by Tom Clancy
The good news, as far as Ross was concerned, was that this wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with him, as India wasn’t his turf.
Instinctively, his head swiveled to Joy Bennett, assistant deputy director for India. That was her neck of the woods. He felt a little schadenfreude. He couldn’t help it. He’d never thought much of Bennett.
Let’s see how she deals with whatever dustup is going down over there.
He found it strange, though, that Joy Bennett was looking back at him.
Delvecchio continued, “The attack on the Jewish citizens on the Malabar Coast was the first border incursion over water by terrorists since the massacres in India two years ago by Pakistani terrorists. And while the loss of life this time was just a small fraction of the earlier attacks, there are reasons to suspect this was not an attempt at a mass-casualty event that failed, but rather, this was a targeted killing of an Israeli national with key ties to the special-operations community.”
There were a few gasps of surprise around the room. “The perpetrators, and this has not made the news yet, were a mixture of Palestinian fedayeen and Yemeni jihadists, working together, which is as unusual as it is troubling.”
In Ross’s mind, buzzes, flares, and alarm bells began going off. Israel, Palestinian, jihadi, attack. Christ. The fact he had spent the weekend away from his phone and computer had suddenly gone from smart to stupid in his mind, and Ross considered himself anything but stupid.
Fuck!
Delvecchio looked at Ethan’s boss, the deputy director of Near East, who in turn looked to Ethan.
He cleared his throat, nodded slowly and thoughtfully, and then bullshitted. “It is something we are looking at closely.”
“Anything you want to add right off the bat?”
Ross affected a distant look that was intended to portray thoughtfulness. Then he shook his head slowly.
Delvecchio threw Ross a lifeline. He said, “You probably haven’t had a chance to read the report from CIA. Just came over from Langley about thirty minutes ago.”
“I was just about to pull it up when I heard we were meeting.”
Delvecchio filled in the pieces. “A dozen dead on Indian soil. Seven attackers. Three attackers wore suicide vests. One vest detonated. It would be interesting even if the victims were nothing more than Israeli expats. But one of the victims was Colonel Arik Yacoby, a former Israeli Defense Forces officer.”
The assistant deputy director of combating terrorism strategy spoke up. “Henry, there are tens of thousands of ex–IDF officers. Presumably thousands are outside Israel at any one time. All respect to the dead, but what’s so damn interesting about this retired colonel?”
Delvecchio answered, “Colonel Yacoby was the former leader of a group of Israeli naval commandos.” He looked down to a sheet of paper on the lectern in front of him. “Shayetet Thirteen.”
The ADD of CTS nodded thoughtfully. “Got it.”
Delvecchio said, “Most of you remember the attack on the Turkish aid flotilla off the coast of Gaza four years ago. Shayetet Thirteen was the unit that boarded the Turkish freighter, the SS Ardahan. According to the CIA, Colonel Yacoby led the boarding party. If you remember, nine Palestinians were killed in the raid, including three combatant commanders of the AlQassam Brigades.” Delvecchio paused for effect, then added, “Which is the same unit the CIA believes orchestrated the attack in India over the weekend.”
He paused to shuffle some papers on the lectern and, while he did so, the ADD of combating terrorism strategy asked, “How does CIA know Yacoby was part of the IDF raid on the Turkish ship?”
“Our friends at Langley had a paid informant on the SS Ardahan. This agent passed crucial intelligence about the security of the ship to his handler and then, after conferring here with the NSC, POTUS ordered the CIA to feed the intelligence on to the Israelis. In the back-and-forth of this communication, a meeting occurred in Tel Aviv between CIA officers and Shayetet Thirteen commandos, including Colonel Yacoby. His name made it into the CIA database after the meeting. After the flotilla raid by Shayetet Thirteen, the CIA wrote up an after-action review for internal dissemination.” Delvecchio paused. “Colonel Yacoby’s name was put in the AAR.” He added, “In error.”
Someone—Ross thought it was Pak from South and Central Asia—said, “That is a significant error.”
