Three Weeks in Washington, page 11
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
After underscoring the fact he expected a little quid pro quo from me for his efforts to get my nephew the internship, he immediately got out of his chair and headed for the door.
The meeting was over.
“No, sir, I won’t do that.”
The Senator stopped at the edge of his desk.
When he turned around and looked at me, the scowl on his face was one I’d seen on the evening news when the Senator was grilling a hostile witness during a Senate committee hearing.
He walked back over to where I was seated. “Is that right?”
I stood up. “That’s right, sir. Like I said, Ben is going to make an excellent covert officer, and I’m committed to helping him achieve that goal. I believe our country will be better off with him in that position than if he were sitting behind a desk at headquarters. And Senator, I’m sure you want what’s best for your son, as well as what’s best for this country.
“That goes without saying, but—”
“Here’s what I will do for you, because, as you said, one good turn deserves another. Actually, this is what I won’t do. I won’t tell Ben you’ve been working behind the scenes at the Agency to have him transferred out of Operations. I won’t tell him you conspired with the DDO to force Olivia McConnell to be the FO on a mission hoping she’d give him a bad report.”
We stood there for a few minutes, toe to toe, staring at each other. Finally, he broke eye contact with me and walked over to a window overlooking the Capitol. The glass extended from the floor to the ceiling, and I was sure he’d been photographed there dozens of times for publicity purposes.
His voice was subdued when he spoke again. “I just wanted Ben to be safe,” he said, gazing outside. “I didn’t want to lose him.”
“There’s no place on earth that’s safe today, Senator, but, if you’re willing to let him go, you won’t lose him.”
He didn’t reply.
I took that as my cue to leave.
As I opened the door, he said, “If you want to see me again, make an appointment.”
Chapter 15
I slipped into a conference room on the ground floor of the Old Headquarters Building at six o’clock, precisely on time for my final briefing before Citadel Protection went operational.
There were four other people in the room, and I was the last person to arrive. I didn’t apologize for being late.
I wasn’t.
Despite that, Carlton, who always arrived at a meeting thirty minutes before it began, made it sound as if I were.
“Titus is here now, so we can get started,” he said.
I sat down next to Mitchell.
“Where have you been?” he whispered.
“Family matter.”
“Better you than me.”
Carlton, who was seated in the center seat on the right-hand side of the table, nodded over at Wilson, who was at the head of the table. “Initiate the call to Vasco,” he said. “I’m sure he’s tired of waiting.”
Nolan hit a few keystrokes, and Ken Vasco, the CIA’s chief of station in Buenos Aires, appeared on the screen at the far end of the room. At first, his head seemed to be taking up at least two-thirds of the video display, but then, someone adjusted the zoom function on the camera, and the rest of the room came into view.
I could tell Vasco was in The Bubble at our embassy in Buenos Aires, a soundproof room designed for secure communications with government entities back in the U.S. Anyone employed by the CIA was required to use either The Bubble or an encrypted satellite phone when communicating with the Agency back at Langley.
I always preferred to use my Agency phone when I was in the field, and, unless I needed to have a video conference with the Ops Center, I seldom went inside The Bubble.
The room’s smaller dimensions, along with the weird acoustics, always reminded me of a prison cell—something I never wanted to be reminded of again—so I avoided it as much as possible.
Vasco didn’t appear to be the least bit affected by his environment. He smiled and gave Carlton a big wave. “Douglas, how are you?”
“Katherine, is that you?” he said, cupping his hand over his eyes as if the lights in the conference room were bothering his eyesight.
Katherine looked up from her computer briefly and gave him a weak smile. “Hi, Ken. Nice to see you again.”
Vasco shifted his attention to Wilson. “Nolan, I can’t believe they let you out of the Bat Caves for this.”
The RTM Centers were sometimes referred to as the Bat Caves because they were made up of a labyrinth of underground rooms, and all the sophisticated electronics cast a bluish glow over everything.
Carlton had never seen the humor in referring to the RTM Centers as Bat Caves. And, since he didn’t tolerate other jokes about Agency matters, I thought he might want to explain such things to Vasco, but before he had a chance to do that, Vasco continued his conversation with Wilson.
“Seriously, what are you doing here, Nolan? Was this operation too small for Olivia’s attention or did she finally get promoted to the seventh floor?”
Wilson, who had an impressive-looking goatee and wore a pair of half glasses perched over his nose, was not a quick-witted kind of guy. Before he could formulate a response, Carlton spoke up.
“Olivia’s not feeling well today, and Nolan’s been appointed acting director until she returns. Now, Ken, let me introduce you to the principals of the mission.”
