Jihad

CHAPTER 25

Rubens took the phone with him as he walked across the secure communications center in the White House basement, listening as Telach told him about what had happened at the hospital.

“The Istanbul police seem to think it was retaliation for the accident,” continued Telach. “There’s a lot of smuggling activity through the port, and with the Russian mob involved, the rumors are already flying. We’ve sent an anonymous e-mail to one of the papers to help the theory along.”

“Very good,” said Rubens. “And the driver?”

“On his way to the airport. Asad is meeting with someone right now,” added the Art Room supervisor. “Hold on.”

Rubens checked his watch; he was due upstairs to talk to Donna Bing, the new national security advisor, in five minutes, which meant that he was already late. But this was worth being late for. They’d been planning the Red Lion operation for just over two years, ever since the bugging device was successfully tested. Picking the right subject, getting the president’s approval — a lot of hard work was about to pay off.

But not necessarily right away.

“He’s leaving. He said nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Telach turned him over to one of the Arab translators, who said that both men sounded as if they had come from Yemen or Saudi Arabia. Their conversation had consisted entirely of greetings and stock religious phrases.

“Who was the other man?” Rubens asked Telach.

“We’re not sure yet.”

“Have Mr. Karr follow him.”

“He’s already on it.”

Rubens hated lunch meetings for any number of reasons, starting with the fact that it was difficult to discuss matters of state with the deserved gravitas while wiping mayonnaise from one’s chin. He especially hated “working lunch meetings,” a euphemism for a gobbled sandwich at the desk of an overworked superior. In his opinion, the only tangible result was heartburn.

But Donna Bing was the doyenne of working lunch meetings; Rubens had been down to see the new national security advisor twice in the three weeks since she had taken over the job, and each time he’d been forced to share a roast beef sandwich in her office. Today Bing showed her bold side — she ordered her sandwich with Russian dressing. Rubens had his dry, as usual.

He gave her the latest on Red Lion, including the fact that they had taken his driver. Bing blanched so severely when Rubens mentioned that the terrorists who had come to kill the man had themselves been killed that he quickly added the Turks had started the fracas by firing automatic rifles.

“This could be an incident if our role is discovered,” said Bing.

“I don’t believe that’s likely,” said Rubens stiffly.

“You’re ready to take Red Lion at the end of the meetings?”

“Absolutely.” A Gulfstream jet was sitting at the airport in Istanbul; once captured, the terrorist leader would be flown to Diego Garcia, an isolated Navy base in the South Pacific, for interrogation.

“Thank you for the update,” said Bing. “The president is very interested in the project.”

“I had been under the impression that I would brief him as well,” said Rubens.

“Oh?” Bing managed to mix a tone of genuine surprise with the hint of haughty disdain in her voice — quite an achievement in one syllable. “Well, I don’t believe that it’s really necessary for you to waste your time waiting for the president. And of course the president’s agenda is chock-full these days.”

The real waste of time, Rubens thought, was coming down to Washington to deliver a five-minute progress report that could have been just as easily conveyed in a phone call, if not an e-mail. But time or convenience wasn’t what was at stake here — nor, really, was the operation, not at all.

“I believe the president prefers to be briefed in person on sensitive matters,” said Rubens.

“I don’t know that that’s necessary at this point,” said Bing. She reached down and took a bite of her sandwich, dribbling dressing on her chin. “And as it happens, the president is not in the Oval Office this afternoon; he’s lunching with the vice president and the Senate majority leader. That meeting has been arranged for some time.”

In other words, Rubens had been summoned here at precisely the time the president would be away.

“There is another matter I’d like to discuss with you at some point,” said Bing. “Of a more philosophical nature. Desk Three is, for all intents and purposes, a reincarnation of several CIA operations established at the NSA’s behest during the Cold War, and given that—”

“That’s not precisely correct,” said Rubens.

“Oh? I did get that impression from the briefing papers and the background memoranda establishing it.”