“Agreed,” Delvecchio said, “It should have been redacted and code worded. It wasn’t our file, we didn’t do it.” He hastened to add. “Not that it matters to Colonel Yacoby and his family.”
Madeline Crossman, the compliance and security director, said, “We have serious concerns the Palestinian terrorists learned Mr. Yacoby’s name from the CIA report.”
Beth Morris spoke up. She was assistant deputy director for Western Hemisphere. “I’m sorry, Henry. Madeline. Is there some linkage here with NSC that I don’t understand?”
Henry Delvecchio nodded. “Beth, we have reason to believe there has been an insider compromise.”
There were soft gasps throughout the room.
When they subsided he said, “The complete CIA file on the SS Ardahan, including the name of the Shayetet Thirteen team leader, was accessed on the network here in the NSC office four months ago. The files were copied and moved into a file-sharing section of the server. From there, we can only assume they were printed out or downloaded.”
Morris asked, “They were accessed by who?”
Crossman said, “We do not know. There was a breach of forty-five documents classified at the secret level or above. Whoever moved the files disguised the electronic fingerprint of the breach.”
Morris’s voice rose in indignation. “And you think one of us stole the files and gave them to the Al-Qassam Brigades?”
Crossman replied, “Beth, there was, without question, anomalous behavior. That’s all we know at this point for sure. We need to rule out any nefarious actions.”
Morris looked over to the IT staffers in the room, who were all more or less sitting together. “It had to have been someone who knew how to disguise the electronic fingerprint, whatever the hell that is.”
The entire IT department bristled at the comment, but they were generally quieter than the regional staffers. One of them said, “These files were taken off JWICS?” JWICS was the Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System, an Internet of sorts for America’s intelligence agencies.
“Yes, that’s correct,” confirmed Crossman. “Specifically, the files were accessed on Intelink-TS.” This was a top-secret network that ran on JWICS.
“How many people had access to the TS files?”
“Including staffers and IT administrators, and adding in those outside contractors with access to both the TS files and the NSC terminals . . . thirty-four.”
Ethan Ross looked around the room, but while he was counting heads Beth Morris spoke up again.
“Is everyone who could have accessed it here?”
“Thirty-one are here, actually. One sysadmin called in sick today, and two are on vacation. One is traveling abroad. I don’t have to tell anyone here that we take this breach incredibly seriously. More so now that it is quite possible lives have been lost due to the compromise.”
The room came alive with crosstalk.
Pak, the ADD from Asia, asked, “Do we know it was our leak that caused it? How do we know the Israelis don’t have a compromise of their own, or that the information about Yacoby could have been obtained some other way?”
Delvecchio said, “No, we do not know our leak led to the deaths in India. But it doesn’t look good. Another file in the cache taken was a follow-up review of the CIA’s involvement in the raid, done just last year. This file did not mention Yacoby by name, but it stated the Shayetet colonel who led the raid had retired and moved to Paravur, India.”
One of the staffers shook her head in disbelief. “Why the hell would they put that in the file?”
“Apparently, CIA’s National Clandestine Service contracted the reti
red colonel for training purposes. He was some sort of a martial artist. The file said he could be reached to contribute to the review, although in the end he was never contacted.” Delvecchio cleared his throat. “The two pieces of the puzzle the Palestinians would need for yesterday’s assassination . . . those being the man’s name and his location, were both in the digital breach from the NSC. Again, we don’t know that’s how the Palestinians got the intel, but the President has been notified, and he has already made the decision to tell the Israeli prime minister about the compromise, so we need answers immediately.”
Ethan Ross spoke up now. “Henry, you can be certain my department will conduct a full security review. I’m sure the other desks will conduct their own reviews.”
Crossman spoke up before Delvecchio could answer. “That won’t be necessary.”
“It’s protocol,” said Ethan.
“It is protocol, but for a matter this delicate, where there is a possibility of a high-level leak of classified information, the security review will be conducted by DOJ. This flies way above desk level, Ethan.”
