Blowback (27 page)

Six glowing dots
of light moved across the otherwise black screen inside the National Counterterrorism Center situation room at Liberty Crossing in (the ever-expanding) Tysons Corner, Virginia. Vanessa pressed back hard in her seat at this view of SAD team one moving into ground position one-half mile from the Iranian underground facility.

On a second screen, a convoy of three SUVs kicked up threads of dust visible in their headlights as they raced across the Iranian moonscape just miles from the facility.

On a third screen, the glowing dots of SAD team two spread out awaiting the convoy's approach on a dirt road that was made visible only because of faint, snaking tire ruts.

Twelve people, two teams, taking on the risk thousands of miles away while their respective crew chiefs commanded from Pakistan—and Vanessa and the others watched the live-action feed of Operation Ghost Hunt via satellite relayed by AWAC, the USAF's Boeing E-3 Sentry.

1710 hours in D.C.

0140 hours in Iran.

The dots of team one, clustered until now, began to spread out.

On track so far—twelve minutes and counting.

A burst of static chatter caught the room off guard, and Vanessa wasn't the only one who flinched in the small theater. On her left, Zoe sat rigid except for the manic vibration of her foot. To her right, Eduardo, charged with running the video feed, focused intently on his netbook. The DDO had his spot front and center. The palpable collective tension made it hard to breathe.

There was nothing any of them could do now but watch.

An hour ago, Chris had entered the room, staking out a seat on a corner desktop, after moving two bursting-to-the-top burn bags to the floor. He'd looked for her in the group.

On the first screen, the six dots of team one kept moving, and in her mind, she heard each officer's controlled breathing and the muffled crunch of their boots on sand.

Folks were putting themselves on the line, and it was too late to think about Bhoot, if he was actually in one of the convoy SUVs rapidly approaching the team two ambush site. So she sucked back her anxiety and focused on the lights of team one as they spread out, roughly delineating a forty-five-degree angle along the facility's power supply.

Instinctively, Vanessa pulled up straight, her fingernails driving into the white binder on her lap. Without fully breaking focus from the action, she noted the time—0145 hours in Iran.

Still on track—seven minutes until they hit the power lines.

The rightness of the mission rushed through her—
Arash gave his life for this.

Finally, they would realize his intel. This was their chance to get Bhoot—what a coup that would be—and their break to get an inside view of the facility, its technology and equipment. They could get answers to so many questions. Had the Iranians resurrected the program using UD3, uranium deuteride, to test a neutron initiator? If so, how close to full production were they? And was Bhoot in a full and unprecedented business partnership with a powerful member of the Revolutionary Guard?

It wasn't every day that reason and subtlety won over military shock and awe.

Both teams had pulled close to their final positions, moving in, now roughly a quarter-mile away from their actual targets—the facility power lines and the road. In less than six minutes, if everything stayed on track, each member of team one would be using a modified bow and arrow to shoot carbon fibers up and over the lines. Objective: to completely blow out the facility's electrical grid. Team two would use IEDs to create a section of temporarily impassible road.

Her heartbeat accelerated, and she noted just peripherally the quickening of Zoe's breathing. She found herself looking toward Chris—this was a great moment for all of them, regardless of what had happened between them. She saw him lean down to catch something from the DDO, and when Chris glanced around the room, his sharpened features revealed high-wire energy.

A second burst of audio fractured the silence—the crew chief's flat, hard voice ordering:
“Abort. Abort. Repeat—Abort.”

Vanessa pushed up against the arms of her seat, her body rigid.

She heard the DDO ordering NCTC's communications officer: “Get me SecDef.”

She thought she heard Zoe's agonized whisper: “What the hell!”

On-screen, the tiny lights of the SAD teams drew back and away from their targets—and then they dimmed abruptly to black.

Seconds later, new lights streaked across the screen, and then the black ignited with the unmistakable heat of massive explosions.

In a moment of stunned silence, the realization slammed through Vanessa—
My God, they're bombing!

She bolted to standing, aware that Chris and the DDO were on their feet—the others, too—unable to resist the pull to watch the unthinkable drama unfolding on-screen.

At the same time, a chorus of phones began ringing simultaneously.

The entire screen lit up as bombs obliterated the facility.
Where the hell were the SAD teams? Were they safe? And who was bombing?

Without warning, all three screens went to black—communications shut down.

And then a harsh voice next to her amid the confusion—Eduardo hissing, “Is it Mossad or us? What the fuck just happened?”

Vanessa couldn't take her eyes from the screens, and she could barely breathe.
Where was Bhoot? Had the convoy turned back, or had they been annihilated, too?

•   •   •

Three hours
and fifteen minutes later, Vanessa and CPD learned that the Pentagon had authorized a tactical U.S. air strike against the underground Iranian facility. Both Agency SAD teams had managed to safely retreat—and they had already crossed the border out of Iran. Those behind the strike considered it a great success.

