revere House. In the Granary Burying Ground, near the grave of Sam Adams, he found a Gothic-inspired woman with black lipstick and nail polish who let him photograph her posing provocatively against several of the headstones. After the fourth one, she offered to take him someplace nearby and perform a sex act on him for fifty dollars.
She was a junkie who wanted to get high. He offered her ten dollars just to see what she’d say. She told him to fuck himself and flipped him the middle finger as she walked off. She came back ten minutes later as he was getting ready to leave and told him she’d do it for twenty. She didn’t know it then, but she had been smart to approach him in broad daylight in an open, public space. Had this happened at night, had he been drinking or off his medication, things would have ended much differently.
He didn’t know what her drug of choice was or how much it cost, but he removed a dollar bill from his wallet and extended it, telling her to get something to eat. “What? A box of Tic Tacs?” she demanded in her Southie accent. “Go fuck yourself,” she told him again, which sounded more like go faak yaself.
She was angry, real angry, and that made him smile. Seeing him smile made her even angrier and she tried to slap him. The speed with which he caught her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back startled her. She was going to scream, but the man sensed it and twisted her arm even tighter as he drew her against him. It was so painful all the air rushed from her lungs.
Her eyes flicked from side to side for anyone who could help her, but the few people she could see were paying attention only to the historic grave markers. He could smell the fear oozing from her pores and feel the exquisite trembling of her body. There was no telling how many diseases she carried, but he didn’t care. He was interested in only one thing from her. Closing his eyes, he listened until he could hear the thumping of her terrified heart as it pounded against the wall of her chest. It sounded like a rabbit running from a wolf.
He pulled up on her arm, right to the precipice of breaking it, and then he let her go. She stood for a moment, frozen in place by fear, and then like the little rabbit she was, she ran away as fast as she could from the big bad wolf.
He smiled as he watched her run. Broad daylight, a public space and commitment to his pills: the trinity that had saved her life that late afternoon in the graveyard and which had given him an appetite.
He was wary about where he should and shouldn’t go, should and shouldn’t eat. Though he had taken steps to disguise his appearance, there were certain risks that were not to be taken. He walked south to the city’s Chinatown neighborhood, where he ate in a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that couldn’t afford matching chairs, much less a CCTV system.
The best thing to be said about the food was that it was edible. He gorged himself on fried rice and egg rolls, washing it all down with a syrupy sweet Asian soda he had pulled out of the cooler. Impulse control was something the medication was supposed to help, but when he overloaded on stimuli the way he had in the graveyard, he found his cravings harder to control.
In addition to his eating binge, he also had to contend with the fact that his sexual arousal hadn’t dissipated. Smelling the terror on the woman as well as feeling her fluttering body pressed tightly against his was a heady combination of sensations made only more acute by the danger of it all.
He was drifting into choppy water and being pulled further and further from shore. He fingered the pillbox in his pocket as he stared over at the cooler with its beer and sodas. If he took more medication he could become dopey and slip up. But if he didn’t take any, and he gave in to one of his nastier impulses, he could also slip up. He felt damned either way, which suddenly brought on an additional sensation, anxiety.
He decided to write his own prescription. Walking over to the cooler, he removed two Yanjings, paid the old Chinese woman with the whiskers behind the counter, and sat back down at the table.
He drank the first beer in one long swallow. With the second, he took his time and willed himself to relax. It took several minutes, but eventually the warmth of the alcohol crept into his bloodstream and he began to feel himself relax. The benefit of the anxiety, if you could call it that, was that it was an arousal killer. His erection had completely gone away.
The longer he sat in the restaurant, the more relaxed he became. The more relaxed he became, the more his mind drifted, particularly to what had happened at the graveyard and he could feel the strings of arousal starting to be tugged. He was being pulled out to sea again. What he needed was some coffee.
Finishing off his second beer, his steered his legs out onto the street and into the early evening. Rush hour was already well under way. When he finally found a café it was staffed by wrung-out baristas watching the clock, eager to close up and get home for the evening. He ordered his coffee with a “black eye,” coffee-talk for two shots of espresso. As he had done in the Chinese restaurant, he paid in cash, and then exited the establishment.
He felt the caffeine hit his system faster than the beer. There was a pep in his step and he felt a buoyancy of spirit. Everything was going to be okay. He was actually looking forward to his assignment tonight. It was complicated, but not impossible. Every step had been mapped out in perfect detail. It was like making a cake. As long as you followed the recipe, you had nothing to worry about, and he always followed the recipe.
