Crisis Four

by Andy McNab

  There were references to other documents relating to Yousef, but Mickey’s friend hadn’t included them. I placed the cup on the floor and picked up the other Intelink-P file. Its tag told me it was a CIA document, entitled simply, ‘Counter-terrorism Center’. It wasn’t the whole document, just the introduction, but even that ran to fifteen pages. I definitely needed more tea.

  When the Clinton administration endorsed the idea of specialized units to infiltrate terrorist operations and disrupt them, the CIA established the Counter-terrorism Center as a central clearing house for intelligence. Its aim was to ‘give the president more options for action against foreign terrorists to further pre-empt, disrupt and defeat international terrorism’. These options included covert operations designed to prevent terrorism, or to take revenge for successful attacks on Americans. New cadres of undercover CIA officers were sent overseas, and the use of CIA teams was expanded to assess and predict threats against United States military personnel deployed abroad.

  Part of this strategy was a new level of co-operation between the intelligence agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, its traditional rival. Senior FBI agents stationed overseas held long and successful meetings with CIA station chiefs – the first at the United States Embassy in Rome, the second at the embassy in London – to work out ways to co-operate against terrorists and other international criminals.

  The kettle boiled and cut out. I left it for a while; this was getting interesting. I knew that such a meeting would have been unthinkable as recently as two years ago, when the two agencies were at each other’s throats over their conduct in the investigation and arrest of Aldrich Ames, a spy for Moscow inside the CIA.

  I put the file down, threw a teabag into a cup and poured. The next page dealt with Sarah’s group. The unit had scored several successes. British police raided the London home of an Algerian named Rachid Ramda and found links with the Armed Islamic Group, an Algerian organization suspected of seven bombings in France that killed seven and wounded 180 in 1997. The police also discovered records of money transfers, and traced them to Bin Laden’s headquarters in the Sudan.

  In Egypt, security officials uncovered a conspiracy by the extremist group Islamic Jihad to assassinate President Hosni Mubarak. It seemed that Sarah’s group was investigating evidence that Bin Laden helped fund the plot. They also had evidence that Bin Laden was the major backer of a camp in Afghanistan called Kunar, which provided training for recruits of Islamic Jihad and the Islamic Group, both Egyptian terrorist organizations. This was in addition to the three terrorist training camps in northern Sudan, which Bin Laden helped to fund, and where extremists from Egypt, Algeria and Tunisia received instruction.

  I threw the teabag into the sink, added milk and wandered back to the settee to read some more. Sarah’s explanation of events was becoming more convincing as the minutes passed. I sat back down. To track Bin Laden’s activities, the National Security Agency’s eavesdropping satellites were used to listen in on telephone and e-mail conversations throughout the world. CIA analysts were able to determine that in January he had held a meeting with leading members of his network to prepare for a new wave of terrorism. Soon afterwards he publicly announced his intentions when he issued a fatwa calling on Muslims to kill Americans.

  I had a drink and held the cup on my chest, slumped on the sofa. American officials are barred by executive order from planning an assassination. But after the fatwa was issued, Bin Laden was named in a secret presidential covert action order on terrorism, signed by Bill Clinton, which authorized intelligence agencies to plan and carry out covert operations that might lead to death. Such a measure was necessary, the report concluded, for two reasons:

  ‘1. We believe that Bin Laden is planning new terrorist acts against American interests.

  2. We believe that the question is not whether Bin Laden will strike again, but when.’

  I bent my neck forward and drained the cup. I checked my watch; thirty minutes to go to the RV.

  I went back into the kitchen and turned on the electric hob, then placed my cup and the two files I’d read on the worktop.

  It was time for file number three. This one came from an acronym, DOSFAN, which I didn’t recognize. The document discussed the investigation and arrest of several of Bin Laden’s operators worldwide.

  The hotplate was red. I saw a smoke alarm on the ceiling, and stood on the sink unit to pull out the batteries. Then I touched one of the papers I’d read to the plate. Once it was in flames I placed it in the sink, put a few more on top and carried on reading.

