Locked On

25

Judith Cochrane took her seat at the little desk in front of the window into Saif Rahman Yasin’s cell. He was still seated on his bed. He held a notepad and a pencil in his lap. Upon seeing his lawyer, he stepped up to the window and sat on his stool, bringing his pen and his pad with him.

With a smile and a nod, he lifted the receiver of the red phone on the floor.

Cochrane said, “Good morning.”

“Thank you very much for arranging for me to get some paper and a pencil.”

“That was nothing. It was a reasonable request.”

“Still, for me it was very nice. I am grateful.”

Cochrane said, “Your writ of habeas corpus was denied. We knew it would be, but it was a motion we had to go through.”

“It is of no consequence. I did not expect them to let me walk away.”

“Next, I am going to petition the courts to allow you to—”

“Do you have any ability, Miss Cochrane, to draw?”

She wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. “To draw?”

“Yes.”

“Well … no. Not really.”

“I enjoy it very much. I studied art for a short period in England at university, and I have continued it as a pastime. Normally I draw architecture. It fascinates me very much the design of buildings all over the world.”

Judith did not know where, if anywhere, this was going. “I can arrange perhaps some paper that is a better quality if you would like or—”

But Yasin shook his head. “This paper is fine. In my religion, it is a sin to photograph or draw the face of any living, walking thing.” He held up the pencil in his hand as if to clarify the point. “If you are doing it for no reason. It is not a sin if you are doing it to remember a face for some important reason.”

“I see,” Cochrane said, but she didn’t see the point in this conversation at all.

“I would like to show you some of my work, and then, perhaps I can teach you a bit about art.” The Emir reached into his notepad and pulled out four sheets that he had already torn from the pad. He held them up, one at a time, to the thick bulletproof glass. He said, “Judith Cochrane, if you would like to assist me with my case, if your organization has any interest in holding your nation accountable to its own laws, then you will need to copy these pictures. If you work slowly on the desk there with your pen, I can watch you and help you along. We can have an art class right here.”

Judith Cochrane looked carefully at the drawings. They were sketches of four men. She did not recognize them, but she had no doubt that they were real people who would be recognized by anyone who knew them, so detailed and careful were the renditions.

“Who are they?” she asked, but she feared she knew the answer.

“These are the Americans who kidnapped me. I was walking down the street in Riyadh. They came from nowhere. The young one, this man with the dark hair, he shot me. The old man, this one, was the leader.”

Cochrane knew the FBI men could see her through the closed-circuit camera behind her. If they were watching right now, and she was certain they were, then they would see the Emir showing her pages from his pad. There was no reason for that to raise any sort of red flag, but still she waited nervously to hear the door behind her open.

“We have been through this over and over. I can’t discuss any of that with you.”

“You are my lawyer, are you not?”

“I am, but—”

“Judith Cochrane, I have no interest in helping the United States government in a charade to convince the world I am guilty. If I cannot tell my own lawyer what has happened to me, then I—”

“We have rules we must obey.”

“Rules imposed on you by your opponent. Clearly they are — what is the term you use in America? — stacking the deck.”

“Let’s talk about your nutrition.”

“I am not going to talk about my nutrition. It is halal, it is permissible for a Muslim to eat. Other than that, I don’t care about it.”

Cochrane sighed, but she realized he was still holding up the pictures, and she realized she was still looking at them. Despite herself, she asked, “Are they CIA? Military? Did they tell you who they worked for?”

“They did not tell me. I assume they are in your Central Intelligence Agency, but I need you to find out.”

“I can’t find out.”

“You can show people these pictures. There were others, but these four are the ones I remember the best. The old one who was the leader, the young one who shot me, the short foreign man with the tough eyes, and the young one with the short haircut. There was another man, a man with a beard, but I was not satisfied with my pictures of him.

“All the other people I came into contact with after these men, either I was wearing a hood, or they were wearing masks. I have not seen any faces since I saw these faces here. Until I saw yours.” He held up the pictures again. “These men are fixed in my memory. I will never forget them.”

Cochrane wanted his information. Damn the agreement she had with Justice.

“All right,” she said. “Listen carefully. I am working on getting a pass-through slot opened up so that we can exchange documents. I won’t be able to leave with anything, though, so maybe I can bring some tracing paper in my pocket or something. I can trace your drawings and then give them back to you.”

The Emir said, “I will work on these some more, and I will add some written details below the pictures. Height, age, anything I can think of.”

“Good. I don’t know what I will do with this information, but there is someone I can ask.”

“You are my only hope, Judith.”

“Please, call me Judy.”

“Judy. I like that.”

Judy Cochrane looked at the four pieces of white paper again. She had no way of knowing that she was looking into the faces of Jack Ryan Jr., Dominic Caruso, Domingo Chavez, and John Clark.

