After only two hours of sleep, Foxx woke me up.
“We have a problem,” he said.
CHAPTER 90
FOXX DIDN’T bury the lede. He knew no other way.
“Your dinner with Sadira Yavari tonight? It’s off,” he said.
My first question would’ve been why were it not for what Foxx was holding in his hand.
“What’s in the file?” I asked.
“Nothing I can show you,” he answered.
I figured as much. I’ve always admired the almost comical paradox of US intelligence agencies. Everything has a code name and nothing is as it seems except for one thing, the files themselves. If something is top secret, it literally says so with a bright red stamp.
Just like on the file Foxx was holding.
“Okay. So what can you share?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. He’d obviously woken me up to tell me more than just the dinner was off. At least you better have, Foxx …
“Sadira Yavari has killed before,” he said, “and the other victim was also a nuclear physicist.”
I had to let that sink in for a few seconds. The implications. What it could mean. The questions it gave rise to.
“Was he also Iranian?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Was he tied to the Iranian nuclear program?”
“Yes.”
“Was he the same as Darvish? A double agent?”
Foxx suddenly got hard of hearing. I didn’t ask him where the hit on this other nuclear physicist had taken place, but that’s the question he answered. “The guy was on holiday in London, three years ago,” he said.
“Holiday?”
“Just go with it.”
Foxx was more than walking the line on what he could and couldn’t tell me. He was tap-dancing. “How about you just nod at the appropriate moment,” I said.
Any agency can get burned once with a double agent, the CIA included. Getting burned twice takes a special set of circumstances, if not an extraordinary level of incompetence. Unless, of course, it was a separate intelligence agency getting burned. Foxx had made a point of mentioning London.
“This other nuclear physicist,” I said. “He was doubling for MI6, wasn’t he?” Foxx hesitated for a moment until deciding that, yes, this was the appropriate moment for him to do as I’d asked. He nodded.
“Just like Darvish, dead in a hotel room,” he said. “A little different twist, though. Autoerotic asphyxia. He was found with a belt around his neck strapped to a clothes rod in the closet.”
“Again, it was made to look as if he were alone,” I said.
“Yes. An accidental death.”
Only it couldn’t be. The Brits had to know something was amiss. Or maybe it was Foxx who just now helped them put it together. Otherwise, Foxx and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“Did they know it was Yavari?” I asked.
“Not until about an hour ago,” he said. “She didn’t use Halo, just a good old-fashioned wig and glasses. They had surveillance footage of her in the hotel lobby with the guy. Back then, when it happened, she was thought to be Israeli. The decision was made to look the other way. They let it be.”
The reason they thought Yavari was Israeli was because the only other real possibility was that she was CIA, and if she were, Langley would’ve at least given MI6 a heads-up, if not outright involved them.
“So you gave MI6 a photo of Yavari,” I said.
“From her NYU bio, yes.”
“And because she didn’t use Halo they were able to confirm it was her.”
“The match was 89 percent.”
For facial recognition systems, especially given that she was wearing a disguise, that was as good as a lock.
My date with Sadira Yavari had always been a gamble, but the stakes had now changed. It wasn’t just me who’d be taking a risk. There was now interagency intel involved. Documentation. A file. Stamped TOP SECRET, no less.
In other words, Foxx now had a lot on the line as well. Namely his job. That was for one reason and one reason only.
“Go ahead and say it,” I told him.
He said it. “You’re a civilian, Reinhart. You’re just a goddamn civilian.”
As long as that was the case, Foxx couldn’t allow me to engage with Yavari. It didn’t matter who or what I was in the past. No, as far as the Agency was concerned, my days as an operative entitled me to a pension and not much else. That was then; this is now. I was nothing more than a civilian. A goddamn civilian.
“But what if I wasn’t?” I asked.
Foxx shot me a look. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
BOOK FIVE
STARING DOWN THE DEVIL
CHAPTER 91
“ARE YOU ready to kill?” asked the Mudir.
He’d assembled his team again in the basement of the mosque in lower Manhattan. He had news for them. The timetable had changed. The attack would now be sooner. There would be more attacks to come as well.
As always, the Mudir had chosen his words very carefully. The idea that there were more missions was essential to preparing his men. Generals fought wars; soldiers fought battles. The Mudir had read that in a book about Patton while studying at Princeton. Battles—and, ultimately, wars—are won by those soldiers who believe they are invincible.
The Mudir was a voracious reader. He’d read Darwin and understood the nature of survival. Adapt or die.
He’d read Adam Smith, too. He knew that one of the great ironies about Islamic terrorism aimed against the West was how beholden it was to the tenets of capitalism. When the demand for suicide bombers exceeds the supply, changes have to be made. And no matter how much ISIS recruited, no matter how vigilant its efforts, the demand was always destined to exceed the supply. Especially in America.
Martyrs were truly a dying breed.
Once more, the Mudir took the men through their positions in the train station, emphasizing their exit strategy as much as everything else they needed to remember. The only other change beyond the timing was that he himself would be joining them in the massacre. The Mudir wanted even more casualties. Even more suffering.
