by Tom Clancy
Now it was mostly overgrown, there were no buildings of any kind, but a couple cannons stood on the earthen berms above trenches filled with tall bare trees.
Banfield parked in the small lot and immediately turned to Ross for answers, but the younger man opened his door and began walking away from the car, up the hill and into the woods. Banfield grabbed an umbrella out of the backseat and followed him.
They walked for several minutes, until Ross sat on a wet wooden bench next to a lone cannon out of view of the parking lot behind them. Banfield sat next to him; they faced the Potomac but couldn’t see the river through the foliage on the hillside in front of them. Banfield winced as a wet, cold breeze stung his face. He had been deferential to Ross over the past fifteen minutes, but his patience diminished quickly while they sat there, staring off into the woods. “Ethan, I am an aging city dweller with bursitis in his hips and an allergy to almost everything, and you’ve brought me out into thirty-eight-degree rain and walked me into the woods. What the hell is going on?”
Ross ignored the rain. He stood from the bench and began pacing back and forth on the berm next to the cannon. “It’s fucking India, Harlan, that’s what is going on.”
“India?”
“The attack yesterday. You heard about it, right?”
“Well, yes. Sure. It was on the news. But I don’t know why—”
“It was a Palestinian assassination of an ex–Israeli commando.”
The blank look on Banfield’s face showed he had no idea what Ross’s point was. “I didn’t see that on the news,” he said, “but . . . sorry . . . why do I care?”
“The guy killed in India was the on-scene commander of the Turkish peace flotilla massacre.”
Banfield blinked hard, a show of surprise. Ross stared into his eyes, searching for clues that he knew this already.
“Oh,” the old man said softly. His shock seemed genuine to Ross. “I see what this is all about. Even so, we don’t know that—”
“We do know. I’m telling you, the FBI was waiting for us all this morning when we got to work. They are saying they know about the unauthorized download of the flotilla files. They say the dead Israeli in India, Colonel Yacoby, was mentioned in the files, as well as the fact he was living in that little village.” He stopped pacing and leaned down over Banfield. “He was referred to by name in the CIA docs!”
“I don’t remember that. There were a lot of pages in those files.”
“I don’t remember, either, but the G’s seemfucking certain!”
Banfield himself stood now, and he looked off over the trees. “When did you deliver the files to me? It had to have been three months ago.”
“It was four.”
“And only now do they reveal the breach was detected? Why is that?”
Ross answered in a whispering shout. “Because somebody got fucking killed! When I gave you that data you swore to me anything that could put lives in danger would be redacted, and the only people who would get the intel would be the media. You said you’d give them to an ITP-affiliated reporter at The Guardian, and he would reveal the fact the U.S. gave covert help to the Israelis in the attack on the flotilla. It was supposed to embarrass the White House, maybe nudge us away from covert ties with Israel. Maybe pro-Israeli hawks in the administration would get fired. And the next time some shit like this went down in Israel, Washington would be less eager to spy on behalf of a criminal regime.”
Ross pulled off his soaking knit cap and ran his hands through his sticky wet blond hair, then said, “Nobody said a goddamned thing about terrorists blowing up a family of four.”
Banfield positioned himself in front of Ross, blocking his ability to pace. He held his umbrella high enough for the taller man to fit under it, but Ethan did not come that close. Banfield said, “Listen to me carefully. The files you passed to me did not go to anyone in Palestine.”
“Where did they go?”
“We still have them.”
“Why haven’t you given them to The Guardian?”
“Remember what I told you when you gave me the information? If we released it so close on the heels of the breach, it could put you in danger.” Banfield squeezed Ross on the shoulder. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. My organization has refined the art of whistleblower attribution masking. You are safe.”
Ross sat back on the bench slowly. He wanted to believe, but wasn’t sure.
“I’d feel better if you told me the ITP doesn’t have contacts in Palestine.”
“Of course we have contacts in Palestine. We have contacts all over. But we didn’t pass this on to anyone. We would never be a party to such a brutal act. Our partners in Palestine are as far removed from the personality types that committed this crime as you and I are from the thugs who run around D.C. knifing people for their wallets. Remember, the Palestinian people have the same range of personality types as the rest of the world. There are bad apples out there. We just aren’t working with them.”
Banfield sat down next to Ross, and the rainfall blew in from the river onto their faces. The umbrella served no purpose, but Banfield held it anyway.
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Ethan, and you are one hundred percent in the clear. This thing in India was unrelated to the whistleblowing you did four months ago, I’m sure of it.”
“Well, the FBI is not sure of it. They are conducting polygraphs later in the week.”
Banfield did not show any surprise. “That’s to be expected. It’s just a fishing expedition.”
“Perhaps, but they will be thorough.”
“You’ve never had any problems with polygraphs in the past.”
Ethan sighed, doing his best to regain composure. “Of course not. I went to Harvard, I’m not going to be outsmarted by a fucking state college grad with a box of wires and lights. But my other polys were just annual security recerts. A second rate investigator with no presumption of any deception. I knew I would ace the box, so I aced the box. This time will be different. It will be a single-scope poly, the best FBI investigators in CID, and they will know what questions to circle back to. It won’t be a cakewalk this time.”