The vehicle and his supplies were stored in a dilapidated garage in East Boston. He spent an hour casing the neighborhood and an additional hour surveilling the garage before he approached.
The key to the padlock had been sewn into the lining of his jacket. Ripping part of the fabric, he removed it, and let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him.
He slipped a small flashlight from his backpack and cupped the head so as not to throw too much light. The white panel van was unlocked. Climbing in back, he did a quick assessment. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
Opening the lid of the large garbage can, he checked to make sure the final ingredient was in place. Squinting into the beam of
his flashlight was a man, bound and gagged, with a two-day growth of beard.
He closed the lid and began to feel very excited as he laid out a blue jumpsuit and stripped off his clothes.
CHAPTER 18
BETHESDA
MARYLAND
General George Johnson, Director of National Intelligence, lived in a modest colonial house near D.C. with his wife, an around-the-clock protective detail, and a French bulldog named Martin. Despite nearly two years of the detail that changed shifts every eight hours, the dog still went berserk every time someone showed up at the house.
For the security-minded, this might have been viewed as a positive. General Johnson, though, saw his wife’s dog as a colossal pain in the ass. Even before they had rung the bell, Lydia Ryan and Bob McGee could hear both the dog and the DNI barking from inside the house.
“Damn it, Marty! Quiet!” Johnson shouted at the bulldog. “Carol! Come get this damn dog!”
A solidly built man in a dark suit opened the door. Behind him, the DNI was trying to corral the little bulldog with his foot in order to prevent him from charging the visitors. “Sorry about this,” Johnson said as he beckoned his guests. “Please come on in.”
“I told you, you should have gotten a Rottweiler,” McGee said as he stepped inside.
“I’ve got several already,” he replied, gesturing at his security men standing in the foyer. “And I haven’t caught them once going on the rug,” he cracked before yelling for his wife again, “Carol!”
The DNI’s assistant stepped out of the living room. “I’ll take him upstairs, sir,” he offered, bending down and scooping up the dog. Instantly, Marty’s bark turned into a growl.
“Be careful, Stu.”
“It’ll be okay, sir.”
“Sure it will,” Johnson said with a smirk as his assistant began climbing the stairs. “I’ve got a hundred bucks that says he bites you.”
“He’s not going—” the assistant began just as the dog nipped him in the hand.
“Told ya,” the DNI said with a laugh as he walked over to shake hands with his guests.
McGee introduced Ryan and then General Johnson invited them to follow him to his den.
“Can I offer either of you anything?” he asked, “Coffee? Soft drink?”
“Coffee would be good,” said Ryan, still feeling jet-lagged from her trip. “Thank you.”
“Got any bourbon?” replied McGee.
“I’ve got plenty. Up or neat?”
“Neat, please.”
“They say consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, Bob.”
“Actually,” McGee corrected, “they say foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. There’s nothing foolish about a man loving bourbon. Unless, of course, that man starts including ice cubes in his glass. Ice is a crutch.”
The DNI was a short, broad-chested fireplug of a man in his early sixties, with a bit of a paunch and thinning gray hair. It was after-hours, and he wore khakis and an oxford shirt. He laughed good-naturedly at McGee’s joke as he busied himself at his wet bar pouring a cup of coffee for Ryan and a drink for himself and McGee.
By the time he was done, his assistant, Stuart, had finished taking the dog upstairs and had joined them in the den, along with a laptop, two legal pads, and a file folder. The DNI asked the security men to wait outside and had Stuart close the door behind them.
As the DNI handed his guests their drinks, he introduced them to his assistant, assured them that they could speak freely in front of him, and then asked everyone to sit down.
The den was tastefully decorated with hunting prints and wood paneling. There were brown leather couches with plaid accent pillows, two green club chairs, skirted end tables, a brass coffee table, and a large wooden desk.
Accepting a pad and pen from his assistant, the DNI took his seat and stated, “Stu needs to be home in time to watch the Dog Whisperer, so let’s discuss why we’re here.”
General George Johnson had served in the United States Army with considerable distinction. His outstanding career had begun in Vietnam, where he had received multiple commendations for bravery and gallantry. He went on to lead the First Infantry Division through several conflicts, and was transferred to head the Army’s Intelligence Support Activity. His pragmatic understanding of not only warfare and tactics, but also espionage and diplomatic relations, eventually secured him a spot on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, where he helped advise the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Council, and the President on all matters military. Based on his performance there, he was chosen to run the National Security Agency, before being tapped for his current position as Director of National Intelligence.
