Back Blast: A Gray Man Novel

by Mark Greaney

  Alvey said nothing, but he knew Aurbach well enough to imagine it wasn’t very difficult at all for him to leave his man swinging in the breeze. Hawthorn was an asset for Aurbach, after all, not one of his children.

  Aurbach continued. “I left him in detainment, said nothing to the Americans about knowing the man, unsure if he would ever see the light of freedom. Fortunately the CIA decided he possessed no value, and he was eventually released. As it turned out, his detainment was the best thing that could have happened to him operationally. He joined al Qaeda in Iraq with his newfound credibility, and he began passing us critical intelligence, some of which we traded with the U.S., some of which we used to influence matters in other ways.

  “Soon the idea came to me that we should grow Hawthorn into a long-term deep-penetration asset of al Qaeda. To get him as close to the core leadership as possible. When much of AQ was rolled up by the Americans during their surge in Iraq, we protected Hawthorn.”

  Alvey was impressed. “Incredible. That was many years ago. How far has he gotten since then?”

  Aurbach crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, taking his time in doing so. It seemed to Alvey as if his boss was hesitating with his story. Finally the old man looked up. “Yanis, why, in God’s name, are we not drinking?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Aurbach shouted to the men outside the room, surprising Alvey. “A bottle of scotch, please! Whatever you have lying around will do. And two glasses.”

  When the booze came, Menachem Aurbach drank, and while he drank, he told Yanis Alvey everything.

  —

  The director of the Mossad took an entire hour to finish his story, and then he went to the toilet. Yanis Alvey remained in his chair, his eyes unfixed, generally pointing to a spot on the wall, but focusing on nothing. After a long time, time enough for Aurbach to return and to light another cigarette, Alvey’s head slowly collapsed down, like he was an inflatable doll with a leak. Finally his head settled, forehead down, on the table. He covered his head with his hands.

  He spoke in a whisper. “I did not know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You can’t know everything, can you? That’s why there is a chain of command. That’s why unilateral actions like the one you took are dangerous. Foolish.”

  “I am truly sorry.”

  Alvey sat up straight now, his eyes rimmed with red, glassy and blurring with tears of shame.

  Before he could speak, Menachem said, “You are free to leave here. You will not be held, you will not be prosecuted. Just know that by your actions you have hurt your nation. You are a good man, so knowing this is punishment enough.”

  Alvey’s water-rimmed eyes returned to the wall.

  The older man stood. “Go home, Yanis. Take some more time off, look inside yourself. Try to put this behind you. After some period you and I together will decide if you can continue in your career in some fashion.” He turned back to the younger man, still seated. “But know this. It won’t be the same. Nothing will ever be the same.”

  Without another word the director of the Mossad left the little room, leaving the door open behind him.

  Yanis sat still for a long time before he rose and walked through the open door.

  46

  As usual, the eight p.m. Wednesday night class at Georgetown Yoga had been a full house, and Catherine had been lucky to find a spot to lay her mat, arriving as she had at the last minute. She’d almost canceled her session tonight due to the Ohlhauser murder in nearby Dupont Circle, but after spending the entire day and early evening in her office, and the realization that she’d probably be pulling an all-nighter to get an article together, she gave herself permission to rush out for an hour and a half to attend to herself and make her favorite class of the week.

  As soon as her hour-long practice was over Catherine rolled up her mat, zipped up her orange hoodie, and headed for the door. She didn’t even bother to make small talk with the other ladies, the vast majority of whom were roughly half her age, and almost none of whom could perform a forearm stand scorpion pose half as well as she could. Catherine stood at the curb, hoping to catch a cab back to her office. Spying a taxi a block to the east she stepped into the street with her hand raised, but before the cab even saw her wave, a black Mercedes sedan pulled to a stop in front of her. An older man with a beard sat behind the wheel, and a young bald-headed man in a gray suit climbed out of the passenger’s side, hurried around the front, and opened the back door, right next to Catherine.

  With a pleasant smile he said, “Ms. King? How are you? I’m a big fan. Been reading your column since junior high.”

  She looked at the car and the beckoning open door, then back up to the bald-headed man. “Um . . . Thanks?”

  Sheepishly he added, “I just had to get that out first.”

  “Before what?”

  “I work for Denny Carmichael. He asked my colleague and me to come and collect you. He’d appreciate a brief moment of your time. For an interview, that is.”

  Catherine King took a half step back towards the sidewalk. “As happy as I am to hear that, I’d rather not just jump in a car and go. I could use a little time to prepare myself. If his schedule has an opening in the morning I can—”

  “I’m afraid Director Carmichael will be very disappointed in me if I don’t bring you right to his office.”

  She couldn’t tell if the man was really as earnest as he appeared, or if this was all a ruse and she was about to be shoved into the car if she didn’t comply.

  “Well . . . can I at least change clothes and drop off my mat first?”