I wasn’t sure how Carlton knew I’d never met Vasco before, but when he told him I was the primary for the operation, Vasco said, “I’m happy to finally make your acquaintance, Titus.”
I muttered something equally inane, and once Carlton had introduced Mitchell, we got down to business.
Vasco had been the point man for the Agency when Roberto Montilla and his family were relocated to Buenos Aires. He’d helped them rent a house, locate a school for Emma, and now, he was in the process of finding employment for Roberto.
When Mitchell and I arrived in Buenos Aires, Vasco would be responsible for providing us with logistical support while we were in country conducting our mission.
In the earlier briefing, Carlton had told us Ken Vasco was listed as a General Services Officer on the personnel roster of our embassy in Buenos Aires. This position encompassed a wide variety of duties, involving both procurement and trade, and enabled him to easily move around the city, managing his own stable of CIA operatives and assets.
Carlton asked, “What arrangements have you made for the meeting with Roberto?”
When Vasco replied, his demeanor reflected a more somber tone than his initial jocularity, and I suspected this change in mood was caused by the sobering effect Carlton often had on people.
Vasco said, “I’ve rented office space in one of the upscale business districts. Three days from now, I’ll pick Roberto up and drive him over to the office suite so he can discuss his dream of owning a sandwich franchise with the executives of Bub’s Subs.”
Vasco pointed over to Mitchell and me. “The rest is up to you guys.”
When the Ops Center team had mapped out the Citadel Protection operation, they’d made the decision not to inform Roberto he was about to be interrogated a second time. Instead, Vasco had told him he’d be meeting with representatives from Bub’s Subs about setting up a sandwich franchise in Buenos Aires, capitalizing on his desire to own one of the fast-food enterprises.
“We’ll take it from there,” I said.
When Mitchell and I got off the plane in Buenos Aires, I’d be carrying a passport identifying me as Geraldo Lucia, while Mitchell would be entering Argentina as Ignacio Rubio. Both of us would be posing as executives of Bub’s Subs out of Orlando, Florida.
Carlton asked Vasco a few more questions, and the call ended when Vasco said he had already arranged for a driver to meet the Bub’s Subs executives at Ezeiza International Airport in Buenos Aires two days from now.
I’d never eaten a sub from Bub’s, but I decided if our flight had a layover in Miami, I ought to try one.
* * * *
When the conference call ended, Carlton asked Katherine for an update on the location of the cargo ships carrying the chemical weapons from Syria to Cuba.
“There are three vessels, and they should arrive at the port in Santiago de Cuba in six days.”
“The ships aren’t headed for Havana?” I asked.
Carlton said. “Apparently, the Castro brothers are trying to distance themselves from their Hezbollah friends—at least while our government is normalizing relations with them—and they’ve banished them to the other side of the island. We know there’s a Hezbollah cell containing at least twelve operatives in Santiago de Cuba, and their fingerprints are all over a warehouse there. Satellite surveillance shows it’s recently been refurbished. Since it meets all the criteria for housing the gas canisters, we believe that’s where Hezbollah has set up shop now that the warehouses in Venezuela are out of the picture.”
Wilson removed his half glasses and spoke up for the first time. His voice reflected his Boston upbringing.
“Those canisters are completely useless to Hezbollah without a delivery system. Our analysts believe The Caracas Document hints at the possibility Roberto knows what that delivery system is and where it’s located.”
Carlton nodded at Mitchell and me. “Your interrogation of Roberto should be focused not only on discovering how Hezbollah plans to deliver the sarin gas, but also on what their timetable may be.”
I said, “Roberto was pretty insistent he didn’t know anything about the delivery system when we questioned him before, and, although I saw the same inconsistencies in The Caracas Document as you did, I’m not as optimistic he’ll be able to give us any more information other than what he’s already given us. I think those answers will have to come from the intel we get out of Syria or Cuba.”
Wilson smiled and looked over at Carlton. “I think Titus is trying to tell us he’d rather be traveling to Cuba or flying to Syria instead of making the trip down to Buenos Aires.”
Carlton said, “Subtlety has never been his strong suit.”
Mitchell said, “I also believe interrogating Roberto is a waste of time.”
I said, “No, I’m not saying it’s a waste of time. In fact, I’m sure we’ll pick up some extra intel by having another go at Roberto. What I am saying is that we may not get the necessary intel in time to stop Hezbollah from dropping a rocket load of sarin gas on Washington, especially if those canisters arrive in Cuba in a few days.”
Carlton said, “We’ll be sending Agency personnel to Cuba, and we already have operatives monitoring Rehman Zaidi in Damascus. The team in Damascus also has a solid asset in Hezbollah’s camp, and this asset may be our best chance of learning the timetable for the event.”