McGee had given Ryan the man’s entire background on the drive from Camp Peary. He and Johnson had worked together many times in the Army and had developed a good friendship. When Ryan asked her mentor what favor the DNI owed him, McGee only said, “We both owe each other a few debts that neither of us will ever be able to repay.”
The solemnity with which he spoke told her the debts very likely involved tremendous sacrifice and possibly, human life. She didn’t push for more information.
“As this is Lydia’s baby, so to speak, I think she is the best person to lay it all out,” McGee said, leaning back and giving his protégé the floor.
Ryan gave a brief history of her background. As she did, Johnson’s assistant handed him a copy of her file. But unlike most she had met in the intelligence world, the DNI didn’t attempt to multitask. He set her jacket aside and gave her his undivided attention. That impressed her.
When she was done explaining everything that had happened, she handed him the file Nafi Nasiri had given her. General Johnson didn’t bother to open it. There was no reason to believe it didn’t contain everything the CIA operative had told him it did.
Lydia Ryan had delivered a purely clinical recitation of the facts as they were believed to be known. Now the DNI wanted to know what she thought. What was her gut, her experience, telling her?
“I know Nasiri. I don’t think he or the Jordanians are bluffing.”
“What about this former supervisor of yours back at Langley?” the DNI asked, glancing at his notes. “This Phil Durkin. Could he be bluffing?”
“Absolutely,” McGee interjected. “The guy is a frickin’ weasel.”
The DNI held up his hand and turned his attention to Ryan. “What do you think?”
“Did Durkin shut down the program like he said he did? Maybe. But if he fired everyone else, why keep me? I didn’t screw up as bad as the rest of them, but I certainly made my share of mistakes. They could have easily built a case against me, too,” she stated. “But they didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe because Durkin was interested in me. But if that’s true, why didn’t he try to use it to his advantage? Why not offer to save my career in exchange for sleeping with him? I wouldn’t have done it, of course.”
“Of course not. But it’s still a good question.”
“Which doesn’t have an easy answer.”
The DNI looked at her. “If you had to come up with some sort of explanation for all of this, what would it be?”
“Easy. He never shut that program down. He simply moved it off the books and into the shadows. I got to keep my career with the CIA, just in a different capacity. The other members of my team got to keep their careers, too, but for that to happen, the program had to go full black.”
“But why compartmentalize you off? Why not send you into the shadows with them?”
Ryan shrugged. “I’ve run that through my mind a thousand times. The only thing I can come up with is that it was a pride thing with Durkin. He’d been tasked with bringing the team to heel. As a last-ditch effort, he assigned me to them as the Girl Scout who would get them in line. If I had been fired, it would have been yet another example of his bad judgment.”
The DNI nodded. “Agreed. What bothers me the most, though, is Durkin’s apparent lack of
interest in the plot the Jordanians claim to have uncovered. While I don’t like the fact that they’re trying to horse-trade with us intelligence-wise, I understand it. Durkin should, too.”
“Well, sir, if he did in fact shut the team down as he claims and now they have popped back up, it could be a real source of professional embarrassment for him,” Ryan stated, more in an attempt to figure out Durkin’s motivations than to defend him.
“You know what’s even more embarrassing?” the DNI retorted. “Allowing a terrorist attack to happen on American soil because you’re too proud to admit that you screwed up.”
The man was right. Ryan didn’t try to offer any more insights on Durkin.
The DNI tapped his pen against his legal pad. “We have a public trust to live up to. We’re accountable to the American people. It’s our job to keep them and the country safe. We don’t have the luxury of playing chicken in our line of work, not when the stakes are as high as they are. This guy Durkin is either unqualified for his position, or he’s hiding something. Both of which greatly concern me.”
Ryan and McGee knew they shouldn’t speak. The direction the DNI planned to take was already forming in the man’s mind. At this point, he was simply trying to figure out the best way to get where he wanted to go.
“If word gets back to the CIA director about this, he’s going to want both of your heads on a pike. He’s a real stickler for chain of command. And I don’t blame him,” said the DNI, “but I understand why you wanted to bring it to me. There may, though, be a way around this.”
Turning to his assistant, he then said, “What kind of channels do we have open with the Jordanians?”
“What are you thinking?” the assistant replied.
“I’m thinking if we can plug into Nasiri’s boss, or even better the King himself, we’ll not only be able to smoke out whether or not Nasiri is telling us the truth, but we’ll convey back to them how seriously the United States is taking this matter.”