The Spy House

by Matthew Dunn

  ELEVEN

  Four P.M. in Washington, D.C., equaled 11 P.M. in Lebanon. It was also the time that Admiral Mason had wanted to head home, because lately he’d been working fourteen-hour days and he needed a night off. He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of D.C., ever since his wife had passed away and he’d subsequently sold their beautiful sea-facing home in Norfolk, Virginia. His two grown-up girls had long ago left home, so he’d felt there was no point staying in a six-bedroom residence with so many good memories that were now tinged with sadness. Nevertheless, he liked his tiny apartment. It was far bigger than the quarters where he’d slept on ships. And he was looking forward to being there this evening, cooking a pheasant breast and rosemary mashed potato, and watching his DVD of Das Boot.

  But that wasn’t going to happen yet.

  Because he’d been summoned to the White House by the president’s chief of staff.

  He wasn’t the only one. Alongside the chief of staff, there were a former U.S. ambassador to Israel who was now an adviser to the president, the heads of the NSA and the CIA, and another middle-aged CIA officer who Mason didn’t know. Though the president himself wasn’t here, they were meeting in the Oval Office, a room Mason always felt uncomfortable in because its curved walls seemed unbalanced with the angular shapes of the room’s furnishings. And it was an odd choice of meeting location because it didn’t have a boardroom table. But it was the only room free, because the White House was abuzz with numerous crisis meetings. So the six men had to sit where they could: some on the two small sofas, others in corner chairs, the chief of staff in an armchair that made the burly man look like he was squeezed into a child’s seat. It was all a bit too higgledy-piggledy for the tastes of an admiral who liked things to be shipshape.

  For once, Mason didn’t know why he was here. The CIA had called this meeting.

  The Agency boss twisted awkwardly on the sofa. “You’ve all read the encrypted message sent by Gray Site’s CIA officer regarding the Hamas meeting today. After it was sent, we heard nothing from the station—tried to reach out to it in the usual ways, informed MI6, DGSE, and Mossad, who tried to do the same. When that didn’t work, all of us broke security protocols and called our respective officers on their cell phones. Nothing. It’s fair to say we got the almighty jitters. So two hours ago I deployed an Agency team to check Gray Site. Our guys had to cut their way in. Place was trashed. Data lost.” The intelligence leader met the eyes of each person in the room, one by one, before continuing. “There’d been a gunfight.”

  Mason closed his eyes.

  The Agency head concluded, “All four officers dead.”

  The chief of staff asked him, “Coverage of the Hamas meeting?”

  “None. That was Gray Site’s task. Only its officers had the capability to do that job. Looks like they died hours before the meeting.”

  “What’s Hamas doing now?” This was to the head of NSA.

  He replied, “We’re getting the usual chicken shit from lower-level Hamas guys and girls. Nothing about Paris.”

  “You can spy on Americans, but you can’t tell us what the top loony tunes are doing?”

  The NSA head wasn’t afraid of the chief of staff. “Fuck you.”

  “Not tonight, Josephine.” The chief of staff puffed his chest out, aware that he must have looked ridiculous in the chair. “We gave you the Hamas cell numbers and other stuff that Gray Site was listening in on. Can’t you access those numbers remotely?”

  Mason opened his eyes.

  The NSA head responded, “We can access the cells, but we can’t access the bugs. Only Gray Site could do that because it had to be within range of their signals. But even the cell phones aren’t of any use. The Hamas leaders your guys were listening in on change their cells once a week at minimum. We’ve tried. The numbers they used to set up today’s meeting are no longer functional. That’s why Gray Site was key—be on the ground, grab cell phone numbers, be ready in an instant to be all over those numbers when they’re active, grab new numbers when old ones are discarded, put bugs in place and keep doing so if they’re discovered.” He looked at Mason. “It was an excellent idea.”

  The head of the CIA said, “We could set up another Gray Site. Start over.”