Life at Hendley Associates was returning to normal after the Paris operation. Most employees in at eight. A quick meeting in the conference room at nine, and then everyone back to their desks for a day of investigations, analysis, fishing in the murky waters of the cyberworld to find the enemies of the state who lurked there.

The analysts sifted through their traffic feeds, applied pattern analysis and link analysis to the data, hoping to unlock some critical piece of information America’s official intelligence communities had missed, or exploit some intelligence find by American intelligence in a way the overly bureaucratic agencies could not.

The field operatives spent their days testing equipment for the field, training, and sifting through the analysis to look for potential operations.

Two weeks after the Paris op, Gerry Hendley entered the conference room fifteen minutes late. His key operatives and analysts were already there, as well as Sam Granger, director of operations. All the men were sipping coffee and chatting when he arrived.

“Interesting new development. I just got a call out of the blue from Nigel Embling.”

“Who?” asked Driscoll.

Chavez said, “Ex — MI6 guy in Peshawar, Pakistan.”

Now Driscoll remembered. “Right. He helped you and John last year when you were tracking the Emir.”

Clark said, “That’s right. Mary Pat Foley tipped us off to him.”

Hendley nodded. “But now he’s coming straight to us and he’s bringing an interesting lead. He’s running a source in the ISI. A major who suspects a coup is in the works. He wants to help Western powers stop it.”

“Shit,” mumbled Caruso.

“And who do you think this major’s best guess is as to who is behind this coup?”

The men at the table looked at one another. Finally Jack said, “Rehan?”

“You got it.”

Chavez whistled. “And why did this major tell Embling about this? Obviously he knows Nigel is a spy?”

“Knows or suspects. Problem for Nigel is he’s not a spy. Not anymore. MI6 isn’t listening to him, and he is afraid the CIA is hamstrung by the politics of the Kealty administration.”

“Welcome to our world,” muttered Dom Caruso.

Gerry smiled but said, “So Nigel went back to Mary Pat and said, ‘I want to talk to those guys I met with last year.’”

“When do we go?” asked Clark.

Gerry shook his head. “John, I want you to take another couple weeks off before you return to fieldwork.”

Clark shrugged. “Hey, it’s your call, obviously, but I’m good to go.”

Chavez disagreed. “You are healing up nicely, but a GSW is nothing to mess with. Better you stay around here. A wound infection would take you off the active roster real quick like.”

Clark said, “Guys, I’m too old to give you any macho shit about how I’m one hundred percent. It’s stiff and sore. But I sure as hell am fit enough to fly over to Peshawar and drink some tea with Embling and his new friend.”

But Sam Granger made it clear the matter was not up for debate. “I’m not sending you this time, John. I can use you around here. We have some new gadgets to test out. Some remote surveillance cameras came in last night, and I’d like your input.”

Clark shrugged but nodded. Clark was subordinate to Granger, and like most every military veteran, he understood the need for a command structure, whether or not he agreed with the decision.

“This Embling guy. What does he know about The Campus?” Driscoll asked.

“Nothing, other than that we aren’t ‘official channels.’ His mates at MI6 trust Mary Pat, and Mary Pat trusts us. Also John and Ding made a good impression on him last year.”

Ding smiled. “We were on our best behavior.”

The men laughed.

Granger said, “I’m going to send Sam this time. This is a one-man op; just go over and meet with this ISI major, get a feel for him and his story. Don’t commit to anything, just see what he will offer up. In this business we don’t trust anyone, but Embling is as solid as they come. He’s also been in the game for pushing a half-century, so I’ve got to assume he knows how to ferret out disinformation. I like our chances here, and the more we can learn about Rehan, the better.”

The meeting broke up soon after, but Hendley and Granger asked Driscoll to stay behind for a moment. “You good with this?” Granger asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Go on down to the support desk and draw your docs, cards, and cash.” Granger shook Driscoll’s hand and said, “Listen. I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t know here, but Peshawar is a dangerous place, and getting more dangerous by the day. I want your head on a swivel twenty-four /seven, okay?”

No, Sam Granger wasn’t telling Sam Driscoll anything he didn’t know, but he appreciated the concern. “We’re on the same page, boss. Last time I took a little vacation in Pakistan, the shit hit the fan. That’s not something I’m looking to repeat this go-around.”

Driscoll had gone over the border more than a year earlier, and he’d come back with a serious wound to his shoulder and a series of letters to write to the parents of his men who did not make it back.

Granger nodded thoughtfully. “If there is a coup being planned by the ISI, too much digging around by an American is going to draw a lot of attention. Debrief Embling and his asset, an then come on back. Okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Sam.