Fog of War

Chapter Five

Justin swirled his tall cup and took the last big sip from his Starbucks dark espresso roast. He stood and tossed the cup at a small garbage can about five feet away. The cup bounced over the edge of the can, then fell in. Justin smiled. A three-pointer from downtown.

It was his second cup since he arrived from Frankfurt, where he had parted ways with Nathan, sending him back to Cairo. Justin had spent last night at the Sheraton Frankfurt Congress Hotel before catching the next available flight to the States. It was a nice but short break after the events in Iran and Turkmenistan. He had briefed McClain about the incident in Ashgabat and the information obtained from Suleyman about the fatwa — an Islamic legal ruling, in this case, a death sentence ruling — against him. Justin had not allowed that information to unnerve him. His life was in danger at all times. It was a professional hazard. And most of the time, the fatwas remained just a warning, issued by powerless clerics who could not mobilize anyone to carry out their threats.

But, this death sentence had come with a bounty, a million-dollar prize on his head. The hefty sum would attract a few goons of the most dangerous kind. Justin needed a pair of eyes to watch his back. Here’s where Carrie came into play.

Carrie O’Connor was Justin’s partner in almost all operations. After two tours of duty in Afghanistan — where she served with Joint Task Force Two — Carrie joined the CIS. She took to heart the motto of her unit: Facta non verba. Deeds, not words. According to Carrie, the most efficient solution to a problem was often also the most extreme. The one she always favored. In this case, the solution would be to storm into al-Shabaab’s home base of operations and kill them all.

Justin had arrived forty-five minutes ago and was waiting for Carrie in Concourse B. She was taking Lufthansa too, but her flight had been delayed. He sat next to his Samsonite suitcase and briefcase and looked at the men and women rushing by. He glanced at the screens on the wall indicating the flights’ arrival and departure times. Carrie’s flight, LH418, had just landed. He figured it was going to take a while for all passengers of the Boeing 777 to clear customs and collect their luggage, especially if the airplane was packed with over two hundred people as it had been during his flight.

He stretched his legs and closed his eyes, albeit for a few seconds. He had spent a restless night in Frankfurt, dissecting Suleyman’s words and the operation in Iran. He was sure there had to be an intelligence leak, but he could not determine how it had happened or the identity of the mole. If there was a mole. Perhaps it was a case of mishandled information. Someone’s eyes or ears saw or heard something they weren’t supposed to, and they gave it to outsiders. Or maybe al-Shabaab was following the scientist, and that’s how they got to us. To me.

He rubbed his temples, then massaged his forehead. He had slept very little on the plane and had developed a grave headache. His forehead was throbbing with a burning pain, and he felt dizzy. He reached for a medicine bottle in his suitcase and swallowed a couple of Tylenol pills. It would take some time before the drug produced its pain-relieving effect. He decided to kill the next few minutes by browsing the newspaper stands by the Starbucks’s entrance.

It was a presidential election year, and all newspapers and magazines had dedicated a large part of their covers to the race to the White House. The popularity of the incumbent President was in decline, according to the polls, because of her perceived soft stance on terrorism. Although unmanned drones were exterminating terrorists from the mountains of Pakistan to the deserts of Yemen, the popular perception was a difficult thing to change. The President had tried to reach out to the Muslim world and had called on the American people to make an effort to understand Islamic religion beliefs. One headline noted the President’s soft stance on terrorism was going to cost her the re-election.

Justin moved on to the other stand, dedicated mostly to entertainment, not that there was not plenty of entertainment from editorials and opinions in the pages of the news media. His eyes caught a glimpse of International Geographic—close to the bottom of the stand — and he picked up a copy and bought it, mostly because of amusement rather than curiosity. It was a little-known magazine that focused on travel, geography, outdoor activities, a sort of international version of National Geographic. It also served as Justin’s cover as a travel journalist, often publishing photographs supposedly taken by him, and, on occasion, an article supposedly written by him. In this way, if someone checked his cover, it would seem legitimate.