Banfield tried to calm the younger man down. “The polygraph is a stage prop. It’s bullshit. The key to the polygraph is understanding the equipment is a hoax set out to intimidate the guilty into a confession. The examiner will interrogate you, and he will use the polygraph as a pretext to say he does not believe you. It is his tool to draw out a confession. Don’t confess, stay relaxed,” Banfield smiled. “And believe that which is true.”
Ethan glared at Banfield. “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know.”
The older man put his hands up. “I’m sorry. Of course not. But just know this. You are not to blame for the attack in India. The information you gleaned from CIA files is as secure right now as it was when you downloaded it. We are just holding it for the right moment.”
Ethan looked off in the distance and mumbled, “I can beat the box.” He didn’t sound sure, and Banfield registered this.
“You can.” Banfield put his arm around Ross. “I’ll get you some medications to take. It will help.” He leaned down to look into Ethan’s face. He gave him another squeeze on the shoulder. “Listen to me. You’re fine. This sort of thing happens all the time. We work with a lot of patriots like you. Probably once a month someone gets pulled into a surprise polygraph. Nothing has ever come from it. Ever.”
“Don’t lie to me, Harlan.”
“I wouldn’t dare. And I’m not just kissing your ass here when I say it, but you are a hell of a lot sharper than some of the other whistleblowers out there.” He smiled and rolled his eyes, indicating the level of intellect of the others.
Ethan nodded, conceding the point without a hint of selfconsciousness, and he lightened up a little. He took a moment to look around the park, as if for the first time. He and Banfield were the only two people in sight.
“Okay. I’ll spend the next couple of da
ys prepping for it. But I’m not going to trust any technology in the meantime. Who knows how wide and how deep this security review will go? We need to be careful. The FBI could get a court order to tap every one of us with TS clearance in the EOB. No phones or e-mail.”
“A phone is okay in a pinch if you buy a new one. Just go to a convenience store and get a cheap mobile. Only use it in an emergency. I’ll do the same.”
“Okay, but I’d rather meet in person.”
Banfield thought for a moment. “Do you still go running in the mornings?”
“Some mornings.” Ross said. And then, “Why?”
“Buy some chalk.”
“Chalk?”
“Yes. For the next few days, got for a morning jog down Wisconsin Avenue. Turn east on N Street. On the southeast corner there is a green fire hydrant by the road. If you want to meet me here, drag a small piece of chalk on the top of it, just three inches or so, big enough I can see it as I pass by on my way to work. If you put it there I’ll show up here at eight a.m.”
“And if you need to talk to me?”
“Same thing. I’ll mark the hydrant if I need to meet with you. Eight a.m. here.”
Ross nodded slowly. “A little old-fashioned, but okay.”
“The old ways are the best ways, son. Phones are tapped. Unsecure e-mail is read. Nobody out there is looking for chalk anymore.”
BANFIELD DROPPED ROSS OFF at his car, which was parked several blocks away from Banfield’s office in Thomas Circle, then he drove back to the parking garage under his building. He had his eyes open for any surveillance, but as near as he could tell he was in the clear. He considered himself something of a proficient amateur on matters of surveillance, and this stemmed from some training he received early in his career. In the seventies a young Harlan Banfield had enrolled in a five-day corporate security class in London. It was put on for executives and journalists traveling abroad, and Harlan found the course to be a mixed bag. The self-defense portion of the curriculum, in Harlan’s estimation, was silly and naive. He took the program before heading over to Lebanon to cover the civil war there, and he thought it unlikely any armed Shiite manning a roadblock he ran into would be much impressed by his ability to twist someone’s thumb or apply a knife hand to the groin.
But there were some very helpful aspects of the training, none more so than the instruction on the basics of how to identify a tail and to spot other types of surveillance operations.
Since London, Banfield had supplanted this training with decades of real-world experience, and in his years working secretly for the ITP, he’d fallen back on his training and practice to keep an eye out for anyone following him.
He made it up to his eleventh-floor office confident no one was more interested in him this day than any other, and he locked himself in. He didn’t bother removing his coat or his fedora before sitting down at his computer; instead, he immediately logged on to an encrypted instant message service called Cryptocat, then typed a long alphanumeric code that he had committed to memory. This led him to a screen where he could select from a buddy list, but instead he typed in a recipient address from memory because he had not saved it into his list.
Almost instantly the two-party encryption was authenticated. His fingers hovered over the keys. After a moment he typed: We have a problem.
The response came back thirty seconds later. Which is? Ethan Ross. Yes.
Banfield cocked his head. He typed: Yes? Yes, what? I only just learned the details of the attack in India. I expected to hear from you about our friend. He thinks we provided the information. He’s wrong. That’s what I told him. Please confirm I was correct in telling him we haven’t passed it on to The Guardian yet.
You are correct. He will be polygraphed on Wednesday. How is his mood?