For this final meeting before the attack, he had arrived early, before any of the twelve. He had placed burner phones on each of their chairs assembled around his table. He’d also turned off the air-conditioning. Heat and sweat force the mind to focus.
The Mudir hadn’t read that anywhere. He had lived it. Especially during his years in Islamabad. In the capital of Pakistan was where the Mudir had learned to focus. It was there that he had tried to get a message to Bin Laden. Bin Laden’s trusted courier had been compromised, his pseudonym surrendered to an interrogator at Guantánamo Bay.
But the Mudir’s message was never received. Two weeks later, Bin Laden was dead.
“Does everyone understand what their job is?” he asked the twelve, their faces shiny and dripping. The basement now felt like a sauna, but the men knew better than to wipe the sweat from their brows. Their only focus was the Mudir.
Above them were imams who had no idea what the Mudir was planning. They were so busy preaching peace and assimilation. They didn’t see the West as a threat.
They were fools, thought the Mudir.
He dismissed the twelve with a final reminder to keep their burner phones close at hand. The call would come within the next day or two, but no later. They needed to be ready, weapons and ammunition packed.
“There can be no mistakes. There can be no loose ends,” he warned them.
Again, the Mudir had chosen his words very carefully. The difference this time was the audience. It now included himself. There was something he needed to do, a piece of unfinished business. This was his own reminder.
There can be no mistakes. There can be no loose ends.
The Mudir had a very important appointment to keep.
CHAPTER 92
THE CROWDED restaurant was intentional. She wouldn’t feel threatened. Not at first.
&nbs
p; He arrived early and asked for a table in the corner but still with a view of the door. The Mudir wanted to see her when she arrived. He was sure he’d know in an instant, the first moment their eyes met, whether or not she could do what he needed her to do.
Only he was wrong. When she arrived, that first instant he saw her, he still didn’t know.
All Sadira Yavari gave the Mudir was a look of recognition. Nothing more. She held his gaze the entire time she walked toward him and sat down, but again her eyes revealed nothing.
On second thought, it occurred to the Mudir, maybe this was exactly what he wanted. Could she be even more like him than he’d realized? Capable of giving nothing away, no signal or tip of the hand, until it was too late?
Sun Tzu. The element of surprise will always be your greatest weapon. The Mudir kept a copy of The Art of War by his bedside. He’d read it more times than he had the Koran.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Should I?”
The Mudir waited a few seconds, continuing to stare. No, you shouldn’t know. Otherwise, I’ve been careless, and that’s one thing I never am. He folded his arms on the table, leaning forward. “How do you know Dr. Dylan Reinhart?”
Sadira’s eyes collapsed to a squint as she put it together. Her. Reinhart. Outside the courthouse. “You’ve been following me?”
“For good reason, apparently.”
“We both had jury duty,” she said.
“No. You had jury duty. What he had was the need to meet you.”
“Why?”
“You tell me,” he said. “He’s CIA. Or at least he used to be.”
The Mudir studied Sadira in that moment more intensely than he’d ever studied anyone. It would’ve been near impossible for her to fake not knowing that Reinhart had been CIA. There were simply too many muscles around the eyes and mouth to control all at once.
No, this was pure reflex. Her expression. The way her head jolted back. He was convinced she didn’t know.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Positive.”
“Is that why you were following me? Because you knew Reinhart would try to make contact?”
“I was following you because I still don’t completely trust you.”
“There isn’t a person on this planet that I trust completely,” said Sadira. “I suspect you’re no different.”
She was right, and the Mudir let her know it with a smile. “Let’s just say I don’t trust you enough for what you need to do,” he said.
“Which is what?”
“You need to kill Dylan Reinhart,” said the Mudir.
“I’m only a courier,” said Sadira.
“Not anymore you’re not. Not after you take care of Reinhart and then help me with what comes next.”
“What’s that?” she asked. “What comes next?”
“After Reinhart,” he said. He would tell her then. “Then I will know I can trust you enough.”
“If you want him dead so badly, why is he still alive?”
“Because I made the mistake of trusting someone else to do the job. Now Reinhart is expecting me. But he won’t be expecting you.”
Sadira leaned back in her chair as if she were considering her options. But she’d already made up her mind when the Mudir told her about Reinhart’s CIA past. “Okay,” she said. “How soon do you need it done?”
CHAPTER 93
SADIRA HAD asked for my number outside the courthouse when we agreed on dinner. She was going to text me the restaurant and what time. There was a new Italian place on the Upper West Side she wanted to try but didn’t know if we could get a reservation. “Stay tuned” were her last words to me.
By that afternoon, they were still her last words to me.
I hadn’t heard from her. No text. No call. Nothing. What changed? Did she figure something out? Is she on to me?
I was about to call Julian to get her number when there was a knock at the door. Foxx was back for another visit.