  The chief of staff barked, “We don’t have time! Israel will be ready to mobilize in two weeks. In any case, the Israelis have told us in pretty blunt terms that they did what we asked and waited for evidence, but our plan failed. All they’re concerned with now is getting their troops battle ready.” He perused the room, like a bloated vulture that had eaten enough flesh but was lusting for more. He grinned at the former American ambassador to Israel. “You must feel like crap.”

  “Why?” asked the man with dyed hair who spoke three Arabic dialects fluently.

  “Because your whole career hasn’t made a blind bit of difference to the Middle East.” The chief of staff’s menace was palpable. “What happens next?”

  The former diplomat looked like a posturing academic as he tossed back his head and unnecessarily delayed the length of time it took him to come up with an answer. “We cannot obtain evidence. We should therefore choose sides, based on our principles. We must decide whether to back Israel or not.”

  The chief of staff looked at Mason.

  Mason was motionless, his mind thinking on multiple levels. “The ambassador’s analysis is correct, though principles shouldn’t drive our decision making.”

  The ambassador tried to interject, his expression affronted.

  But Mason quietly continued. “There is a vast swath of global opinion that is currently sitting on the fence when it comes to the subject of Israel. And it is probable they will get off the fence, to one side or the other, when Israel goes to war. No doubt the president understands that whatever decision he takes will affect his political survival. But far more important, he should be aware that this isn’t about politics; it’s about interstate allegiances. The world will be watching America to see which way it jumps; and when it does jump we will lose friends and win friends. The question for you to ponder is which friends do we want to gain, and which friends are we prepared to lose. The answer to that will inform the president’s decision.”

  The chief of staff said, “Arab nations versus non-Arab?”

  “Were it only as simple as that.”

  “We could just sit this one out. Stay neutral.”

  “We’ll lose more than we gain that way.” The admiral was deep in thought, and for a moment was oblivious to the others in the room. “I dearly hoped Gray Site would ascertain that Hamas did not kill the Israeli ambassador.”

  “I’m sorry your plan didn’t work, Mason.” The chief of staff’s tone with the admiral was respectful. “You’re right. This is now about deciding who we want as new friends. What are your thoughts on that?”

  Mason had many. But instead he said, “Sir, I am a mere cog in your machine. I can’t answer you with any meaningful authority.” He turned toward the head of the CIA. “What happened in Gray Site?”

  The intelligence officer responded, “Why it happened is beyond us. Israel, Britain, and France are also clueless. But what happened is clear. One of the four Gray Site personnel turned on the others. His bullets were found in their bodies. But they retaliated before they died, because their bullets were found in the body of the officer who turned on them. We’ve removed the corpses and weapons, conducted a forensic analysis on them, and sanitized Gray Site.”

  Mason asked, “You are convinced no third parties entered Gray Site?”

  “Certain. There’s absolutely no way for anyone to get into the site by any other means aside from the door. And the door had seven bolts and other locks that were in place on the inside when my team forced entry. Plus my guys searched every inch of the station. No tunnels, other signs of forced entry, or forced entries that were subsequently covered up. Zilch.”

  The chief of staff shook his head in disbelief. “How could the officer have done thi
s to his colleagues?”

  The Agency head replied, “Britain, France, and Israel keep asking . . . demanding to know the answer to that, because . . .”

  “The man who went rogue was our CIA officer. The individual who sent us the telegram about the Hamas meeting today.”

  Mason looked at the other CIA officer in the Oval Office. who had just spoken for the first time. “Who are you?”

  The tall, silver-haired officer replied, “Patrick Bolte.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “Perhaps because, like you, I enjoy wasting my time.” He spoke with a warm Texas drawl.

  Mason smiled. Patrick? Who was he? Mason was sure Patrick had seen death and had probably dealt it. Moreover, he looked like a man who didn’t give a damn about protocol. Mason’s lightning mind grabbed other accurate assessments about the man.

  Powerful. Razor-sharp brain. Incorruptible. Untouchable.

