For Honor, page 15
part #17 of Tom Clancy's Op-Center Series
“On the surface, an Iranian was telling us not to help Ghasemi or next time the shots wouldn’t miss,” Bankole said. “But I’m not buying it.”
“Why?” Anne asked.
“Because how did they even know Ghasemi was there? How did he know to watch Quantico?”
“They may have been watching all likely locations,” Anne said. “Jim Wright reports that thirty-six hours ago there was a big uptick of people coming and going at Pakistan’s embassy, folks we ID’ed as members of the Interests Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran based there.”
Jim Wright was the domestic crisis manager, former FBI, and a close friend of both McCord and Kim. One of his responsibilities was to keep track of the comings and goings of hostile personnel from embassies and the nations harbored therein with which Washington has no official diplomatic relations.
“Watching several facilities suggests standard operating procedure,” Anne said. “Whereas…”
“If they only watched Quantico, then they had to know where we were taking the general,” Williams said.
“And we would have known they knew, meaning there’s a leak,” Bankole added.
Williams looked from Anne to Bankole. “When Ghasemi gets here, we’re going to ask him about that. And we’re going to ask January what access he has had to any devices.”
“You think he’s a plant,” Anne said.
“I haven’t a clue,” Williams admitted. “All I know is that the Iranians like to chew up resources by wearing them down on the wrong target. They tied us up in Iraq and Syria and Afghanistan, consumed countless hours and personnel by forcing us to deal with improvised explosive devices instead of the Taliban or ISIS. And the IEDs themselves forced us to move slower. General Ghasemi could be all of that in one person.”
“But there could be a twist here,” Bankole said. “He could be exactly what he says he isn’t. A spy.”
“‘The Purloined Letter,’” Anne said. Off the questioning looks of the others she explained, “Classic Edgar Allan Poe story about everyone searching for a letter with compromising information. The whole time it was out in the open, in a card rack. Same thing here—hide in plain sight. The general tells us his mission, the one he supposedly scrapped, then fulfills it anyway.”
Bankole shook his head. “We don’t know that. The sniper may have gotten the information some other way.”
“Not through ELINT,” Anne said. “Pakistan’s Attaché Defense Procurement Bhutta has assured the DoD that Tehran only has personnel at the embassy, nothing more.”
“And they believe him because…?” Bankole asked.
“He is Punjabi, wisely mistrusts Iran, and wants naval upgrades from the U.S.”
Williams sighed. “All right. We’ve got”—he looked at his computer—“about an hour until January gets here with our guest. Anne, make sure Aaron and Kathleen stick around, and let’s make certain Jim and Brian are available.”
“I don’t know that we’ll have a lot of time,” Anne told them. “January said the general hasn’t gotten much sleep.”
Williams considered that for a moment, then replied, “I don’t think we’ll need a lot of time.”
“You have an idea?” she asked.
“Working on one,” he replied.
Anne knew better than to press the director; when he had something to share, he would do so. She also did not see Williams and Bankole exchange a look, one that was charged with decades of hard-won military experience—and wisdom. There were two schools of thought about sleep deprivation. First, the traditional and obvious view, that it lowered the resistance of prisoners undergoing interrogation. But the second, more modern view—espoused by trained military psychologists—was that it was easier to determine when a rested captive was lying or probing for information himself. One could see the captive listening. What they responded to, what made them alert, what made them leave one topic and go to another—all were valuable indicators of what an enemy knew or suspected. Both men also knew there were third, fourth, and fifth approaches. Torture was frowned upon in Washington, if not elsewhere on the globe. Two rounds of waterboarding or electric shock, a few hours apart, and information would flow. If the prisoner were lying, they rarely remembered what they said to make the torture stop and invariably told two different stories. If they were telling the truth, the stories were the same. Neither Williams nor Bankole had ever gone that route—not for the sake of a prisoner but for their own postwar state of mind. Combat was dehumanizing enough without adding willful abuse to the list of activities branded on their souls.
Psychoactive drugs were a fourth option, but the data recovered was often disjointed falling into narrow windows of opportunity between three categories: cloudiness, calmness, or amnesia. Initial dosages varied from person to person and the effects lingered in the system, making subsequent injections even less reliable.
But there was the fifth option, and with that last remark Williams had just let Bankole know he might be willing to take it.
“Anne, I’m going to go see Aaron,” Williams said, already heading out the door.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“I need him to find me something,” he replied. “Let me know when the chopper touches down.”
Anne looked at Bankole who wore a search-me expression as he followed the director out, headed to his own office. Anne lingered a moment to check on both Ghasemi and the status of Roger McCord’s trip to Cuba. Ghasemi was being transferred by helicopter, not only in the interest of time but for the sake of security. Until the Quantico shooter was found, watches would be placed along the roadway to secure traffic going to and from the base. Matt Berry had been able to get McCord on a diplomatic flight leaving from Reagan International at eight P.M. The United States was making two trips daily, firming political and economic ties with the island nation. Though McCord would have to wait for his paperwork to be emailed over, at least he would be in the country.
