The Devil's Banker

Chapter 57

It was thirty-seven years ago to the day that Admiral Owen Glendenning had led the action that resulted in his being awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. Standing in the bedroom of his modest home in McLean, Virginia, he held the framed award, and in the day’s dying light, read the citation, trying to reconcile the amoral, duplicitous man he had become with the guileless warrior he had been.

“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a SEAL team leader during action against enemy aggressor (Viet Cong) forces. Acting in response to reliable intelligence, Lt. (jg.) Glendenning led his SEAL team on a mission to capture important members of the enemy’s area political cadre known to be located on an island in the bay of Nha Trang. In order to surprise the enemy, he and his team scaled a 350-foot sheer cliff to place themselves above the ledge on which the enemy was located. Splitting his team into two elements and coordinating both, Lt. (jg.) Glendenning led his men in the treacherous downward descent to the enemy’s camp. As they neared the end of their descent, intense enemy fire was directed at them, and Lt. (jg.) Glendenning received massive injuries from a grenade that exploded at his feet and threw him backward onto the jagged rocks. Although bleeding profusely and suffering debilitating pain, he displayed outstanding courage and presence of mind in immediately directing his element’s fire into the heart of the enemy camp. Utilizing his radio, Lt. (jg.) Glendenning called in the second element’s fire support, which caught the confused Viet Cong in a devastating crossfire. After successfully suppressing the enemy’s fire, and although immobilized by his multiple wounds, he continued to maintain calm, superlative control as he ordered his team to secure and defend an extraction site. Lt. (jg.) Glendenning resolutely directed his men, despite his near unconscious state, until he was eventually evacuated by helicopter. The havoc brought to the enemy by this successful mission cannot be overestimated. The enemy soldiers who were captured provided critical intelligence to the allied effort. Lt. (jg.) Glendenning’s courageous and inspiring leadership, valiant fighting spirit, and tenacious devotion to duty in the face of almost overwhelming opposition sustain and enhance the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.”

After the war, the medal had guaranteed a swift ascent through the naval ranks. He hit all the good billets: two stints at the Pentagon, commander of BUD/S School in San Diego, naval attaché to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, a year as a White House fellow, and finally, a posting as director of Naval Intelligence. By the age of forty, he was a rear admiral, and all his efforts, his gilded connections and sheer moxie, couldn’t budge him a rung higher.

The lateral swing to the CIA was a natural. He welcomed the new responsibilities and the higher salary, but already the gnawing dissatisfaction that would come to plague him was making itself known. The early 1980s were a heady time. The economy was rumbling back to life, having survived a bare-knuckled, knock-down drag-out with inflation and unemployment. Up in New York, people were making barrels of money and flaunting it. This irked Glendenning. He didn’t like coming up short on the material side of things compared with his cronies in lobbying, law, and defense. Men who were less intelligent than he and didn’t possess his capacity for work, earned five times as much as he did. A salary of eighty grand a year didn’t go far in the rarefied air of Virginia hunt country.

At first, a rapid series of promotions stemmed his envy. He moved from regional director to deputy director of operations within five years. But the same stasis that ended his naval career shadowed him at Langley. Year after year, he guarded his post as deputy director of operations. Four directors came and went. Not once was he mentioned as a candidate. It was his time as a SEAL that did it. You simply could not have a proven assassin at the helm of a major government agency. The American people would not stand for it.

Resentment of the hypocrisy festered inside Glendenning, rankling him more with each passing year, and with every change of regime. The lack of generous pay spurred his ill will. There was no reason serving your country shouldn’t be a profitable endeavor. He viewed this as a structural flaw and decided he had every right to address it.

Omar al-Utaybi, or Marc Gabriel, as he called himself, provided the means.

He’d been watching Gabriel practically since the day the man had set up shop in Paris. He’d had a good reason, of course. During his posting to Riyadh, he’d come in contact with Gabriel’s older brother, Juhayman, then a headstrong lieutenant in the national guard making waves with his calls for religious reform. When Juhayman took over the Grand Mosque, Captain Owen Glendenning advised the King on tactics to storm the sacred area and overwhelm the rebels. Juhayman was captured and executed. The remainder of the Utaybi family was exiled shortly thereafter.

At first, he took only a professional interest in Gabriel’s activities. Gabriel’s contacts with radical elements in Saudi Arabia left no doubt that he wished to see his brother’s plans to fruition. Gabriel was building a shadow government to be run by men from the armed forces, national guard, and foreign ministry. To finance their activities, he was playing the market, making equity investments and trading in currencies with extraordinary success. It soon became clear that Gabriel had a knack not only for fomenting a coup, but for value investing.

With careful planning and forethought, Glendenning began copying the Saudi’s trades. If Gabriel bought ten thousand shares of Coca-Cola, Glendenning bought a hundred. If Gabriel purchased call options on IBM, Glendenning did the same. “Piggybacking” it was called in the business. Profits were in the hundreds, not thousands. But over time, the sums added up. His investments increased and so did his profits. After a few years, Glendenning boasted a hefty account at one of the more discreet offshore banks that the Agency liked to patronize.

He had made the decision to retire from the Company when Marc Gabriel called him.

