Bloodmoney
Page 23
Hoffman had ordered a fancy bottle of wine and an array of appetizers. They were on the table when General Malik entered the room. Hoffman told the waiter to go away and leave them alone. He poured his Pakistani friend a glass of the Brunello.
“Ain’t life grand?” said Hoffman, clicking his glass against that of his guest.
“No,” said Malik. “It isn’t grand at all. It is rather a mess. Chin chin.”
“No small talk, then? No foreplay? No ‘how’s the family?’”
“I think not. I am flying back to Rawalpindi tonight.” Malik looked at his watch. “In three hours, to be precise.”
Hoffman took a long sip of his wine and put down the glass.
“Let me get to the point, then. I came out here to tell you one big thing. I could get arrested for what I am going to tell you, put in jail for passing secrets to the enemy. So I want you to listen carefully. Will you do that?”
“Of course, Cyril. Why do you think I have come, if not to listen, and perhaps also to talk?”
“The operations that you and your Al-Tawhid friends have uncovered are not run by the CIA. They are being run by a new organization that has gone haywire. They are conducting a covert-action campaign against Pakistan without any legal authority, and it will fail. I say that because I am going to make it my personal business to take it down. This new organization has gotten the White House to play along, but that’s just because they’re inexperienced. I’m working on that, too.”
Malik shook his head. “This is poppycock. I know your tricks, Cyril. This is another cover story.”
“I thought you might say that, so I brought you a little something to establish my bona fides.” He took several sheets of paper from the pocket of his white suit and handed the document across the table to the Pakistani.
“What is this?”
“It’s a letter to the general counsel of the CIA from the White House counsel’s office. It’s dated two days ago. When you boil down all the legal verbiage, it says that the White House takes responsibility for all statements that will be made about the Al-Tawhid accusations. The agency will be ‘held harmless,’ as the lawyers say. It’s not their baby.”
“What does that prove? I am a military man, not a lawyer.”
“It proves what I just said. This is not a CIA operation. There is no official agency campaign to do anything to Pakistan. There is a crazy-ass operation run by some drugstore cowboys who have figured out a way to finance their activities without going to Congress, and who temporarily have gotten some hotheads in the White House to go along. But like I said, they are going down. I guarantee it.”
“Why are you telling me this, my dear? It is most unlike you to volunteer anything. I cannot ever recall a similar moment of generosity, with you or any of your famous cousins and uncles. What’s the ‘catch,’ so to speak?”
“I need your help, pure and simple. We have a nasty little war on our hands. Three people have gotten killed. Any more, and people will start to panic. They will take action to protect themselves. That gets ugly, real fast.”
“What can I do about it?” asked General Malik, with a shrug. “I am not a member of the Ikwan Al-Tawhid. I am not shooting any Americans. I am a victim, not a perpetrator.”
Cyril Hoffman wagged his finger at the man across the table. “But you know. Of course you do. That’s your job, and you’re good at it. You know the people who are doing the killing, and I have a feeling that you even know how they are doing it. They are getting information that helps them track the movements of people in this new organization that I was talking about. We’ve been looking for the leak, and we haven’t found it yet. But I’ll bet that you have.”
“You give us far too much credit, my friend. We are the ISI, not MI6 or the Mossad. And if you say that we are running the Tawhid, that is a lie, sir. A most despicable lie.” He pounded the table.
General Malik was protesting more heatedly than was necessary, or wise. For in the silence that followed his retort, Cyril Hoffman was able to look into his eyes and, in the uncanny way that Hoffman had, to read from his expressions a narrative.
“You can’t fool me, brother. I see that little smile under your mustache, Mohammed. I see that twinkle in your eye. You’ve got something. Yes, you do. And we need it. I will be frank with you, even though that’s not my nature. This could get dangerous if we don’t find a way to work together. I need you to help me out. Tell me what you know.”
The Pakistani did not answer at first. He was never a man to rush.
“Let us eat something, shall we?” he said.
General Malik reached for the plate of beef carpaccio, and slowly ate one of the paper-thin slices of meat, savoring the taste while he contemplated the situation. He helped himself to some foie gras, too, putting a generous lump on a piece of toast and chewing it, bite by bite.
Hoffman buttered his bread. He tried not to let his impatience show.
The Pakistani finished his little snack and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
“You’re right, of course. We do know a bit about the Tawhid, as you would expect. And you are also correct that we know something of how they are doing their targeting.”
“That’s my man. Come on, now. Tell me. You came here to say it. You know you did.”
“It involves banks. We just obtained some computer material that we took off a Tawhid courier. But I will be honest, I do not understand it. I have been trying to find the computer genius who put it together, but frankly, I have failed. I have been nervous about the material. It could be misused. So I have been sitting on it. But perhaps I could have one of my analysts take another look.”
Hoffman buttered his bread some more and then put it aside. He took a sip of the fine red wine. He was searching for different possibilities, but he kept coming back to the thought of Sophie Marx at the hedge fund in London. She was the one working this problem, and she was the most likely to crack the code that Malik had described.
