The Last Spymaster (36 page)

“I’ve reason to believe a large consignment of contraband weapons and matériel is being transferred today somewhere near here,” Ben told him. “Its destination could be anywhere, including international. What I’d like to know is who’s buying, where it’s going, and exactly when and where it’ll change hands.”

An angry murmur rumbled through the throng. Gul Shah allowed the menacing growl to escalate. His intense pale eyes fixed again on Ben, considering. Ben breathed evenly, quieting his racing pulse.

At last Shah raised his AK-47 high above his head and shook it. Instantly,
the noise stopped. He addressed Ben: “Did Imam Nawwi say why he thought we’d have access to that, or why we’d give it to you if we did?”

“I doubt he knew,” Ben admitted.

The warlord pursed his lips. There was something about the answer he liked. “What did he tell you about us?”

“You were born in this country or came as very young children. You’re Americans. Pashtun Americans. That’s all.” Their people were from the wild and often lawless frontier that sprawled over both sides of the towering mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan.

Gul Shah motioned to Ben’s three escorts. “Bring him.”

While the others watched the warlord and stranger disappear into the hut, one guerrilla melted back into the forest. He wore an ash-colored turban and carried a British Bullpup assault rifle. He crouched for a time in shadows until he was sure no one had followed, then he pulled a cell phone from the folds of his
shalwar
and dialed.

When his boss answered, the guerrilla gave his code name: “This is Methuselah.”

“Report.” “Ben Kuhnert’s resurfaced.” He quoted Kuhnert’s question about a shipment of arms. “No one in his right mind would walk unarmed into this camp unless it was critical—or he was nuts. Kuhnert’s behaving very serious. Since you didn’t warn me, my guess is he’s not on your payroll.”

“That’s right, but the intel’s interesting. Tell me more.”

Since the response was slightly off point, Methuselah listened until he discerned the faint sounds of a keyboard’s being tapped and a running car engine.

“You can’t talk, can you?” Methuselah decided.

“Abu Dhabi is a good place to lay over. Then where will you go?”

“Okay, got it. So you’re saying Kuhnert’s freelancing, and we don’t know what he’s up to. If Gul Shah catches Kuhnert in a lie, he’ll make sure he’s buried under the pines where no one will find him. You want me to make that happen?”

“Detained, I’d say.”

“That could still get him scrubbed, Chief.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Understood.” Methuselah turned off his cell and glided back through the trees.

Washington, D.C.

The morning’s early clouds had vanished, leaving the sky a brittle blue. Old magnolia trees and oaks cast long shadows across the rolling lawns of Capitol Hill. Litchfield and Bobbye Johnson hurried through the shade toward her armored sedan.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t fire you.” Bobbye’s mouth was a thin, ominous line.

Laurence Litchfield felt a wave of disquiet. The DCI was one of the few people in federal government who by law had unconditional authority to hire and fire without giving reason, to protect the security of the agency. He needed to survive only another day, then he would have the wherewithal to oust her.

“Because after what just happened, you’d look petty,” he said kindly, feeling a moment of pity. “And because you already sleep with the dead. You know your time’s up. Hell, it’s all to your credit you’ve lasted as long as you have, especially considering Jay Tice was arrested after you took the helm, and that Defense has been swiping more and more of Langley’s prerogatives while whispering bedroom promises in the Oval Office. You haven’t been able to stop that or the constant insults to Langley’s ability, integrity, and product. What I don’t know is why you hang on.”

Her driver stood at her rear door, holding it open. She climbed inside, while Litchfield hurried around and got in next to her.

She studied him appraisingly. “I stay because good-citizen backyard barbecuers like Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen lived lives of inestimable deceit. Because the politically ambitious wrap themselves in religion and use their god’s name to justify their personal lust for power. Because until peace drapes itself over this sorry old world, independent intelligence and analysis are critical.”

The sedan glided off, heading downhill toward the Potomac River. As she gazed away, he sensed a deep well of sadness, or perhaps disappointment.