  The first few pages detailed those responsible for the World Trade Center bombing: Mohammed Salameh, a Palestinian, and his room-mate in a Jersey City apartment, Ramzi Ahmed, an Iraqi who’d fought in Afghanistan and arrived at Kennedy International Airport on a flight from Pakistan in September 1992. After the bombing, he spent most of the next three years until his eventual arrest at a guest house called the House of Martyrs in Peshawar, Pakistan, which was owned by Bin Laden.

  On that same flight in 1992 had been Ahmad Ajaj, a Palestinian fresh from Afghanistan, whose suitcase was full of bomb-making manuals. Ajaj was convicted in the Trade Center bombing, as was Mahmud Abouhalima, who raised money for the rebels. Arrested in Egypt, he told his captors that the bombing was planned in Afghanistan by veterans of the jihad.

  Meeting at a New York mosque, Ramzi Ahmed recruited Mohammed Salameh, Nidal Ayyad and Mahmoud Abouhalima. They helped him buy and mix explosive chemicals in cheap apartments and a rented storage space in Jersey City. Abdul Rahman Yasin, an Iraqi, was also recruited.

  From time to time, I fed the fire in the sink. Halfway down the third page I found out what DOSFAN stood for: Department of State Foreign Affairs Network, .

  The report went on to detail individuals from one particular cell that was under scrutiny, and their names tallied with those Sarah had given me. I finished the last four pages and burned them, too. I felt as if I’d been speed-reading Tolstoy’s War And Peace.

  I turned the tap on and pressed the button for the waste-disposal unit. There was the wailing of metal as it took the black ash. I got a grip on myself and decided it didn’t change a thing. All I cared about was Josh’s kids.

  Another thing Sarah had been right about: there was no-one to turn to. Josh couldn’t be trusted not to approach one of his superiors. Even if his kids didn’t go to the ceremony, the others would still be at risk, and he’d want to do something about it.

  I watched the last bit of ash swirl down the hole, and turned off the tap and waste disposal. Only five minutes left to the RV. I was going to be late, but it wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go.

  Fuck it, I’d have to get her into the White House without Josh knowing what we were up to. I didn’t know quite how I was going to do it. Once again, I felt more bonehead than Bond.

  I walked into the bookshop after clearing the area. The coffee shop was to the rear, and I spotted Sarah at one of the tables, nursing a tall latte. She was dressed much smarter than when I’d last seen her. The baseball cap was gone, and in its place was a grey trouser suit and designer loafers that must have sent her credit card into meltdown. Her facial appearance had been totally changed by a pair of black, rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses.

  As I approached she smiled and gave me the hello-so-nice-to-see-you RV-drill look. I looked surprised and delighted – not that I had to fake it – and she stood up for the lovey-lovey kiss on the cheeks. ‘How are you? It’s so good to see you.’ She voiced her pleasure for the benefit of the people around us.

  We sat down and I put my nylon bag beside her new leather one and matching briefcase. She noticed my raised eyebrow and said, ‘Well, I should be looking the part. I am a lawyer, remember?’ I smiled, and she gazed at me for several seconds before taking a studied sip of her coffee. Then she gave me the smallest of smiles. ‘Well?’

  What could I do but nod. ‘Yep, let’s get on with it. But we do it the w
ay I need it to be done, OK?’

  She nodded back, her smile slowly widening into a victory grin. ‘I was right, wasn’t I?’

  We left the bookshop and walked along the main street. I told her everything, from what Lynn and Elizabeth had said to the attack on the house. I just left the T104 out of the story, and kept the return to the UK in its place. She never asked. I also told her about Kelly, the events that made me her guardian and where Josh stood in all of this. It would undoubtedly come into any conversation once we met up.

  ‘We met when we did, OK? The dates and everything will work. You used to work for us as a secretary.’ She nodded. I said, ‘We didn’t see each other because it was all too complicated. Then we met up again. How long ago was the Syria job?’

  ‘Late ’ninety-five – about three and a half years ago.’

  ‘OK, we met again four weeks ago, in London, in a pub in Cambridge Street, and we sort of got back together, saw each other, nothing big time. And this is our first trip together. We’ve come here because you’ve never been before and I like Washington, so we thought, Fuck it, let’s do it.’