No word yet on how many in the facility were killed, how much “collateral damage.” No way to know if Bhoot was among the dead. Iran's defense minister was blaming Israel and the United States for “invading Iranian airspace and attacking a target inside Iran's Baluchestan Province.” The attack set off the anticipated condemnations not only from Iran but from its allies, Russia, Syria, and Lebanon's militant group, Hezbollah.

Over the coming hours and days, all parties would be paying very close attention to the fallout from the attack.

Deputy National Security Adviser Allen Jeffreys and his militant bomb Iran lobby in the Pentagon and its allies in the militant think tanks around Washington had won the round.

Vanessa nudged on the accelerator
of the rented Mercedes coupe convertible until she felt the smooth burst of the 400-horsepower turbocharged V8. Traffic on I-95 had been unexpectedly light on her return trip from a town in the middle of Long Island. She'd gone to visit Arash's widow and daughter. Zari had lit up when she saw Vanessa and the plush toy kitten she'd brought. Yassi's welcome had been cooler. But now four and a half months pregnant, she had softened in many ways.

“You and your baby are good?” Vanessa asked, and Yassi's smile stretched so her delicate, perfect teeth glistened in sunlight.

“A boy, and his name is Arash,” Yassi said. She blinked back tears when Vanessa gave her the embroidered silk bag she'd bought to hold Arash's personal possessions—finally released by Agency analysts. But when Zari was showing off her cartwheels on the lawn and the women were seated together in wicker chairs, Vanessa quietly delivered her message: “The man who killed Arash is dead.”

Yassi's expression shifted then, altered by a quickening of emotions—fierce satisfaction, the constancy of grief, and, at the same time, profound release. “You were there? You saw this for yourself?” Yassi asked, her eyes never leaving Zari, her hands clapping for her daughter's somersaults.

“I was there,” Vanessa said—and somehow Yassi heard the message beneath the words. She reached out, took Vanessa's hand, giving it one almost painfully strong squeeze.

Later, when it was time to leave, Vanessa gave Yassi a heavy package wrapped simply in brown paper and twine. Zari did the unwrapping honors, and then her mother carefully took out the beautifully illustrated first-edition signed copy of the Shahnameh, the Khaleghi-Motlagh edition.

“I imagine Zari's already read it in Farsi,” she said, only half-joking. “But this is a beautiful translation, and thanks to Arash, it turned out to be key to our operation.”

As Vanessa drove away, Yassi was playing with her daughter on the lawn.
They will be okay,
she thought. But she was relieved that Yassi hadn't pressed her to say more about Arash's assassin; she'd killed the man who pulled the trigger, but she was still tracking the man who ordered the hit.

As she neared Route 267, she eased in and out of two lanes, wind whipping her hair, sun on her skin. It was October, and the leaves on the sugar maples cast their fiery red-golden glow over this edge of the world.

Vanessa was on her way to Dulles to catch her flight to Nicosia, where she had a job to do. But this time she wasn't under directive to close up shop. For the past three weeks since the shocking end of Operation Ghost Hunt, she'd spent hours in the subterranean Agency archives, going through boxes and examining their dusty contents: accordion files stuffed with documents, floppy drives and cassette tapes, photographs with handwritten notations—old bones of the previous century's intelligence.

As far as the Agency and CPD were concerned, Bhoot was presumed dead.

Or he was missing. To date, they'd had verification from an asset on the identity of three sets of human remains found in the rubble. Two of the dead were from the facility's night maintenance crew; the third had been an engineer working late. There were more victims to be found—at least five workers unaccounted for—but three Iranian families had been notified about their loved ones.

As for Bhoot, Vanessa believed he was alive.

She'd spent most of her hours tracking the link between the Chechen sniper and Bhoot. She learned that the Chechen had gone by the name Pauk. And her persistence had paid off.

Now on Route 267 to Dulles, she passed a DOT exit sign for Clarks Crossing Road, a stop she needed to make before continuing on to the airport. She guided the Mercedes onto the exit ramp, before turning sharply onto Clarks Crossing Road to a large, almost deserted commuter parking area.

A dark green Chevy Impala sat idling near the center of the lot. She guided the Mercedes toward it carefully, until she could clearly see Khoury through the open driver's-side window. She circled around him, and then she pulled parallel, nose to tail, their windows facing each other with only inches between them. She reached out first, and he didn't hesitate—he took her hand and held it.

She felt the weight of the distance between them, and she tried to bridge it, keeping her voice and words light. “You look better than you did the last time I saw you at Headquarters.”

“That's because my polygraph isn't scheduled until this afternoon. This is the third poly in as many months.”

“Damn it, Khoury, damn them, they have no grounds.” Vanessa's throat tightened in anger that the Agency would attack her lover, her friend. She knew the reality—the cloud of suspicion and accusation ruined careers. There didn't need to be truth behind any of the rumors and innuendo. The damage could get done with lies.

“Why didn't you tell me you were under investigation?” she asked, almost pleading.

“I tried.” With a shrug, he let his fingers slide from hers.

“Cairo,” she said, knowing the exact moment. “I'm sorry—I let it go.”

