Denniston shifted
uneasily in his seat and looked away before answering.
“No, really, we’re
good to go. Bednarski has an oral okay from the Division Chief.”
“Oral? I’d prefer
something in writing,” Linder pressed. “I know we’re under time
pressure and all that, but…”
“Sure, just ask Bob,”
Denniston nodded. “Since he’s Base Chief, officially it’s his
op. You can talk to him when we get together this evening.”
“Yeah, right. A lot
of good that’s likely to do me, considering how well he and I get
along.” Linder complained. Linder realized his complaint was
useless. There was no way out; he was here, and so he would have to
perform. Denniston had outmaneuvered him again. “So, tell me, how
many days are we going to need for this? And how far do you expect it
to go? Are we reeling in the fish in one go or just setting the
hook?”
“That depends on
whether you can get a face-to-face meeting with the target,”
Denniston explained, leaning back in his chair, getting comfortable.
“Once you do, and you establish your bona fides, we’ll decide how
far and how fast to push. You may have to come back once or twice to
seal the deal.”
Linder offered his
colleague a resigned smile.
“No problem there,”
he answered. “I’ve been working this town for over ten years and
have become rather attached to it. Now, do you mind telling me who
the target is?”
Denniston paused for
effect.
“Roger Kendall is the
go-between,” he teased.
“Then the target is…”
Linder felt a sudden tightening in his gut.
“You guessed it.
Philip Eaton.”
Linder gritted his
teeth. “You’re certain of that?”
“No doubt about it,”
Denniston shot back.
“I heard that Eaton
might have travelled this way, but what is Kendall doing here?”
Linder challenged. “He never leaves London any more.”
“Don’t forget,
Eaton is his new father-in-law,” Denniston pointed out. “And
Kendall seems to think that the meeting with Tanner is very
important. So it appears his visit is mixing business with pleasure.”
Linder rose from his
chair and strode to the open window. He gazed out over the
Mediterranean and spotted a fishing boat heading out to sea. He
wondered how long the trip to Limassol might take, if he chartered a
yacht from Jounieh. And how much would it cost? He just might be able
to put together enough cash for that with advances from the alias
credit cards. There was plenty more in his safe deposit box in
Limassol. He just had to get in and out before anyone knew he was
missing.
Linder’s mind raced
on. He imagined himself disappearing on foot into the back alleys of
the Lebanese capital, catching a taxi and making his way through the
hills to the east, across the Bekaa Valley into Syria, then up the
coast to Turkey and across Bulgaria to some seaside resort in Croatia
or Montenegro or Albania. The urge had been nagging at him for the
better part of a year, but now it was more powerful than ever: if he
did not break free and start a new life now, leaving everything he
knew behind, something dreadful was certain to happen. But if he fled
and was caught, his end would likely be just as dreadful: arrest and
conviction on national security charges, a sentence to hard labor in
some godforsaken prison camp in Alaska or the Yukon, and death from
overwork or exposure.
Linder managed to
regain control of his wayward thoughts, turned away from the window,
and met Denniston’s gaze.
“Did Kendall bring
his family?”
“You mean Eaton’s
daughter and granddaughter?” Denniston inquired.
Linder nodded.
“Not to our
knowledge,” Denniston answered. “Kendall’s registered at the
Sofitel in Achrafiyé. He seems to be alone.”
Linder scowled as he
strode back to the couch.
“I don’t get it.
Kendall is a mere dabbler in rebel politics. And the latest word on
Eaton is that he’s run out of dough. Frankly, Neil, this whole
thing is looking like a fool’s errand.”
“Bob and I disagree,”
Denniston demurred. “And so does the Division Chief. So here’s
what we’re going to do. You’re set to meet Kendall tomorrow for
coffee at one o’clock on the East Side. Right now, I suggest you
get some rest, shower up, and meet me downstairs at seven. We’ll go
to Bob’s for drinks and then step out for dinner and work
everything out among the three of us.”
“Out to dinner?
Together? When we’re prepping for an op? Have you gone nuts?”
Denniston shrugged and
flashed his most disarming smile.
“Don’t fret. Eaton
and Kendall never come to the Muslim side of town after dark.