There was some shock, a fresh din of indignant comments around the room.
One of the IT guys mumbled something about the computer system’s antiquated architecture and weak safeguards against an inside attack. Another systems administrator tried to ask technical questions about the breach, but Crossman shut him down, saying the ongoing investigation precluded her from answering specifics.
After several moments the murmurs in the conference room rose, and neither Henry Delvecchio nor Madeline Crossman seemed able to take back control. The fit man in the dark blue suit who had been standing silently behind them stepped to the lectern. Ethan thought he had a Clark Kent hairstyle and a build like an amateur bodybuilder.
Under his breath, Ethan muttered. “Oh, shit. It’s a G.”
Beth Morris’s tone was almost derisive as she asked, “And who are you?”
“Supervisory Special Agent Darren Albright. FBI Counterintelligence Division.”
“CID? Oh my God,” mumbled Morris. “We are being treated like criminals.”
Albright shook his head calmly. His voice was soft but powerful, like a man indulgent of others, but barely so. “No, ma’am. You are not being treated like criminals. Trust me.” He eyed the room. “This isn’t how we treat criminals. I am working with Director Delvecchio to organize the polygraphs we’ve ordered in a manner that is least intrusive to the important work everyone here is doing.”
Morris snorted. “If you aren’t treating us like criminals, what do you call dragging us into FBI polygraphs?”
Albright spoke politely, but he didn’t smile. To Ross he didn’t seem the smiling type. “I call it treating you like suspects. Criminals are cuffed and frog-walked to jail.”
The room flew into a barely controlled and sustained rage at the comment. Beth Morris was the most vocal of the group. Albright conferred with Madeline Crossman softly, but Ethan could hear him ask her Beth Morris’s name. Unsurprisingly to Ethan, Crossman gave it with a little sneer. She was the office hall monitor, after all.
Albright said, “Mrs. Morris. Forgive me for saying so, but you certainly have a lot of concerns about this polygraph. Would you like to talk to me in private after the meeting breaks up?”
Beth glared at both Albright and Crossman. Finally she said, “I have no problem taking another poly. We all hold security clearance, and that goes with the territory. I do take issue with the fact we’re sitting here with the FBI. NSC has its own security protocols.”
Albright just smiled at Beth Morris, then he addressed the room. “Don’t mind me, folks. I’ll be poking around a bit for the next few days, but you won’t even know I’m here. You will have your polys, then everyone can get back to work.” He added, “Almost everyone, that is. The person responsible for the data breach will have some questions to answer.”
The meeting broke up soon after this, and Ethan returned to his office, passing his curious secretary with neither a glance nor a word. He immediately pulled up the CIA report on the India attack on his computer, and spent several minutes reading it over and over and over.
Twenty minutes later he passed through his secretary’s office again, this time on his way out the door. He wore his overcoat and his car keys were dangling from his hand, even though he had a ten-minute walk back to his car.
He noticed Angie looking at him with surprise. It was only ten-thirty, after all, early for lunch, even in Washington.
“Running out for my ten-thirty meeting. Coffee with a consular official up in Dupont. Hold my calls.”
6
DOMINIC CARUSO arrived at Kochi’s Cochin International Airport in the back of an ambulance. It was the middle of the night, and traffic was light both on the highway to the airport and on the grounds itself, which worked to the advantage of both the Indian government and the people who sent the plane to pick him up.
Dom spent the ride prone with his wrist handcuffed to the arm of his gurney. He assumed he had Detective Constable Naidu to thank for his jewelry. It was a last show of displeasure and passive aggression from the law enforcement officer who’d been ordered by government superiors to send his one witness to a terrorist act on his way without any semblance of a proper interrogation.
