Most of the class-A interrogators at Gitmo had been patient seducers. There had been a few good ones, however, who preferred shock and awe. Done right, it could be extremely effective. It could also be efficient.
VW needed to move fast. She did not really have much in the way of hard data: a code name, some dodgy accounting practices, and a single grainy photograph. She had her suspicions, even a few theories, but the evidence was so tenuous and uncertain that she was reluctant to push it forward too soon. If VW was right about a cancer in the Western Balkans Division, it would have to be cut out ruthlessly without compunction. But the standards in place for that kind of radical surgery were high.
She needed to find someone on the inside and break him quickly before the principals could activate the force field of the Old Boys’ network and destroy whatever actual evidence might be out there. VW had no charter or authority for what she was doing. She was far outside her lane and, therefore, vulnerable. If she went after the Old Boys without solid proof, they would countercharge, and VW had no illusions about which party would come out the worse in that exchange. The operations side of the Agency was tight and clannish, dominated by a group of ex–Special Operations types who drank Scotch and smoked smuggled Cuban cigars while they watched the Redskins lose to whomever they were playing that week. No more proof of VW’s outsider status was necessary than her residence on the Island of Misfit Toys. The Old Boys never so much as visited the Island.
Her target was Roger Penforth. She had chosen him carefully. Penforth was a relatively junior analyst assigned to the operations team and the antithesis of an Old Boy. He had no rabbi looking after his career and no field experience working undercover in a hostile environment. He had been through the short course on the Farm, but he had had few opportunities to put his theoretical training into practice. His shell would be thin and brittle. VW thought she would crack it and feed on the information that lay within, soft and gooey and rich with data. Penforth was responsible for operations support. He would have the answers that VW was after.
She would get one shot at this. If she pushed Penforth and he didn’t break, he would run back to the Balkan Action Team. The Old Boys would circle the wagons. And her investigation would be closed.
Penforth was nothing if not punctual. He knocked on her door at exactly ten fifteen, the time VW had specified. She may have been exiled to the Island, but VW still had rank and Penforth could not easily have refused her summons.
“You asked to see me?”
Penforth was young and looked even younger. VW suspected that he only needed to shave once a week. He was handsome in the kind of wholesome and nonthreatening way that no doubt had appealed to the sorority girls at the University of Virginia where Penforth had majored in political science and minored in binge drinking. Or maybe it was the other way around. The transcript of his last lifestyle polygraph exam had left this ambiguous.
There was still something of Peter Pan about Roger Penforth, the boy who had never grown up. His life had been charmed and easy, and as near as VW could tell, almost entirely devoid of the kinds of setbacks and failures that built resilience. For all of his obvious confidence, Penforth was, she hoped and expected, fragile.
Penforth was nattily dressed in a blue pin-striped suit and pink shirt. His club tie was done up in a neat half Windsor. His hair, just a little too long for the Clandestine Service’s quasimilitary culture, was gelled firmly into obedience.
VW was wearing an ill-fitting pantsuit she had bought off the rack at JCPenny. There was a stubborn stain on the collar that her dry cleaner could not quite seem to remove. VW felt a sudden stab of desire to take the untroubled boy standing in front of her down a peg or two just on principle. She suppressed the thought as both unworthy and self-defeating. She would need a clear head for what she was about to do.
“I did, Roger. Thank you for making the time on such short notice. But I’d rather discuss the matter at hand in a clean room if you don’t mind. Can we go downstairs?”
“Sure.”
Typical Roger, VW thought, self-assured and incurious. She led her charge to the bank of elevators down the hall. She needed to scan her badge before hitting the button for the second basement level. It was restricted access.
VW had to scan her badge again to open the door to room B2-412. She ushered Penforth inside and closed the steel door behind them. The pneumatic seals set around the frame hissed. The room inside was featureless and gray, with metal walls and a mirror that did not even try to disguise its nature as one-way glass. The air felt heavy and oppressive. The clean rooms were pressurized. A low hum from the sound maskers made it seem as if an enormous colony of bees were crawling in the space behind the walls.
A Formica table was set at the far end of the rectangular room with a single hard-backed chair oriented to face the door.
“Sit down, Roger,” VW commanded.
Penforth sat in the chair, still seemingly oblivious to the hostile nature of the upcoming conversation.
“Are you going to just stand there, VW?” he asked.
“No. I’m going to ask you some hard questions and you’re going to give me straight answers.”
“Questions about what?”
“Parsifal.”
For the first time, Penforth looked uncertain, almost nervous. He glanced at the mirror, imagining, VW hoped, the large team of investigators gathered behind it. In reality, the only one on the other side of the glass was David Rennsler.
“The opera?” Penforth suggested. VW could see he was stalling.
This was no time for subtlety. She had no authority to hold Penforth in this room. He could get up and walk out at any moment and either report the conversation to his bosses in the Western Balkans Division or lawyer up. Neither outcome would help VW get to the truth. She needed to crack him open quickly before he had a chance to think, to orient himself.