As she headed back to her own office, Anne thought of another Poe story that suddenly seemed relevant: “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” also featuring sleuth C. Auguste Dupin. This one was about a bank clerk who is interrogated for crimes to which he has no connection, other than knowing the two victims. The same might be true with the general.
But it was also true that the work they did here demanded several different approaches to a problem, which spoke to the point about the resources consumed by intelligence operations. One reason Chase Williams had proven to be such an effective force here—and the bête noire of bureaucrats elsewhere, she thought—is that whatever he came up with invariably cut through a lot of budget-swelling, effort-duplicating waste, and achieved what they were all here to do:
Protect the nation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SIGINT Base, Lourdes, Cuba
July 1, 7:17 P.M.
Adoncia Bermejo was always extremely happy when she was able to apply the principles of her work to daily life. That used to happen a lot, with Castro—particular Newtonian physics such as a military action against them creating an equal and opposite reaction or nature abhorring a vacuum—typically an open space that proved too tempting to Batista’s soldiers.
In nuclear physics, fission was the splitting of an atomic nucleus into lighter nuclei, thus emitting energy. Today, her unexpected guest Enrich Sanjulian was about to allow another foundational concept to be put to use.
Pulling on a kerchief and leaving the apartment after an hour, she walked through along the side of the building away from where the fire had been. The concrete sidewalk and adjoining grasses were wet with runoff from the infrequently used hoses that did not fit very well on old, rusted hydrants. The air had the taste of charred wood and burned paper: the smoke had begun to settle to the ground carrying the odor of the most combustible materials with it. She covered her mouth with the neckerchief—odd, she thought, given how much she loved cigars and yet found a similar smell so unpleasant. She passed the parking lot where she kept her old Rambler.
Adoncia’s destination was a small office that still had the old sign that read JUNTA DE PLANIFICACIÓN CENTRAL above the door. Even though that central planning board had been dismantled in 1993, there was nostalgia for everything-Revolutionary among the small team of Lourdes’s Cuban managers. So the sign stayed. And it still applied: anything that was needed from Havana, by Russian or Cuban workers, was sent through this office.
“Good evening, Chano,” she said as she greeted the sixty-two-year-old clerk. “Exciting day.”
His expression told her he would have been happier not to have to fill out forms on his laptop—a daunting enough task for someone who disliked paperwork in general, more when it wasn’t on paper at all.
“Is there something you need, Dr. Bermejo?” he asked impatiently. “I have to requisition—it’s too much to explain,” he decided. “But we need upgrades in our equipment.”
“So the little rivers told me,” she said.
It took him a moment to understand, part of that distraction because he hadn’t stopped typing. “Not just the hydrants and hoses but what was burned. They’re still sending me emails.”
“Then I won’t keep you long,” she said. “I need a pass for someone to visit.”
Chano Rodriguez was immediately wary. It was his job to be careful. “Who?”
“You must not tell anyone if I tell you,” she said.
He stopped typing. “Who?” he repeated. Now he was more interested than wary.
“Alberto Guevara.” She waited for the name to register before adding, “A cousin.”
If there were a sign of the cross for heroes of the Revolution, Chano would have made it. Instead, he just continued to stare. “I didn’t know he had surviving family.”
“Few do,” she replied. “Which is why I’m reluctant to ask for this but he wishes to see me and as you know he cannot enter—”
“He can, and will,” Chano said. “I will call the sentry. But only if you permit me to meet him.”
“I will try to arrange that for you,” she said. “He is extremely protective of his kinship.”
“Of course, I understand,” Chano said. “What time?” he asked as he picked up the landline and punched in the number.
“I am going out to get him at the bus station in about a half hour.”
Chano made the call, referring to the individual only as “a very distinguished visitor,” then actually thanked Adoncia for having made him a part of the great story—“Even a little bit,” as he put it.
Adoncia thanked him and allowed him to return to his work. As she walked back to the apartment, she thought, And just like that, a new Guevara, a lighter nucleus, has been created. Now all she had to do to get Enrich out was use some of that released energy to manipulate the guard.
As darkness fell, she put on jeans and pulled on a gray fleece vest—more to hold cigars than to protect her skinny frame from the chill sea air. Then she drove her car to the street in front of her apartment and Enrich got into the backseat. He had put on the woman’s raincoat—which was too small, but looked all right in the shadows, worn over his shoulders. Then she lit a cigar.
“The boy will know me,” Enrich said. “He sees me every day.”
“That is why you are in the back. As long as he doesn’t look, we are okay.”
“Russians are still out searching,” he said as he peered into the darkness.
“And they will be looking after we are gone,” she said confidently.
Adoncia steered the short distance to the gate, which was just east of the field where she had been walking earlier in the day. Was it just today? It was a new iron gate beside an older wooden guardhouse. Except for Wi-Fi, the latter not been had been upgraded in over sixty years.
The young guard in a sharp blue uniform, Mauricio, seemed perplexed when she stopped. “Doctor, I was told you would be arriving with a guest who was to be welcomed discreetly.”
“Clearly, that is not correct,” she said, patiently blowing smoke. “Chano was very busy when I saw him—things have been going on, yes?”
