by A. J Tata
“What is it you need to talk about?” Meredith asked. “And why are you here?”
“Can we go for a walk?” Matt said. He knew that Pino was on the payroll of the Agency and other departments within the U.S. government, but still he preferred to keep his information held within as tight a circle as possible.
As they were stepping out of the door, Matt looked over his shoulder at Pino and asked, “Since when do you listen to the Rolling Stones?”
Pino looked at Matt, curious, “Talking about, bro?”
“‘Satisfaction.’ I remember hearing that song when I passed out.”
Pino looked at Matt a moment, then laughed loudly. “Whoa, buddy. Must be from your puberty days. I wasn’t playing no music. Now get out of here.”
Matt shrugged, and soon they were walking the trail she had followed from the hotel to Pino’s cottage. Vault lights were located every ten meters or so, illuminating the flagstone path.
“I need to see your credentials, first,” Matt said. The doctor had given him enough Percocet that the pain was numbed, but not so much that he couldn’t think straight.
“Sure,” Meredith said. She pulled out a circular ring with about five different identification badges on it. Matt flipped through them. One was for the Pentagon, another for the State Department, a third was for the White House situation room, and a fourth was for the Agency.
“What’s this one?” Matt asked of the fifth.
“Pentagon Athletic Club. Is that the one you need to see?” She smiled.
“Just checking to make sure you’re in shape.” He handed the credentials back to her. “If indeed you are the first of seventy-two Virginians, then I’m assuming there was some type of competition.”
“Pretty sure of ourselves, aren’t we?”
Matt ignored the rebuke and asked, “Clearance?”
“Top secret, special compartmented infor-mation.”
She seemed to know the right combinations of words, and the pictures on the identification tags certainly looked like her.
“Okay, I’ve been working a project down in the Philippines,” he started. Then he told her the entire story about the Shimpu , the contact’s getting shot, his handler having him jump in to the plane crash, and what he had seen in Cateel.
By the time he was done, they were at the main hotel and had taken a seat by the dimly lit pool area.
“We need to get somebody to Mindanao quickly to help those guys and recover Peterson’s body,” Matt emphasized. “And the tanks. What the hell could they be doing with tanks on Mindanao?”
“I’ll let Secretary Rathburn know immediately and call back to the Pentagon,” Meredith said, worry etched across her forehead.
Matt had lain back on the poolside recliner, exhaustion getting the better of him again. He watched cars over the bluff crawl along the coast road. When he saw a small sports car snake around the corner, he thought of his fifteen-year-old Porsche 944, an outdated sports car that he purchased at the same junkyard in which he found his pitching machine. Having played shortstop on the University of Virginia baseball team, Matt often swatted away his demons in the solitude of his makeshift batting cage in his Loudoun County home. Given his career, his love life was less than he had actually hoped for, the multiple “friends with benefits” opportunities out there notwithstanding. Sometimes reluctantly, Matt always rejected FWB offers because women to him were more than a quick fix. His last serious relationship was a two-year college girlfriend and the ensuing two years after graduation as she moved to New York City for a high-profile accountant’s job. For Kari Jackson, the love had faded with the distance. Her beauty and brains had vaulted her into a different, more elevated, social circle, something which Matt could not or perhaps cared not to provide. Time and distance had sawed at their connection from the other end, then there was nothing.
Though on his short break between Afghanistan and China/Philippines, Matt had received a message from Kari on his home phone.
It had started, “Hi Matt, this is Kari, and I just miss …”
He didn’t know any more of what she said because he had punched erase and gone out to his batting cage and rifled nearly a hundred fastballs traveling about ninety miles an hour. The blisters on his hands had started bleeding against the stained athletic tape wrapped around the grip area of his Pete Rose thirty-four-inch bat. Better to have bleeding blisters than to revisit four years of a slowly dying relationship.
That was Matt. All or nothing. Either you had him or you didn’t. Either he was committed or he wasn’t. And while he understood shades of gray just fine, his personal moral guideposts prevented him from operating in that fashion. He could tell a straight-faced lie to a source he was trying to turn, but deceitfulness in his personal life was out of the question.
