“Just covering his ass. Like a certain station chief I know.”
To his surprise, she smiled. “Guess I deserve that.”
“Should have put your chips next to mine, Martha.”
—
Four days later, in Luanda, Angola, a Nissan van accelerated down Rua Rainha Ginga and rammed through the outer gate of the Israeli embassy, a small two-story building. As the Nissan approached the inner gate, its guards opened up with their AKs. The driver lost control. The van slammed into a concrete chicane that the Israelis had hastily put up after the American warning. The driver ran to a motorcycle and escaped.
Thirty seconds later, the van exploded. Two guards were killed, three others wounded. Six embassy employees were also hurt. An Israeli investigative team later found the van had held three hundred kilograms of fertilizer and fuel oil, enough to have taken down the embassy if it had reached the building.
—
Six thousand miles away, a taxi stopped at the rear entrance to the Israeli embassy in Bangkok. Neither driver nor passenger had an entry permit, so the local guards wouldn’t raise the gate. After a fifteen-second standoff, the taxi’s passenger shot the driver in the head and ran.
Forty-five seconds later, the taxi blew up. The driver and one guard were killed, two others badly injured. The passenger escaped. Thai police estimated that eighty pounds of a military-grade explosive called Semtex had been placed in the taxi’s trunk.
The Israeli prime minister called the President to thank him for the warning. The President called his new DCI, Scott Hebley, a Marine four-star who had replaced Duto. Hebley called Taylor. Langley sent a surveillance team to Istanbul to help the station trace Reza. NSA cloned the phone that Reza had given Taylor so it would ring on a dedicated line in the Counterterrorism Center. Taylor kept the original. After all, Reza had chosen
him
. Despite the risk, he badly wanted Reza to call again. He expected to hear within a few days. Surely the Iranian would want credit for the tip, if nothing else.
—
Weeks passed. The agency checked its sketch of Reza against its databases, along with those from the FBI, Interpol, and the MIT, the Turkish intelligence service. No matches. The surveillance team went home. In Angola and Thailand, the attack investigations stalled. The van had been stolen. The cabbie in Bangkok appeared unconnected to terrorism. He’d done nothing more than pick up the wrong fare. The Semtex was traced to a Czech factory that supplied half the world. Neither Hezbollah nor Iran took credit for the bombings, but their silence wasn’t a surprise. They rarely broadcast their involvement.
September became October. Still Reza stayed away. Taylor found himself depressed, strangely jealous, a lover spurned after a one-night stand.
Why doesn’t he call? What did I do?
He asked NSA to double-check that the phone was working. He changed ringtones, went back to the original. He put off his other agents, ignored calls, canceled appointments. For four straight Fridays in November, he reenacted every detail of the meeting. After the fourth, he found Hunt outside his office. “Have a drink with me,” she said.
He knew he wouldn’t like what she was going to tell him. He also knew he needed to hear it. In her office, she pulled a bottle of Laphroaig and two glasses from her bottom drawer and poured for them both.
“Most likely he’s not in Istanbul anymore. They probably found him.”
They both knew that if the Guard had discovered that Reza was a traitor, it would have arrested and tortured him. In that case, Taylor’s cover was blown. He should transfer out of Istanbul. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be around when Reza called again.
“They’re not on him. He’s careful.”
“Don’t be irrational.”
“That tip saved lives.”
“Three months ago.”
“You’re jealous because you didn’t buy in.”
She sipped her scotch
.
“Plenty of glory to go round. Only one squandering it is you. You got PTSD from a single successful meet. First time in history.”
He wanted to argue with her, but he knew she was right.
“That phone rings, we’ll be ready. Meantime, be a man. Get back to work. Let it go.”
“You be a man.” He wanted to be funny, but even to his ears the words sounded petulant.
“
Salud
,
Brian.” She raised her glass and downed the whiskey in one gulp.