“Yes,” the man agreed.
“What he had meant to say was that I would be leaving with a distinguished guest. Please let us pass—we are late.”
The young man seemed confused. “But how and when did he get here, then? I am required to check him out against the entry log.”
“He came this afternoon, during the fire.” She picked up her cell phone. “Mauricio, we are in a hurry. Do you want me to phone Chano and clarify?”
“I will, if you don’t mind,” the young man said contritely, turning toward the booth. “It is my job, you know.” He reached for the phone on the small desk that sat against the opposite wall.
“Hold a moment!” Adoncia snapped. “You have a flashlight?”
He turned. “Of course.”
“Get it.”
“Doctor?”
“I said bring it here! Shine it on the face of royalty, into the eyes of a Guevara. An old friend and fellow Revolutionary who, after having dined with me to discuss how we will honor the fiftieth anniversary of the murder of his cousin—who I am now bringing to the residence of the president of the Council of State. Let your light illuminate your own indiscretion and see if you ever leave this guard booth, Mauricio. Ever!”
The young man had one hand on the powerful flashlight that sat on the desk, and the other hand still on the phone. He also had a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, all just like this woman. He peered into the darkness of the car, hesitated, then turned back to the door and pressed a button and the metal arm swung up.
“Please forgive me,” he said. “A mistake, surely. I—I have been on duty since this morning. I am not thinking clearly … did not understand.”
Adoncia bit the cigar to express her indignation and drove on. As she turned onto the small main road, steering around a vegetable stand in the back of a truck half on the grass, half on the road, she heard Enrich’s labored breathing in back.
“I would have run, but I was too afraid to move,” he said. “How will you go back, now? He will talk.”
“I do not think so,” she said. “He will log my departure with a guest who had been validated by Chano Rodriguez. Chano will never check. If he asks me, I will tell him we had a wonderful visit.”
“You are incredible,” Enrich said. “I owe you … as much as the nation owes you,” he added, when he couldn’t think of anything less than majestic to apply to this woman.
Her own heart was beating hard. Adoncia had not experienced that kind of excitement for a very long time—and fittingly against a Cuban figure of authority. It was an incomparable feeling, and she would not have missed this for anything
She drove the man into town, which was a loosely defined suburb of Havana that had grown up around the SIGINT station. There were police outside the room he rented on Mantua, so they couldn’t go there for his belongings.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “We’ll drive on to Havana proper where we will pick up a few things and you can leave by bus. I wouldn’t go to family—when you don’t report for work, they will check.”
“I used to work at a hotel in Guardalavaca,” he said. “The owner liked me—I will go there.”
“Fine, fine,” she said. “Clothes, bus ticket, then a quiet meal, eh?”
All he could do was thank her as they set off on the short drive to the north. She had finished the cigar and, tossing it from the window, pulled another from her vest pocket. She lit a match with her thumbnail and lit it triumphantly.
It felt good to be back on the side of the angels.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Op-Center Headquarters, Fort Belvoir North,
Springfield, Virginia
July 1, 7:34 P.M.
“Sorry I’m late,” Chase Williams announced as he strode into his own office. “General, it’s good to see you again,” he added, barely pausing to shake the man’s hand.
With Williams’s okay, Anne had decided to bring General Ghasemi and January Dow there instead of the small conference room. Simply exchanging one conference room for another was not good tactics, encouraged similar patterns simply to repeat themselves. And that was not what anyone at Op-Center wanted.
Paul Bankole and Anne were present, along with the general and a visibly unhappy January. Ghasemi was drinking the water Anne had provided; January was seated beside him, on the sofa, her crossed leg impatiently tapping to some unheard beat.
Williams shut the door behind him. He did not go behind his desk but leaned on the edge only a few feet from the sofa. Anne was standing on the other end of the room. She shook her head slowly, once. Bankole was in an armchair across from Ghasemi.
“I was getting an update about a Dr. Sadeq Farhadi,” Williams said. He was looking squarely at Ghasemi. “Do you know him, General?”
“I have never even heard this name.”
“He works with your government’s international counterintelligence division. You know them?”
“I know the department—”
“The team Dr. Farhadi works with tags individuals with low-level radiation so Tehran can track them. You’ve never heard of anything like that?”
“No, Mr. Williams.”
“You never met him?”
“Not that I am aware.”
“He knows your daughter.”
Ghasemi did not immediately respond.
“General?” Williams said.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking,” Ghasemi said. “I know very few of my daughter’s friends, and I cannot recall meeting any of her colleagues.”
“All right,” Williams said. “The sniper who fired at Allen Kim. What can you tell us about him?”
“Also, nothing.” He added, “I was as deeply disturbed as everyone else. I like Mr. Kim.”
“Did you ever work with snipers?”
Ghasemi was quiet again and January’s leg stopped moving. Anne smiled to herself. She didn’t know what the opening salvo regarding the Iranian doctor had been about, but this was good. If Ghasemi answered no, he’d most likely be lying. An Iranian officer in Iraq would have exactly that kind of experience. If the general answered yes, he would open a line of questioning where there was little room to fudge, any lie would be detected.