Matt’s mind spiraled and followed a path toward that fateful day only a few months ago.
Why, he wondered. We had them in our sights. His relentless, haunting conflict over the missed opportunities to kill Al Qaeda senior leadership was overcome by pure physics. His body shut down, but not before a thought scrolled through his swooning mind: Every time I’m close, I’m moved.
Matt drifted off to sleep as Meredith sat there, her arms crossed, wondering how the hell she was going to handle everything she had heard tonight … and she meant everything.
And how her report would be received.
CHAPTER 18
Orange County, Virginia
Secretary of Defense Robert Stone looked at his friend as they relaxed in his Orange County, Virginia home. He contemplated what he had set in motion as the backdrop of the war in Afghanistan played out on the nightly news. Bin Laden’s trail had gone cold and the country seemed to be on the bullet train to Iraq.
As he had watched and listened to the admin-istration quickly move their focus from Islamic extremism to ousting Saddam Hussein so soon after 9-11, he had gathered three other men to rapidly develop a scheme to counter the movement into Iraq. Given his surname and his penchant for classic rock music, he had labeled their group “The Rolling Stones,” choosing for himself the nom de guerre of Mick Jagger.
His assistant secretary of defense for international security, Bart Rathburn, had latched onto the name of guitar ace Keith Richards. Japanese businessman and former Naicho operative, Taiku Takishi, had been summoned and handed the cover of drummer Charlie Watts.
Stone looked across at Ronnie Wood, whose participation in the scheme was the ultimate high-risk gamble, given his exalted government position. The men had made a pact to use only their rocker aliases when communicating, but all realized the importance of keeping Wood’s name a secret forever, like buried pirate treasure never intended to be found.
What the four men had in common was a desire to keep America focused on the root causes of 9-11 and its associated enemies. This was in distinct oppostion to the sleight of hand of the likes of Fox and Diamond, who were using the attacks on America as a causus belli in Iraq.
With Rathburn in Palau and Takishi already on the ground in the Philippines, Stone was confident that the plan was off to a good start. He puffed on his cigar, looking at Ronnie Wood sitting across from him as the floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of rolling terrain that somewhere on the horizon gave way to James Madison’s Montpelier.
Ronnie Wood returned Stone’s gaze as if he was awaiting a status report. The tune “Wild Horses” played in the background, the real Mick Jagger belting out “… couldn’t drag me away”
They each took a sip of a local Merlot from Donna Kendall Farms, the best winery in Virginia. A bowl of venison jerkey sat on the mahogany Queen Elizabeth table between their two burgundy leather chairs that were canted inward at 45 degree angles. They faced a stone hearth fireplace, handcrafted with rocks from the Rappahannock River. A musket hung on brass hooks above the mantel. A bugle and powderhorn adorned either side of the cavernous firepit, hanging like Christmas stockings. Stone broke the silence.
“Charlie seemed to take
the news of Garrett’s presence in stride, no?”
“A little too cool for school,” Wood said.
“Takishi’s good. Bart vouches for him,” Jagger said.
Wood stared at Jagger.
“Hope you don’t slip up when talking about me,” Wood said, always concerned about his role in the conspiracy.
Jagger paused.
“Sorry. It’s the wine.”
Wood nodded. He was a born skeptic. He had to be, given his business.
“Was always skeptical about bnringing in Charlie Watts,” Wood said.
“Needed him. No doubt about it. Where would we be without him.” Jagger had recovered from his faux pas.
“Keith has a handle on it, I’m sure,” Wood said, unconvincingly.
Jagger paused, considered the comment and then decided upon a new line of discussion.
“So the first few riffs have been pretty good, so far, no?” he said to Wood.
“Well, it’s really your tune now, isn’t it, Mick? I’ve played my chords, and we’ve got Matt Garrett right where we want him,” Wood said.