He’d had his driver take me back into Manhattan that morning to one of the shell offices in midtown that fronted as a CIA station. After the New York headquarters at 7 World Trade Center was destroyed on 9/11, the Agency had opted to utilize multiple locations around the city. The conference room I was hanging out in belonged to a supposed international shipping company.
There was no file in Foxx’s hand this time, but his expression left little mystery as to why he’d returned. He had more news, and it wasn’t good.
“She’s leaving the country,” he announced. Sadira Yavari was skipping town.
“When?” I asked.
“Sunday. Turkish Air to Tehran via Istanbul.”
“I’m gonna guess it’s not a round-trip ticket.”
Foxx shook his head. “One way. Non-refundable,” he said. “The kicker? She only just booked it today.”
“What about her recent calls?” I asked.
“Nothing to Iran, and no one we haven’t already checked out,” he said.
Foxx hadn’t told me, but I’d assumed the Agency had been monitoring Sadira’s phone records, both landline and cell, if not listening to the calls themselves. Of course, by law, the CIA is prohibited from collecting foreign intelligence based on the domestic activities of US citizens. Then again, the C has never stood for compliance.
I had one more question. “Did you put a body on her?”
There was a chance Foxx had tailed her without telling me, and there was also a chance that he still didn’t want to. But he didn’t hesitate.
“I was sort of counting on you for that,” he said, “starting with your dinner tonight.” He glanced at his watch. He knew Sadira hadn’t been in touch with me. “But so much for that.”
I grabbed my phone, checking for any new texts or voicemails even though I had my ringer on. Still nothing from her. It was time to face reality.
“Okay, I’m on board,” I said. “Let’s bring her in.”
This time, Foxx hesitated. “We’re not going to do that,” he said finally.
I thought that’s what you originally wanted, I would’ve said if I didn’t already know what he meant. Sometimes it’s all in the tone.
The Agency wasn’t going to bring her in. No. They were going to take her down.
Permanently.
CHAPTER 94
“WAS IT your call?” I asked.
“It was my recommendation. Ultimately it was the director’s call,” he said.
“Same difference.”
Foxx shrugged. “Maybe.”
More like definitely. The director of the CIA is like the owner of an NFL football team. He might have final say on operations, but if he’s smart, he defers to the coach, the one closest to the action, when it comes to play calling. Especially with a guy like Foxx. Foxx was basically the Bill Belichick of section chiefs. If he recommended having Sadira Yavari meet with an “unfortunate accident,” then that’s what was going to happen.
“Why, though?” I asked.
“You know why,” said Foxx. “She’s a case that can’t go to trial.”
“What about what she knows? Who she knows?”
“That’s why I okayed your dinner with her.”
“You can still bring her in,” I said.
“Not after she stood you up.”
That was Foxx’s way of saying she would be less than cooperative under questioning. It was also a nod to the perverse irony of every piece of anti-torture legislation, especially in a world where the vast majority of information gathered at Guantánamo Bay and other dark sites around the globe turns out not to be actionable.
Bluntly put, killing terrorism suspects is far less of a headache for the CIA than waterboarding them.
I thought about trying to talk Foxx out of the decision. Plead my case. The reason I didn’t was because all I could hear was Tracy’s voice in my head. This wasn’t Tracy, the idealist. This was the law school grad, the realist. My case was a lost cause. Witho
ut Sadira, there was nothing to argue. My lead witness had gone missing.
Ping!
Foxx and I turned to my phone, sitting on the conference room table. It could’ve been anyone texting me, but there was something about the way the sound broke the silence of the room—the timing of it—that had us both thinking one thing. It was her.
So sorry! Been crazy busy. Hope we’re still on for 2night. Gramercy Tavern @ 8?
I read it once, then twice. Foxx did the same.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” he said.
He had a point. Her taking so long to follow up with me set off every alarm in my head. But as my thumbs hovered above the screen, all I wanted to do was type back and confirm.
I’d signed the contract with Foxx. I’d even borrowed a pen from him to do it. I was now an agent of the CIA. For all intents and purposes, an operative again. What Foxx was waiting for, though—what he needed to see and hear—was that I’d truly bought in. Does Dylan Reinhart have that same killer instinct?
There was only one way to convince him. “If I have to, I’ll take her down myself,” I said.
Foxx nodded as I texted Sadira and confirmed our dinner.
“Welcome back, Reinhart,” he said.
CHAPTER 95
I WANTED to be the first to arrive at Gramercy Tavern. I showed up twenty minutes early. Twenty minutes wasn’t early enough.
Sadira was sitting at the end of the bar, a book in one hand and a glass of red in the other. Only ten feet away, I froze as soon as I saw her. She would’ve easily noticed me, standing like a statue, were it not for the fact that the bar was three rows deep with people. Even if it weren’t for the crowd, she seemed pretty engrossed in the book. I stared.
Not at her, though. If you ever want to fully appreciate how attractive someone is, simply watch the people around them. The furtive looks. The up-and-down glances. And that was just the other women in the room. The men were far less subtle. Many of them were flat-out gawking at Sadira.
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