  She cut in, ‘But I told the kid I’m a lawyer and I’m working.’

  I didn’t like her calling Kelly that, but she was right about the story. ‘OK, you’re in the States to meet a client, in New York, and I wanted to show you DC. The rest you can busk.’

  ‘Fine. There’s only one problem, Nick.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s your name? Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Nick Stone.’

  She laughed. ‘You mean that’s your real name?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  And then it dawned on me, after all the years that we’d known each other, I didn’t know her name, either. I’d only ever known her as Greenwood. ‘I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours.’

  She was suddenly a bit sheepish. ‘Sarah Jarvis-Cockley.’

  It was my turn to laugh. I’d never known anyone with such a fucked-up name. ‘Jarvis-Cockley?’ It was pure Monty Python.

  ‘It’s a Yorkshire name,’ she said. ‘My father was born in York.’

  Stopping at a call booth, I tried Josh’s number. It would be pointless travelling there if he hadn’t got home yet. He was in, and sounded excited about seeing us both.

  We got a cab, crossed back over the river and followed the Jefferson Davis Highway south-west, away from DC, towards the Pentagon. We didn’t talk. There was nothing left to talk about; she’d told me what the two players looked like while we waited for a cab. It was hardly worth the wait. Neither appeared to have any special features that were likely to make them stick out. From the sound of things, we’d be looking for Bill Gates and Al Gore, only with darker skin.

  We were both too tired to say any more. It was easier for us to leave each other with our own thoughts, and mine centred on how the fuck I was going to do this. She put her arm in mine and squeezed my hand. She knew what I was thinking. I had a feeling she usually did, and somehow that felt good.

  We approached Arlington National Cemetery: I could see aircraft emerging above the trees on the opposite side of the road, as they took off from the National Airport by the river. At least the sun was trying to come out, even if it was in patches through the cloud.

  I gazed at the row upon row of white tombstones standing in immaculate lines on the impossibly green grass to our right. Heroism in the face of idiocy was an everyday job for me, but it was difficult not to be affected by the sheer scale of death in this place.

  I knew the Pentagon was just around the corner as the highway gently turned right. The traffic wasn’t that bad now; it would be much worse in a few hours, as the staff of the world’s biggest office complex headed home. The carparks each side of us were the size of Disneyland’s.

  The Pentagon came into view. It looked just like the Fayetteville mall, except that the stone was a more depressing colour. We lost sight of it momentarily as we went under a road bridge. One of the supports still bore a crudely painted white swastika. Josh had seen it as a sign of democracy. ‘The day they clean it off’, he once said to me, ‘is the day no-one can speak out.’ I just saw it as the halfway marker between his house and DC.

  ‘About another twenty minutes,’ I said. Sarah nodded and kept on staring at the massive stone building. A Chinook helicopter was lifting from the rear of it, the tailgate just closing. I always liked it once the gate closed; it kept the cold out.

  I’d been to Josh’s house many times before while we sorted out Kelly’s future. They lived in a suburb called New Alexandria, which was south of Alexandria proper and quite a way south-west of DC, but people who lived there called it Belle View, after the district next door. That way it didn’t sound as if they wanted to live in Alexandria but had been forced to buy a little further away. The nearer your house was to DC, the bigger your bank balance had to be.

  Josh’s house was on the Belle View road, overlooking the golf course. As we turned onto it I gave the taxi driver directions. ‘Halfway down, mate, on the right.’

  Sarah moved closer to me and leaned to whisper in my ear. ‘Thank you for believing me, Nick. I’m glad you’re here.’

  I knew how lonely she felt. I put my fingers between hers.

  The golf course was to the left, and facing it were rows of three-storey, brick-built homes that in the UK would be called town houses. The whole area was green and leafy, and probably a wonderful place for kids to grow up in. I half expected snowflakes to start falling and James Stewart to appear round the corner.

