Target America

12

Robert Pope, director of SAD, the Special Activities Division of the CIA, arrived at the office of the CIA director, George Shroyer. The director and his deputy, Cletus Webb, were expecting him.

“Good morning,” he said, taking a seat in front of Shroyer’s desk. Pope, a tall man in his midsixties with bright blue eyes and a head of thick white hair, was regarded as somewhat eccentric by his CIA counterparts.

“Good morning.” Shroyer was a hawk-faced individual with a bony nose and peering green eyes. He wouldn’t have dared let on, but he’d been extremely relieved when Pope had requested an immediate meeting. On a personal level, he didn’t care for Pope; he was a little bit afraid of him. But he knew that Pope was probably the most gifted member of the US intelligence community, and if he was asking for a meeting less than twenty-four hours after a nuclear bomb had been detonated on American soil — which was what the army had determined to be the case — there was a good chance he had something important to share.

The president had gone surprisingly easy on Shroyer and the directors of the NSA and FBI during their closed meeting in the Oval Office. All three had expected him to ream their asses good for having been caught completely unaware by what was now being called the “New Mexico Event,” particularly with the presidential election only a couple of months away, but the president was leading in the polls by a margin of greater than 20 percent, and his opponent was seen as weak on foreign policy and even weaker on national defense. The president had crushed him during the first televised debate, and the sad truth was that a terrorist attack on the United States would probably only serve to lock up his reelection. Conspiracy theorists were already lighting up the web, accusing the president of having staged the New Mexico Event for that very reason.

If Pope were able to provide Shroyer with something actionable that he could take to the White House, that would put the CIA far out in front of both the FBI and the NSA, which hadn’t been able to provide any intel at all.

“What can we do for you, Bob?” Shroyer asked, concealing the eager anxiety rising in his gut.

Pope offered a small flash drive over the desk. “There’s a WMA file on there I think you gentlemen should find interesting.”

Shroyer clicked the audio file, and the three of them sat listening to the phone conversation between Kashkin and the man with the Arabic accent. When the exchange ended, Shroyer sat gazing quietly at Webb.

Webb understood that he was expected to speak first so that Shroyer would be less likely to end up looking ignorant in front of Pope. “What did we just hear, Bob? Who are they?”

“The Arabic voice was Muhammad Faisal,” Pope replied. “He’s a very minor member of the House of Saud who became a naturalized American citizen last year.” The House of Saud was the Saudi royal family that ruled Saudi Arabia and promoted Salafi Islam. The family was composed of roughly fifteen thousand members, though most of the wealth and power resided with an elite two thousand.

“A member of the Saudi royal family.” Shroyer took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Okay. So who’s the other guy?”

“We don’t know yet,” Pope said. “We’re working to pin down the accent now. It could be Russian, but it’s more probably Chechen.”

“When was this recorded?” Webb asked.

“About seven this morning, Las Vegas time, and both men were within half a mile of the Luxor casino during the conversation — not more than a quarter mile apart. I believe that’s significant.”

Shroyer stole a suspicious glance at Webb. “Bob, electronic eavesdropping isn’t in your job description — as I seem to recall you pointing out not too long ago. CIA doesn’t even have jurisdiction within the US.”

“That’s never stopped us before,” Pope said matter-of-factly.

Webb cleared his throat, hoping to avert a blowup on Shroyer’s part. “How long have you been spying on Faisal, Bob?”

Pope blinked once. “Since he applied for American citizenship.”

“On your own authority?” Shroyer blurted.

“On a hunch, George.”

Shroyer held his temples for a long moment and then looked up. “All right, let’s get past that. What exactly is this telephone conversation supposed to mean?”

“I think they were talking about the New Mexico Event.”

“It sounded to me like they could’ve been talking about anything.”

“But they were talking about the explosion,” Pope said confidently. “The Chechen said, ‘Everything is going according to plan.’ It has to be related. The timing of this conversation is too close… too cryptic.”

Shroyer was still stuck on the fact Pope had so blatantly overstepped his authority and jurisdiction, jeopardizing the CIA director’s own position. At least now he had all he needed to get rid of the enigmatic pain in the ass once and for all. But did he dare? There were rumors about Pope having secret files on various people within the agency and elsewhere in DC. And if the son of a bitch had time enough to spy on apparent nobodies like Muhammad Faisal, who the hell else was he busy using government time to spy on?

“I would hardly call this evidence of any kind,” he said.

“There’s another file on the flash drive,” Pope replied.

Shroyer opened a photo file. The first photo was of an Arabic man dressed in a blue Western-style suit with an open collar. He was in his midthirties, with dark features and a closely trimmed beard.

