“Yes, please,” Johnson said. “That would be helpful.”
“I think I know which document it is. There is some information in there that is sensitive—very sensitive—and I’ll have to decide whether to give it to you or not. I’ll have to get back to you when I’ve been through them.”
Johnson nodded, his mind whirring. “Thanks. What else have you got in these archives?” he asked. “Are there files on any other big names?” He glanced over at Vic.
“Robert Watson, for instance,” Vic said. “That might be interesting, if so.”
“Robert Watson?”
“Yes, he was the CIA chief of station in Islamabad,” Johnson said.
“I don’t know. I’d have to look. You’d be surprised what’s in here,” Akbari said. “I think there’s a few more items on Javed and Severinov. And then we’ll move on to this Mr. Watson and any others. And I’m not talking about Russians or Afghans. I’m talking about Americans—there is some material on the CIA. Give me a bit of time and I’ll see what I can find.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saturday, June 8, 2013
New York City
Johnson and Vic sat on a sofa beneath the window and waited while Akbari continued scrolling through his digitized copies of the photographs taken in a dark, dusty basement in Kabul two and a half decades earlier.
Not for the first time, Johnson had the feeling that his job was just like peeling back the layers from an onion until he got to the truth within. And how often had that truth been revealed inadvertently while looking for something else?
“Come, have a look,” Akbari said eventually, beckoning at Johnson with a leathery-looking index finger. “There’s some more material on Javed here.”
Johnson got up and walked to Akbari’s computer screen.
“It appears that these items were added to the file when Javed was captured by Severinov in Jalalabad—the incident you referred to earlier,” Akbari said.
On the screen was another memo.
192/JH/46 JAVED HASRAT
February 11, 1988 r.
Jalalabad
Javed Hasrat arrested by Yuri Severinov at Nadrees Accountants premises near to Jalalabad airport, after Hasrat and colleagues met two CIA officers who had entered the country from Pakistan. CIA officers are known to be Joseph Johnson and Victor Walter, based in Islamabad.
Hasrat was held overnight in Jalalabad then transported to Pul-e-Charkhi for further interrogation.
Attempts to arrest Johnson and Walter failed.
Cross-reference see 193/JH/46 JAVED HASRAT for items confiscated on arrest.
Update will follow.
Akbari turned to Johnson. “You obviously avoided the Pul-e-Charkhi experience, then?”
Johnson grimaced. It seemed slightly bizarre to be reading an account of his own near miss with the KGB so long ago, and he was surprised that the memo did not note why efforts to detain him and Vic had failed. In a life-or-death shoot-out in an abandoned warehouse near the Jalalabad meeting location he had shot the KGB officer pursuing them, Leonid Rostov. Only then had they been able to escape back over the border into Pakistan.
“Let’s have a look at the cross-referenced document, the confiscated items,” Johnson said.
Akbari turned back to his screen, entered the cross-reference number into his search box, and scrolled through the thumbnails. There was an identification document, a letter from a bank, and then a photograph.
This time, Johnson felt genuine shock when the image of the photograph popped up on-screen. It was a copy of the black-and-white print that Javed and Baz had shown to him and Vic in the Jalalabad meeting in 1988.
Behind him, Vic had also seen the image. “My God, it’s that photograph again. Remember that one?” he asked, his voice rising sharply.
“Remember it?” Johnson replied. “I still dream about it.”
The photograph showed Robert Watson and another Western man handing Stingers over to some mujahideen. Presumably, the KGB had taken the photograph from Javed when they had arrested him and had then put a copy of it into his file.
Now Johnson leaned closer to the screen, focusing on the second man, a taller bearded figure standing behind Watson.
When he originally saw the photograph, Johnson had recognized the man. He was from a company called Kay Associates and had visited Watson at the CIA’s Islamabad station. But Johnson hadn’t found out his name.
Now, as he peered at Akbari’s monitor screen, Johnson realized he recognized the man again—but not from his distant memories. The muscular shoulders and the thickset build were familiar.
Who the hell?
After a couple of seconds, Johnson remembered. He had seen another similar image of the same man very recently. It was in a profile article he had been reading in Newsweek magazine only a week and a half earlier on the flight to Kabul.
Kurt Donnerstein.
There was no doubt in Johnson’s mind. The pieces all clicked together. Watson must have been working with Donnerstein privately to sell Stinger missiles to the mujahideen. The CIA’s official routes for supplying the missiles had all been funneled through Pakistan’s ISI, in line with the strict instructions from General Zia, the then president.
“Just a minute, keep that photograph on-screen. I need to get something,” Johnson said. He walked to his backpack, which he’d dumped on the floor, and unzipped it. Tucked inside his spiral-bound notebook was the issue of Newsweek.
Johnson opened it to the profile of the US secretary of energy. There were three photographs. One showed him sitting next to Barack Obama at a White House dinner, deep in conversation. Another portrayed him giving a speech to a global energy industry conference in London. And the third, a much older one, depicted him as a young man with a beard sitting in a seaside bar, drinking a beer.
