I figured the odds weren’t in favor of me falling asleep anyway.
After taking a hot shower, I thought I might be able to sleep for a couple of hours, but as soon as I stretched out on the bed, my sat phone vibrated.
It was Olivia.
“You should get some rest.”
“I’m more than aware of that.”
“I thought you might like to know the Houthi commander you killed was Saleh Al-Samad. He was second on the U.S.-Saudi coalition’s most-wanted list, and there was a twenty-million-dollar reward for any information leading to his arrest.”
“I wish I could say I was sorry I deprived someone of claiming that reward, but I can’t. He shot Jeremy three times at point-blank range.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, Titus.”
“I hate to think what might have happened if our Special Ops guys hadn’t arrived in time. Besides being outmanned, we were also outgunned.”
“I wish the timing could have been better for Jeremy’s sake.”
“I don’t think I ever voiced my appreciation to Captain Parrish for showing up when he did.”
“You’re wrong. He said you thanked him several times.”
“Well, maybe I did. Things got a little hazy there for a while.”
“You okay now?”
“I’m fine. I decided I couldn’t handle it, so I gave God some responsibility.”
“Now there’s a novel idea for you. Make sure you don’t try to take it back.”
* * * *
Twenty minutes before I was supposed to meet everyone in the mess hall for breakfast, I got a call from Carlton.
He said his plane had just landed in Doha, Qatar. “I’ve spoken with the Ops Center. They told me things went a little haywire last night.”
If I hadn’t known Carlton as well as I did, I might have gotten angry at his understated description of the circumstances surrounding Taylor’s death. However, since I knew his modus operandi was to sound even more low-key if an operation hadn’t gone as planned, I tried to ignore his characterization of what went down at Gharib.
I wasn’t entirely successful.
I said, “That depends on how you look at it. Even though we lost a good man, as long as Jacob Levin makes it home safely, I have a feeling Operation Rebel Merchant will be seen as a huge success.”
“You’ve never heard me call a mission successful if we lost a team member, so I have to assume you’re referring to someone else.”
“I was thinking about the occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“At the moment, I’d suggest you concentrate on following the Presidential memorandum and not worry about how he may choose to label this operation. I assure you, if given a chance, I’ll let him know an outstanding operative paid the ultimate price to bring Jacob back to the States. You can count on that.”
“I know you will, Douglas, and I apologize for what I said. I just can’t seem to get over how much Jeremy’s death is going to affect his young daughter.”
“That’s understandable, and, at some point, we’ll need to have a conversation about Jeremy. First though, I want to give you a heads up about the phone call you’re about to receive from Frank Benson.”
“So you’ve already heard from Frank?”
“You know Frank. I had a long document waiting for me in my inbox when I landed here in Doha. He’s worked out all the details of the fictional account the Bureau’s come up with to explain Jacob’s resurrection from the dead.”
“Did it sound convincing?
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. I told him you were in Oman, and he could call you anytime.”
“Let’s hope I’m well-caffeinated before that happens.”
“I wish I had more time to talk with you about Jeremy, but I’m on a tight schedule here, so I’m afraid that conversation will have to wait until we’re back at Langley.”
“I understand, but when you get back, would you find out if Jeremy’s father is still alive? I’d like to pay him a visit.”
“Of course. Take care. We’ll talk again in a few hours.”
“Hold on a second, Douglas. Would you also get me the address of where his daughter is staying?”
He didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “Are you thinking of going to see her too? You know she’s just eight years old.”
“I know how old Eleanor is. And yes, I’m definitely planning to see her. It’s the least I can do for Jeremy.”
* * * *
When Benson called, I’d just finished my first cup of coffee, but I managed to grab a second cup as I moved over to an empty table in the mess hall.
As soon as I assured Benson no one could hear us, he said, “Congratulations on getting Jacob out of Yemen. I understand you managed it in one day.”
“It was a very long day.”
“I also heard you suffered a casualty.”
“We lost the DIA guy on our team. He was a good man and an excellent operative.”
The moment I heard myself repeat such trite words, I experienced an immediate emotional reaction, and, after pausing to take a deep breath, I added, “I hated losing him, Frank.”
Whether Benson was surprised to hear the emotion in my voice, or whether he was having difficulty knowing how to respond, he didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds.
“Don’t blame yourself, Titus,” he finally said. “Operations go wrong all the time. You can’t control the variables.”
“It wasn’t a case of variables. It was one trigger-happy guy with a gun.”
“Okay, my mistake. I thought it was an ambush.”
I suspected Benson just said that because he wanted to know the full story of what went down at Gharib, but according to Agency rules, an operative wasn’t supposed to discuss the details of an operation until the debrief had taken place.
Since Benson was well acquainted with Agency rules, I figured he understood why I immediately changed the subject and asked him how the Bureau was going to handle Jacob’s return to the States.