She needed shock and awe.
“Roger, the director believes that there are elements within the Balkans team engaged in an unauthorized operation. He tasked me to investigate, and I believe you are involved. The operation is called Parsifal, the story of the quest for the Holy Grail, which makes it sound pretty damn important. It is as off-the-books as you can get. But in the world of twenty-first-century record keeping, that doesn’t mean quite the same thing as it used to.”
VW pulled a bright orange Top Secret folder from her briefcase and set it on the table. She opened it up and spread the papers out in front of Penforth. He glanced at the documents but did not take time to decipher them. He did not need to, VW realized. He knew exactly what they were.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Penforth held up his hands, palms out, as though warding off a blow. He glanced again at the mirror, and VW had the impression that he was looking for allies on the other side of the glass.
“Listen, Roger. I don’t think you are an important piece of this. But the fact is that a rogue operation is a crime. Technically, it’s treason, the penalties for which are traditionally rather severe.”
Penforth nodded and gulped. All of his ruling-class sangfroid had evaporated.
“The director’s not interested in the little fish,” VW continued. “We want the big fish, the decision makers. If you help me with this investigation, there’s at least a reasonable chance that you can stay out of federal prison. That deal’s only available until I walk out of this room. Tell me what I need to know, Roger. Now. After this, you’re on your own.”
“I don’t know what you mean, VW. I’ve never heard of any operation called Parsifal. And I have no information about any operations being run out of channels.” He looked at her with what he doubtless hoped was a look of guiltless confidence. It was not. Penforth was a terrible liar.
“That’s interesting. Because I’ve already spoken to Simmons and Weinberg, and they both pointed the finger at you. Said it was your op
.” While not exactly a shot in the dark, there was some guesswork behind this charge. Simmons and Weinberg were senior managers on the Balkan Action Team, and it made sense that they would need to be part of any operation that deviated from the norm. VW wanted to give young Roger the impression that he had already been thrown to the wolves to lighten the sleigh.
“That’s bullshit!” Penforth said vehemently, confirming for VW that she was on target.
“Are you saying that it wasn’t your operation?”
“I was barely involved,” Penforth said. The sudden flush to his face told VW that he realized too late that he had just confirmed Parsifal’s existence. Good. She wanted to keep him uncertain. It was hard to keep your balance when you were backpedaling.
“What was the extent of your involvement?” VW asked. “What was your role in Parsifal?”
“Support,” Penforth sputtered. “I provided intel support to the team.”
“What team?”
“The team in the field.”
“Where? Sarajevo?”
Penforth looked at her as if she were an idiot.
“No. Geneva.”
VW pointed at the paper sitting on the table in front of Penforth.
“This spike in spending in Geneva. What is it about?”
“They’re looking for something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. The Holy fucking Grail, I suppose. I didn’t need to know. It wasn’t my job.”
“Roger, if you don’t help me, I can’t help you.”
“They called it the package. It has something to do with Marko Barcelona. That’s all I know.”
“Why Geneva?”
“There was a lawyer. Emile Gisler. He was supposed to be holding it for Mali. Parsifal wanted it. I don’t know why.”
“Why the past tense?”
“Gisler’s dead.” He saw the look on her face. “No, it’s not what you think. He had a heart attack. At least that’s what they told me.”
“Who’s in on Parsifal? How high up does it go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who did you get your orders from?”
“Simmons.”
Harry Simmons was the deputy director of the Balkan Action Team and a dyed-in-the-wool son of a bitch. VW had long suspected that he had been behind her exile. Now she was beginning to understand why.
“Who’s running the operation?”
“Someone called Kundry. I think it’s a code name.”
“Tell me about Geneva.”
Penforth was quiet.
“Tell me about Geneva,” VW repeated, more insistently this time. She placed her hands on the tabletop and leaned in toward Penforth, trying her best to make her five-foot-six frame appear menacing.
“I think I need a lawyer,” Penforth said.
Time to unsettle him some more. VW pulled another file out of her briefcase.
“Roger, three days ago I flew a Wyvern over Mali’s house in Kriva Rijeka. I got a good picture of him when he stepped out into his garden.
She laid the photograph on the desk, an eight-by-ten black-and-white print. It was grainy from the high magnification but clear enough for her purposes.
Penforth looked at the picture.
“Holy shit! That’s . . .” His voice trailed off as he tried to process the implications of the photograph. They were considerable.
“Yes,” VW agreed. “Yes, it is.”
Penforth cracked. He told her everything he knew. It was not a complete picture, but it was enough. Enough for her to take to the seventh floor.
TRNOVA, BOSNIA
NOVEMBER 12
24
Father Stefan had been in the business of saving souls long enough to recognize a troubled one when he saw it. The man who had come to his small mountain chapel seeking solace and forgiveness had the haunted look of someone who had seen too many terrible things, who had done too many terrible things. It was a look that Stefan remembered from the war, a war that this man—who had introduced himself only as Darko from Vukovar—had never, the priest suspected, left behind. Men like Darko carried the war with them everywhere they went, as though it were a religious talisman or family heirloom, something too precious or familiar to surrender. And like a talisman, it was worn close to the heart.