It was the third one that confirmed it. Johnson walked back over to Akbari and showed him and Vic the photograph in the magazine.
“Look at that guy in the background,” Johnson said, pointing to Akbari’s computer screen. “That’s the same man as in this picture, isn’t it?”
“Shit! Donnerstein. It’s him,” Vic said.
“They do look similar,” Akbari said.
“Definitely Kurt Donnerstein, the man from Kay Associates,” Johnson said. “Is there any file on Donnerstein?”
Akbari tapped the name into his search box, but nothing came up. “There’s no cross-reference in the file.”
“What about Watson? There must have been something on him.”
“Give me a minute.”
Akbari went back to the search box and typed in Watson’s name. A few seconds later he had the image of another file on-screen.
Johnson peered over his shoulder and scanned down the text. It was all routine material outlining Watson’s background and postings prior to Islamabad. “Go on, next one,” he said.
The next typewritten document looked more relevant.
HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL — TOP SECRET
376/RW/85 ROBERT WATSON
February 18, 1988 r.
Islamabad
Information received from agent TENOR at meeting with Yuri Severinov in Islamabad. CIA is conducting review of supply of Stinger missiles supplied to mujahideen, including numbers already supplied and register of recipients. TENOR is passing on these details. This gives an opportunity to target the relevant mujahideen. CIA review is being conducted by Joseph Johnson, officer at CIA Islamabad station, according to TENOR.
“TENOR?” Vic said, tapping Johnson repeatedly on the shoulder. “Joe, do you remember? That was the code name written on the back of the photo of Watson we saw in Jalalabad. TENOR must be Watson, then, surely.”
“Damn right I remember,” Johnson said. “It’s got to be him. It adds up. If Watson was on the KGB payroll at that time, it might explain how the bastards knew about our meeting in Jalalabad with Javed.”
Vic nodded. “He tried to give us a death sentence. Nearly succeeded.”
> “There’s another one here about Watson,” Akbari said. He indicated to the screen.
377/RW/85 ROBERT WATSON
February 19, 1988 r.
Islamabad
Routine surveillance of TENOR observed him in meeting with representative of US company Kay Associates at Marriott Hotel. Checking identity overnight and will confirm.
Johnson read down the short entry. “That Kay Associates rep will be Donnerstein. Is there anything that actually confirms his identity?”
Akbari scrolled down the memos below and then did a search. “No, strangely not, that’s it. There’s nothing more in the file about that.”
“That seems odd.”
“Yes, it does, although it was about that time, when the Soviets were pulling out of Afghanistan, that the KGB simply stopped making proper notes of everything. The files started getting a little thin.”
Johnson shrugged. “Maybe, although that sounds unlike the KGB. But we would need copies of these files, if possible. Can I copy them onto a memory stick?”
“No,” Akbari said. “I’ve got no control over where they go after that, have I? I’m going to be worried enough about the SVR catching up with me. You’ll have to make notes if you want certain details, at least for now. I’ll email you a copy of the photograph, though.”
“Okay, but can I just get a photo of it on-screen as well?” Johnson said, taking out his phone. He didn’t want to run the risk of an email going astray.
Akbari sighed and clicked back to the image of Watson, Donnerstein, and the Stingers, which Johnson snapped on his phone camera.
“Thanks,” Johnson said. “But are you 100 percent sure there’s nothing more confirming Donnerstein’s identity? It said in the file that checks were being made overnight.”
Akbari frowned. “There was nothing I could see.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s very late now. But let me do another more in-depth search tomorrow and see if anything comes up.”
“Yes, please, if you can,” Johnson said. “It’s very important.”
There was a headshake from Akbari. “It may be among the items I’m still cataloging, but I’m not hopeful. I will let you know.”
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Brooklyn, New York
Watson was not in a good mood. The day had gotten off to a good start when he had succeeded in extricating the funds stashed in his savings accounts and dispatched them electronically to an intermediary account in the Bahamas. But then he had received a text message from Mohammed Burhani in Kabul telling him there was still no progress with attempts to locate Joe Johnson, and furthermore, as he was now traveling to Pakistan for the next four days for meetings with his counterpart in Islamabad, he was putting the search on hold.
Typical goddamned amateurs, working asshole fashion as usual, Watson thought to himself.
Instead, Watson turned his attention back to an issue he had spent the previous two days mulling over: potential meeting places for the ZenForce team. It was a headache. It was essential that all three of them got together to finally decide whether to go ahead with the bid, as well as the price level if so, and to all confirm verbally they were agreed on the details, sealing it with a handshake in the absence of written documents they could sign. It was standard policy among them, given the massive amounts that were being invested. They also needed to similarly shake on details in the bid presentation and the accompanying document, which Zilleman would take to Kabul and present to the minister.
Watson’s strong instinct, given the risks to himself and to EIGER, was to meet in New York, which was more anonymous than Washington.