It was blackmail pure and simple, and Glendenning couldn’t say no. Gabriel had known for some time about Glendenning’s activities. He, too, had friends in corner offices, and he was able to present Glendenning with a catalogue of his misdeeds. The sheer lack of options made Glendenning’s complicity an easy matter for his conscience to swallow. Gabriel didn’t ask for anything much, just that Glendenning keep an eye on the intelligence community and make sure no one got too close. It was a domestic matter, he promised. Strictly an internal Saudi affair.

But the events of September 11, 2001, magnified the scope and intensity of the intelligence world’s interest in Middle Eastern affairs one-hundred-fold. When Sarah Churchill had phoned from London saying she’d identified a new group calling itself Hijira, Glendenning could do little to impede her investigations without provoking questions about his commitment to stamp out terrorism in all its forms. Warnings that he’d sent had been largely ignored by Gabriel’s field operatives. But Gabriel pressed for more. During the past week, he had been relentless, demanding information about the inner workings of Blood Money, threatening to expose him to Gadbois, to frame him for the deaths of the three Treasury agents, if he refused to comply.

Anyway, it was through between them. Glendenning had done the man his last favor. Gabriel had his bomb. He could blow up half of Saudi Arabia as far as the admiral was concerned.

Slipping on his dinner jacket, Glendenning grabbed his walking sticks and hobbled to the stairs. The first thing he’d do when he retired was build himself an elevator, he mused as he made his way to the bar and fixed himself a cocktail. He poured a liberal dose of Russian vodka into a highball glass, threw in a few ice cubes, and added a twist of lemon.

“Claire,” he called out. “Ready, love? It’s time we got moving. Can’t keep the President waiting.”

A whiff of perfume drifted from the bathroom, where she was changing, and he thought of the ways his life had changed since he’d met her. The decision to cast off a cloying wife and end a loveless marriage had been a vote for his future. He looked forward to helping Claire through her illness. After, they would marry. He would retire to an island in the Caribbean, where Gabriel would be just a bad dream and life a series of golden sunsets and passionate nights.

“Claire,” he called again. One thing was the same about all women. They took a helluva long time to get themselves pretty. Taking a long sip, he set the glass down on his coffee table, only to pick it right back up and search for a coaster. How many times had he heard about moisture rings on the antique Williamsburg table?

The doorbell rang.

Glendenning froze, caught between looking for a confounded coaster and answering the door. His eye fell on the invitation to the state dinner. Snatching it in his fingers, he laid it on the table and put his drink down on it. “There now, you happy?” he called to the shadow of his soon-to-be ex-wife. Walking to the door, he checked his watch. It was nearly seven. He wasn’t expecting a visitor.

“Yes,” said Owen Glendenning, opening the door. It was Sam Spencer, the eternally youthful technician who ran the FBI’s videotape enhancement unit.

“I’ve got it, Admiral,” the man blurted, waving a small cassette in his hand. “The woman in the videotape. I’ve identified her.”

“Have you? That’s wonderful news. Come in.”

“She’s a Saudi,” said Spencer. “From one of the ruling families.”

“That much I could have told you myself. Marc Gabriel, er… Omar al-Utaybi, the man we’re looking for in Paris, is also a Saudi. Get you a drink, Spencer? A thank-you for all your hard work.”

“A beer would be great, sir.”

“Sure thing.” Glendenning took a step toward the hall. “Claire, let’s go, sweetheart!” He smiled at Spencer. “State dinner at the White House. You couldn’t get me into this monkey suit for anything less. Come on in, then. Don’t be shy.”

As Spencer advanced into the foyer, there came the sound of a faucet being shut off. A door opened beneath the staircase, and a slim woman with thick black hair and fine features stepped from the bathroom. She was dressed in a black taffeta ball gown and white brocade evening jacket. At her neck she wore a stunning set of black pearls, but it was the bejeweled belt that captured Spencer’s attention. A rectangular buckle the size of two packs of cigarettes laid end to end and dusted with sparkling pavé diamonds.

“Here I am, Glen,” she said, then seeing Spencer: “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.”

Spencer froze, his gaze jumping between Glendenning and the woman. “Admiral…” he said haltingly.

Glendenning turned, the open beer in his hand. “What is it, Spencer?”

The FBI agent stood as if nailed to the spot, his eyes unblinking. “Admiral, that’s her. That woman is Noor al-Utaybi. She’s the lady on the tape.”

Glendenning glanced at Claire. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is Miss Charisse from the World Health Organization. Miss Charisse is my date for this evening. Claire, say hello to Sam Spencer.”

“No, sir,” said Spencer, shaking his head, and it was clear that he would not be convinced otherwise. Stepping forward, he handed Glendenning the minicassette. “You’ll want to look at the tape.”

“Claire?” said Glendenning unsurely. Why wasn’t she denying it? Why wasn’t she smiling and telling Spencer in her lovely singsong voice that he was mistaken. Why was she just standing there looking every bit as scared as he felt? “Claire,” he said again, less certainly. “Is this true?” His throat tightened as the realization took hold. Spencer was right. Claire was Marc Gabriel’s sister.

Yet, even as Glendenning began to have the first inkling of why, the bottle of beer shattered in his hand. Struck in the chest by a blunt, immensely powerful force, he staggered backward and collapsed to the floor.

Noor al-Utaybi turned and fired a single shot into Sam Spencer’s uncomprehending face.

She would be certain to express the admiral’s apologies to the President of the United States herself.