She spoke to the world drifting past their windows: “And because someone whose only self-interest is three squares and a hot shower has to stand against the forces that look upon Langley as if it were a holiday roast, to be sliced and passed out to the greedy who buy places at the front of the line. Yes, Defense is on a campaign to militarize intelligence, but I’m holding them back better than anyone I know could—including you. Your sense of entitlement is bottomless, Larry. Trust me, the tide will turn, and someone like me needs to be at Langley’s helm, as you put it, to make certain we help the ship of state right itself.”

Taken aback, he said nothing. He busied himself by pulling out his laptop and reloading it with the Jay Tice CD. He had been working on it off and on, whenever there was a lull as they unearthed Whippet’s black history. Once he had explained what he was doing, she did not interrupt again. He was convinced the answer to where Jay would go was in his relationships with operatives—and that meant it was probably on the CD somewhere.

“Your turn,” she said sweetly.

But he was saved, at least for the moment—his cell rang. “Do you mind?”

“Fine. But we’re not finished.”

He nodded and answered the call.

“This is Methuselah,” the voice announced.

Methuselah was one of the undercover operatives Litchfield had personally sent to infiltrate U.S. cells of Islamic extremists. The men reported directly to him and only to him. He had learned how crucial such a firewall was from Jay Tice, and the tactic had paid off. His spies not only survived, a year ago three had relayed intel that had led to his discovery of the Majlis al-Sha’b.

He glanced at Bobbye, who was watching him quizzically. But as soon as he said into the cell phone, “Report,” she inclined her head, understanding.

The voice spoke coolly: “Ben Kuhnert’s resurfaced.”

Litchfield frowned. Ben Kuhnert was retired—what was he doing there? He listened closely as Methuselah repeated what Kuhnert had told Gul Shah about an arms shipment—it could easily be Ghranditti’s deal. Litchfield thought fast. Kuhnert was one of the longtime NOCs who had worked with Jay in Europe. He typed the name into the laptop and ordered a search. Dozens of abstracts appeared of operations to which both had been assigned. He needed to narrow them. He ran another search, this time for missions that included Palmer Westwood. There were far fewer.

After Methuselah ended his report and severed the connection, Litchfield continued to speak occasionally into the phone so Bobbye would not realize he was buying time. He checked the trio’s joint missions—and stopped at DEADAIM. West Berlin, 1985. He had read the news reports at the time, but never the file. His gaze froze on “cut up a gold carnival medal so the five could identify one another.”

In his mind, he could see the triangular pendant Jay used to wear on a chain under his shirt. He recalled thinking at the time it was important to Jay, and now that he had read about DEADAIM, he understood why. But did it still matter? Because if so, the other old men mattered, too.

Again he ran a search, this time for the addresses of Elijah Helprin, Ben Kuhnert, and Frank Mesa. He did not bother with Palmer Westwood, since Langley was looking for him. Information about the three appeared at once. Yes, all lived in Northern Virginia, where CIA retirees and employees peppered the landscape.

Litchfield said a brisk good-bye into the dial tone. He needed to call Ghranditti with the news, which meant he had to get rid of Bobbye.

She was studying him. “All right, Larry. What in God’s name are you up to?”

He continued to scan the abstracts as if he found nothing compelling. “Right now, I’m working on that CD of information about Jay Tice. And I’m thinking it’d be a good plan to stop at a service station whether we need gas or not. It’s at least a half hour more to Langley, and I could use a restroom. How about it?”

“Nate’s the driver. Tell him.”

He did then caught her gaze probing him again. He infused his voice with compassion: “I admire you, Bobbye, but honesty isn’t enough for your job. DCIs also must be visionary and daring. Willing to gamble. But you’ve had too many bridges blown out under you, and you’re tired. You avoid risk. My advice is you should move on before you’re asked to.”

Her voice dropped twenty degrees. “What
are
you up to, Larry?” she repeated.