He returned to his bench, flipped through the pages, and glanced at the table of contents. He found what he was looking for. Two small photographs of deserts in northern Sudan were buried somewhere close to end of the magazine. Justin smiled. He had not taken those shots and the credited name at the bottom of the caption was not his. Still, he had been close to the area and could talk about that landscape.

A shrill sound dragged him out of the magazine’s pages. A little boy — perhaps not older than three — was toddling next to his mother, struggling to hold on to her hand. Justin followed his unsteady steps until they disappeared in the flow of hasty passengers. Justin wondered whether he would ever have a little boy. What would he look like? Will he have my eyes? My hair? My personality? Or will he look more like Anna?

Justin had a Mediterranean complexion — dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, which he had cut short a couple of weeks ago, big black eyes, and a large thick nose — inherited from his Italian mother. It allowed him to blend in naturally in most of the terrorist hotspots he infiltrated during his missions. His personality with an unpredictable flaring temper came from his Scottish father. His fiancée, Anna, had fairer skin and blue eyes. She used to work for CIS Legal Services in Ottawa, but after they fell in love during the Arctic Wargame operation, she left CIS to avoid any conflicts of interest. Now an in-house counsel for a large multinational corporation, Anna was more easygoing and calmer, matching Justin’s wits and bringing some much-needed balance to his life.

He turned a few more pages, then stood up, glanced to the right and scanned the faces in the ever-changing crowd. He paced along the hall and back. He stuffed the magazine in his suitcase, rolled it behind him, and returned to Starbucks. The digital clock on the wall told him Carrie was going to show up at any minute. He ordered another espresso for him and a grande caffè mocha without whipped cream and a blueberry muffin for her.

Just as he was picking them up, he heard Carrie’s voice behind him, “Hey, wanted man.”

“Hi, Carrie.” He turned around and fell into her arms.

“You look good,” he said when they broke their embrace.

“No, I don’t. Just came back from a ten-hour flight, after another flight for three hours from Moscow to Frankfurt and another one from Grozny to Moscow. Not to mention the layovers. My hair’s a mess and I feel so dirty.”

Carrie had a small figure, a bit shorter than Justin, and he stood at five feet ten inches. He looked at her auburn hair flowing down her shoulders, then at her gray-blue eyes. “I think your hair is great.”

Carrie shrugged. “Thanks.”

“How was your trip?” Justin asked.

“Uneventful, but for a sick turbulence halfway through, over the ocean. A couple of passengers threw up. It was gross.”

She took her caffè mocha and smiled. Justin nodded.

“Hmmm, I really needed this, thank you,” she said after taking a sip of the hot liquid. Then she took a bite of the muffin. “How was your flight?”

“OK, I guess. We had some turbulence too, but not much.”

“Were you able to get some sleep?”

“Maybe an hour or so.”

He rolled his suitcase. Carrie picked up hers, and they left the coffee shop.

“I’ve arranged for a rental,” Justin said. “Our colleagues wanted to send someone to pick us up, but I declined their offer so we can talk before this meeting.”

“I’ve got to run to the washroom.”

Five minutes later, Carrie looked refreshed. She had tied her hair in a semi-ponytail. Her face was glowing. She had applied some makeup, and there were no signs of sleep or fatigue in her eyes.

They took the AeroTrain to the main terminal, then walked to the Hertz rental office. Justin refused the clerk’s first offer — a Lincoln Town Car on which he could have gotten a great deal — opting instead for his own pick, a blue Chevy Aveo. Justin sat behind the steering wheel, Carrie in the front passenger seat. They drove out of the lot, then Justin parked before they merged with the traffic on Dulles Access Road. Carrie smiled as Justin dug into his briefcase.

“Time for a sweep?” she asked.

“You got it.”

Justin produced a ‘sweeper,’ a palm-sized device that looked like a smartphone but which detected if any recording devices had been installed in the vehicle. It was a rental, so the chances of the Chevy being bugged were minimal, but they could never be careless. The sweep of the Chevy’s interior revealed no surveillance devices. Justin stepped outside and meticulously searched the car’s exterior for unusual signals. He got a reading about a GPS tracker installed to record the vehicle’s route and location. With a few clicks on his sweeper, Justin deactivated the tracker. No one at Hertz would learn about their destination.

