True Faith and Allegiance

31

John Clark arrived at La Madeleine café on King Street in Old Town Alexandria a few minutes before eight a.m. The place served a full breakfast, and he looked at the menu longingly, but for now he just ordered two of the simplest coffees he could find on the menu and took them to a table in the front window.

A minute later a white-haired but healthy and energetic-looking man of around seventy arrived, wearing a white polo shirt and khakis. He smiled when he saw Clark, and marched over to his table with a hand extended.

“Good to see you, John!” he said with a firm handshake.

“Eddie Laird! It’s been a while. You’re looking good for a retiree.”

The men sat down across from each other. “You kidding? I’ve been out of the agency for a year and a half and my blood pressure is down to normal levels for the first time since college. Feel younger now than when I was fifty-five.”

Clark said, “They’ve still got you training at The Farm, right?”

“On a contract basis. It gets me out of the house, but just a couple days a week. That’s plenty for me, and frankly those hopeful young minds of mush don’t need to hear a grumpy old cynic like me every day.”

Clark laughed and said, “Can’t thank you enough for helping me out this morning.”

The white-haired man lifted one of the coffees and took a sip. “Glad to.”

Laird had been CIA ever since graduating from Yale; he’d first met Clark in Vietnam when they were both part of MACV-SOG, the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam — Studies and Observations Group, a black ops task force that Clark served in as a U.S. Navy SEAL. Laird had been a very young CIA case officer in the program, and while Clark didn’t get along with many of the Ivy Leaguers at the Agency as a rule back then, he saw quickly that Laird had a real appreciation of the work the SEALs did and, for a Yalie, he was just a regular Joe out there in a shitty situation doing his best.

The two men ran into each other frequently after Vietnam, which was no great surprise, because Clark joined the CIA himself. In Berlin, in Tokyo, in Moscow, and in Kiev, Laird and Clark worked together here and there, and Clark had only greater respect for the man as the years passed.

In the eighties Laird was in Lebanon, and he was one of only a few CIA officers to survive the bombing of the U.S. embassy. He became an expert on Afghanistan in the nineties by working for two years in-country with the Northern Alliance, so after 9/11 he was on the first CIA Russian helicopter into the nation, tasked with enlisting the support of the fracturing alliance and helping them move south as an American proxy force.

Laird had done a magnificent job in pushing Al-Qaeda out of the nation and rolling Taliban forces south and west, better than anyone’s wildest dreams, and he was soon rewarded with a senior position in the National Clandestine Service, where he managed case officers in the Near Eastern Division, including for then CIA Director Ed Foley.

After a decade at Langley he began working as a trainer at Camp Peary, home of the CIA training facility known as The Farm. By then he had grandchildren and wanted to shower them with the attention he’d never been able to give his own kids because of his life in the field. He tried to retire a handful of times, but his wealth of knowledge was so crucial to the young recruits that Ed Foley, and then his wife, Mary Pat, had always managed to convince Eddie to stay on. Even when he officially retired, he continued as a contract trainer.

Laird had been read in on The Campus since the early days, so he was happy to make the three-block walk up to King Street from his home this morning to help his old friend with some training.

Clark asked after Laird’s daughter, herself a CIA officer, and though Eddie couldn’t say much, he did say she was at Langley at the moment, and he was seeing plenty of her and his grandkids.

Laird in turn asked Clark about his family, which included Ding Chavez’s family, as Ding was married to Clark’s daughter Patsy.

“Everybody’s doing great,” Clark said. “Although I’ve got Ding working like a madman, since we’re short on personnel.”

Laird looked out the window at the sunny day. “Yeah, about that. On the phone you said you needed me for a few hours of role-playing to help you whip a couple of new trainees into shape. What did you have in mind?”

Clark said, “Just a basic surveillance evolution for my two new operatives. I’d like to send you out into the neighborhood here. Pick up a copy of the Post, to keep under your arm, and then I’ll call them. They are just up the street at the office now. I’ll give them your description, and have them try to acquire and tail you. For the first hour I just want you to take it easy on them. Do some window-shopping, maybe stop for another coffee, walk around. We’ll start slow, so make no attempts to ID them. After a while I’ll call you and ask you to begin an SDR. At that point I’d like you to do what you can within normal parameters to slip surveillance, but I’d also like you to actively try to figure out who is on your tail.”

“Got it. You want me to take this into the District or stick around here?”

“We’ll keep this exercise confined to Alexandria. There’s no way anybody on earth could tail a man with your experience unless I make the game table nice and small.”

Laird smiled. “Thanks, John, but my hair is so damn white now, a cosmonaut could ID me from space with his naked eye.”

John pointed at his own head of silver hair. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are a bunch of us around. You’ll fit right in. Anyway, I’ll see how long they can tail you, and then, when I call time on the exercise, I’ll see if you can describe the two people I have on the foot-follow. Sound good?”

“You kidding? I used to have to do this in Moscow in ten-degree snowstorms. An eighty-degree morning walking around a few blocks from my house trying to ID a couple of eager young guns sounds like my idea of a good time.”