“I know.” He waited to continue while a jet passed overhead. When the engine noise faded, he spoke quietly, without heat or accusation in his tone. “But you were fine asking me to take risks for you, Vanessa. It's not the same for me, and it never will be—I'm Muslim, my parents were born in Lebanon, some of my cousins work with Hezbollah or else they're sympathizers. There's no way you can truly understand that.”

“Then why did you agree?” As soon as the childish words were out, she knew the answer. He loved her, and he would do almost anything because of that fact. It was her job to recognize the line between what she could ask and what was forbidden.

She heard him say, “I've got to go. Polygraph.”

She reached for his hand again and caught it. She said, “They are worse than fools to doubt you in any way. They're stupid, and they abuse their power, and it's wrong—” Her voice broke, and tears were hot behind her eyes.

“Hey, we'll get through it,” Khoury said.

His hand felt warm and strong, and she twined her fingers through his. A car turned into the lot, cruising past them slowly. “Khoury, when will I see you?”

He shook his head. “We'll figure it out.” He pulled her hand gently toward his window, leaning out awkwardly to attempt a kiss. But his lips smacked air. It made her smile.

He let go of her, settled behind the wheel, and shifted. As the Impala inched forward, he said, “I'll contact you when I can. We have to be very careful.”

She nodded, still leaning her head out the window to watch him go. She called out, “I love you,” and thought she saw him turn to look at her once more. And then he was gone.

•   •   •

In the business-class lounge
at Dulles, Vanessa claimed a seat off in a corner, away from the fairly busy flow of travelers coming and going. Her flight had already been delayed for forty-five minutes. Not a good omen. At least the lounge attendant had promised to keep her updated.

She'd picked up some magazines at a kiosk—airports were the only places she gave in to magazines like
Vogue
and
People
. She'd save her copy of
Gourmet
for the flight. But even as she thumbed through the glossy pages, she scanned the room with habitual vigilance.

When they announced her flight would be pushed back an hour, she knew she should get into gear and book a better flight on another airline. But the exhaustion of the months seemed to pull her down like an anchor. She closed her eyes, just for a few seconds . . .

•   •   •

“Miss?”
Someone was tapping on her arm. Someone—she bolted up.

“Oh, I'm sorry I startled you.” One of the lounge attendants was watching her with concern.

“What time is it?”

“They are just calling your flight,” he said, and she heard the faintest Oklahoma panhandle accent, just barely. “It's ten after seven.”

“Thanks for waking me,” she told him, already on her feet. She hefted her carry-on with her good arm and headed for the exit.

“But you've left something, Miss.”

Vanessa pivoted to see the attendant holding a bookmarked paperback.

She started to shake her head—but something stopped her. “Thanks, I'm not awake yet.”

She held the book gingerly, stopping at a row of phones on the concourse to examine it.
Great Expectations
by Dickens. When she tapped open the cover, the bookmark slipped out. It was a ferry ticket from Turkey to Cyprus, dated two days before Sergei's murder. A candid picture of her had been glued to the other side. At first she didn't recognize the location. Then it came to her. The photo had been taken in London—a shot of her standing on the steps of MI5. Beneath the photo, a message had been written neatly, in small, careful script:

Hello, Vanessa. I feel it is time that we get to know each other. You will hear more from me soon.

˜ Bhoot

•   •   •

Seventy minutes later,
seated on board Lufthansa's flight 4536 to Paris, Vanessa stared out at the night sky. She hadn't touched dinner. Instead, she sipped a Bourbon. A worn manila folder rested in her lap. When most of her fellow passengers were asleep, she picked it up carefully. And still she kept the contents sheltered by the half-open folder. Inside, a photo from CIA Archives: Chechnya, 1996, legendary resistance leader Ibn al-Khattab astride a downed Russian Mi-8 helicopter; he is flanked by three other fighters, two of Middle Eastern descent (their AK-47s raised in the air), the third a scrawny, young Chechen, barely out of his teens. (She was almost positive the boy was Pauk: his Slavic cheekbones, the long-distance stare.) A fifth man, fit and muscled, stands aboard the helicopter's runner, his weapon held at his waist. His face has been cut from the photograph.

But what caught Vanessa's eye the first time she pulled it from a box she'd dragged from behind at least six other boxes down in Archives were his hands. Pale and delicate, fingers long and tapered, the hands of a musician or an artist, not the weathered hands of a rebel fighter.

What happened to you, Bhoot? How did you find your calling to sell massive death and destruction to the highest bidder? And, most important, what have you set your sights on now?

She slipped the photo back inside the folder on her lap. She took a final sip of the whiskey and set the glass on the empty seat next to her. She closed her eyes, letting the faces and the voices come to her—the people she'd lost in the last few months, and the people she loved, the ghosts and others from so very long ago. A child's soft wail rose up, and then almost as quickly fell away to silence—but it wasn't a cry from her dreams. It was a child and mother, seated a few rows away. Vanessa settled back into her seat, but now her eyes were open. She was awake.