After decades of working for the CIA, he had a number of suitable covert meeting locations on a private list that hadn’t been shared with others at the Agency. But after going through them, he decided that the best option was the vacation apartment where he was staying. It was at 8 Old Fulton Street in Brooklyn, across the street from the wine bar where he had met Zilleman the previous Wednesday.
The apartment block was an old building, originally the Brooklyn City Railroad Company headquarters, that had been converted. But because of its antiquated design, it had a myriad of external fire escapes, flat roofs, and other potential exit routes—a useful feature, if required. It overlooked Brooklyn Bridge Park just across the street, which was a strip of green parkland that ran next to the East River and beside the bridge.
The other advantage of the vacation apartment was that it had excellent access to nearby transit routes—by rail, road, and water—which was why he had chosen it. The Brooklyn Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge both gave options to get onto Manhattan Island by car or on foot. There were three subway stations and also ferry services from a pier next to the bridge, just a few yards from the apartment. The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Interstate 278, allowed rapid access by car to the south via Staten Island and the New Jersey Turnpike.
Watson had parked his rental car, an anonymous gray Volkswagen Golf, about 150 yards away, up Doughty Street on the corner of McKenny Street. The parking location had been chosen very carefully, and he had been forced to wait for two hours to secure a space there.
Watson went through the list of sites again but came to the same conclusion. The apartment would be the best option for the meeting, he was sure. The problem would be getting everyone available and in one place at the same time, particularly EIGER, who was always busy.
He took out his new burner phone and sent a short text message to the new cell phones acquired recently by Zilleman and EIGER. It read:
Need to make final decisions etc. Suggest 40.702684, -73.996108. Monday 17.12.
It was an old habit of Watson’s to never arrange covert meetings on the hour or the half hour; picking odd times made it less obvious and less predictable for anyone who had him under surveillance. Similarly, he wouldn’t send precise address details until the last minute but rather used coordinates that indicated the rough location. Ten minutes later, and somewhat to Watson’s surprise, because it normally took much longer to get a response, a reply came back from EIGER.
Yes can make that. In area for meetings.
Zilleman was the last one to confirm, but he asked for a one-hour delay.
Seeing investors 17.00. Can make 18.12.
Given the tortuous processes Watson had been through on previous occasions trying to agree on meeting times and locations between the three of them, this was pain-free.
He texted back to confirm that 18.12 was fine.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday, June 8, 2013
New York City
“Akbari’s just a sideshow. I’m not pursuing him,” Johnson said. “He’s earned his keep just by giving us this stuff. But we badly need some more on Donnerstein out of those files.”
“He didn’t seem hopeful,” Vic said.
“No, but let’s see what he comes up with.”
The two men were heading along Ninth Avenue toward the Fiftieth Street subway station, having left Akbari to continue sifting through more files.
Vic’s phone beeped in his hand as a text message arrived. He scrutinized the screen. “Sounds like Alex is making some progress. I think we should head over and see him.”
“Did he say what he found?” Johnson asked.
“No. Just said he’d made some significant headway.”
“Where is he?”
“TITANPOINTE,” Vic said.
The name TITANPOINTE was the cryptonym given to the monolithic, windowless skyscraper at 33 Thomas Street, Lower Manhattan, which was officially an AT&T telecoms building but was also a critical National Security Agency surveillance site. It specialized in tapping into and monitoring all types of electronic communications, from fixed line and cell phone calls to internet, email, social media, and text messages.
The security role of the TITANPOINTE building in Lower Manhattan was not publicly acknowledged by the NSA. But its output was of critical importance to many of those who worked for the Agency.
T
hree-quarters of an hour later, Johnson and Vic were sitting in a small first-floor meeting room of the brown granite-clad building with Alex Goode, a cell phone security expert and cryptographer. The sandy-haired NSA man, who looked to Johnson to be in his late thirties, was hunched over a laptop.
On the screen, a satellite map showed an area of countryside about fourteen miles east of Washington, DC, just south of the John Hanson Highway, near to Freeway Airport.
“Your man Zilleman appears to have been busy,” Goode said. “He’s made fifty-four calls and sent forty-three text messages over nine days. Some of them have been to cell phones that don’t have monthly contracts—pay-as-you-go burner phones. But we’ve also been logging the location of these phones he’s called.” Goode stabbed at the map with his finger. “We’ve narrowed down three of them to this spot here.”
He pointed to an area where there were six large houses visible on the satellite image, all set among large grounds. “Each phone was used from this location three or four times, then no more, all of them either very early in the morning, say five thirty or six o’clock, or late at night, after ten thirty. After that, another similar burner was used three or four times before being seemingly discarded. And so on.”
“Do you know who used them?” Johnson asked.
“Not 100 percent.”
“But?”
Goode hesitated. “This is the interesting bit. You’re focused on this because of Afghanistan, right?”
“Correct.”
“I’ve checked the owners of all these properties, and there’s only one who has any kind of obvious connection with Afghanistan,” Goode said.
“Go on, who is it?” Johnson said.
“Kurt Donnerstein, the secretary of energy, who lives in this house here.” Goode pointed to the largest of the six properties visible on the screen.
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