Across the street and half a block north on North Pitt Street, four men sat in a Nissan Pathfinder and watched the two white-haired men in the coffee shop through binoculars.

They’d remained silent for a few minutes, but now Badr, the man behind the wheel, asked the question they were all thinking. “Who is the other old guy?”

Next to him, Saleh answered. “It doesn’t matter. Laird is our target. That doesn’t change.”

In the backseat, Chakir lowered his binoculars. “Do we do it right now? Just drive by and fire into the window? They are sitting right there. It would be easy.”

Next to him, eighteen-year-old Mehdi, the second-youngest of all the operators from the Language School, nodded eagerly. “I’ll shoot both those motherfuckers right now.”

Saleh looked up and down the street. Pedestrian traffic was relatively heavy on the sidewalks already and the streets were active, if not crowded. Saleh knew what had happened to the two men in North Carolina the evening before from watching the news and seeing the new ISIS video just distributed. He didn’t know which cell they belonged to, but there was no doubt in his mind that they were mujahideen he’d met at the camp in El Salvador.

It was also clear to him they’d successfully taken out their target, and then had been caught by police during the getaway.

Saleh and the other three were operatives of the Detroit cell. They were right in the middle of Fairfax’s turf, but they didn’t know that. Al-Matari had known from the beginning that the D.C. area would be ground zero in targeting the types of prey he was looking for, so he’d always planned on sending various groups into the area.

These four men had arrived early this morning, but they missed Laird when he left his house at seven forty-five, a mistake by Badr, the driver. They’d been parked in a metered space on Duke Street within sight of Laird’s house on South Royal, but when a police car drove by slowly, Badr spooked and drove off. Saleh, in charge of this four-man sub-unit of the Detroit cell, had chastised his driver; they had been doing nothing wrong, they all spoke excellent English, and Saleh had a cover story ready. Still, they had to find another place to park with a line of sight on the Laird home, and by the time they’d gotten into position, Mehdi notice Laird walking on South Royal, halfway up to King Street.

Now Saleh had to decide if they should shoot the old man while he sat in the restaurant and then try to race away through the crowded and touristy part of Old Town, or else wait till he headed back home, and do him on his quiet residential street.

Thinking again of what had happened in North Carolina the evening before, he found his choice easy to make. “We wait till he goes back home. If he walks around awhile, it’s okay. But if he looks like he’s going to get on public transportation, we kill him immediately.”

Saleh had been told directly by Omar, the leader of the Detroit cell, that Mohammed had precluded any of them from setting foot in D.C. because of the high police presence and what he assumed would be heavy racial profiling.

The four men in the Pathfinder continued watching their target, some hundred yards distant through the glass of the restaurant.

A few minutes later John Clark and Eddie Laird shook hands again at the front door of La Madeleine.

Eddie said, “If we wrap up around lunchtime, what do you think about the four of us heading over to Murphy’s for a celebratory beer and some wings?”

Clark said, “How ’bout this? You and I go for the beer and lunch. If my trainees pass muster, they can tag along. If not, I’m sending their asses back to the office to reread the manuals on foot-follow surveillance. They can eat crow for lunch.”

Clark didn’t mention that Adara Sherman had proven herself capable in the field on Campus ops more than once, and Midas Jankowski was already an incredibly well-trained operative from Delta Force. He imagined they would pass today, but he wouldn’t commit to rewarding them until they did.

“Well, now, aren’t you a hard-charging bastard?” Eddie joked. “All right, buddy. I’m your mouse, bring on your two little kitty cats.” Laird walked across the street to a CVS pharmacy, where he took his time buying a bottle of water, a pack of chewing gum, and a copy of The Washington Post, giving the trainees time to get into the area.

Adara Sherman and Midas Jankowski had been reading books on surveillance for the past hour and a half. Adara had read the books twice before, back when she was on the aircraft shuttling Campus operatives around the world and dreaming about the opportunity to join their ranks to make a larger contribution to the cause.

Midas had read different books on the subject, back when he was new in G Squadron at Delta. This was the recce group, reconnaissance, and they often worked in small groups and in plainclothes on surveillance missions around the world. He fully expected to do a good job today, and maybe even have some fun while doing it. His first week as part of this tiny group of brilliant and dedicated Americans had been nothing short of a blast. Moreover, just the knowledge that the three-man operational force had spent the previous weekend involved in some sort of direct-action mission overseas made his blood pump faster.

Mr. C. clearly hadn’t been jerking Midas’s chain back when he told him The Campus got into the action with regularity.

Shortly after the two of them closed their books, they received a group text from Clark instructing them to begin double-timing it toward King Street.

Adara had a Smith & Wesson Shield she carried for personal protection here in Virginia, and she started to reach for it. But she stopped herself and turned to Midas. “Are you carrying today?”

“We can’t carry in the District. It’s a felony. I have no idea where this target we’re tailing is going to go. I’ll just take my knife.”