“It’s really pretty simple. When you land at Andrews tomorrow, I’ll be there to meet your plane. That’s when you’ll officially hand Jacob over to the Bureau. After that, he’ll be taken directly to a safe house where we’ll question him about how he spent the last five years.”
“I don’t believe the President would want Jacob subjected to an interrogation, Frank.”
“It won’t be an interrogation. We’ll just be asking him some questions. Our purpose will be to determine if the narrative we’ve come up with will work for him.”
“So what’s the narrative?”
“In a few days, after Jacob has thoroughly memorized the fictional account of his disappearance, the media will be alerted by a Pentagon official that Jacob Levin has turned up in Syria. They’ll be told he was freed from his captors after a U.S.-led coalition force entered the town where he was being held and took possession of the rebel stronghold.”
“Are you saying the narrative you’ve come up with has Jacob living in Syria for the past five years?”
“That’s right. We’ll put out the story he was kidnapped by an ISIS-related terrorist group in Karbala and immediately taken to Raqqa, Syria.”
“What’s he been doing in Raqqa all this time?”
“We’ll explain the terrorists intentionally targeted Jacob because of his knowledge of drone warfare, and after subjecting him to a combination of brainwashing and torture, they forced him to help them build an arsenal of weaponized drones to use against the coalition forces.”
“I don’t know, Frank. I’m having a hard time getting my head around the believability of that story. In fact, it sounds more like the plot of a spy novel to me.”
“Is that right? Well, the irony of this tale is that while I was trying to come up with an explanation of Jacob’s disappearance, I did some research in the Agency archives, and it turns out something very similar happened during the First Gulf War.”
“Okay, maybe it�
�s not so far-fetched after all.”
“As long as Jacob agrees to this account, there shouldn’t be any problem selling it to the media. In fact, we’ve prepared a short video and some photographs to back up this narrative. The media will be told the photographs and video were discovered in the compound where the ISIS leader was living.”
“It’s obvious you’ve done a thorough job. Whether or not Jacob will accept that story might be another matter.”
“Help me out here. What’s your impression of him?”
I looked over at our table where Jacob was seated with Mitchell and Delaney. As I thought about Benson’s question, I noticed Jacob was in the process of collecting all our dirty dishes and piling them on his tray. I fully expected him to voluntarily take the tray over to the designated return area when he was finished clearing the table.
“You should keep in mind, his motivation for doing almost anything seems to be his desire to help others. Once I told him his brother needed his help, he was more than willing to leave the Saudis to finish the MODD project on their own and come back to the States with us.”
“So you think that’s why he gave the Saudis the MODD technology? He was trying to help them out?”
“No, I believe in a roundabout way he thought he was helping the Iraqi people. He’s seems to be obsessed by the carnage the Houthi rebels have caused in Yemen, and he thought if he could supply the Saudis with the MODD system, they would be able to prevent the Houthis from exporting their brand of terrorism to Iraq.”
“Do you know why he was so obsessed with the Houthis?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but it’s possible when the Saudis showed up, he was suffering from some kind of self-imposed brainwashing. Maybe he still is. You know the Agency had him translating Abdel Fattah’s documents when he wasn’t running field tests on the MODD system, and I know Abdel’s writings were mainly used to motivate his followers to hate the Houthis.”
“Self-imposed brainwashing? That’s weird.”
“Maybe it is for some people, but everyone who’s worked closely with Jacob has consistently described him as a little different, and I’ve seen nothing in the last twenty-four hours to contradict that description.”
“You could be right, Titus. Nothing surprises me these days.”
I agreed with Benson, but that was before something happened that surprised me.
Chapter 42
Wednesday, December 9
By the time our plane landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, Jacob seemed resigned to the fact he’d have to wait a few more days before being reunited with his brother.
Although I didn’t give him any details about how the FBI planned to handle his long absence, I assured him if he were willing to do what they asked, it would benefit his brother’s Presidential aspirations.
When I mentioned this, he said, “Daniel will make a great President. I’ll do whatever I can to help him get elected.”
“What makes someone a great President?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A great President is someone who cares more about the people and less about the politics of a situation. Do you know of any public official who does that these days?”
I looked across the aisle at Mitchell, who appeared eager to hear my answer. “No,” I said, “I can’t think of a single member of Congress who does that.”
Mitchell smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
It felt good to make someone’s day.
* * * *
As soon as we deplaned, we were met by a small contingent of FBI agents led by Frank Benson. Both Benson and the agents seemed much more solicitous toward Jacob than I thought they’d be.
Their attitude made me wonder if Benson had been contacted by someone higher up the food chain, someone who’d reminded him Jacob’s brother could possibly become President one day.
As the FBI agents chatted with Jacob, Benson walked over to where Mitchell, Delaney, and I were standing.
After greeting us, he nodded at Mitchell and said, “I understand it got a little rough on your maiden voyage to the Middle East. Are you sorry you decided to ask for a transfer?”