—
Fall ended. Christmas became New Year’s Eve and Taylor invited Hunt to his annual party. She didn’t come. Turkey entered its short, sharp winter, an unpleasant surprise for out-of-season tourists. Snow on the Bosphorus sounded picturesque, but Istanbul wasn’t built for cold. Winds whipped off the Sea of Marmara. Sleet frosted the sidewalks. The Turks hurried along in their too-thin coats, trying not to fall on patches of black ice.
Taylor felt almost relieved to be back to his everyday work. Still, he made sure the magic phone was always fully charged, always within arm’s reach. It rang at ten p.m. on a Friday night. For a few seconds, Taylor didn’t quite believe his ears. Then he grabbed for it. The screen reported the incoming number as the 123456 of a Skype call. He clicked on.
“Mr. Nelson.”
Taylor knew Reza’s voice instantly. “Yes.”
“InterContinental Hotel. Envelope at front desk. Pick it up, come to room 1509. Alone.”
Click.
Taylor messaged Hunt:
R called. Activating team.
Each month, Hunt chose two officers to stand by in case Taylor needed backup. Basically the assignment meant,
Be ready to
drop whatever you’re doing if Brian needs you. Make sure
your phone is charged, and don’t get too drunk.
Dominick and Ronaldo were part of the team, too, though their job was only to get a picture. They weren’t trained in active surveillance.
They’d planned for a no-notice call like this. They wouldn’t have time to set a trap. The tech guys would park near the hotel. One officer would wait in the lobby, the other outside. They’d all seen the sketch. They wouldn’t follow Reza. Taylor and Hunt agreed a tail would be a mistake. Based on how cautious he’d been during the first meeting, Reza could probably make a two-man tail. If he did, he would be furious. He might break contact forever. So the station would settle for a photograph of him, and to see if anyone was with him or watching him at the hotel.
Taylor’s apartment was a little more than a mile south of the InterContinental. He dressed, strapped on his holster, made his way into the misty Istanbul night. He walked northeast as texts lit up his phone, the team reporting in. Dominick and Ronaldo lived together a few miles north of downtown. Taylor had never understood whether they were roommates or lovers. Either way, they promised to reach the hotel in thirty minutes. One of the live surveillance officers said he could arrive in twenty. The second didn’t respond. The guy was single. He could be in a loud bar and have missed the text. A bad break. But Taylor knew the truth. He would have gone in with no backup for the chance to meet Reza again.
—
The envelope the concierge passed him was nearly weightless. Taylor tore it open in the elevator, found only a hotel key card. He turned it in his hands and knew Reza wouldn’t be waiting.
He stood outside the room and listened. Nothing. Knocked. No answer. He drew his Sig, held it at his side, pushed the key card into the slot. He shoved the door open as the lock beeped green. He hid at the edge of the door frame and waited. No footsteps scuffling inside, no whispered voices. He pushed inside, put the key into the slot by the door so the lights would pop on.
The room was empty, the bed unmussed. In the marble bathroom, the soaps and shampoos and bottled water were untouched. Taylor had brought a radio-frequency sniffer that would find basic bugs. He scanned the room. Nothing. He didn’t think Reza had been here. The agency would check the name on the reservation. But Reza had no doubt used a runner again, paid some lucky Turk a few hundred dollars to book the room. Taylor sat on the bed and scrolled through pay-per-view movies while he waited for the call.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.
“I said no surveillance. Did you think I wouldn’t see those fat men in the van?”
Taylor knew why Reza wanted to keep his name secret. He understood why the Iranian had brought him here. Reza knew NSA had tapped the phone he gave Taylor. The room phone was clean. So Reza didn’t have to worry about an immediate trace.
Still, the gamesmanship grated on Taylor. Agents and case officers had tricky relationships. To defuse their fears, some agents needed to prove they were smarter than their handlers. If Reza and Taylor were going to work together long-term, the Iranian’s attitude needed to change. For the moment, Reza held the cards. Taylor couldn’t risk driving him off.
