The Last Spymaster (34 page)

At the top of the stairs, she and Jay turned down the hall together. She lengthened her stride to match his. But then in the quiet, she heard Billy’s voice again, his heartbreaking plea to Jerry to spare his life, and the muffled
pop
of the bullet that killed him. Her breath caught in her throat. She remembered the description of Pavel Abendroth’s assassination in the CIA’s list of Jay’s treacheries—it had launched Jay’s career as a mole.

She looked across at him and worked to keep her tone neutral. “Tell me about Dr. Abendroth.”

“What about him?”

“Did you have him assassinated?”

As they continued on, she kept glancing at him.

His profile was granite. “And if I did?”

“I . . .” She was speechless. She had expected him to deny it. She wanted to shout,
Why!
The question ricocheted through her brain, but she had told him she would not ask why again.

And he did not offer. “Good night. Get some sleep.” He vanished into his room.

Northern Virginia

In the distance, traffic on Route 7 rumbled. Watching all around the lit parking lot, Ben Kuhnert ran to the mosque’s porch, yanked off his shoes, and stepped inside, hoping he was not too late. He sped through the ritual washing of hands and face at the
hamam
then hurried to the imam’s office and through to the private patio.

When he saw Imam Mustafa Nawwi, he exhaled with relief—the coffee and tea ceremony had not begun. He calmed himself, showing no sign of his worry that he could extract information from the imam about the identities of any terrorists involved in Mr. G’s deal.

Surprised, Mustafa stared, the carafe in one hand.
“Salam, Binyamin. Ahlan wa-sahlan!”
It was a Bedouin expression: Our house is as open to you as the plain. “You’re just in time. Let me serve you.”

“
Salam,
Mustafa. It’s good to see you, too.” The spicy scent of the cardamom-flavored brew steamed in the cool dawn air.

Like a saint from the past, Mustafa Nawwi was cadaverous and dark-bearded, dressed in his usual long black robe. He took two cups from a cupboard above the high table, poured, and handed coffee to Ben.

Because Mustafa had poured first, it was his responsibility to speak first: “I remember when we were boys, and your
khall
visited from Jerusalem. He’s the one who taught us this tradition. We were such Americans.”

“I’m still American, Mustafa,” Ben said quietly. “But I’m also Muslim. If you don’t feel American, why do you stay?” He knew the answer, and from it he hoped to build his argument.

“Ah, but I do feel very American. We have no disagreement, except that you want me to turn against some of my flock. But they’re not accountable to me, Ben—only to Allah. I see now why you haven’t been here in months. I’m saddened.”

Following the imam’s lead, Ben tipped back his head and drank. The coffee was as hot as the desert and as bitter as disappointment, cleansing the palate and the soul. Each step in the ritual had a purpose, each reflected a Bedouin philosophy of life. Many bloody fights on the sands had been averted in this way. By using the traditions of the ancient ceremony, Ben was gambling he could persuade his old friend to give him information about the arms deal.

It was Ben’s turn. He poured and returned the imam’s cup. Now he would speak first. “Ideas are one thing. Actions entirely different. I’ve shown you evidence—all on the public record. They’re fanatics claiming jihad as an excuse to murder anyone who won’t follow them, while you and I know the truth is in the Koran—‘Thy task is only to exhort; thou cannot compel them to believe.’ ”

Mustafa’s olive features were thoughtful. But then he frowned. “Still, it’s not for me to judge their sincerity.”

“Don’t you think we have a responsibility to stop evil, old friend? You and I know the essence of Allah’s laws is justice for all of humanity.”

Mustafa looked at him sharply. “You didn’t come here at this early hour to debate, Ben. What’s happened?”

“I’ve been doing some contract work for State and stumbled onto an illegal weapons deal.” The State Department was his longtime cover. “And it’s in the District. The objective could be anywhere nearby. A block away. Even here at the mosque. You know they target nonextremist Muslims now.”

As the imam’s face sobered, Ben faced east, toward Mecca. The imam joined him, their shoulders touching, the physicality to remind them that humanity was a community, its diversity necessary and beautiful.