  ‘Just behind that black pickup.’ The Asian driver grunted and pulled in. Parked on the drive outside Josh’s was a double-cabbed Dodge truck with large chrome bumpers and kids’ mountain bikes stashed on a rack at the back. A big For Sale sign was hanging outside the house.

  A middle-aged Mexican woman in a cream raincoat emerged from the front door, which was about ten very worn stone steps above pavement level. She looked at us and smiled, then just carried on past. I looked at Sarah. ‘That must be my new friend.’

  Josh appeared at the door, all smiles, his head and glasses shining as brightly as his teeth. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt tucked into belted grey cargo fatigue trousers and a pair of walking boots. As he came down towards us he was still grinning away, but concentrating more on getting a good view of Sarah through the sun bouncing off the taxi windows.

  He opened the door for me, and I stepped out after paying off the driver, who took my money with another grunt. We shook hands and he reminded me that he had the strongest grip of anyone I knew. He said, ‘Great to see you, man. I didn’t think we’d link up again so soon.’ He lowered his voice. ‘How did the job go?’

  ‘Not too bad, mate. It took a day, that was all.’ It was good to see him. He released my hand and I pumped it, trying to get some blood back.

  Sarah came round the front of the taxi, between the two vehicles. I held my hand out towards her. ‘Josh, meet Sarah.’

  ‘Hi, Sarah,’ he shook her hand and I saw her reaction to his grip.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Josh. Nick has told me a lot about you.’ She must have been reading too many books; whoever says that in real life? Josh just gave her his biggest smile. ‘I don’t know what he’s said, but when we get inside I’ll tell you the truth.’ He ushered us up the steps and through his front door.

  The first thing Sarah asked for was the bathroom. Josh pointed up the stairs, ‘First on the left.’ As an afterthought he called after her, ‘We’re going into the living room, so you make as much noise as you want.’ That was something I’d forgotten to warn her about; Josh didn’t change his sense of humour for anybody. I wondered if that was one of the reasons his wife had eloped with a tree-hugging yoga teacher.

  The holiday cases were still in the hallway. ‘Where are the kids?’ I asked as we walked past them.

  ‘Jet lag is not an option with kids. It’s rehearsal time in DC, man. The big day is tomorrow.’

  I wasn’t going
to pursue the subject. It made me feel too much of a lowlife, and besides, it was too early to hit him with the real reason I was here. ‘Of course they are. I hope they have a good time.’

  The house hadn’t changed at all. The flowery three-piece suite and thick green shag-pile carpet were still in place. The pictures were the same, and you couldn’t move for them: Josh as a soldier, Josh becoming a member of Special Forces, Josh and the kids, Josh and Geri, the kids, all that sort of stuff, plus all those horrible school photographs, rows of gappy-toothed kids in uniform, with that really stupid grin that they only do when there’s a camera pointing at them.

  He closed the door and said, ‘So, my friend, how does it all square with Sarah? What does she know?’

  I stepped closer to him. ‘All she knows is that Kelly’s family were killed and I’m now her guardian. She knows what Kev did, and how I knew him. You’re the other executor of the will. That’s how we became friends. She thinks I work for a private security firm. We haven’t got down to details yet.’

  He nodded. That was more or less all he knew about me anyway. ‘Cool. Now a couple of details to get out of the way, mate. Do I get Maria to make up one bed or two?’ It had always sounded really funny to me when Americans said ‘mate’, because of the accent; the word sounds like it should only come out of Antipodeans or Brits, but Josh had got into the Brit way of speaking with me. Either that, or he’d been taking the piss all this time.

  It was a good question, and I had to make the answer sound convincing. I smiled. ‘One, of course.’

  ‘All rightttt!’ A big, conspiratorial grin lit up his face. We both sat down, him on a chair, me on the settee.

  ‘Next important question, how is Kelly? She get to her grandparents OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. Yes, everything went OK. I spoke to her today; she’s missing you and the crew. I think you’ll be getting a thank-you card from her soon.’

  The small talk was already killing me. Normally I would chat happily about that sort of shit; it was what our relationship was all about. But at the moment all I could think about was the fact that I was about to fuck him over big time – even though I knew it was the right thing.