THE INCREMENT

by David Ignatius

  The police cruiser kept spraying bullets, and it was the Paykan’s tires that were most vulnerable. The right rear tire punctured first, and then shredded. The car continued to move forward on its rim, but when a second tire was hit, forward motion slowed to almost nothing. The driver swerved the Paykan off the road, into the dirt, hoping that he might limp somehow to the gulley that was only a hundred yards distant now and then crash into the riverbed. But the Mercedes was abreast now, firing volleys of bullets that ripped into the car. The driver was hit; he cursed but held on to the wheel. He tried to go faster, but the little car had no traction left in the dirt.

  Jackie looked at the boy on the floor, and at her weapon. They were not going to make it. In a few more moments they would be taken, and that was impossible. Karim was curled against the floorboards, at once a man and a child. She took aim at his head and pulled the trigger. Then she turned the gun on herself.

  From the other side of the border, the last few seconds were the hardest to watch. The automatic weapons fire from the Iranian police cruiser raked the Paykan from stem to stern, until the bullets found the gas tank and the car exploded in a blue plume. That was how they decided later that it must have been an actual police chase, and not an operation coordinated by the intelligence services. The intelligence services would never have blasted the car that way. They would have moved heaven and earth to keep those two passengers alive for questioning.

  Adrian Winkler fell to his knees when he saw the bolt of flame, and let out a scream. Harry Pappas tried to find words, but he could not. This had happened to him once before, this sense of the life of a young man given to him for his protection, that he had not been able to save. The two men, in their grief, could not move. The young SIS officer named Jeremy from the Ashgabat station finally helped them to their feet and led them back to the helicopter. They had to get away before more Iranians arrived and things got more complicated.

  37

  LONDON

  They flew back to London in a cabin of sorrow and failure. The deadness of loss was all they felt in the first hours. Kamal Atwan had already left Turkmenistan when their helicopter returned to Ashgabat—pressing business back in London, he said. But he had left a second plane at Adrian Winkler’s disposal at the airport, fueled and ready to go. Jeremy from the Ashgabat station advised that they should leave the country now, before the flap ripened. He solemnly handed Adrian a cable that had just come in from Sir David Plumb in London. The gist of it seemed to be, “Get the fuck out of there, now.”

  Harry didn’t argue for staying. He was trying to piece together the chain of events of the last several days, to the extent that he understood them, and he didn’t much care where he was. He was feeding on a private rage—a loathing that included everyone and everything around him, but most especially himself.

  The plane was a Gulfstream G-5, Atwan’s personal jet for entertaining friends and clients. It was appointed like a flying salon, with a black leather interior and gaudy gold fixtures. The bathroom had a full-length window. The attendant was a well-endowed woman from the north of England who served drinks leaning in toward the passengers so that her bosom was in their face. Adrian seemed to know the plane. After they took off from Ashgabat, he went back into the aft cabin and had the attendant make up the bed. The sheets were black silk, and there was a mirror on the ceiling. He offered the bed to Harry, who refused, so Adrian closed the door and tucked himself in.

  Harry sat in the deep leather of the armchair and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to sleep, but to think. The story was there in his hands, but he couldn’t read it. All he had were questions: How had four of his people died in Mashad? What had surprised the well-trained team from the Increment? Why had their original escape plan been abandoned? Where had Jackie gotten the black Paykan that had nearly reached the border? Who was driving the car? He had seen Jackie’s face through his binoculars, but the driver was a stranger. And what had happened in those final moments before immolation? He had seen Jackie shoot at something on the rear floor before she put the gun to her own head. Who had been the target of that first shot? It must have been Karim. If so, did that mean he had been successful in his mission at the Ardebil Research Establishment, or that had he failed? And the Iranians: How long had they known that this operation was coming at them? Had the operation been compromised from the beginning? Harry hated to admit that possibility; it shamed him. But with so many dead bodies, he could not exclude it.