Besides, Bob wants to go out; and when Bob gets his mind set on
something, there’s no point arguing with him.”
Without waiting for a
response, Denniston finished his mineral water and rose to leave.
“Come to think of it,
let’s not meet downstairs at seven. Why don’t I pick you up on
Rue Clemenceau instead? I’ll look for you at seven sharp walking
along the fence side of the street by the American University. I’ll
be driving a silver Renault station wagon. It’ll be fun. You’ll
see.”
* * *
The telephone rang
and jolted Linder awake from a fitful sleep. It was the front desk
with his six o’clock wakeup call. He thanked the clerk quickly and
hung up.
The call had come as
much-needed reprieve, for his afternoon nap had unleashed one of his
worst recurring nightmares, the one of the dark pit, with
foul-smelling hyenas snapping at his buttocks amid the bitter
reproaches of souls he had marked for assassination or capture during
his decade-long work against terrorists and insurgents. As usual,
Linder had called upon Jesus and his guardian angel to rescue him,
and they came to lift him out to the leeward slopes of some frozen
mountain range. But would they come the next time if he didn’t turn
his life around? He was still shivering when the phone’s ring
brought him to his senses.
Until today, the pit
had never pulled him in during a nap, but only late at night when he
could no longer stave off sleep or unconsciousness from drink. This
worried him, for it meant that his naps could no longer be relied
upon to restore his energy or peace of mind.
Linder sat upright,
picked up the phone a second time, and asked the clerk to connect him
to the bar. In his best French, he asked the bartender to send up a
bottle of local brandy.
“Please forgive me,”
the barkeep answered in English. “But our Lebanese brandy is not
the very best. May I suggest a French cognac or an Armenian five
star?”
“Send up the
Armenian, then,” Linder interrupted. “An ordinary grade will do.
I’m on a budget.” He forced a laugh and the bartender joined him.
Though Linder had done
little but sit all day, he felt utterly exhausted. He could no longer
deny it: his life had spun out of control. And while it left him
frustrated and angry, he could blame no one but himself.
At the age of
thirty-eight, he was still ranked as a journeyman case officer. Not a
Chief of Base, or a branch chief, or even a desk chief or a deputy.
No, merely a highly efficient cog in the global search-and-destroy
machine. The good news was that Headquarters continued to value his
services and allowed him to enjoy the perks of an overseas posting
rather than suffer a pauper’s life back in the nation’s capital.
But at the same time,
Linder was painfully aware that he had lately become a caricature of
himself: often drunk, occasionally impotent, increasingly alone,
bored, and belligerent. Chronic nightmares featuring the people he
had targeted now plagued him several times a week. To avoid the side
effects of sleeping pills, he had become dependent on alcohol to
repel the troublesome visions. His usual drink of choice was a stiff
whiskey cocktail like an Old-Fashioned or a Manhattan, but when
traveling, he often resorted to a full-bodied brandy or aged rum that
went down smoothly without ice or a mixer. At first, his hangovers
had been moderate and could usually be dispelled with a morning run
and a hot shower, but not any longer. Even worse, whenever he cut the
dosage, his nightmares returned at full roar.
The root of the
problem, he realized, was that he had ridden the tiger too long. Each
time he considered resigning from the Department, he rejected the
idea out of fear that he was no longer qualified to do anything else.
He held an M.B.A. from Columbia and had worked briefly in
pharmaceutical sales, but he had devoted the last dozen years to
honing his skills as a professional predator. Having done it so well
for so long, he could not bring himself to let go without a push.
At last, the scream of
a police siren tore Linder’s attention free from his gloomy
thoughts. He stood up, fetched a bathrobe from the closet, and set
off for the shower. But before he could cross the room, a knock on
the door stopped him in his tracks. He steeled himself to look in the
keyhole and, to his relief, saw the bellman bearing a bottle of
brandy, an ice bucket, and two glasses on a tray.
Linder removed a
banknote from his wallet and traded it for the brandy.
“Charge it to my
room. This is for you,” he told the bellman and waited for him to
retreat before admiring the deep amber color of the aged spirit and
examining the intricate Armenian writing on the label. He shook his
head, put the bottle down, and withdrew to the shower.