  This assessment made him like Patrick. “We are dealing with the question: What happened in Gray Site that would prompt a CIA officer to murder his colleagues? You, Patrick, are here because you think that question has far broader relevance. Perhaps you have a hypothesis that—”

  Patrick interrupted, “Maybe the Mossad officer feared the Hamas meeting would prove that Hamas wasn’t behind the assassination. He tried to interfere with coverage of the Hamas meeting. The CIA officer found out. Gunfight ensues. MI6 and DGSE officers don’t know what’s happening and run to help the Mossad guy, thinking CIA man’s gone crazy.”

  Mason nodded. “And the Mossad officer was either doing this through his own volition, or he had the authority to do so from the State of Israel because it’s never wanted evidence that would undermine its reasons to finally obliterate Hamas.”

  Patrick nodded. “That’s my take.”

  The chief of staff looked unsettled. “Backing a country that’s going to war on a hunch is one thing; supporting an outright lie is another.”

  Mason resisted the urge to tell everyone that there were precedents for going to war on a lie, most recently the invasion of Iraq. “I agree. We have a two-week window to find out what happened inside Gray Site.”

  The head of the NSA was exasperated. “You heard what the chief of staff said. Israel’s going to war regardless. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Mason replied, “If we can find out what happened in Gray Site, we might be able to uncover the truth about the Paris assassination.”

  The NSA officer retorted, “You’re just desperate to make up for the fact that your initiative ended with dead men.”

  “Desperate!” Though fully in control of his emotions, the admiral deliberately looked angry. “Have you been to war? I have. Only three things keep men fighting in a conflict: orders, fear, and the hope they’re doing the right thing. I don’t know about you, but I’m keen to find out if this impending war is the right thing. And I say that as much for the sake of Israeli lives as I do for everyone else who’ll be involved.”

  The chief of staff stepped in. “Admiral. My colleague’s right. There’s no point chasing after a fool’s errand that can’t change the inevitable.”

  Mason’s voice became quiet again. “I wonder what Israel would do if we could prove that Hamas didn’t kill its ambassador in Paris, and demonstrate that Israel tried to hide that fact. I suspect it would back down from war. In fact, I know it would.”

  “Demonstrate?”

  “Go public.”

  “And what if learning about what happened in Gray Site shows Hamas did do the kill?”

  Mason shrugged. “Then we return to my point about interstate allegiances and choices.”

  The room was silent for a minute.

  Patrick broke the silence, his gaze fixed on Mason. “You and I need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do. Do you have someone who’s up for the task? Someone totally deniable?”

  Patrick nodded.

  Mason said to the chief of staff, “I could ask your permission to task an investigation into what happened at Gray Site, or I could simply go to the president. You choose.”

  The chief of staff drummed his fingers on his leg. Finally, he replied, “Okay. You got it.” He said to Patrick, “We can’t have the Israelis or anyone else getting a whiff of this. Has to be completely under the radar. He works alone, okay? And if he’s caught, we’ll let him be strung up by his balls. Who do you have in mind?”

  Patrick seemed hesitant. Then he answered, “His name’s Will Cochrane.”

  On sunnier days, the Georgetown Waterfront Park usually contained walkers, cyclists, skaters, and people picnicking while taking in views of the adjacent Potomac River. But today a fine rain had driven most people away from the site, leaving only a small number of solitary individuals, most of whom were using the park as a shortcut to access central D.C. Only one person here had no intention of moving through the park as quickly as possible.

  Rob Tanner pulled up the collar on his raincoat, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sat on a bench next to a footpath, in front of trees and overlooking the river.

  The young man felt exhilarated to be here, sensing that he was operating within the epicenter of power and was doing so without anyone knowing his true role. He was a chameleon, he told himself, duping the fools around him and snatching their secrets. It made him feel armor plated, contemptuous of those who lacked his courage, and that he had a higher calling. It particularly pleased him that he’d managed to fool Admiral Mason.

  A man sat next to him. He was middle aged, wearing a suit and light beige coat that was peppered with raindrops. He fixed his gaze on the river. “I could smell your fancy cologne a mile off.”

