The God's Eye View

CHAPTER 18

Two hours later, Anders was back in the Situation Room with the other principals of the National Security Council. The president convened the meeting and immediately turned it over to the secretary of defense — a bad sign. The secretary then gestured to Jones. That was even worse.

“We’ve intercepted the following cellular traffic in Turkey and Syria,” Jones said. He nodded at a uniformed flunky, who fired up a laptop. On the screen at the front of the room, a map of the Turkey-Syria border appeared. Jones stood and approached it, highlighting areas with a laser pointer. The subdued lighting glinted against his fruit salad of medals.

“What we’ve pieced together,” he said, “is that these geolocated units”—he gestured with the laser pointer to a set of coordinates on the Turkish side of the border—“were engaged in moderate and then increasing contact with these two units”—he directed the laser pointer to a set of coordinates on the Syrian side—“culminating in a flurry of chatter at the exact time we estimate Hamilton was taken. The Turkish units are associated with a criminal group called Ergenekon that’s of concern primarily for heroin trafficking. But the two Syrian units are numbers associated with a jihadist group loosely affiliated with ISIS, but also a rival to it. A competitor, if you will.”

If you will. Anders hated that self-indulgent, patronizing expression. But there was nothing he could do but sit and do a slow burn while the Pentagon stole his thunder. At least he could find a little solace in knowing the “loosely affiliated with ISIS, but also a rival to it” part came from NSA. Though he was beginning to sense that planting that piece of “intel” might be on its way to some unintended consequences.

“We believe Hamilton was spirited by the Turkish group, perhaps in a kidnapping-for-cash operation, across the border here, at Demirışık”—God, but the man loved his laser pointer—“and taken to Azaz, about twenty miles northwest of Aleppo. Fighting between rebel and government forces in Aleppo has been fierce; the entire area is chaotic; opportunities for concealing a high-value target, considerable. That said, we believe we know where Hamilton is being held. Here.”

The screen changed to an image of a bombed-out concrete house on a rubble-strewn street.

“This is a composite image,” Jones explained. “A computer rendering based on satellite and Unmanned Aerial Vehicle photographs. We also have satellites and UAVs equipped with variations of something called SHARAD — Shallow Subsurface Radar — developed by NASA for the Mars Rover to scan the surface of Mars for water or ice.”

The screen helpfully changed to an artist’s rendering of the Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter shooting radar from space to look for water on the red planet’s surface. Anders had to admit that as much as he hated it, Jones gave a good presentation. Well, you didn’t rise to chairman of the Joint Chiefs without that much, at least.

“We’ve also done high-altitude fly-bys using infrared imaging,” Jones continued, the screen now showing examples of drones outfitted with infrared imaging systems. “The upshot is, we know the composition and thickness of the walls of this structure, of its doors—”

The screen flashed rotating, computer-generated, three-dimensional images of the structure. Jones paused for dramatic effect, and the screen changed again, this time to a grainy, infrared image of a man, his arms above his head, presumably shackled to the ceiling.

“—and the precise location within the structure of this person, who we believe is the American journalist Ryan Hamilton. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s bring this young man home.”

Lord. For a moment, it seemed this room full of grizzled, self-serving cynics was going to burst into applause. But the moment passed, Jones returned to his seat, and all eyes moved to the president.

The president looked at Jones. “Vernon, you’re confident in the accuracy of the technology behind these findings?”

“Mr. President, had we possessed this technology during the Iranian hostage crisis, Operation Eagle Claw might have ended very differently.”

Anders seethed. Eagle Claw was botched because of helicopter malfunctions. It had nothing to do with intel about the location of the hostages. And what the hell did “might have” mean, anyway?

But he said nothing. Jones clearly had the advantage, and there was nothing Anders could do to change that.

For the moment.

His mobile phone vibrated. He glanced down and saw a text from Remar:

Cannot obtain definitive match of two individuals of interest. However, records indicate both powered down their mobile phones at the same time after work and on weekends on dozens of occasions.

He’d already known in his gut from what Delgado had told him, but this was proof: Daniel Perkins and Aerial Chambers had been intimate. They were cautious enough about their infidelities to turn off their phones before meeting. But the simultaneous blackouts were their own form of confirmation. Perkins knew about God’s Eye. Which meant that Hamilton knew. Which meant that Hamilton absolutely had to be silenced.

“How soon can you be ready?” the president said to Jones.

“We have a team building mock-ups of the structure as we speak,” Jones responded, his chest swelling slightly at the chance to say so. “Forty-eight hours would be adequate to coordinate logistics and for the team to train on a replica of the very structure they’ll be breaching in Azaz. We can move faster if necessary, but if we think Hamilton has at least forty-eight hours, I recommend we wait that long. We don’t want to go in half-assed.”

All eyes turned to Anders. The president said, “Do we know anything about Hamilton’s circumstances?”

The humiliation felt calculated, but there was nothing to do but endure it. “No, Mr. President, we have no indication of how much time Hamilton might have. Beyond the fact that this group seems intent on milking his capture for propaganda value. In which case, at least forty-eight hours seems a safe bet.”

The president nodded, probably thinking he could have gotten a similar analysis from an intelligent high school student, and might have hoped for something more substantial from the director of NSA.

“Comments? Criticisms?” the president asked, looking around the room. “No? All right then, I’ve decided. Barring an unforeseen development, in forty-eight hours we go in and bring this young man home.”

An unforeseen development, Anders thought. You have no idea.