  And what was Kamal Atwan’s role? That was the part of this story Harry understood least. He had been the essential facilitator of every transaction in this process. He had acted with the assurance of a man running his own intelligence service, and he had delivered everything he had promised. But the end product had been a disaster. What had Harry missed? What could have helped him to foresee the disaster that had befallen his team when it took his agent, Karim Molavi, back into Iran? Had he killed the boy, through his own inattention?

  Harry let Adrian sleep for two hours and then woke him up. He brought a cup of black coffee with him back to the aft cabin.

  “We need to talk, brother,” he said. “Wake up.”

  “I’m busted up, Harry,” the British officer answered groggily. “I loved that woman. I took some pills. I need to sleep. Let’s talk in London.”

  “Get up.” Harry handed him the coffee. “I mean it. I need some answers before we land. This whole thing is going to blow, and I want to know what the fuck has been going on.”

  Adrian groaned and took the coffee. He knew that Harry wouldn’t leave him alone until they talked. The American had a pliable exterior, but he didn’t bend on things that mattered. The British officer wobbled back to the aft lavatory, decorated in a plush red fabric. He brushed his teeth and splashed some water on his face. When he emerged, Harry made him finish the coffee and then gave him a second cup.

  “Is this plane bugged?” began Harry. They were sitting next to each other in the aft compartment. The bed had been packed away.

  “Fucked if I know,” said Adrian. “Probably.”

  “Then talk in my ear, and I’ll talk in yours. This is for us, not your business partner.”

  Adrian winced. “Ease up, Harry. I’ve got my whole career coming down on my head. If this comes out wrong, I’m destroyed.”

  “So what? My career is wrecked, too. Worse than that, maybe. Talk in my ear so no microphone can pick it up, and we’ll do fine.”

  Adrian nodded. Harry leaned toward the other man’s head and spoke in a whisper.

  “Jackie called you to tell you she was coming out another way. Right? You told me she called.”

  “Correct,” he whispered. “She said we should go to Kalat. She made me repeat it.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Adrian paused and closed his eyes, then leaned back toward Harry and whispered again.

  “She said she had lost the two boys. She said Karim was with her, alive, and they were coming out.”

  “What else? Did she explain? Did she say what had gone down in Mashad? Why there was a change of plans?”

  “Nothing. It was a short conversation. She was afraid it would be insecure. She wanted to get off the phone.”

  Harry pulled back. His eyes were flashing. He spoke loudly, almost in a shout.

  “I don’t believe you, Adrian. That can’t have been all. Tell me the goddamned truth. What else?” He grabbed the other man by the collar and pulled his head toward him.

  “Nothing,” Adrian croaked.

  Harry slapped him hard across the face.

  “You are a lying piece of shit, Adrian. Tell me the truth. It was an operational call. It was routed through London. You think we can’t intercept and decrypt that? You’re out of your mind. I’m going to find out anyway. The only question is whether I’ll have an ounce of respect left for you. Now tell me the truth, you stupid, selfish prick.” He slapped him a second time.

  Tears were streaming from Adrian’s eyes. Not from the blows
, but from a deeper anguish. He knew precisely what Jackie had said. Her accusing words would burn in his mind until the day he died. He put his head on Harry’s shoulders. Harry could feel the wet of his tears through his shirt.

  “Here’s what she said. ‘What the fuck is going on, Adrian?’ She wanted to know what had gotten screwed up, so that the ops plan had turned to shit. She said she didn’t know if they had succeeded or failed. She was frightened and angry. I could hear it in her voice, even over the satellite link. I called her ‘darling’ and she told me to fuck off. That’s how upset she was.”

  “What did you say? When she asked why the operation was blown?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t know. I don’t know.”

  Harry looked at him, not sure whether he believed Adrian or not. He let it sit.

  “What else did she say? Come on. Goddammit! There has to be more.”

  Adrian’s eyes filled with tears again. There was a plaintive look to his face now, not just penitent but frightened. He leaned in toward Harry and spoke in the smallest whisper.