“What if I sent someone to help you?” asked Hoffman. “She’s one of our best counterintelligence officers, and she is the person on our end who has been trying to understand the leak of information about our man in Karachi, and now the others. She’s smart, and she knows how to keep her mouth shut.”
“What is the name of this wonder woman, please?”
“Sophie Marx.”
General Malik took out his fountain pen and wrote her name in small, precise script in a black notebook he kept in the pocket of his blazer.
“You won’t find a whole lot about her in your files, or anyone else’s,” said Hoffman. “But if you asked the right people, you would discover that this young woman ran a very professional operation in Beirut that opened up to us Hezbollah’s communications network. She recruited a woman in one of the Lebanese telecommunications companies, and a man in the Ministry of Telecommunications. It was quite dangerous. We think very highly of her.”
“What would be the understanding, in the event that I were to receive her?”
“She would help you analyze this targeting information. She would investigate it. And then she would use the information to protect our people from further attacks.”
“She would uncover Al-Tawhid’s network of informants, in other words.”
“Well, sure, if that’s what it is. She would help you take them down. Or we’d take them down ourselves, if that’s easier.”
The general helped himself to another tasty glob of foie gras. He had barely touched his wine, up until now, but he took a healthy drink.
“What is in it for us, Cyril? I am sorry to be crass. But this is a human business, after all. In exchange for giving you this very important piece of intelligence, what do I get in return?”
“Well, now, fair question, entirely legitimate. First, you avert an open break with the United States of America, which despite its puny political leadership is still the strongest country on earth and can make life very difficult for countries it doesn’t like. Second, you
have my promise that I will stop the covert action that has been undertaken against Pakistan. Stop it, cold. And if I don’t, you are free to go public with whatever the hell you want, and take me down, along with a lot of other people.”
“That’s very nice, but not tangible, Cyril. There are people in Pakistan who would argue that I am betraying an ally, which is Al-Tawhid, to assist an enemy, which is the United States. As you know, I am a moderate man, and I find that sort of thinking abhorrent, but there we are.”
“Look, my friend, if Al-Tawhid is in a position to kill our officers, they can kill China’s and Russia’s—and even your own ISI men. I don’t know what this secret surveillance capability is, but if they can use it against us, they can use it against anybody. That’s dangerous—but especially to you, brother, dear. So we will be doing you a big favor.”
“I am warming to this idea. But I still do not see a benefit for us commensurate with what we are giving up.”
“Hey, Mohammed, we’re talking about the fate of the world, and you’re haggling as if we’re in the spice bazaar. But that’s okay, because I love you. So let me say this about that: America would be very grateful for this help. I know that you would never ask me for any personal reward. But I would feel compelled to offer you one, in the quietest way possible. This rogue operation has been generating billions of dollars. And when we shut it down, some of it is going to fall off the truck. Do you follow me?”
General Malik smoothed the hairs of his mustache and patted his lips with his napkin, even though he had eaten little.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said.
Cyril Hoffman smiled. “Forgive me, even for mentioning it.”
“Why don’t you send this woman, Miss Marx, to me in Islamabad? Have her contact me on my personal phone when she arrives. We will see what is possible. More than that, I cannot promise.”
They finished the appetizers and the wine. Hoffman was going to order the main course, but General Malik said that he needed to get back to his plane and go home. People would ask questions if he were late in returning. So Hoffman ordered a jolly dinner and instructed the waiter that it should be sent up to his room, where he ate it while watching Fashion TV.
27
LONDON
When Cyril Hoffman’s Gulfstream jet landed at RAF Mildenhall for what was supposed to be a refueling stop, he went to the distinguished visitors’ lounge and called Sophie Marx on her cell phone. It was morning in London, and she was at the office in Mayfair starting a day of investigation. The caller’s number was unfamiliar to her and she didn’t answer at first; the only person who called on this phone normally was Jeff Gertz. But when a second call came in immediately from the same number, she answered it.
Hoffman was groggy from travel, but he tried to sound cheery.
“You don’t know me,” he began, “but my name is Cyril Hoffman. I am the associate deputy director of your parent company, so to speak.”
“I know who you are,” Marx answered. “We all do. You’re famous.”
“Oh, good! Well, I am in Britain, passing through, and I thought perhaps you could meet me for breakfast or lunch, or whatever meal people are supposed to eat at this hour. I have been traveling, and I am a bit mixed up.”
“Where are you, Mr. Hoffman?”
“Essex, or Sussex, or something like that. It’s an air base. I can get a car and be in London in an hour. We need to meet somewhere, um, quiet, where nobody will have any idea who we are. I will book a room at the, let me see…Holiday Inn. I am looking on my infernal BlackBerry for the right one. ‘Holiday Inn Express Limehouse.’ That sounds dreadful, doesn’t it? It’s in the East End, in between you and me. I’ll see you there in an hour. Ask for ‘Fred Smith’ and come up to my room. Don’t worry, I’m quite harmless.”
“I’ll be there. I hope there isn’t a problem.”