“That’s Faisal,” Pope said. “In the next photo, you’ll see him eating breakfast with a Salafi fundamentalist named Alik Zakayev two weeks ago at an inn in the Bavarian Alps. Zakayev is Chechen — a known member of the Riyad us-Saliheyn Martyrs’ Brigade.”

Webb sat forward in his chair to see the photo better. “Zakayev… the same guy the Russians turned over to us in connection with the Boston bombings?”

Pope nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact, but he had nothing to do with Boston. That’s why he was released from Guantanamo back in June.”

Shroyer shot a look at Webb. “Why wasn’t I made aware of that?”

The deputy director shrugged. “It’s news to me as well.”

“Given their unlikely location in that photo,” Pope went on, “combined with the fact they’re both Salafi Muslims, I think we should seriously consider—”

“Wait a second,” Shroyer said, holding up his hand. “Isn’t the Saudi family Wahhabi?”

“Salafi and Wahhabi are one in the same,” Pope answered. “The only difference is in what they call themselves. Some Salafi find the term Wahhabi offensive, but that’s a regional issue, nothing to do with a difference in beliefs.” He pushed his glasses up onto his nose. “As I was saying, we need to consider the facts at hand. Faisal was breaking bread with a known member of the RSMB a month ago. And this morning he was talking on the phone — within eight hours of a nuclear blast — to a man who is also very likely a Chechen about something that went wrong.” He shook his head. “This is not coincidence. They were talking about the New Mexico Event. Also, Faisal is a known high-stakes gambler, and we know that Islamic terrorists have used Vegas casinos to raise funds in the past. I believe he’s a fund-raiser hiding in plain sight, using his familial status as a cover.”

“Are you saying the Chechens and the Arabs are working together?” Webb asked.

“We’ve seen it before.”

“Do you have any actual evidence?” Shroyer asked. “You know damn well we can’t accuse a member of the House of Saud without hard evidence, no matter how minor a member he may be.”

“I don’t have any yet, but I know how to get it.”

“How’s that?” Shroyer was more than moderately disappointed by Pope’s supposed intel.“We bring him in,” Pope said. “Sweat him for information.”

Shroyer stole an exasperated glance at Webb. “Bob, the man is not only a member of the Saudi royal family, but you just said yourself that he’s an American citizen now. We don’t sweat American citizens for intelligence.”

“Oh? Since when?”

Shroyer’s face reddened.

“Forget I said that,” Pope said with a wave of a hand. “Being a US citizen strips Faisal of whatever protection his Saudi familial status may have afforded him.”

“That’s what you think,” Shroyer said. “He’ll lawyer up so damn fast—”

“I didn’t say to arrest him,” Pope said. “I said to bring him in — to snatch him. He’s well looked after by his own security people, but a team of spec ops professionals could handle the grab easily enough.”

“What team of spec ops professionals?” Webb asked.

“ST6-B.”

“That does it!” Shroyer snapped, pulling the flash drive from the laptop and tossing it across the desk at Pope. “I don’t want to hear any more of this. SEAL Team Six Black was disbanded nine months ago — as you damn well know! — and you’re suggesting that we operate completely outside the rules to kidnap an American citizen directly related to the most important family in the Middle East — a family very deeply invested in the American economy.”

Pope remained placid. “I’m not suggesting we use active-duty DEVGRU personnel. There are plenty of former operatives working in the private sector that we could call upon.”

Again, Shroyer looked at Webb. “Can you believe your fucking ears?”

Webb demurred for a moment, taking time to consider his response. “I’m sorry, Bob, but you’ve overstepped this time.”

Pope slipped the flash drive into his jacket pocket. “I don’t see how that’s even vaguely relevant. A nuclear bomb has just been detonated on American soil. Wall Street has been shut down for the first time since 9/11. And people are already beginning to hoard food and fuel. How long do you intend to let this threat go on? I’ve just given you actionable intelligence.”

“Whether it’s actionable or not,” Shroyer said, “is wide open to debate. Not to mention it was illegally obtained, which jeopardizes the integrity of this entire agency!”

Unapologetic, Pope removed his glasses, staring hard at the director. “Contrary to popular belief, George, the time to start bending the rules comes before the enemy gets a second bomb into play, not after, because by then it will be too late.”

Shroyer sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, Bob, if you think I’m strolling into the Oval Office with this ridiculous audio file and suggesting to the president that he okay a black operation on American soil, then you’ve lost your marbles.” He rocked forward, putting his hands on the desktop and throwing caution to the wind. “In fact, I’m going to recommend that you be asked for your resignation. I’m sorry, but your shenanigans have gone far enough.”