  “She asked me, ‘Who is Al-Majnoun?’ Right after she asked what was going on, she wanted to know who this Al-Majnoun was.”

  Harry held him steady in his arms, their foreheads touching.

  “What’s the answer?”

  Adrian shook his head. His eyes were red, from weeping and exhaustion.

  “I don’t know,” whispered Adrian. “I had no idea what she was talking about. That’s why I was so scared.”

  Harry let Adrian’s head fall back limp. He thought that his shattered friend was telling the truth.

  When they landed in London, Harry debated whether to confront Kamal Atwan immediately. Adrian was a spent force. He would get no help there. He decided against seeing Atwan now. The Lebanese businessman would expect it; he would be waiting in his elegant London mansion, with every detail arranged as neatly as the paintings on the walls. All the pieces of this puzzle that Harry could see had passed through the Lebanese businessman’s hands, but unless Harry could distinguish their shapes and edges better, he would never be able to fit them together. Or worse, he would assemble them into the shape Atwan intended, without being able to see an alternative combination. So Harry would wait until he understood better. By then, perhaps, he would be a private citizen.

  Harry paid a visit to Sir David Plumb during his London stopover. He didn’t tell Adrian and called the chief’s office directly to set up the appointment. But when he arrived at Vauxhall Cross, Adrian was waiting with Sir David in his office. They didn’t break ranks, the Brits. It didn’t matter much in terms of what Harry wanted to say.

  The meeting didn’t last long. What Harry wanted to know was what London would do now. Sir David explained the situation; he was quite cheery, all things considered. The Iran mission, despite its rough edges, had given the prime minister what he needed. The Iranian nuclear program was well under control. The British had understood that all along, they had it by the head and the tail, but the Americans hadn’t listened.

  “But we don’t know what happened in Mashad,” said Harry. “There’s quite a lot we don’t know.”

  “Psah!” said Sir David, waving his hand. “The details will emerge. We know enough to brief the P.M. And the P.M. knows enough to take sensible action. We won’t go down with the ship again. You must realize that. No more Iraqs! The special relationship isn’t a suicide pact. Before the White House does anything crazy, the prime minister will take his own actions.”

  “What will the prime minister do?”

  “Sorry, old boy, but you’re not on that bicker list. In fact, the only real problem that No. 10 has with this plan is you, Harry. I’m afraid they don’t trust you. But I told them not to worry.”

  “And why did you tell No. 10 that, Sir David?”

  “Because we own you, Harry Pappas. You’re our man now, and you’ll do what we like.”

  38

  WASHINGTON

  The taxi driver at Dulles wanted to talk. He was Iranian, of course. They all were at Dulles. He wanted to rant about how terrible the mullahs were, and how America should go to war now that the regime was in trouble. Harry said he didn’t know anything about Iran; he was just a businessman and wanted everybody to be friends.

  Andrea was still at work when he got to the townhouse in Reston. He left his wife a note that he was back. He thought of taking a nap, but he was restless. He wanted to go into the office and read back into the cable traffic—and troll through the overhead imagery and the SIGINT, to see how much he could piece together from that record about what had happened in Iran.

  Harry was about to leave for Langley when the bus dropped off his daughter Louise. She bounded into the house and leapt into his arms.

  “You’re home, you’re home!” she said.

  Louise wasn’t usually so demonstrative. Harry was pleased. He wanted to be hugged.

  “I need to talk to you, Daddy,” she said dramatically. “I’ve made a big decision. I don’t want to go to college.”

  Harry was flummoxed. Louise was a junior in high school. This was the year she needed to be thinking about getting ready for college, not about how to avoid it.

  “College is important, Lulu. Unless you go to college, you won’t get a good job. And you’ll be poor, and you’ll have to work at Wal-Mart or mow people’s lawns or be a bum. You have to go to college.”

  “I’ll go to college sometime, Daddy, but not now. That’s what I meant. I don’t want to go now. I want to do something else. The world is such a mess. I couldn’t concentrate if I was in school, I would just think about all the people who are miserable. I want to work for Doctors Without Borders. They talked about it on Scrubs.”

