On Scope

34

One crowd was gathering in Mostafa Mahmoud Square, unrolling its banners beneath cloudless skies and handing out ink-smeared antigovernment leaflets, getting into the spirit of the day’s demonstration aimed at forcing the Muslim Brotherhood out of political power. Another crowd, supporting the Brotherhood government, was assembling at the same time in the Sayyida Zeinab area near Garden City. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and by noon the battle would be joined once again in Tahrir Square. It happened frequently, and today showed no indication of any change from the usual useless oratorical thunder from the loudspeakers and a few cracked heads. President Hosni Mubarak had been ousted early in 2011, and Egypt still had not settled into a long-range government. Revolution was still in the air. Both sides remained stridently anti-American.

McKay Bannermann used extreme caution in threading his way from his hotel to the United States Embassy, and he was pleased that the taunting protesters who usually loitered around the area were gone to their respective camps for the demonstrations. At the embassy gate, he put aside the burgundy red German Reisepass he was carrying in his hand and retrieved his blue American passport. He was a dual citizen, with a parent from each nation. Bannermann was an attorney who had been in private practice in Abu Dhabi for many years, but his only real client was Marwan Tirad Sobhi and the billionaire’s myriad interests.

Once past the exterior guards, he avoided the lines of people who were there on regular embassy business and spoke to a young man in a blue blazer and tan slacks, the so-called cultural attaché who had been expecting him. In less than ten minutes, Bannermann was easing his soft bulk into a chair across from a resident agent of the Central Intelligence Agency. The faux diplomat had perfect black hair and a square jaw, and Bannermann was delighted to see the Yale diploma on the office wall. Since he had one of those himself, that got them off to a good start, mutually loathing the Harvard Crimson.

In his unexpectedly high-pitched voice, the attorney said, “My client sent me to pass along a piece of vital intelligence information to you. I will be brief.”

“I’m listening, Mr. Bannermann.”

“Ordinarily, I would invoke client-attorney privilege, but in this case, my client has authorized the release of his name. He is Marwan Tirad Sobhi. You probably knew that before I sat down here.”

CIA did not react other than with the bland offer, “Would you like a drink?”

Bannerman waved it away. “As you are also aware, the sheikh was a member of the ill-fated Group of Six that attempted to give the Spanish government a different option during its economic crisis.”

“They tried to buy a way in for the Muslims.”

Bannerman ignored the jibe. “A series of deadly murders decimated the Group after the American Consulate in Barcelona was attacked.”

CIA pursed his lips as if in thought. “Is that right?”

The lawyer was just as relaxed, for he was only a messenger. He opened his briefcase and removed a note. On it was written the names of Djahid and Yanis Rebiane. He gave it to the CIA agent. “These are the two men who were directly responsible for Barcelona, and they acted without the authorization from the others in the Group. Djahid is a very dangerous man and actually led the ground attack. Yasim, his father, planned it. It is probable that they also killed Mr. Torreblanca when he canceled the Spanish project.”

The CIA man realized Yanis Rebiane was one of the two remaining members of the Group of Six, and he had vanished. Marwan Sobhi was giving them both up, which indicated the Rebianes perhaps did murder Torreblanca and the sheikh did not want to become another notch on the gun of Djahid. “How solid is this, McKay? Do you have photos of these two?”

The attorney gave a lopsided smile. “Extremely solid. The sheikh would not be at all displeased if Yasim and his son, who is truly a mad dog, encountered some unfortunate luck, and the sooner the better. I’ve never seen a picture of Djahid Rebiane. You should have many of Yasim.”

“Does your man know where they are?” He was not ready to bet a lot of chips on Sobhi’s word. The CIA had taken a serious black eye from a similar walk-in kook called “Curveball” during the run-up to Iraq. The more information that could be gleaned, the better.

“Unfortunately, no. If you give me a number, I will notify you immediately should we hear anything new.”

“That’s not going to be good enough, McKay. No matter what the movies say, we don’t have electronic trackers on everybody in the world. We need to get these mutts out in the open.”

“I will take that request back with me. Perhaps the sheikh can reach out to friends for assistance.” He picked up his briefcase, ready to leave, but the Agency man had one more question.

“So what does your guy want in exchange for us getting the Rebianes off his back? Nothing comes free from a lawyer.” CIA was willing to give up a few bricks of cash, but Marwan Sobhi was already richer than the average American teenaged dot.com gazillionaire, so that wouldn’t be effective.

“Why, nothing at all!” The lawyer protested as if shocked at the very idea of doing something like this with a price tag attached. “He always stands ready to help his American friends.”

Neither of them believed that for a moment. This was a situation of convenience. The sheikh was adroitly recruiting the Americans to stab his former friend Yanis Rebiane in the back before this Djahid Rebiane muscle could silence Sobhi. It was the worst kind of deal in the Middle East: a favor owed, to be collected at some future date. CIA took it in a heartbeat.

Douglas Jimenez rubbed his sore face. For what he had endured, there was little external damage. The Feebs had asked no questions about the private session with Swanson, but gave him two mild painkillers that also contained a special brew of a relaxant that took off just enough of an edge to keep him under control while leaving him wide awake. He had no idea how long he had been in custody.