  “You look fine, but if you insist, I can take you by your apartment to throw something on. You’re up at Thirty-sixth and O, is that correct?”

  Catherine swallowed. Of course the CIA knew where she lived. But having a CIA officer looming over her in the dark actually admitting he knew where she lived was more than disconcerting.

  “I tell you what,” she said. “I have a suit at the office. It’s not far. Why don’t you take me there?”

  The bald-headed man blinked once, but his smiling face did not change. He just said, “I’m afraid not. The director wants to speak with you confidentially on deep background, and he’d rather you did not communicate with anyone before the meeting. Just a security measure.”

  “I see. Are you going to take my phone from me, too?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Catherine King sat down in the back of the Mercedes. After the bald-headed officer closed her door for her, she had a thought. Quickly, she pulled her phone out of her purse. Holding it between her knees so the driver did not see her, she glanced down, then looked more carefully.

  She was right in the middle of the nation’s capital, one of the largest and most technologically advanced metro areas on planet Earth, but for some reason her phone’s reception meter read No Service.

  She dropped her phone back in her purse and bit her lower lip. As they drove in silence to her Georgetown townhouse, she tried to control her thoughts, so she could retain some control over the interaction that was soon to come, because she suspected the meeting between herself and Denny Carmichael would be less of an interview and more of a chess match.

  —

  Catherine had visited the seventh floor of the CIA’s Old Headquarters Building a few times in her career, but certainly never after normal business hours, and certainly never to meet with the director of the National Clandestine Service. Denny Carmichael had held the top operations job for several years now, and rumors that he would soon take over the directorship of the Agency itself as the first nonpolitical hire in decades looked plausible, as he clearly had the juice with the current administration, and the sitting CIA director had hinted in a recent interview that he wasn’t exactly in love with his work.

  She was taken into a conference room and was o
ffered water and juice, but nothing to write on or with. She’d done background interviews with CIA personnel before, of course, and it was standard that she took no notes. Still . . . tonight’s surprise pickup, the drive in the Mercedes, the sterile conference room on the legendary seventh floor . . . To Catherine this all had an air of stagecraft about it, and she wondered if the information she was soon to be given would be similarly manipulated.

  Carmichael entered wearing a light gray suit and a burgundy tie. His tight face and his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hairstyle made him look to Catherine like a cross between Abe Lincoln and an emu. He offered a handshake but no smile, and she immediately detected a somber air about him. She wondered if he was going to speak about his close personal friendship with Max Ohlhauser. Catherine doubted the two men had been close; the rumors were that Denny didn’t even really like his kids, so she didn’t imagine he’d think much of some ex–chief legal council for his Agency, but from his solemn greeting she supposed he was here to talk about today’s events with an eye for carrying the right tone of grief throughout the meeting.

  Carmichael was not a charmer. He didn’t ask about her at all, other than to open the conversation with, “You and I met once.”

  The two sat down at the conference table, with Carmichael at the head and King on his immediate left.

  Catherine said, “That’s right. In Baghdad. One of Saddam’s palaces. You were having coffee with Jordan Mayes. I forced my way to your table and introduced myself. You were pleasant, but you couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

  A nod from Carmichael, though she half expected him to deny the charge. Instead he said, “And here I am, summoning you to me tonight. Times change.”

  “I was told by the man you sent to collect me that you have agreed to my interview request. On deep background, of course.”

  “Yes. I don’t usually do this, but events of the past few days warrant it.”

  “I think it’s best for the Agency to get out ahead of the story.”

  “You’ve been tough on my Agency in the past, but fair. More or less.”

  She ignored the last part and replied, “And I assure you I will be fair now.”

  Carmichael nodded. “I know you were already working on a story about the death of Lee Babbitt, even before this dreadful thing happened this afternoon.”

  “That’s right. Going back to the events last Saturday in Washington Highlands on Brandywine Street. This was curious to us, because it seemed as if CIA was interested in the homicide there, which happened forty-eight hours before the death of Mr. Babbitt.”

  “What do you know about the terrorist loose in the District?” Denny asked.

  Catherine just smiled. “Sorry, Director Carmichael, but that’s not really how it works, not even on background. I’m here to ask the questions.” There was no way in hell she was going to divulge just how in the dark she and Andy Shoal were as to what the hell was going on.

  Carmichael nodded gravely. “Very well. I’ll tell you what we know. We received information recently. I can’t, of course, get into sources on this, but suffice it to say that a reputable ally provided us primary intelligence indicating a personality already known to us was in the local area. We had already deemed him as a threat to the Agency, so we did not hesitate to follow all leads.”

  Catherine broke down Carmichael’s intel speak and put it into plain speak. “You are saying that an ally told you a man you already knew to be trouble was here in town and you thought he might be dangerous to CIA employees.”

  “As I said.”

  “What tipped you off to the fact he was involved in the Brandywine Street attack?”