“True, true,” Jagger noted. He swirled the merlot as he stared through the windows of his Orange County estate. Two bay windows framed the fireplace, giving him a view of the distant Blue Ridge Mountains. Dozens of ash, oak, and birch trees dominated his prominent grounds, their branches crisscrossing like the fingers of a child watching a horror flick.
“Just a brief conversation with Keith and, I mean, wow, this guy is perfect. He’s all pissed off about being pulled out of Pakistan …”
“He was close, you know,” Jagger said. “And I would know.”
“That you would,” Wood agreed.
“And just to be clear, we pulled him out why?”
“You know damned well why we did it. We needed the flexibility. Plus, I had to do it. Fox has me by the balls. There was no option for me.”
“But perhaps for the nation?” Jagger challenged. “There was a better option.”
“Well, it was just one move,” Wood said. “Besides, don’t you think this continuous thread of insecurity has given us some wiggle room, so to speak? I mean, if we had crushed Al Qaeda, would we be able to use the notion of a global threat for our purposes in the Philippines right now? It preserves our flexibility.”
“Yes, but it is this same strategic flexibility that has allowed the notion of invading Iraq to gather momentum. One move always leads to another. For every action, there is a reaction, and so on,” Jagger said. “For example, Garrett is pissed off now, which turns out to be a good thing. But tomorrow, who knows? Thankfully, Keith’s got him.”
The two men were able to enjoy their conversation in the relative security and comfort of Jagger’s country estate thanks to the security details that both men were accorded because of their government positions.
“Yes, a good thing,” Wood said. “Keith will get him up to Manila and feed him back into this thing. You get his reports?”
“Yes, got them all. Not sure what to make of the Japanese tanks he reported. Charlie says that it was just his security. What do you think? I mean we only paid for small arms right? For the insurgents. We didn’t sell enough Predators to finance tank production.”
“Two things,” Wood noted. “First, they may have gotten the money from somewhere else. Second, what the hell do they need tanks for?”
“I don’t know, but here’s how we’ll proceed. We need to keep the manufacturing bit secret. We don’t want to focus any unneeded attention there, like satellites and so on. We’ll do a press conference saying that we’ve started diplomatic, informational, military, and economic initiatives in the Philippines. It’s the Asian arm of Operation Enduring Freedom. We’ll call it OEF-P as opposed to OEF-A for Afghanistan.”
“That’s good. We need to get some media coverage of this thing, connect it to Al Qaeda, and show how the real threat is reaching all the way into the Pacific,” Wood said. “The eastern anchor of Bin Laden’s Caliphate.”
“That’s right,” Jagger agreed. “Plus, turbulence for the Asian markets would not be good for our economy. Not to mention China, North Korea, and Taiwan in that general vicinity. It’s a freaking powder keg.”
“All that combined should make the case that Iraq is a red herring,” Wood said.
“Oh yeah, and we can’t forget to mention that we had some soldiers killed there,” Jagger said.
“Yeah, almost forgot,” Wood agreed. “Peterson, right?”
“Think so. Might be Patterson. Anyway, what do we do with Garrett?” Jagger asked.
“I think we blow his cover.”
“While he’s there?” Jagger asked. And answered, “Great idea. He will go ballistic and go public and the media will make him a hero. More importantly, it will add the extra bit of pressure so that they’ll be stymied.”
“We hope,” Wood added. “I’m not completely comfortable with the blown-cover deal. He could wind up dead.”
“That’s okay,” Jagger said. “That works for us, too. A dead Matt Garrett becomes a martyr for the cause. Woe is us. We pulled out of Afghanistan too early. Al Qaeda got away. We found them again in the Philippines. Now we’ve revealed the identity of our number one Al Qaeda hunter, blowing his cover and getting him killed.” Jagger theatrically waved his hands as he talked, as if he were rolling out one point after another.