“It’s natural we’re anxious to have a photo of you.”
“I’m anxious that you don’t.”
“That’s also natural.”
“Will you give me your word that the next time we meet, there won’t be surveillance?”
“I give you my word that next time you won’t see it.”
Reza laughed.
We are both men of the world,
the laugh said.
We understand each other. I don’t hold the surveillance against you. You play your part as I play mine.
A knot in Taylor’s stomach eased. Reza would cooperate today.
“Did you think I would call sooner?”
“I thought you would call when you had something to say.”
“I told you, smarter than the average CIA. We are planning to assassinate a station chief.”
Martha?
Taylor almost said. He bit back her name in time. “Here?”
“Too close to home. Not Europe, either. The police, too good. I’m not involved directly, but I am told we’re choosing from one in Asia, one in Africa.”
“Hezbollah?”
“Too tricky for them. The Guard itself.”
“That’s like declaring war.”
“No one asks my opinion. But we won’t take responsibility, you can’t prove it. Maybe we blame someone else. Al-Qaeda.”
“When?”
“This one, it could still be called off. But I believe the approval’s coming. Within the next ten days. The planning is done.”
“A sniper, a bomb, poison?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me
something
, Reza. We can’t lock down the whole world.”
“Of course, Brian. I will call General Moghrabi, demand he tell me. When he asks why, I’ll say my friend at the CIA needs to know.”
The phone went dead. Taylor listened to the dial tone until it turned into a fast, angry beep. The most important agent he’d ever had, and Taylor had treated him like a thousand-dollar-a-month file clerk. He stood by the window, looking at the Bosphorus. The windows were undoubtedly too thick to break. Lucky him.
The phone rang. Taylor dove for it. Actually dove across the room, grabbed the handset, sprawled on the bed. Not cool, but no one was watching.
“Next time I don’t call back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The risks.”
“You could have had a team waiting to drop me, Reza. I came.”
“You have men.”
“Downstairs. What good are they when I open this door?” Taylor counted to five in his head.
Slow it down. Calm him down.
“We’re in this together.”
“Then let me do what I can. Don’t ask for information you know I don’t have. If I get what you need—”
Taylor suddenly knew what to do. “I’ll set an account for you. At UBS. Monday.”
“An excuse to get my name.”
“No safe-deposit box. No keys. No nonsense. It’ll be online, under the name Reza Istanbul. You’ll have the account number. Real money, not a promise. Take it out, transfer it, whatever.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Two hundred thousand to start. If you defect—”
“I won’t.”
You might,
Taylor thought. But even if he never touched the money, Reza would like having it. Two hundred thousand dollars was a small price to build loyalty from an agent like this.
“Next time we talk, will you tell me more about your biography? How old you are, where you grew up, when you entered the Guard, your life.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So we can understand each other better.”
“Good night, Brian.”
—
Taylor reached for a Heineken from the minifridge, then reconsidered and grabbed a Coke. He had a long night ahead. He would have to send a CRITIC-coded cable reporting the threat. Since Reza had been right about the embassies, the agency would put out an immediate worldwide alert, which would cause an immediate worldwide mess. The more cautious station chiefs would turtle up. The cowboys would figure this warning didn’t tell them anything they didn’t know, that they were always at risk, and without a specific threat the tip was useless. They were right, and wrong. Reza might not know how the Guard intended to pull this off. But if he said the planning was done, Taylor believed him.
He popped open his Coke and stood by the window, looking out at the dark water of the Bosphorus, the shining city around it. Waiting for his stomach to settle.
It didn’t.
MIAMI
A
nne and Wells shuffled down the gangway with their heads down, like earthquake survivors waiting for aftershocks. Wells wanted to grab her, beg her to reconsider. But she’d said no for the right reasons. In thirty days, he would give up the job or walk away from her forever. He couldn’t imagine either one. Or maybe he could. Maybe he already knew exactly what he would do, and he wouldn’t admit the truth to himself.