  “Nothing, initially, and that’s the truth.”

  Catherine wondered if this meant everything else was a lie, but she didn’t ask.

  Denny continued, “We were scrambling, looking for a lead. The shooting on Brandywine piqued our interest. We thought it possible this personality might be here without many resources, and we thought it likely a drug den like that would be a suitable place for him to find those resources.”

  “Money and guns?”

  “Correct.”

  “The number six was left at the crime scene.” Catherine stated it, not giving Carmichael a chance to deny it.

  He seemed surprised she knew this, but he hid it well. “It’s a symbol we’ve seen this man use in the past.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Unknown.”

  Catherine detected no deception, but she knew Carmichael would be good at hiding it. She said, “What is this suspect’s nationality?”

  Carmichael replied flatly. “He is American.”

  Catherine had not expected this at all. “This is some sort of homegrown terror scenario?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is exactly what we are dealing with here.”

  Catherine looked into the director’s eyes. “Is this someone who has, or someone who once had, a relationship with CIA?”

  A shake of the head. “Only in his own mind. He’s mentally unsound. A paranoid psychotic is our best estimate.”

  “Do you know why he is targeting the CIA specifically?”

  “I can only guess. We are a symbol of American power. We make enemies, even at home.”

  Catherine did detect a little deception now, but certainly nothing she could pin down. She asked, “Can you give me his name?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, only because we don’t know it. We do know a little about him. Again, sources must be protected, so I can’t tell you how we know what we know.”

  “I understand.”

  “He was born and raised in Jacksonville, Florida. He’s in his thirties. White, male. A hair under six feet tall.”

  The Jacksonville reference seemed oddly placed to Catherine, coming even before his physical description and without any other references to his past. She stored this peculiarly positioned fact for later and said, “He’s obviously had some training. I mean, some kook who thinks he is CIA but really lives in his mother’s basement isn’t going to pick fights with a bunch of drug dealers, police, and security contractors and live to tell about it.”

  Carmichael nodded again, even more gravely than before. “We think he’s had training overseas.”

  “Where?”

  “Again, unknown. A camp in Yemen, most likely.”

  Catherine was confused, and she didn’t hide it. “Wait. He’s a jihadist?”

  “No, no.” Denny put a hand up. “We don’t think so. We just think he was deemed a useful tool for some group who had CIA in its crosshairs, so they recruited him for training. Probably off the Internet, as that’s the way these things happen nowadays.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “We think he spent time in Miami, Florida. Again, I can’t tell you how we know.”

  Catherine did not pursue this; she wanted to keep Carmichael talking, not obfuscating. “So he killed Ohlhauser, Babbitt, the two dealers on Brandywine Street, and the three police today. Do you suspect him of anything else, so far?”

  Carmichael hesitated a long time. Catherine was trying to draw him out, to see if he would mention the shooting the previous evening at the Easy Market. That shooting didn’t fit the MO of the other events at all, and it didn’t fit the profile of a paranoid psychotic terrorist, either. She told herself that if Carmichael did not mention it, it probably meant Carmichael was trying to control her story to portray the gunman in a way that benefited his narrative.

  Denny Carmichael finally replied, “Nothing else. Not that we know of, anyway. Certainly nothing conclusive.”

  Catherine stored this information, as well. She then asked, “Is there anyone else at CIA specifically he might target next that you know of?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  Ca
therine’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know why he might target you?”

  “No, but he’s made threats.”

  “How does he know who you are?”

  “Are you familiar with USCrypto.org?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you have your answer. It’s a free country. Freedom to jeopardize my safety and the safety of my family rubs me the wrong way, but I serve America, so there are dangers I must endure.”

  Catherine got the impression that the big, tough, and dangerous Denny Carmichael was now looking for some sympathy, at least in this article she was working on.

  More manipulation.

  Catherine asked a few more questions. Carmichael answered them carefully, or deflected them fully. The Washington Post investigative reporter had conducted some tough interviews with some amazing spin doctors in her time, but getting information out of Carmichael felt like buying snacks from a vending machine. A big, silent source, with a very limited number of specific items available, pre-stocked by the supplier, and she had to push just the right buttons to get anything out.

  Finally, when she felt like she’d emptied the machine of its limited contents she said, “Why Babbitt and Ohlhauser? What’s the relationship between them?”

  “Targets of opportunity, I guess.”

  Catherine, for the first time in the meeting, let Denny know she wasn’t buying what he was selling. “No. There is something more. I can name two dozen ex-CIA people with higher profiles than Max Ohlhauser, and next to no one outside of the intelligence services knew about Babbitt’s close relationship with the Agency.”

  Carmichael shrugged. “There is much we still don’t know. I didn’t bring you here to provide you with all the answers. Your article will just need to differentiate knowns from unknowns.”

  She chuckled. “It’s all unknown, even after this interview.”