“Hmm. I like it. Makes you wonder where the real conspiracy is,” Wood said, tapping his lip with his finger. He crossed his legs and sat back, sipping his Syrah and popping a bite of venison jerky into his mouth. Then he laughed at a thought he had. “This provides the perfect counterweight to Fox and his band of idiots, and I’m sure we can work it so that Garrett’s outing stems from something bold and audacious.”
“Good. We need the flexibility to pin all of this on him if it goes south,” Jagger said, concluding the point. “Okay, so our next move is to get some forces flowing to the Philippines and, as you say, that’s my tune. So, I’ve got that ammo detail thing I mentioned that is about to kick off. They’ll be leaving shortly under the guise of OEF-P,” Jagger said. “I’ll do a press conference tomorrow and an-nounce Patterson was killed, express our sorrow, the usual tap dance. Hold him up as a hero, and he’s our game changer. If Garrett is killed, then I think that seals it.”
“I’m getting satisfaction.” Wood smiled.
“Well, you know, it’s only rock and roll.” Jagger smiled in return.
“And we like it,” they said in unison.
CHAPTER 19
Pentagon, Washington, DC
Media pundit and leading neo-conservative Dick Diamond checked his Blackberry, shielding it from Saul Fox’ view as he nodded with approval and pulled out a checklist written on a pad of yellow legal paper. He sat in the chair facing Fox, the deputy secretary of defense. A large, framed, oval world map hung on the wall behind Fox’s desk. The desktop was cluttered with stacks of papers and books, much the way a college professor’s might be. Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” played softly in the background. Turandot was Diamond’s favorite opera.
The two men smiled at each other and held their right hands up simultaneously as if swearing one another in for a court appearance. Then Fox and Diamond performed a maneuver with their hands, a secret hand shake of sorts, nodded and began their discussion of what they called “conditions setting.”
If there was a counterpoint to the Rolling Stones, Fox and Diamond were it. Diamond was tall, soft and plump, and had a bad hair transplant, making his scalp look like something akin to a Chia Pet. Fox was an elfish man with a bald pate. Secretly toiling away with Central Command, they had built their own intelligence apparatus and were building the case for the Iraq War. The opera playing in the background served to underscore how very different they were from the clandestine Rolling Stones. Fox and Diamond were in the engine room of the train, shovels in hand, pouring giant heaps of coal into the combustion chamber. Speed was increasing. The Iraq war was looming nearer and nearer on t
he horizon, like a shimmering oasis. Their path was clear and, like a locomotive, they were going to blow through anything that got in their way.
“The checklist. Al Haideri?” Diamond said. He was referring to the Iraqi Saeed al Haideri from Kurdistan, who claimed he could vouch for Saddam’s massive forbidden weapons stockpile.
Fox looked at his friend and said, “Check. We’ve got him teamed up with our perception manager, Randall. They’re working his story. He’s solid.”
Diamond’s pencil scratched at the paper as he made a checkmark. “Solid,” he whispered. Then he asked, “Yellow cake?”
“The Italians guarantee that Saddam is getting it from Niger.” Fox smiled.
“Wonderful,” Diamond agreed, then paused. “Ah, our Italian connection. Perfect.”
“Perfecto, I believe, is the proper term.” Fox laughed.
“Metal tubes?”
“Some New York Times reporters are working leads there. They look solid,” Fox said.
“Solid,” Diamond echoed as he put another check mark on the paper. “And if not, we can send them some, right?”
Fox looked over his glasses at Diamond and stared at him a moment. He broke into a broad grin and pointed at him.
“You’re such a kidder, Dick. You know we did that last year before we even had jobs here.”
“Just checking to make sure you’re awake, Saul. Okay, Chalabi?”
“As solid as they come.” Fox smiled. “The future of Iraq. He will mobilize the Iraqis and unify them.”
“Unify,” Diamond agreed, nodding.
“Listen, Dick. This is going to happen.” Fox reached his hands toward his chest as if he were an actor about to belt out a Broadway tune and said, “I can feel it in here. We’ve been talking about this for years. We’re perfectly positioned. Nine-eleven is tailor-made for our purposes. The window is open, as if we opened it ourselves.”