I expected Mitchell to be offended at the implication he was some kind of gutless wimp who couldn’t handle things when the bullets started flying, and, sure enough, he immediately tensed up.
“Not at all. I’m ready for my next assignment right now.”
“Trust me. In a few years, you won’t feel that way. You’ll look forward to having time off to relax.”
“Relaxing isn’t really my thing.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t have a girlfriend somewhere who you just can’t wait to see.”
“I’m between girlfriends right now,” he said, cutting his eyes over at Delaney.
Since I knew Benson and Juliana were seeing each other, it suddenly occurred to me Benson might have found out Mitchell had also dated her, and he’d decided to have some fun at Mitchell’s expense.
I wasn’t about to let that happen.
I said, “I’m sorry to have to cut this short, Frank, but our driver’s waiting for us outside.”
“Yeah, we need to be on our way too. I’ll give you a call in a few days and we can catch up. You can buy me dinner.”
After Benson and the other agents walked off with Jacob, Mitchell asked, “Where are we meeting our driver?”
“Hold on a second,” I said, looking down at the screen on my phone. “Douglas just texted me.”
I quickly scanned through the message.
“He says we’ll be staying at The Gray tonight, and our debrief will take place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He doesn’t expect it to last more than a few hours.”
“Good,” Mitchell said. “That means we’ll be out of quarantine by the weekend.”
“I’ve never been to The Gray before,” Delaney said. “I was debriefed at The Blue when I came back from Iran.”
Mitchell said, “Titus and I’ve stayed there several times. It’s at least twice as big as The Blue and has its own library and media room. We could probably find a good movie to watch together tonight.”
She smiled. “The Blue had some paperback books and an old VCR, but that was about it.”
The Agency owned a number of safe houses in the neighborhoods around Langley and instead of referring to them by an address, Support Services had given each of them a name based on an architectural feature unique to that location.
The Blue was a ranch-style three-bedroom house with a bright blue front door, whereas The Gray was a 10,000-square-foot Georgian mansion in a wealthy neighborhood with a white exterior and gray shutters. The Red was an Italian style villa with a red-tile roof near Tysons Corner.
However, none of the other safe houses matched the features of The Gray. Besides the library/media room, there were medical facilities, a rehab center, and a large conference room, not to mention six bedrooms. Greg and Martha Bower, the supposed owners of the residence, were Level 4 Agency employees who lived there permanently and managed the multi-purpose facility while taking care of the Agency personnel required to stay there occasionally.
I said, “Carlton also texted me that Greg Bower will be here in about fifteen minutes to pick us up.”
Mitchell said, “I probably shouldn’t even bother to ask you this, but why did you tell Frank our driver was already here?”
“Frank’s with the Bureau, Ben. He expects me to lie to him.”
* * * *
Whenever operatives arrived at a safe house before a debriefing, Agency rules required them to give up their cell phones, so I decided to call Nikki before Greg showed up to take us over to The Gray.
After walking a short distance away from Mitchell and Delaney, I sat down and keyed in Nikki’s cell phone number.
“Hi there, stranger,” she said. “I was beginning to get worried about you.”
“It’s great to hear your voice, Nikki. I’ve missed you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, noth
ing’s wrong. It’s been a rough forty-eight hours, though. I probably sound tired.”
“Are you back at Langley?”
“In a manner of speaking. We just landed at Andrews, but I haven’t been debriefed yet. This may be our only chance to talk for the next twenty-four hours.”
“When will you be debriefed?”
“Tomorrow, but my boss said it wouldn’t take that long. I should be able to call you tomorrow evening.”
“Does that mean you’ll be back in Norman by Friday?”
“No, I have to attend a funeral, so I need to stick around here a little longer.”
“I’m so sorry, Titus. Was this someone you were close to or—”
“He was a member of our operational team. You spoke to him a few days ago when we were in Riyadh. His name is . . . uh . . . was Jeremy.”
“You don’t mean the guy who called his daughter.”
“I’m afraid so.”
She gasped. “What happened?”
“I can’t go into the details right now, but I promise to tell you all about it when I see you. What about your case? Did you catch the Stadium Killer?”
“Yes, we closed the case yesterday. I’ve clocked so much overtime working on it, I’ve been given a week off, and I was hoping you’d be here so we could make some final decisions about the wedding.”
“If the funeral takes place in the next couple of days, I should be able to catch a flight out of here by Sunday.”
“At least that should give us a few days before I have to go back to work. I wish you could make it sooner, though.”
“I can’t. I have to see Jeremy’s daughter before I leave.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I . . . uh . . . just feel that’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“But isn’t she just a child?”
“She’s eight years old.”
“Are you sure about this, Titus? As a police officer, I’ve noticed most children that age aren’t really comfortable talking to a complete stranger. That would especially be true if they were grieving over a parent. If I were her mother, I wouldn’t allow you to see her.”
Five Years in Yemen Page 40