They’d just slid into a cab when his phone interrupted his uncheery thoughts.
“Where to?”
“Miami International.” Wells rejected the call, sight unseen. A minute later, the phone rang again. This time he checked the screen.
VD.
Duto. He again sent the call to voice mail, switched the phone to vibrate. Within seconds, it began to buzz. Despite himself, Wells felt his interest stirring. If Duto needed him enough to call three times, Duto had a problem.
“Do what you have to do,” Anne said.
Wells clicked on. “Senator.”
“Any chance you could meet me tonight?”
“Any chance you could tell me why?”
“Not on an open line.”
“Then no.”
“Ellis will be there.”
If Ellis Shafer was going, then Wells was going. Pointless to pretend otherwise. Though they’d fought some ugly battles in the years since Wells returned from Afghanistan, Shafer was now Wells’s closest friend inside the CIA, or anywhere else. He was part boss, part confidant, part fixer, and he had pulled strings to save Wells’s life more than once. But Shafer was now past the CIA’s retirement age, and with Duto gone, Wells knew that Shafer was on borrowed time at the agency. He didn’t want to think about what either of them would do when Shafer finally was shown the door.
“We meeting in D.C.?” Wells said.
“Philly. Can you get to my office by ten?”
“Thought you slept in a coffin.”
“I’ll text you the address.” He was gone.
Wells tucked away the phone, looked at Anne. Started to reach for her. Stopped. “I—”
“Go. I’ll take care of Tonka.”
“I’ve still got the thirty days, right?”
“Don’t, John. Just don’t.”
The condo towers loomed over Biscayne Bay like fifty-story mirages.
—
His flight was late. Philly matched his mood. Cold and wet. He didn’t reach Duto’s offices until almost midnight. He followed a plainclothes police officer down a hallway covered with maps of Pennsylvania and photos of the Liberty Bell. Duto and Shafer sat watching ESPN, drinking Budweisers from a twelve-pack on the couch between them, resting their feet on a coffee table. Sixty-something fratboys.
“John.” Shafer raised a can of Bud in greeting. “Get off those dogs, have a beer.”
“When did you two turn into such good buddies?”
Duto lurched up, extended a hand. “John Wells. My heart flutters. Together again, we three amigos.”
“We were never three anythings.” Wells ignored Duto’s outstretched palm until Duto sat back down.
“Nice tan,” Shafer said.
“Must be living right,” Duto said.
“He went on a cruise.”
“Ellis,” Wells said.
“If you were stuck watching TV with him, you’d drink, too,” Shafer said.
“This job,” Duto said. “The people
this
, the people
that
—”
“Why am I here?”
“Old times’ sake.”
Wells stepped toward the door.
“Let’s say you’re here to repay a favor.” The drunken playfulness had left Duto’s voice.
“How’s that?”
“Really? After I sent that drone to save your ass.”
Wells eyed Shafer. Shafer lifted his old-man shoulders a half inch. So he agreed.
“We both know without that, you weren’t getting out—”
“All right.”
“Take a seat, John.”
Wells pushed their feet aside, sat on the coffee table.
“Your attention, please.” Duto turned off the television. “Juan Pablo Montoya called me today.”
“Should I know that name?”
“He was an agent of mine in Colombia. An army officer. We’ve stayed in touch. He wasn’t all that nice, but he had his uses.”
“This ring a bell?” Wells said to Shafer. Shafer shook his head.
“He lives in Guatemala now. Retired, or so he claims. He wanted to pass along a tip. A friend of his is part of a team that plans to assassinate a station chief. Weird part is that a CIA officer is supposedly running the op.”
“A case officer trying to kill a COS? He lose out on a promotion?”
“I know it sounds weird, but Juan Pablo’s not into bullshit. If he’s calling, it’s true. Or at least he thinks it is. Before you ask, he doesn’t know the station.”
“But his friend does.”