“The key is the melding of the technology with the field operatives,” said Rubens, realizing what was going on. “As for the mission set, it goes beyond the so-called black bag operations common to ZR/RIFLE—”

“I’m not referring to the mission set, but to organizational arrangements and missions.”

“That debate was conducted at the beginning of the administration.”

“Perhaps it is time to revisit it.”

It had been an admirable performance really, not especially subtle yet couched in just enough ambivalence to give plausible denial that it wasn’t what it surely must be: a play to cut Rubens’ role in the administration. Bing would start by cutting off his access to the president — under Hadash he’d had almost unlimited access — and would finish by giving Desk Three to the CIA, limiting the National Security Agency to a strictly secondary role in the intelligence community.

It was also a move meant to establish her as a major player in the administration. She needed a scalp on her belt and had decided that his would best serve her purposes.

“As national security advisor, it’s certainly your prerogative to open or close any debate,” said Rubens, rising. “I hope you’ll keep me informed.”

“Naturally,” said Bing. She extended her hand; Rubens shook it, not realizing until too late that it was greasy with dressing.

CHAPTER 26

Dean drove toward the Yenikapi ferry terminal where they had a backup car they could swap into. According to the Art Room, the Istanbul police had not yet arrived at the hospital, so there was no need to rush. The driver was in the backseat, sandwiched between Lia and John Reisler; the other CIA agent, Terrence Pinchon, was next to Dean in the front.

“We’re going to need some more Demerol,” Lia said, leaning over the front seat. “He’s stirring.”

“He ought to be down for the count.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We’ll change cars first, then we’ll swing back and get one of the kits. You guys are taking him to Bayindr,” Dean added. “You think you can do that by yourselves?”

“We can handle it,” said Pinchon.

“I’m only asking if you need backup,” Dean told him. “Don’t get insulted. Bayindr’s a good drive from here.”

They were using the operation’s backup plane; the Gulfstream for Asad had to stay in Istanbul just in case anything went wrong.

“I’ve done renditions before,” said Pinchon, using the CIA term for operations to snatch terrorists and “render” them elsewhere, generally to another country for justice. “Just like old times, huh, Lia?” added the para. “Except the body count’s higher. Guess you don’t have a colonel screaming up your backside, huh?”

“You were in the army together?” Dean asked.

“More or less,” said Lia.

“You ever hear that slogan, ‘Army of One’?” said Pinchon. “Lia kind of took it to heart.”

“Still does,” said Dean.

Lia checked the terrorist’s wrists, which were cinched in his lap, making sure they were tight. His lower right leg was in a cast that ran from his ankle to his knee, covering the area of the fracture. He groaned as she pushed him back into the seat.

“You gave him the whole hypo?” Lia asked Reisler. “He’s coming to already.”

“Whole shot, yeah.”

Lia didn’t think that was possible, but there was no use arguing.

“So who is he?” asked Pinchon.

“Abul Hazanwi, Red Lion’s driver,” said Lia. “We want him alive. He may talk.”

“Right.”

“He’s a source. He has to stay alive,” repeated Lia. “You hear that, Terry?”

“Hey, loud and clear.”

Lia wanted to ask him how he had survived Kyrgyzstan. She wanted to ask many other things as well, starting with why he’d let her think he was dead. But she couldn’t — she didn’t dare — ask anything. She already knew she wouldn’t like the answers.

“Our swap car is a blue BMW, in the corner of the lot,” Dean told them. “I’m going to go past once, drop someone off on foot. They check the lot. When they give the high sign, we come back and we’ll make the swap.”

“Drop me,” said Lia.

“Fine.”

And then there was Charlie.

What about Charlie? She loved him. Loved him with a deep ache.

But she’d loved Pinchon more, hadn’t she?

She had.

“Drop me right here,” said Lia. “I can walk past.”

Dean pulled to the side.

“Hey,” he said, turning to her as she started to get out.

“Yeah?”

“You got your gun?”

Lia held it up.

“You all right?” Dean stared at her, his eyes trying to penetrate her skull, figure out what she was thinking.

“I’m fine, Charlie Dean,” she told him, slamming the door.