Stefan knew why Darko had chosen him. It was the magnetic pull of reputation. That Stefan was no longer the man he had been was irrelevant. Darko had come seeking only a shadow of the past. That was alright. Stefan could offer him comfort, even absolution, without having to refight his own war.
He did not get many visitors out here. The monastery was not on any of the major pilgrimage routes, nor did his little chapel have the kind of high-quality artistic flourishes that might have drawn the more adventurous sort of tourist. It was simple and quiet up here in the mountains. That was how Stefan liked it.
People who came to the chapel did so purposefully. Darko was one such visitor.
He was short and dark with black hair cut close to the scalp. He was dressed in black, a color that enhanced his pallid complexion. The priest was reminded of one of those pale, blind cave fish. A creature of the night and the dark who looked out of place under a clear sky. His boots were black leather and laced up to the calf. They were polished to a mirror shine, just one more marker of his military history.
Even in repose, there was a tension that seemed to emanate from the visitor, a sense of energy bound tightly in his belly and just barely contained. It was less a coiled spring and more like a steam pipe, smooth and seamless on the surface but with pressure building up on the inside, probing for weak points or design flaws. There would be no outward sign of failure, but the pipe would eventually burst in an explosion of heat and steam. And heaven help anyone who was standing nearby. At least that was how it seemed to Stefan.
“Come,” he said to Darko. “Eat and drink with me, and we can talk.”
It was a cool day, but the sun was out and that made it just warm enough to sit outside in relative comfort. Stefan set out fresh bread and soft white cheese, a small plate of smoked meat, a bowl of honey, and a dish of walnuts. There was also a bottle of rakija on the tray with a beeswax stopper and a large wooden cross that one of the novices had patiently assembled inside the bottle.
“It’s not often I have a guest for lunch,” Stefan explained, as he set the food and drink on the table. “Company is always pleasant.”
Darko said nothing, but he helped himself to the food and grunted in appreciation as he ate. He did not, somewhat to Stefan’s surprise, crack the seal on the bottle of brandy.
“You’ve come quite a distance to this church,” Stefan observed. “Is there perhaps some way I can be of service to you?”
Darko seemed to consider this as he chewed a handful of the walnuts that Stefan had picked and shelled himself.
“There are some things that I would like to discuss,” Darko said carefully.
“What sort of things?”
“Terrible things. Dark things. Things that grab you by the throat and never let go.”
“You speak of the war?” Stefan asked sympathetically.
“Yesterday and today it is all the same. The past is the future. It is a snake that circles the world thrice and swallows its own tail.” As he said this, Darko’s eyes darted back and forth as if he expected an enemy to emerge from the tree line at any moment.
“Our memories can seem real and immediate,” Stefan said. “Especially when we dream.”
“Then I dream all day, Father, of things I have done and things I have yet to do. I see the spirits of the dead mingled with the spirits of the not yet dead, for that is what we are. All of us. I want to deliver them to this higher state of being, for that is what I am. An emissary. An angel.”
Stefan suspected that Darko might be more than spiritu
ally troubled. There was something about the way he spoke and the intensity of his gaze that led the priest to suspect that the man sitting across from him was delusional, perhaps even dangerously so.
Stefan dipped a walnut in the honey and chewed it slowly, biding his time as he formulated a response.
“My son, your soul seems restless. The past is a heavy burden for us all, but I would help you bear the weight if you would let me. Confess your sins and I will offer absolution.”
Darko’s features seemed to soften at the idea, and his eyes ceased their rapid and unpredictable movements and seemed to focus on something comforting in the middle distance.
“I would like that,” he said. “The dead won’t stay dead, you see. Father, I see them. They follow me. They cloud my vision and muddle my thinking. I have hopes that absolution will banish the dead back to their graves.”
Stefan led Darko into the church and up to the altar. The sacrament of confession in the Orthodox Church was different than in its Catholic cousin. There was no booth, no pretense of anonymity. The Orthodox Church had adopted a system of lay confessors to serve as spiritual guides to the village folk in times of crisis, although only an ordained priest could formally absolve a person of his or her sins.
On Stefan’s instruction, Darko laid his left hand on the holy book and two fingers of his right hand on the foot of an image of Christ engraved on a wooden cross.
Stefan stood across from him.
“Tell me your sins, my son.”
“They are many, Father.”
“We are all but men.”
“Some of us are more than that. I am an angel. An avenging angel. A fallen angel.”
Darko’s eyes were bright and unblinking with a hint of madness. Stefan was moved to pity tempered by fear. The violence had wormed its way into Darko’s heart and folded in on itself until it had become a part of the fabric of his being. Stefan feared that this visitor was deranged beyond redemption. But he was a priest and he would try.
The Wolf of Sarajevo Page 22