“Correct. He’ll give us the friend’s name for one hundred thousand dollars. Plus I have to go to Guatemala City to meet him in person. I’m sure you can see that wouldn’t be a good idea. Which is why I’m deputizing you in my stead.”
“You don’t need to say
deputizing
and
in my stead
, Vinny,” Shafer said. “Either will do. More important, this afternoon we got a report that Iran is planning to kill a COS, name and location unknown.”
Duto’s eyebrows nearly came off his skull. The surprise looked real to Wells.
All three men fell silent. Wells spoke first.
“Let me make sure I have this. In the last day, both Vinny and the agency itself have been warned about a plot against a station chief. Vinny’s info comes from a guy in Guatemala who used to be an asset. He says that a case officer is running the plot. Meanwhile, the agency’s report comes from—”
“Turkey,” Shafer said.
“Human, ELINT, third-party—”
“Closely guarded.”
“You don’t know.”
Shafer shook his head.
“Anyway, whoever it is, this source says that Iran is behind the assassination. Rev Guard or Hezbollah like Buckley?” Hezbollah had killed William Buckley, the station chief for Lebanon, after kidnapping him. The agency had always believed Hezbollah wouldn’t act so provocatively without at least informing Iran of its plans.
“No, the Guard itself.”
“So two very different reports. And the only thing they have in common—”
“Is that a COS is getting . . .” Duto made a pistol with his fingers and pulled the trigger.
“A station chief hasn’t been killed in twenty years,” Shafer said. “Since Freddie Woodruff.”
Woodruff, the chief in the former Soviet republic of Georgia, had died in 1993 under circumstances that remained murky even now. Woodruff, a hard-partying Oklahoman, had come to Georgia just after the collapse of the Soviet Union. At the time, Moscow hadn’t fully reconciled itself to the loss of its satellite states. Woodruff was riding with his security guard in a jeep when a single bullet hit him in the head. He died before reaching a hospital.
The police arrested a former Georgian soldier, claiming he had taken a single blind shot from the side of the road. The soldier’s car had run out of gas, and he was angry the jeep hadn’t stopped to help him, the police said. After days of beatings, the soldier confessed. But the forensic evidence didn’t match the police theory. The FBI and CIA picked up rumors that Russian spies had shot Woodruff to warn the United States against encroaching on Moscow’s turf. But after a short trial, the Georgians convicted the former soldier. The FBI had reinvestigated the shooting without success. The only certainty was that Freddie Woodruff was buried in Arlington National Cemetery.
Buckley’s kidnapping and Woodruff’s murder had led the agency to tighten security around station chiefs. None had been killed since, though they were top targets for al-Qaeda.
“A few choices,” Duto said. “One, Montoya is lying, looking for a hundred K. And he’s the luckiest scammer in the world because he picked up the phone the same day this other plot came in. Two, it’s open season on station chiefs and these plots happen to be unrolling at the same time. Three, Iran has hired one of our case officers to kill one of our station chiefs. Am I missing anything?”
“Heart, soul, conscience,” Shafer said. “But in this case, no.”
“So call the seventh floor, tell them about Juan Pablo,” Wells said. “Let them figure it out.”
“Too squishy. It’ll look like I’m interfering. Like I can’t back off, let Hebley do his job.”
“Talk to Montoya yourself, then.”
“I’m scheduled for like the next three weeks. Plus this isn’t a guy I want to be seen with. He’s not senatorial. For lack of a better word.”
“But you’re okay sending John?” Shafer said.
“John’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”
Wells wondered how dangerous Juan Pablo Montoya really was. No matter. As Duto’s emissary, Wells should be safe. Anyway, the trip would take his mind off Anne. “You sure you want to waste your favor on this? Using me as a messenger boy for some two-bit narco.”
Duto nodded.
“Then Guatemala City it is.”
So: a new assignment. He wouldn’t be going back to New Hampshire.
Wells wanted to pretend he felt something other than relief. He couldn’t.