“We’re all good?” Carrie asked when Justin returned.

“Yes, now we are. I disabled a standard civilian GPS tracker.”

Carrie nodded. Justin started the car, and they drove down the Dulles Access Road, then turned onto Virginia State Route 267. Justin paid the toll and soon enough they were zooming across the four-lane highway going east toward CIA headquarters in Langley.

“Any good news from Grozny?” Justin asked, setting the cruise control at sixty-five miles per hour.

Carrie shook her head. “No, nothing. No one knows where my dad’s remains were transferred.”

Carrie had spent many years trying to discover the truth about her father’s death and find his grave. A few months ago, she had received new information from Romanov, a rich and powerful Russian oil baron about the location of a grave containing the remains of her father. It was supposed to be in northern Grozny, Chechnya. Carrie had passed two weeks on the ground, searching and gathering information. The last time Justin had heard from her — three days ago — she was no closer to finding the grave that when she had started.

“I’ve hired two investigators on the ground to keep searching,” Carrie said. “The place is a mess because of the war with Russia. The Russians bombed the hell out of Chechnya in general and Grozny in particular.”

“But the bombing spared the gravesite?”

Carrie nodded, her eyes flickering. “Right. My dad was supposedly buried by Russian soldiers hastily, during the night. It was not in a regular cemetery, but in a field, next to a hospital. Now the hospital lies in ruins, and the field has been dug out. They’re building a couple of apartment complexes. Three witnesses have confirmed that some remains were moved about two years ago, before they started work. But no one knows where. The paperwork trail is a nightmare.”

“Have you asked Romanov about it?”

“No, and I’m not planning to. I hate owing that man.”

Carrie’s jaws tightened, and her eyes narrowed to small dots. She looked away, out the window.

“He has access to classified intel from the KGB era. It could make your search much easier.”

Carrie turned her head to Justin. “And what will it cost me? What will Romanov ask in exchange from me? From us?”

“I know, but this is very important to you. You need closure.”

“And I will get it. I’m working on it.” Her voice grew louder, while she impatiently waved her hand in front of her face. “And I don’t think KGB or FSB was involved in the transfer of the remains.”

Justin nodded, but said nothing. He knew Carrie’s pride and stubbornness.

They rode in silence for a few seconds, then Carrie asked, “How’s Anna?”

“Very excited about our trip to New York. She’s never been there. She got us tickets to Broadway. Chicago. It plays at the Ambassador.”

“Oh, I love Chicago. It’s fantastic. I saw it when they came to Ottawa, I happened to be in town. What else are you going to do in New York?”

“We only have one day, so we’ll just hang out and see the sights. The musical is in the evening, then we’re flying back to Ottawa.”

“It will be nice. You deserve a break.”

“Yeah, it’s a break, but not long enough. We haven’t seen each other in five weeks. But McClain wants a full debrief on the Iranian op and whatever CIA gives us today.”

“How do you find working with McClain?”

Carrie avoided using the submissive word ‘for,’ replacing it with the neutral ‘with.’ A long time ago, it had been established that Justin did not work for someone. He did not work for his boss; he worked for his country. Carrie did not work for him; they worked together. Carrie knew that. McClain had started to learn it. He was not very happy about it, but he was beginning to live with this fact.

“He’s a great guy. Very attentive, curious, but not nosy. Quick, but not rushed.”

Carrie had met McClain only once, right after he was assigned to replace Claire Johnson, their former boss, who had been forced to leave the Service. Then Carrie took a leave of absence to go to Grozny and had yet to work with McClain on any field operations.

Justin said, “He’s much different from Johnson.”

Carrie shook her head. “Yeah, Johnson, what an embarrassment.”

Justin snorted. “And a threat, a real and serious threat.”

“What is she up to now?” Carrie asked.