Concerned. I’d say very concerned. I gave him the song and dance about how we do this all the time. I think he bought it. I will provide him with a cocktail to defeat the poly, but frankly, I don’t know if he can beat it.
He doesn’t have to.
Harlan Banfield did not understand the message. He typed: What do you mean?
There was no reply for more than a minute. Banfield fought the urge to send a question mark over the messaging service. Instead, he cracked his knuckles and forced himself to wait.
Finally a new line appeared on his screen.
I’m on my way.
Banfield sat up straighter at his desk, and his chest heaved.
He had no idea what was going through the head of the person on the other end of the encrypted chat, but his concerns that ITP leadership would not see the importance of the event dissolved instantly, because Banfield knew the director of the ITP was in Switzerland.
If she was on her way, then clearly she understood the magnitude of the problem that Ethan Ross had become.
8
DOMINIC CARUSO ROLLED SLOWLY and gingerly out of his bed and pulled himself up to his feet with the aid of a belt he’d wrapped around his bedpost for just that purpose. He walked on legs that felt lethargic from lying prone for an extended period of time, and the bright bulb in his bathroom made his head pound.
Since arriving home he’d climbed out of bed only a few times to answer nature’s call or to grab a water bottle or some canned food from his kitchen. Adara Sherman had called him just hours after she dropped him off at his place; she offered to come by with some groceries because she knew Dom wouldn’t have anything fresh in his condo. Dom thanked her for the call, but he told her his next-door neighbor was running errands for him right then.
It wasn’t true. Dom just didn’t feel like having any visitors. Yesterday afternoon he got up and moved around a little more. He took the elevator downstairs to the tiny market in his building, and he came back up to his place with two plastic bags full of canned food, yogurt, sodas, and beer.
He picked at a can of tuna and another of peaches in sugary syrup, drank a beer, and went back to bed.
Dom was determined to do something productive today, despite the aches and pains. He started his shower, then took the bandages off his chest and forearm. He stood there with his sore body pressed up against the cold tile next to the shower for several minutes, until finally he stepped into the water.
The hot spray stung his wounds, but it went a long way toward making him feel human again. After the shower, he changed the bandages on his forearm, drank coffee, and went into his living room. He had all the lights off in his place now because the lights added to his headache, so he sat in the dark with his laptop on his couch and spent the early part of the morning reading everything he could find online about the attack in India. Much had been written on the subject, but the vast majority of it was sensationalized, editorialized, or simply conjecture, and so much of it—he knew because he had been there and seen it firsthand—was dead wrong.
He had to turn his computer off after an hour or so. The images from the event and the speculation about it only forced his brain to relive everything that happened, to experience again the moment as a virtual after-action report.
With this “hot wash” Dom inevitably analyzed his own actions in the most critical way possible. He told himself now he should have gone upstairs with Yacoby from the beginning, covering the stairwell and keeping the other attackers downstairs instead of splitting their access points. He should have dispatched the poorly trained attackers in the kitchen more quickly than he had. He should have anticipated that the terrorist with the knife in his chest would not have died quickly, and therefore remained a threat.
There were a lot of things he could have done differently, and now, as he sat on his couch in his fifth-floor D.C. condo, he wished he’d done them all.
The more Dom thought it over, the more certain he became of one thing.
He had failed Arik and his family.
The death of Dom’s twin brother, Brian, played out in his mind in much the same way. He’d spent the intervening years dissecting every aspect of the event, judging himself
to be responsible. He could have been faster, if not in the gunfight itself then at least in his treatment of Brian’s gunshot wound. He could have saved him.
Dom knew he had done his best, but both in Libya and in India, his best just hadn’t cut it.
At a little after nine he shook the images and anguish out of his mind long enough to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee, his third of the morning. He’d just lowered himself back down to his sofa with his laptop when his phone chirped. He looked down and saw it was Adara Sherman calling, no doubt checking up on him again. He let the call roll to his voice mail.
Soon after this, his doorbell rang. The chime made his head throb. He rolled his eyes, thinking it must have been Sherman, which would mean she was efficient as hell in her efforts, though he expected nothing less. But when he opened the door to the bright hallway, standing in front of him was a fit-looking man in a suit and tie under a trench coat, wearing a perfect part in his dark hair. He was taller than Dom by several inches, with big round shoulders that his coat could not conceal. The man said, “How ya doin’, Dominic?”
Dom knew this man, though he hadn’t seen him in several years. “It’s Albright, right?”
Darren Albright nodded. “That’s right. Good memory. I’m impressed.” They shook hands.
“It has been a while.” Dom’s mind began racing. He remembered Albright from Quantico, the FBI training academy. To the best of Caruso’s recollection, he’d been a cop for several years before joining the FBI, and was several years older than Dom.
“Special agent?”
“Supervisory special agent, for what it’s worth.” Dom was impressed, he had obviously played his cards right at the Bureau.
What in God’s name is this guy doing here?
Albright said, “Good to see you.” He stood there a moment, obviously waiting to be invited in.
Caruso shuffled.
The FBI special agent said, “Can I have a few minutes of your time?”