Jihad

CHAPTER 31

“The driver bolted as they moved him,” Marie Telach told Rubens when he returned to the Art Room. “One of the CIA people shot him.”

“He’s dead?”

“Very. They took him up the coast to an abandoned dump and tossed him in a swampy area. As of ten minutes ago, the authorities haven’t found him. They may not for a while. It’s off the beaten trail.”

“Why did you tell them to put the body there?”

“I didn’t. Lia and Dean had the CIA people dispose of the body. I take it there was a disagreement about how things unfolded.”

Rubens had not slept now for more than twenty-four hours. His eyes seemed to be peering at the world through two large tunnels, and the back of his mouth felt like sandpaper.

“Mane—”

“I certainly didn’t approve.”

This was what came of having to use people from other agencies on a mission. If he had a bigger force, if they had experience with one another and were all under the Art Room’s direct control…

“We planted a story with a television station that the police ambushed the assailants at the hospital,” Telach said. “It’s gone out over the air. The police denied it, but it’s being repeated by the radio. The rumors that the hit men were part of the Russian mafiya have also been aired. Obviously the reporters didn’t see the bodies.”

Under other circumstances, Rubens might have had a good chuckle over the media’s ability to be misled. But he was hardly in a mood for mirth.

“What does Red Lion think?” he asked Telach.

“His bodyguards haven’t woken him up yet.”

“Do they know?”

“We can’t tell. There are only two in the house with him. My guess is that they know something’s wrong, but they’re too scared of his reaction to wake him.”

No, thought Rubens; they simply haven’t figured it out yet. There was a tendency, even among intelligence experts, to see the opposition as omnipotent. More than likely, the men at the house had no contact with the others and weren’t monitoring the local media.

“The Turkish authorities are confused themselves,” added Telach. “They think the driver shot the three men but was kidnapped by others. From their phone messages, it looks like they believe the men were part of a smuggling operation that went sour. There have been conflicts in the past, so it makes sense from their point of view.”

Even so, thought Rubens, the hospital operation had been a fiasco. It was his fault. He could have simply had the driver kidnapped. He’d gotten too greedy, pushed too far.

This was no time to second-guess himself. Leave that to Bing.

“The man who met with Asad?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Still haven’t identified him. The images haven’t matched anything. Johnny Bib is working with Robert Gallo on a new tool to match up information. Johnny says he should have something by the morning.”

“That will give me time to prepare.” said Rubens. Sessions with Johnny Bibleria — universally known as Johnny Bib — always tended to be a strain.

Rubens found his concentration slipping as Telach continued to update him. They had images of this operative; the CIA was complaining that they weren’t being given enough access to information; Tommy Karr had fallen off his motorcycle, but Dr. Ramil deemed him fit.

Bing had to be cut off quickly. Rubens had seen enough of these political maneuverings to realize, however, that it would have to be done delicately. The first thing he would have to do was take a sounding.

George Hadash was the person to turn to for advice. Thank God he was back on his game. Surely he’d return to the administration in a few months; he and the president had been close for years and years. They worked well together, Hadash’s pragmatism tempering Marcke’s enthusiastic idealism.

“You should all go home and get rest,” Rubens told Telach when he realized she had finished speaking.

“I’ve already sent the Art Room team home. They’ll be back at midnight.”

“I would suggest you go as well.”

“You should sleep, too.”

“Thank you, Marie. I will try to find space for a nap.”

Rubens turned to his e-mail after Telach left, making sure he had nothing major pressing. Then he called over to the hospital, using the direct number to Hadash’s room. The phone rang and rang without being picked up.

Thinking Hadash must still be undergoing tests, Rubens turned his attention to other matters. He tried again around six, surely late enough for the tests to be over. But he got the same response. He hung up, worked through some of the memoranda on his desk, then tried again. This time a woman picked up the phone.

“I was looking for George Hadash,” he told her. “Have I got the right room?”

The woman hesitated, then said she really didn’t know anything. Before Rubens could ask anything else, she hung up. Rubens put the phone down and drummed his fingers on the desk. Then he grabbed the handset and called information for the hospital’s general number. He was connected with a rather officious young man who told him that federal law prohibited the hospital from giving out any information about a patient.

“You don’t have to give me any information.” said Rubens. “Just connect me.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

Rubens hung up. Hadash had been divorced for years, but his daughter lived near Washington. Rubens looked the number up in his Rolodex — he hated computerized phonebooks — and called. The answering machine picked up.

“Hello, Irena. This is Bill Rubens. I realize it’s rather silly of me, but I seem to have forgotten your father’s phone number at the hospital and the boobs there won’t give it to me. Would it be possible—”

The phone beeped as Irena picked up on the other end.

“Oh, Bill, it’s terrible,” she said. “Daddy died of complications a few hours ago. I just got back — I can’t believe it.”

“No,” said Rubens. “Oh, no.”