“It’s not like I keep tabs on her, but I think she’s working as a security consultant. Some private military contractor.”

“She landed on her feet, eh?”

“Quite so.” Justin’s voice was full of derision. “She’ll well-connected and apparently is doing quite well for herself. But at least she’s out of our lives.”

Carrie nodded and slid her seat back, gaining around four more inches of legroom. Justin hit the brakes, as the traffic in front of them slowed to a crawl. There was road construction straight ahead and to their right. They inched their way around heavy machineries, dump trucks, and excavators. Men in brown overalls and yellow helmets were buzzing around a cordoned off stretch of newly minted asphalt.

“So, what’s this fatwa and bounty?” Carrie asked after taking a sip of her now cold mocha and finishing her muffin.

“Nothing to worry. Some Egyptian cleric with ties to al-Shabaab believes I’m a threat to their jihad, so he’s calling on all Muslims to kill me. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Not only Muslims. I know a few people who call themselves Christians, but they would kill for much less than a million dollars.”

“There’s always someone plotting to kill us. I stopped worrying a long time ago. These guys will have to wait in line.”

Carrie grinned. “Still, you’ve taken all necessary precautions.”

“I have. Perhaps even a little more than usual. There’s always someone watching. Especially on US soil.”

She brushed a lock of loose hair behind her ear. “I thought we were on friendly terms with the CIA.”

“Define friendly.”

“Friendly as in ‘we’ll exchange actionable intelligence, which is mutually beneficial.’ And ‘we’ll not screw you over in the process.’”

“Drop the word ‘not’ from the last sentence.”

“Even the CIA is out to get us?”

Justin stepped on the brake pedal and switched lanes. He glanced at the old man driving a slow van in the fast lane. The old man seemed to be enjoying some music, his head swinging at the tune.

“They’re not out to get us, but they won’t care if we get burned. They only look out for their own.”

“So why are they sharing their intel with us?” Carrie spread her palms.

“Because they want something in return.”

“Yes, the Iranian defector’s documents. McClain briefed me on that operation.”

Justin steered with his left hand, waving his right one in the air. “Yes, but here’s the thing, we’re were going to give them the intel anyway. Without anything in exchange.”

“So they’re paying us in advance for something?”

“Yes. For something they don’t want to do on their own. Something dirty, but which has the potential to come to light, and they don’t want to be anywhere close to it.”

Carrie nodded. “But you have no idea what it is.”

“No, but they’ll tell us soon enough.”

Carrie nodded again, then played with her engagement ring. She was still getting used to its feel around her finger. Thomas had spared no expense when dropping to his knee two months ago. A two-carat diamond in a Tiffany setting adorned her hand, the promise of his never-ending love.

“Something I said bothers you?” His voice brought Carrie back from her daydreaming.

“No, just thinking.”

“When are you seeing him?” Justin pointed at her ring.

Carrie shrugged. “Just spent a couple of days in London the other week.”

“Oh, London in September. Lots of fun, I bet,” Justin said with a groan.

“Thomas was with me, so I tried to have fun.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I did. We enjoyed each other’s company. I had a good time.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Lush rolling hills appeared in the distance. Justin glanced at the dashboard. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Right on time.” Carrie consulted her wristwatch.

Route 267 curved to the right. The traffic had thinned. Justin could not help but double-check the few cars behind them. He slowed down, allowing for all of them to go around his Chevy. No one was their tail.

He got into the Capital Beltway, skirting around McLean. They drove past churches, schools, strip malls, and more churches as they drew nearer their destination.

“We’re here,” Justin said as they turned into Colonial Farm Road. “You’ve met Adams before?”

“Once, back in Afghanistan. But he wasn’t Deputy Director of NCS then. He was CIA Station Chief.”

“And what do you think?”

“I’ve got the impression he’s smart and fair, a no-bullshit kind of guy. He doesn’t play politics. At least, he didn’t at the time.”

“Power corrupts people and virtues. Let’s see if Mr. Adams has resisted the temptation and being close to the top of NCS hasn’t gone to his head.”