Jankowski carried a small hawkbill-bladed karambit knife in a sheath inside his waistband. He was well trained on the device, even though the one on his person now was a thirty-dollar off-brand. The blade was only two and a half inches long, meaning it was small enough to carry legally in D.C., but he’d never get it through a metal detector if their subject went into any federal buildings, art galleries, or other public places. He went cheap with the blade today because he knew there was a chance he’d have to drop it in a garbage can to keep on mission.

Adara had an even smaller two-inch folding blade and a small can of Sabre Red pepper gel, which could shoot a thick stream of goo twenty feet that was capable of burning mucous membranes with roughly the same heat used in bear-attack sprays.

Pepper gel wasn’t nearly as effective as a weapon that fired lead, but like the little knife, it could also be safely discarded in a garbage can if she needed to dump her weapons to get into a restrictive location.

A minute after getting Clark’s text they were in Midas’s Chevy Silverado heading to King Street, and they found parking a block over and walked the rest of the way.

Clark met with the pair in the middle of Market Square, a large open space in front of the 150-year-old city hall. A farmers’ market was under way, bringing hundreds out on this summer morning.

Clark brought Midas and Adara to the side of the action, stood them by the large fountain in the middle of the square, and said, “Okay, today’s subject is within three hundred yards of you right now. He’s seventy years young, five-ten, one hundred sixty pounds. He’s wearing a white polo and khaki slacks, and he might or might not have a hat on.”

Midas and Adara exchanged a look. This wouldn’t be easy.

Clark added, “He’ll be walking with a copy of The Washington Post.”

Midas asked, “Our orders?”

“Tail, surveil, and prevail. When I call time on the op, I want pictures of anyone he talks to, and good notes of where he went and what he did. Any questions?”

Adara asked, “Does he know who we are?”

“No, and it’s your job to keep it that way. You fail if he describes you to me at the end of the run.”

Both Adara and Midas were clear on their task.

“Good luck.” Clark walked off, heading back to La Madeleine now, eager to eat a real breakfast.

The two trainees put earpieces in their ears and then Adara called Midas. Once they established a constant connection between the two of them, they split up to find their target. Midas headed east toward the Potomac River, and Adara moved west up King Street.

Eddie Laird left the CVS after twenty minutes and headed off to the west, staying with the flow of traffic on the sidewalk running up the northern side of King Street.

A block behind him, Badr pulled the Pathfinder into the weekend morning traffic and said, “He isn’t going home. Home is the other way.”

In the back, Chakir said, “Did he see us? Does he know we are following him?”

Saleh shook his head. “He knows nothing. Calm down, everyone. He can go for a walk if he wants.”

Badr said, “What do I do?”

Saleh was the right man to lead this quartet from Detroit, because he was by far the most calm of the group. “Drive on ahead of him, then stop and drop the three of us off. We’ll let him pass and then stay behind him. If there is a good opportunity to do it and escape, we will proceed. Otherwise, we wait for him to go home.”

After a second Saleh began taking off his shirt. “Everyone but Badr needs to remove their body armor. It will show under our clothes if we walk around on the street for long.”

Badr said, “But Mohammed told us to—”

Saleh snapped back, “The vests are too big! We can’t wear jackets to cover them on a day this warm without being detected!”

All three men removed their vests, passed them to the back of the Pathfinder, and donned their shirts again.

Adara found her target checking his bank balance at an ATM on King Street, then he turned and headed to the west. Even if the white-haired man hadn’t had the Post under his arm, he just had a look about him that told her he was a contemporary — and likely a friend — of John Clark’s.

She didn’t follow behind him for long. Instead, she turned left on St. Asaph Street, so that if he was looking for a tail he wouldn’t see her at all. As soon as she was out of his line of sight she said, “Midas, I have the target. He’s about ten blocks from the river on King and heading west. I’ll move parallel to him and try to get ahead.”

“Roger that,” Midas said. “I’m five blocks away on King Street. You stay out of sight on an intersecting street, then fold in behind him, remaining on the opposite side of the street. You take the eye, and I’ll stay back and keep my eyes on you. I’m ready to overlap you and take the eye on your call.”

“Got it.” Adara walked quickly, thankful she wore tennis shoes, lightweight nylon pants, and a short-sleeve shirt because it looked like she was going to do a fair bit of power-walking this morning.

The Nissan Pathfinder from Detroit passed by Eddie Laird as he walked in front of a restaurant with sidewalk café seating; then the vehicle turned off King Street and onto Washington. Here it immediately pulled to the side of the road. The three young men of Middle Eastern heritage climbed out; Mehdi and Chakir had small backpacks slung over their shoulders, each carrying an Uzi and extra magazines, and Saleh had a Glock pistol and two extra magazines rammed into the small of his back between his underwear and his skin, covered by his untucked button-down shirt.

Saleh quickly crossed to the southern side of King Street to stay opposite Laird, while Chakir and Mehdi stayed back on Washington until the old white man passed. They waited another minute before taking up the follow behind him.

They both wanted to shoot him in the back now and be done with it, but Saleh was in charge of this group, and he’d told them he’d text or call when it was time to act.