As they drank the last of the strong brew, Ben said a silent prayer that his argument had penetrated.

The imam set their cups aside and poured tea—sweet mint, symbolizing life itself—into two tiny cups. This was the only tea, and the end of the ritual. As they drank, Ben felt a chill of worry, wondering about Mustafa’s decision. When their cups were empty, they set them on the high table and hugged, pounding each other’s back.

It was the imam’s turn to resume the conversation. As Ben watched anxiously, the cleric stepped back. He crossed his arms, his expression grave.

“As Bedouins, the sands of the desert run like blood through our veins,” he said thoughtfully. “I spent quite a bit of time with our tribe when I was in Jordan. Their lives are hard, but they live in joy by praising Allah for what every moment brings. They feel showered by Allah’s love—not hate.” He hesitated, then nodded to himself. “You’re right—we’ve allowed extremists to redefine Islam not just to the world but to too many of us.” He squared his shoulders. “Stay for the prayer service, Ben. Afterward I’ll give you the name of a person who may know something.”

Washington, D.C.

Inside his redbrick Federalist house, Laurence Litchfield hurried downstairs through the morning’s gloom. He turned on the lights in his office and sat at his desk. Behind him, his grandfather clock ticked softly. Above him, his wife and children slept. He liked the quiet, the lack of any activity but his own, the sense of complete ownership.

It had been one hell of a night, dismally capped with the news that Ghranditti’s people had lost Jay Tice and Elaine Cunningham in rural Virginia, even though the ambush should have been a slam dunk. Every time he thought about it, he wanted to scrub them himself. Not only were the pair very much alive, Cunningham must realize his role in the failed trap, and if Jay were at his charming best, she might tell him.

Still, all was far from lost. Before he went to bed, he’d had a long talk with the Silver Spring police chief, who understood the importance of national security and would notify him the instant they found Cunningham.

The situation with Raina Manhardt was also hopeful. Her son’s friend in Paris and the Genevois who gave her the security videos of the Milieu Software building had been eliminated. And with a list of her BND identities from Volker Rehwaldt, Alec discovered “Melissa O’Dey” had bought a plane ticket in Geneva. Then when they screened the video record of boarding passengers, Rehwaldt spotted her in disguise.

With a chilly smile, Litchfield turned on his computer and loaded the CD about Jay Tice that Cunningham had ordered compiled. He bypassed a file of e-mails and went straight to the meat—the data about Tice. It had been grouped into categories—people, places, years, missions, and so forth. He skimmed through, pausing occasionally to make a note.

He had just clicked onto Jay’s operations when he heard vehicles pull into his drive. He whirled his chair around and peered out through his ivy-framed window, across the green lawn and the redbrick walks and the goldfish
pond. Jaw clenched, he jumped to his feet, sped out of his office to the front door, and yanked it open.

Nate Harroldsen from Langley’s Office of Security was standing on the brick stoop, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Mr. Litchfield,” he said cheerfully. He had pale blond hair and a broad pug nose. “I saw the light was on in your office, so I figured I wouldn’t ring the bell. Didn’t want to wake anyone else. She wants you to ride into Langley with her.”

Litchfield put a smile on his face while inwardly cursing. In the driveway sat the DCI’s armored black sedan. Behind it was an SUV—her chase car—its blue lights flashing. He smiled wider and nodded toward the sedan’s darkened windows, acknowledging Bobbye Johnson’s presence.

He told Harroldsen, “Give me a minute.”

“She’s in a hurry,” Harroldsen warned.

“Got it,” he said curtly.

He left the front door open and hurried back to his office, shutting that door. As he pulled the CD from his computer, he checked his cell for messages. There was one from Alec St. Ann. As he put the CD into his briefcase, he speed-dialed. While he was with Bobbye, it would be impossible to talk with either Alec or Martin Ghranditti.

His briefcase was fully packed, the electronic lock was activated, and his annoyance was escalating by the time Alec answered.