Senator Jordan, according to the FBI agents, was still in the intensive care unit at Walter Reed Hospital. His physical condition should have been improving, but the man seemed to have lost his will to live. The hospital reported two flatline incidents the night before that required the crash carts to pull him back from the brink, only to have the doctors discover an unexpected buildup of fluid in the lungs. They said his condition was critical, and he was being sustained by machines that breathed for him, pumped nutrients directly into his veins, and evacuated his bladder and bowels. Adding to the misery were drug-induced hallucinations that made him mumble and thrash. When the senator’s wife had come down from New York to see her hospitalized husband, she had been informed that he was a suspect in a national security matter and was taken in for some questioning herself. She returned to Manhattan as soon as possible. His mistress and their daughter stayed away, hating him for putting them in grave danger because of one of his schemes. Once one of the most powerful men in Washington, Monroe now faced eternity all alone, and nobody cared.

That included Doug Jimenez, who had hooked his own career wagon to the senator’s rising star, only to have it turn out to be nothing but a piece of falling space junk. His own dreams had evaporated, and he just wanted this whole thing to be done, so he could get the hell out of Washington and never talk to another politician or cop or Swanson as long as he lived. The best way out — the only way — was the deal offered by the FBI. As a lawyer, he bargained for a while, jacking up the payout to $250,000, then looked over the fine print closely and signed his name. He imagined his future shingle hanging on a little office somewhere in Oregon, where he would conduct a practice based on a low-profile lawyer’s best friends: WILLS & TRUSTS & PERSONAL INJURY. Anything else would have dire consequences.

After that, they became best friends, Doug and his agents. They let him walk around in the daylight, then they served him a good lunch, let him watch a little TV, take a shower, and put on fresh clothes, and gave him plenty of easy time to climb back into his skin after the harrowing experience. He was shocked to find that he had been in custody for less than forty-eight hours.

When they gave him a script to follow for his talk with Yanis Rebiane, Jimenez read it and exclaimed, “Who the hell is Catherine Elizabeth Ledford?”

“You don’t need to know that,” said the agent. “Just spill her name along with Swanson’s. Call her Beth.”

“I’m getting fucked over by you guys for disclosing Swanson as a so-called secret special operator, and now you want me to give away both him and another one? That ain’t hardly fair.”

The agent cocked a dark eyebrow. “Life ain’t fair, Dougie. You have to give Rebiane something he does not already have, and that is confirmation of Kyle’s position, and the additional prize of Beth Ledford. No sweat, pal. It’s all part of the plan.”

“God. A government plan. What could go wrong?” he whispered to himself, exasperated, then began to edit the script down to a couple of main talking points, arguing that he had to sound extemporaneous. Any script would sound stilted and false. “I did this bullshit for a living, man,” he protested to the agents. “I have to be offhand to make it believable. He has to believe that I’m legit before he buys anything from me. It’s Telemarketing 101.”

“OK, then. Let’s do it,” said the agent. Recorders were in place, as were tracking devices, and Doug held a familiar private cell phone. His own. The agents went into an adjacent room, able to communicate on a computer screen that Jimenez could read. No outside noise could distract the parties involved. “Dial the number. Make this dude a believer, Dougie.”

There was the flutter of an international ringtone, then a second one, and Yanis Rebiane recognized the calling number. “Senator Monroe,” he said smoothly.

“No, sir. This is Doug Jimenez, Senator Monroe’s chief of staff. I am afraid that I have bad news. The senator has been hospitalized with a heart attack. The doctors say he will live but is in for a long recovery. I spoke to him in the intensive care unit, and he said that you and I need to talk.”

“I don’t know you.” Yanis did not hang up. Anyone tracking the call could only discover that the phone was somewhere in the busiest part of Venice, the popular area around Piazza San Marco and the majestic St. Mark’s Basilica. Thousands of tourists were milling about, and cruise ships disgorged more by the hour. He would give this man a minute, no more.

“But I know you, Mr. Rebiane. The senator has taken me into his confidence since I had been doing the legwork for him on some, uh, military matters that you discussed.”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Jimenez? I am just a contributor to the senator’s campaigns. We have met exactly one time, and it concerned agricultural issues in Missouri. I regret his illness, but I know nothing about anything to do with the military.”

Doug sighed enough to be heard on the phone. “Let us just say that our interests are exactly the same, sir, and I will be running the senator’s office during his absence. It is important for constituents like yourself to understand that anything he could do for you, I can do instead, everything but vote.”

Rebiane still had not hung up, so Doug felt he was almost home. “For instance, I can confirm now that as the senator advised earlier, the commodities trader Kyle Swanson is indeed the man handling the operations for Trident Manufacturing, including its international work in Spain.”

“I suspected that already, Mr. Jimenez. So it is not information that my business would find useful.”

A brief message came up on the computer screen: HE IS IN ITALY. Doug silently raised his fist in anticipated victory, and the agents silently applauded behind the glass window to encourage him. Now. Ring the bell.

“I also have the name of his partner. Would that be of interest?”

There was a dramatic pause in the conversation as Rebiane found a pen and a piece of paper. “Yes. Very much.”

“Surprisingly for that line of work, it is a woman. Catherine Elizabeth Ledford. She goes by the name of Beth.” The computer screen put up a new word, VENICE.

Rebiane scribbled the name. “Do you know where I can find them? Where are they?”

“I can probably obtain the location, sir.” Make him want it. Ask for money. Make a deal. “It may be an expensive and time-consuming endeavor, however. They will not be listed in any, uh”—pause, struggle for an appropriate word—“conventional databanks, like a telephone book or Who’s Who in America.”

Small laugh. “I see. That can be arranged. I appreciate your call, Mr. Jimenez. It was timely because this number will no longer be in service after today, so I shall have someone contact you at your office soon.”

“That works. Good to speak with you, sir.”

“Please give the senator my best wishes for a speedy recovery.” He hung up and stepped between two shops to join the mingling customers along the covered stone walkway of the Rialto Bridge, from which he tossed his phone into the Grand Canal.