Dom didn’t think much of Naidu personally, he was, at least, an asshole, and it seemed to Dom that he was an anti-Semite as well. But Dom did have to allow for the fact that he understood the Indian policeman’s frustration with losing his witness. Dom had been an FBI agent, was still officially in the FBI—on paper, anyway—and he knew had he been in Naidu’s shoes, working a crucial case and with an eyewitness in his hands, and then received a call from some shadowy and powerful superior telling him to ship said key witness out of the country immediately, it would piss him off to no end. And Dominic also knew he was not above a little payback, perhaps in a manner similar to how Naidu treated him.
Dom rattled his handcuff a little, but then let his hand drop back down to the gurney.
The ambulance stopped and Dom was wheeled out and pushed along a hot tarmac glowing and buzzing with electric lighting. He could hear the whine of finely tuned jet engines, and he thought that he knew exactly the make and model aircraft here to take him home, though he could not be certain.
Soon he heard voices, but from his vantage point he couldn’t see who was talking, nor could he hear what was being said. A police officer uncuffed his wrist; then he saw another figure approach from behind.
An attractive blonde with her hair in a tight bun leaned over him. Dom was relieved to see Adara Sherman, the transportation director for his organization, and immediately he felt like this ordeal in India had come to an end.
Adara did not speak directly to Dom, but this was no surprise. Dom had been around Adara regularly for more than two years, and he knew her to be polite, but he also knew her to be all business, all the time. Their mutual boss, Gerry Hendley, had warned Dom and the other young single men in the organization that Adara was off-limits. Even so, Dom and his mates, on occasion, had tried to at least establish a friendly camaraderie with her. But whenever Dom or the others attempted to establish a rapport with her, even in the most jocular and nonthreatening manner, their efforts were met with stark professionalism.
She wasn’t cold, really . . . but she was most definitely not warm.
Adara Sherman looked Dom over in a manner that seemed to Dom as if she was checking to make sure she had the right piece of luggage. She gave a quick nod to the two ambulance personnel and the two policemen and said, “I need you to put him on the plane, if you will. There is a sofa I have prepped as a bed in back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the attendants replied.
Dom started to sit up on his own, but Adara put her hand firmly on his shoulder and pushed him back down flat without saying a word. He knew he could have gotten up and walked on board himself; it would have hurt, but he’d prefer it to being carried up on a gurney. Still
, he wasn’t going to fight Adara Sherman to do it.
He had no doubt these local cops thought she was just the good-looking stewardess on a ritzy corporate jet, but Dom knew something these boys didn’t know. He knew where to look on her blue blazer to see the very faint imprint of a .40-caliber SIG Sauer pistol in her waistband. And he knew she kept an HK MP7 Personal Defense Weapon stashed in a hidden spring-loaded locker just inside the galley opposite the door, and she was trained to deploy the weapon and address threats to the aircraft in under three seconds.
Sherman was both a flight attendant and a transportation coordinator, but she was a hell of a lot more than that, and Dom knew better than to go against her wishes.
Adara stepped out of the way and Dom felt the gurney being lifted and carried through the hatch of the Hendley Associates Gulfstream G550.
The medics deposited him on the sofa, they weren’t particularly gentle with him, and his rib cage felt every jostle and twist. They let his legs hang off to the side, then they left the aircraft after a quick look around at the beautiful high-end furnishings. Dom noticed one of the police officers had boarded as well, and this man stayed behind.
After the men from the ambulance had deplaned and Dom was alone in the cabin with the cop, the Indian leaned over the American and said, “Naidu wanted me to tell you to give him a call sometime. If you ever have any information.”
Dom shrugged; it hurt his bruised ribs to do it. “You tell him I appreciate his hospitality.” And then he waited for the man to leave. The cop deplaned behind the medics and stood outside on the tarmac talking to Sherman for a moment. Dominic took the time to pull himself up to a sitting position. He grunted and groaned with the sharp pain in his ribs and the dull aching in his head, but in no time he was on his feet, heading for the galley at the front of the plane.
He wanted to fix himself a drink.
He was halfway up the length of the cabin when Sherman entered the aircraft. She saw him standing and pointed to the sofa bed. “I need you on your back right now, please.”