“Make it fast,” Litchfield snapped. “The DCI’s sitting in my driveway.”

Alec had the audacity to chuckle. “Lucky you.” Then his tones sobered. “Now I believe the stories about Raina Manhardt’s Cold War escapades. She damn well vanished into thin air in the Milan terminal.”

Litchfield swore loudly. “What happened?”

“I sent one of our local ops to make sure she boarded her flight then to ride along to keep an eye on her until we could snatch her in D.C. He picked her up easily, but while they were at the departure gate, she was there one minute and gone the next. He hunted but finally boarded, thinking she might’ve slipped on and was hiding. She wasn’t. So when we got into Milan, my team searched the terminal while Volker and I checked airlines’
manifests. None of her other BND identities is in use. Now we’re in the air. I have no idea whether she’s still flying into Dulles, but we are.”

Before Litchfield could respond, his doorbell sounded. The underused power behind it annoyed him far more than the noise.

Alec heard it, too. “Bobbye Johnson again?”

Litchfield ignored him. He related the names and contact information for the three surviving local Whippet operatives. “I want one at Reagan, one at Dulles, and one at Baltimore. I’ll feed you more people as I can take them off other assignments.”

Without waiting for an answer, he broke the connection and plastered another smile on his face and left. He marched past Harroldsen, hurried down the walk, and slid in next to Bobbye. She handed him a Starbucks venti latte. It was what she drank—not what he liked. She wore a navy skirt suit today, not her usual suit jacket and pants. She had good legs, considering she was at least fifty. Her short auburn mane was perfect, not a hair out of place, swept back from her broad forehead.

He started to thank her for the coffee, but she was already talking: “We’ve got a command performance,” she told him brusquely as the two vehicles backed out of the driveway and rolled away on the secluded street. “The joint intelligence committee is holding a closed session to focus on Jay Tice, Whippet, and Elaine Cunningham.”

He ignored a tremor of worry. “Ah, yes. Just as you predicted.”

She nodded with resignation and drank her latte. “Is there anything you want to tell me about Whippet, Larry?”

A warning sounded in his mind. “Has something else happened?” “I’d appreciate a straight answer to my question.” Her face was so neutral it was almost blank.

“Not that I can think of,” he told her, infusing his words with sincerity.

“Interesting. I’ve already been in to Langley, getting myself up to speed in case I was correct that there’d be a committee hearing. A disturbing report was waiting on my desk. Our financial people went through Whippet’s numbers. Imagine what they discovered. . . .” She drank again, her hands steady, waiting for his response.

He decided she was fishing, hoping he would either confirm what she thought she knew or reveal something she knew nothing about.

Resting his latte on his knee, he put a frown of concern on his face. “I’m sorry, Bobbye, but I can’t think of a thing. Obviously something’s on your mind. Tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”

She stared. Then nodded to herself. “Whippet’s been skimming from most of its front companies. You took the unit under your wing, made them your special team. How could you not have known that?”

He made his eyes radiate shock. “You’re certain? Of course you are, or you wouldn’t have brought it up. Are you saying Hannah was involved? Maybe that’s why Whippet was hit—” He sank back and gazed out the window, thinking rapidly. He had known about the embezzlement from the beginning and had used it as both cudgel and candy to keep Hannah under his thumb.

“Get used to having me around, Larry,” the DCI told him as they cruised past the White House. “Today, we’re cemented at the hip. Something rancid is in the air, and you’re going to help me uncover it.”

Miami Beach, Florida

Marie Ghranditti stood at the plate-glass mirror that extended the length of her bathroom. Her eyes were blue. Not green—
blue
. With the snap of her wrist, she pulled the towel from her head. Slowly she smiled at herself. Her wet hair was dark brown, almost black now. She would never have the same nose or chin or cheekbones as before, but at least the dye had given her the hair color she remembered.

She turned her head, listening. Quiet terror flooded her. Martin had returned to their bedroom. Quickly she wrapped the towel around her hair and put in her contacts. She looked away from the mirror. She could not bear to see “her” green eyes. They belonged to a dead woman.