* * *
On his way through
the Hotel Cavalier’s marble-tiled lobby, Linder paused to peer into
the lifeless tourist bar before exiting onto Rue Abdel-Baki toward
the American University of Beirut.
More than thirty-five
years since the outbreak of Lebanon’s civil war, few signs of
fighting remained: no mortar potholes in the blacktopped streets, no
chunks of stucco blasted away from the walls of high-rises by
machine-gun fire or fist-sized entry wounds from rocket-propelled
grenades. Even in broad daylight, it was difficult to find signs of
damage from the fifteen-year civil conflict and the intermittent
clashes that lingered on well into the early twenty-first century.
Meanwhile, America’s
Civil War II had been over for nearly five years. The rebels had fled
the battlefield and taken up exile in Europe, Latin America, and
Australia. Yet, judging from the Department’s daily intelligence
brief, there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of anti-Unionist
insurgents, traitors, and saboteurs both at home and abroad. Linder
wondered whether America’s civil conflict would last as long as
Lebanon’s and, if so, whether he’d be alive to see it end.
Lately he had come to
doubt it and questioned whether his luck might be running out. He had
posed as a rebel too many times, used too many aliases and disguises,
and lured too many exiles to death or captivity not to have been
noticed by the exile insurgent networks and the foreign intelligence
services that supported them. Unless Headquarters gave him some time
to cool off in another part of the world, he might fall victim to
their retaliation. And even if the insurgents didn’t find him, the
worsening climate of purges within the Department itself might pose
no less a threat.
While passing the AUB
gate on the dimly lit Rue Clemenceau, Linder noticed headlights
behind him. As they drew closer, a silver Renault slowed and pulled
to the curb just ahead. The driver reached across the passenger seat
to open the door and Linder stepped in.
“You’re late. The
Chief is waiting,” Denniston announced casually as the car began to
move.
“Why the rush?”
Linder asked.
“It’s Bob’s last
week before home leave. He’s booked a table at a very swell night
club to celebrate and doesn’t want to be late.”
“Good heavens. Better
step on it, then.”
Denniston laughed
before descending toward the seaside Corniche and the chief’s
residence.
As they wound to the
east past the site of the 1983 U.S. Embassy bombing, Linder saw no
trace of the wreckage. In place of ruins were stately seaside
high-rises and elegant boutiques and nightspots of the kind that
Linder had not seen in the U.S. since before the Events. He found it
difficult to comprehend how a tiny third-world country like Lebanon
could have revived so quickly from the natural disasters, social
upheaval, and global economic crises that had brought America to her
knees less than a decade earlier. Lebanon possessed few natural
resources, a negligible industrial base, and little capital of its
own, and yet it functioned as a global banking center, commercial
entrepot, and tourist hub for the entire Middle East. To Linder, it
seemed a sort of cosmopolitan time capsule from the pre-Events world.
Tonight, he decided, he would shake off his gloom, accept the world
as it was, and receive what Beirut had to offer.
Ten minutes later the
Renault stopped outside a walled villa on a cul-de-sac a few hundred
meters west of the former Green Line, the historic buffer zone
dividing predominantly Muslim West Beirut from the Christian East
Side. Having visited the villa years earlier when it had been the
residence of the CIA’s Deputy Chief of Station, he inferred that it
was now the residence of the DSS Base Chief. It seemed shabbier now
and in serious need of repair, but the scent of night-flowering
jasmine still saturated the moist night air from the thousands of
white blossoms that spilled from the ancient vines overhanging the
compound’s walls.
Denniston pressed a
button at the rusted iron gate, and a few moments later the latch
buzzed open. They stepped into an untended garden that must have been
magnificent once, its stately palms and ancient frangipani trees
ringing the perimeter wall. Ceramic tiles swirled with intricate
Arabesque patterns over the villa’s columned portico. The weathered
teak door opened the moment they reached it.
Standing in the
threshold was a bull-necked man of about forty-five in white linen
trousers and a loose-fitting batik shirt unbuttoned halfway down his
chest and bulging across an ample waist. The Base Chief’s florid
face, neck, and arms were beaded with perspiration. In his hand, he
held an oversized tumbler half-filled with ice and a pale amber
liquid that Linder assumed was Scotch. The Chief’s eyes were glassy
and unfocused.