  “You paid for it.” Tanner grinned. “Together with everything else about me.”

  “You liking your new lifestyle?”

  “Think I am.”

  “Don’t get used to it. Next time I might send you to the third world, just to give you some humility.”

  “I don’t do poverty or humility. That’s why you chose me.”

  “I’m prone to making mistakes, but key to my success is that I’m not averse to correcting them.” The man clasped his scarred hands. “Talk.”

  Tanner watched a slow-moving pleasure cruiser pass by; miserable-looking tourists were huddled underneath the vessel’s canopy. “Mason spoke to me couple of hours ago. This morning he was at Capitol Hill. He knows Gray Site’s dead and wants what happened in there investigated. And he’s only got two weeks to do so before Israel goes to war.”

  The man huffed. “He won’t find anything. Who’s he using to do the investigation?”

  “Some guy called Will Cochrane. You know him?”

  The man was silent for a few seconds, his expression now tense. “I know of him.” He looked directly at Tanner. “The priority now is that Cochrane can’t move without you knowing it. Got it?”

  Tanner nodded. “Got it.”

  TWELVE

  The River Findhorn was up to my chest, waders keeping me dry, as I fished for salmon in a place that for me was heaven on earth. The isolated white stone cottage I’d rented for the week was in the distance, nestled in a glen in the Scottish Highlands. The mountains on both sides of the valley were covered in heather, looking craggy yet majestically ancient. On one mountainside, the local farmer’s adult son was using a seasoned sheepdog to help train a younger one. They were not having much luck; I could hear the farmhand bellowing instructions at the young dog, then cursing as the pup scattered sheep in all directions and flushed red grouse out of the brush. An otter a ways off was eyeing me curiously from the bank. Like me, he was here to fish. There were no other noises save from the fast rush of water hitting boulders, a cool autumn air coursing through clusters of pine, and Rory.

  I come here every year and always fish this beat: a three-mile stretch twelve miles south of Inverness that belongs to the local estate. Rory was my guide, a ghillie who knew every inch of the stretch he was paid to preserve, a proud individual who wore modern clot
hes that were fashioned old and were made to brave the elements all year round. He loved his surroundings because every day the flora and fauna gave him new surprises that he embraced with the intelligent wonderment of a man who had no sense of what it meant to be jaded. Tall, seventy-one years old, an offshore engineer pre-retirement, Rory was a gentleman Highlander who spoke softly and with precision and had a permanent glint in his eye. We’d known each other for years. He liked me, he’d told me several times. I suspect it was because I worked this beat hard, preferring to fish it on foot no matter that it required me to clamber over rocks to reach new pools to cast my line. A day’s fishing the Findhorn was arduous and Rory knew that, hence his fitness and relatively youthful appearance. I also suspect he compared me favorably to the champagne-swilling rich knobs from London who came here for a jolly and required Rory to drive them to each new pool, where they would drink on the banks far longer than they’d fish.

  “Your arms are getting too low again, Mr. Cochrane,” he said while sitting on the grassy bank and pouring us both a cup of sweet coffee from his flask. “Arms high, fly line high.”

  I pulled back my fifteen-foot salmon rod and cast my fly line so that it hit a patch of the river forty-five degrees to the left of me.

  “Better.”

  I watched the floating line drift fast toward the center of the river; once there, the chance of a salmon was gone and I’d have to move a few feet farther downriver and recast. Working the pool, it was called. “Hey, Rory?”

  “Yes?”

  “Read something interesting recently.” Nothing yanked on the three-hook fly that was on a long tippet at the head of the fly line. I started walking through the river, careful with my footing because the current was fast and the stones on the riverbed were slimy. “DNA analysis has proved that there are more Celts living in the southeast of England than there are in Scotland, Ireland, and Wales combined.”

  Rory often proclaimed he was a devout separatist because of his Celtic identity. His Scottish wife told him he was just playacting the part, and I suspected she was right.