  “But Lulu, you have to be a doctor to work for Doctors Without Borders. Or a nurse. Get your education. The world will still be a mess when you graduate, I promise.”

  “No, I want to go now. I need to. There’s this cool organization I found out about called FXB that helps AIDS orphans in Africa. Maybe I can work for them. I can’t just sit here and let it all happen, Daddy. I can’t.”

  “Let’s talk about it later, Lulu. I understand what you’re saying, but I have to go to work now. I’ll be proud of you whatever you do. You have a big heart. That’s the most important thing.”

  She gave him another hug and walked him to the car. As Harry was driving down Route 7, it occurred to him that Louise was like her brother Alex. She was an idealist. She couldn’t wait to make a difference. She was talking about saving orphans in Africa with the same passion that Alex had expressed about stopping the people who had destroyed the Twin Towers. Maybe that was the difference. A page had turned.

  Harry got to headquarters in the late afternoon. The foreign liaison officers and the larcenous contractors were streaming out the door. Harry badged himself through the gate and walked the short distance down C Corridor to the Iran Operations Division. Someone at the gate must have forewarned Marcia, because she was waiting just inside the door, next to the Imam Hussein.

  “We need to talk,” she said. “Now.”

  “Not yet. Let me read into the traffic and run some traces. Then I have to see the director, tonight or tomorrow. Sometime.”

  “No, sir. You do your reading, but then see me. And don’t go near the seventh floor until we’ve talked. You have a problem you don’t even know about. It has three initials. F-B-I.”

  “Oh fuck. What do they want?”

  “They aren’t sure. They wanted to question me about your travel. I told them to piss off until they had a subpoena.”

  “Do they have anything?”

  “Who knows? They’re such assholes, anyway. So how can I help? What do you need, other than a glass of Scotch, which you’ll have to get for yourself?”

  “I need good intelligence about Iran. Especially now. Make sure I have all the Iran traffic over the past week. Then call all the liaison officers in town who know anything and tell them I need their best current stuff, immediately.
Have them pulse their people back home, no matter how late it is. And tell NSA I need special onetime access to the raw Iran SIGINT. Whatever has been translated. If anyone squawks, tell them I personally will make sure they get sent to a listening post in Okinawa.”

  “What else? You said traces.”

  “I want you to run every database you can for the name ‘Al-Majnoun.’ That means ‘the Crazy One’ in Arabic, so presumably he’s an Arab. But he’s in Iran. Or at least I think he is.”

  “I know what Al-Majnoun means, for God’s sake,” Marcia muttered, walking away. “Maybe I even know who he is. Not that you would care. But let me check my sick, alcohol-poisoned memory to make sure. Any other demeaning requests?”

  “Call the National Reconnaissance Office. Tell them I want to TiVo Mashad, forty-eight hours ago.”

  Harry went into his office and closed the door. He logged on to his computer and began searching the cable log. He wanted to lay down for himself a picture of the cards that were visible in the intelligence reporting they already had. The U.S. intelligence community didn’t know much about Iran, but it knew a little. And its liaison partners knew more: if there was commotion within the security establishment of any foreign nation, it usually left some electronic or physical markings that could be captured and analyzed.

  The agency’s own reporting was thin. How could it be otherwise? They had one good source in the Iranian nuclear program, and now he was dead. Harry found one report that had come in two days ago from the station in Dubai. They were running an agent who was a member of the Ministry of Intelligence; he picked up talk from people who had access to real secrets.

  The header on the cable was SHAKE-UP COMING IN TEHRAN? It reported Iranian corridor gossip that heads would be rolling soon in the Revolutionary Guard’s intelligence because of a big screwup there. The station chief, wanting to show how smart he was, had played down the rumor as sibling rivalry, noting that MOI officers were always forecasting doom for the Rev Guard. But Harry had reason to take the report more seriously. He messaged Dubai to call a crash meeting with its source, to see if they could pull more.