“There most definitely is a problem. That’s why I want to see you. But it’s not your problem, if that’s what you mean. Just come to the hotel, and don’t tell anyone, please, including your mates out in Los Angeles, especially not them.”
The desk clerk at the Holiday Inn gave Sophie Marx a dubious look when she requested the room number of Mr. Smith: He called on the house phone to make sure that the guest was expecting a visitor. When “Mr. Smith” confirmed that he was in, the desk clerk gave a sorry shake of his head, as if he pitied them both for the encounter that was about to ensue.
Hoffman was waiting in a small room on the eighth floor that overlooked a parking lot and, beyond it, the architectural foothills of the City of London. He was wearing a navy cashmere sweater that gave him the soft, round look of a blue marshmallow. His eyes were rimmed with the pouches of fatigue. His reading glasses were dangling from his neck on a braided lanyard.
Marx hadn’t time to change into something fancy, so she was dressed informally, in the slacks and denim jacket she had worn to work. They made a most unlikely pair.
Hoffman shook her hand warmly, as if they were old friends, and thanked her for coming on such short notice. He motioned her toward a bright red couch on the other side of the bed, and settled his bulk into a matching red desk chair. He took out his cell phone and removed the battery. She did the same.
“You look familiar,” he said, eying her. “Have we met?”
“You spoke at the graduation of my Career Trainee class. You wouldn’t remember that. And then when I came home from Beirut, I was part of a group that briefed you on telecommunications tradecraft. You probably wouldn’t remember that, either.”
“I don’t, but I remember your face, from somewhere or other. And I have read your file, so I feel as if I know you. You have a very good record, I must say. People like you. They have confidence in you. That includes your current supervisor, Mr. Gertz. He expects you to unravel the mystery of who has been killing his officers, although I think he is becoming a tad impatient. How is it coming along, then?”
Marx looked at him warily, uncertain of how to proceed. Hoffman wasn’t her boss, and she wasn’t authorized to talk with him about her work, even though he was a senior CIA official. But he was a celebrated figure, and he conveyed an authority that transcended the nominal rules. She decided to answer.
“My theories have all been wrong so far, sir, but I’m working on it. If Jeff is impatient, so am I.”
“What does your intuition tell you? Be honest with me. I need to hear your ideas.”
“I think this isn’t a normal counterintelligence investigation, Mr. Hoffman. Usually we look for an inside source who has penetrated our operations—a rotten apple in the barrel. But that doesn’t fit the facts: The people who have been killed were based in different locations. They didn’t know each other. The only thing they had in common was that they were working on the same target. The only person who knew the details of what they were working on was Mr. Gertz, and he’s not a suspect.”
“So what does that leave as an option? Where’s our leak?”
“I don’t know yet. But if I had to guess, I would say that we have a technical problem. Someone is reading our mail. They are tracking our digital footprints. But that’s hard to believe. These groups in Pakistan are smart, but they don’t have the surveillance or intercept capabilities that a government does. At least we don’t think they do. That’s why it’s a puzzle. Does that make any sense?”
Hoffman nodded vigorously. There was a smile on his face. He had wanted to make certain that Sophie Marx was the right person for the plan he had set in motion, and he was reassured.
“Just so,” he said. “Someone is reading our mail, or, to be more precise, our financial records. That is how they are targeting us. They are inside the banking system in a way that allows them to see our people and where they are going. That’s how they have been killing our officers.”
Marx looked at him curiously.
“How do you know all this, Mr. Hoffman?”
Hoffman patted his stomach. He was smiling again.
“What do I have to do? Just tell me.”
“It’s complicated. I need to ask you some questions. Are you hungry?”
She shook her head, but Hoffman called the front desk anyway and ordered two plates of french fries and two beers, both of which he appeared quite happy to consume himself. When he had placed his order, he turned back to Marx.
“Now, then, for starters, are you frightened? Personally, I mean. With three people from your organization dead, this is obviously risky business. Jeff Gertz says he has issued a no-travel order, with everybody grounded to their home base. But you’re still here in London. Why is that? Aren’t you worried?”
“Of course I’m worried. But I’m not about to go home. I don’t scare easily. If you read my file, you know that I had an unusual upbringing. All the scary things have already happened to me.”
“Are you willing to travel to places that would be more dangerous than London?”
“Sure, in principle. Where do you have in mind?”
Hoffman closed his eyes. He clasped his hands and put them under his chin. He looked like an overfed monk.
“Pakistan,” he said. “I want you to see someone in Islamabad, if you’re willing. You will have to meet him in person, and on his turf, I’m afraid. Otherwise we cannot obtain the information that he says he is prepared to offer.”
“Who’s the source in Islamabad, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“His name is Malik. He is the director general of Inter-Services Intelligence.”
“Well, fancy that. Good for you, Mr. Hoffman.”
“Thank you,” he said ceremoniously, with a small flourish of the hand that was meant to signify a bow. “But you understand what this means. My source is in contact with the people who have been killing your colleagues. That is the nub of our problem. He tells me that he is prepared to help us, and I believe him. But you are the person who will take the risk.”