He looked directly into her chilly eyes. “I’m doing my job. That’s all that I’m up to. Right now I’m your DDO, and I’m damn good at it; otherwise, you really would fire me.” He felt a rush of excitement as he saw a service station. “And you’re wrong about what you call my sense of entitlement. All I’ve ever wanted was what was best for Langley. Stop over there, Nate,” he told the driver. “That one will do.” Then to Bobbye: “We both want only what’s best for the country.”

Before she could respond, he was out of the car and heading to the restroom, where he could lock the door and call Ghranditti.

The Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia

Gul Shah’s airy hut was both an office and a communications center. Sunlight flowed in through the two large windows, illuminating equipment and creating a chiaroscuro of shadows in the corners. Four wireless computers sat on desks next to satellite phones, landline phones, and wireless radios. Maps of Asia and the Middle East covered one wall. A second wall was devoted exclusively to maps of Afghanistan—evidence that more was at work here than nostalgia.

“Naswar?”

At the sound of Shah’s invitation, Ben turned. It would be impolite to say no.
“Manena,”
he said in Pashtu, expressing his gratitude.

The warlord removed a mirrored lid and extended a circular steel tin packed with moist
naswar
—a green chewing tobacco made with ash, indigo, cardamom, and water, which was popular in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Ben rolled some into a ball and tucked it between his cheek and gum. Almost instantly he felt the heady kick.

“We have a saying in Pashtu,” Shah said. “Perhaps you’ve heard it—watch the walk of a man who says he comes in peace.”

Ben peered at him then turned to a map of Afghanistan. Wide arrows swept up from the southwest, indicating invasions by the Persians then the Greeks long before the birth of Christ, then the British in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Arrows down from the north meant more conquerors—Mongols and Moguls in the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries, then the Soviet Union just twenty-six years ago. Finally, an arrow up from the southeast stood for Britain in the years India was a lucrative jewel in her empire’s crown. Some victors stayed centuries; still, the Pashtun never really capitulated.

Ben gestured. “Here’s the tragedy of Afghanistan: Invasion. Resistance. Invasion. It’s no secret the new government’s on the verge of imploding, and the Taliban are regaining strength and want to retake the country.” He walked to the window that overlooked the clearing. In pairs, men were practicing knife attacks. He looked back at the office, where no religious items were displayed. “You’ve got something planned, and it has more to do with your being Pashtun than Muslim. My guess is the reason you’re still listening to me is the contraband shipment involves not only my enemies—but yours.”

“Jihadists.” Shah’s lip curled with disgust. He paced the floor. “Pashtunwali is our ancient code of laws. If you don’t live by it, you’re no Pashtun. But it’s kept my people bickering in the mountains while others run the country, even though we’re the majority. Only tribesmen such as ourselves can convince the tribes.”

“You intend to convince them with M-16s?” Ben asked curiously.

“Violence isn’t the first answer. But only a Pashtun with a weapon is respected. That shows how much the tribes have to modernize.”

“Then it makes sense you tell me about the shipment.”

“You’re damn right.” Shah stopped. There was fire in his eyes. “I don’t have the details of time or place, or even who the seller is. But I’ve heard rumors. With what you tell me, I know the buyer now. They call themselves the Majlis al-Sha’b. They approached us to join about a year ago, but we turned them down. They present themselves as a combination U.N. and
NATO for revolutionary groups. The vision took off like a Hellfire missile, and now the Majlis represent some twenty major organizations. Their treasury is a fat two trillion dollars.”

Ben’s throat was dry. That was more than the gross national product of all but a handful of countries. “Have the Taliban joined?”

Shah nodded. “That makes it inevitable the Majlis will do everything they can to stop us in Afghanistan. This arms deal is supposed to give the Majlis all the firepower they need to do whatever they want.” Shah’s sun-carved face was troubled. “Then not just us but the whole world really needs to watch out.”