I remembered Olivia’s advice about Marwan Farage, and, since the briefing appeared to be almost over and Wilson hadn’t brought up the man’s name once, I decided it was time to toss it out there.
“Have our people in Damascus mentioned anything about Marwan Farage?”
If Carlton was surprised to hear Marwan’s name, he didn’t show it. “I’m not aware of any reports about him.” He pointed over at Wilson. “Marwan Farage? Is there any new intel on him? He was one of Ahmed Al-Amin’s relatives.”
Katherine spoke up, “His cousin. Marwan was his cousin.”
Katherine had uncovered the connection between Ahmed and Marwan, and, unlike most counterintelligence analysts, she never minded receiving attention for her efforts.
Wilson typed in a few keystrokes on his laptop.
Seconds later, he sat back in his chair and nodded. “Here it is. His name was mentioned in a report about the meeting Zaidi had with Hassan Naballah, the head of Hezbollah in Damascus. There’s nothing there, though. The report just mentions Marwan’s name.”
I asked, “Just his name? Nothing else?”
“See for yourself.”
Wilson projected the document on the screen in front of everyone.
It was a typical Field Report Summary (FRS). This one described a meeting between an asset and his handler.
The body of the document was the printed transcript of the audio recording from the meeting, and, as soon as I saw the handler’s initials were KP, I knew Keever Pike had to be one of the principals working Operation Citadel Protection in Syria. I wasn’t able to figure out the asset’s name, because, as per Agency policy, an asset’s initials were only listed as UA for unnamed asset.
The transcript read:
KP: Who was at the meeting between Naballah and Rehman Zaidi when he returned to Damascus?
UA: Marwan Farage and Abdul Latif were present, and, of course, I was also there.
KP: Did Naballah tell you why he’d called the meeting?
UA: He wanted a full report on Zaidi’s role in Ahmed Al-Amin’s death.
KP: Why did he want the report? Did Naballah blame Zaidi for his death?
UA: Maybe. I don’t know. He just wanted to know how Ahmed had died.
KP: Did Zaidi take responsibility for Ahmed getting killed?”
UA: No, he placed the blame on Roberto Montilla. He said he was sure Montilla was working for the CIA, and he even gave Naballah one of the bullets from Ahmed’s body to prove it. He said the bullet had come from a Glock.
KP: What does that prove?
UA: He said most CIA people use a Glock.
KP: Some do. Some don’t. Okay, so what was Naballah’s reaction?
UA: He didn’t have a reaction. The only person in the room who showed any emotion was Marwan. He got so angry Naballah had to calm him down.
KP: Did Naballah discuss the chemical weapons at the meeting?
UA: Naballah said the ships carrying the canisters were being diverted to Cuba because the warehouses in Venezuela had been compromised by Montilla’s betrayal.
KP: And the target? Has that changed?
UA: No. It remains Washington, D.C.
KP: Did he talk about how he plans to disperse the gas or say anything about the timing of the attack?
UA: All he said was the Cuban location wasn’t going to change the schedule. He said nothing about how he plans to use the gas.
KP: And you still don’t know when the attack will take place?
UA: No. Naballah said only General Suleiman knows the schedule.
KP: You mean the Iranian general?
UA: Yes. General Suleiman, the head of Al Quds. He’s the one who has the final say.
* * * *
Wilson stayed quiet until it was obvious everyone in the room had finished skimming the FRS.
“See what I mean?” Wilson said. “There’s nothing there.”
I said, “The UA said Marwan was upset when he heard about Ahmed’s murder. He thought it was significant enough to mention it to his handler.”
Wilson said, “You sound like Olivia. She said the same thing.”
Carlton gave me a curious look. “What are your concerns about Marwan Farage?”
“Revenge is my concern. Jihadists feed on anger. All the 9/11 hijackers were fueled by anger at the Americans for some reason or another. We should be proactive and start monitoring Marwan’s travels before he shows up over here to exact his revenge.”
Whether he agreed with my reasoning or not, Carlton instructed Wilson to put a tracker on Marwan. Once that was done, he said he wanted to wrap things up by taking care of some housekeeping details.
“The DDO has decided to split Citadel Protection into two separate components. Everyone here in this room is a member of Component One. Component Two will be led by C.J. Salazar, who’ll be investigating yesterday’s incident at the Washington Navy Yard. His team will ascertain if the shootings had anything to do with the threat posed by Hezbollah to use chemical weapons on the capital.”
Now I understood why Carlton has assured me he would be the handler for my run into Buenos Aires. As soon as he saw the drugs in Felipe’s backpack, he must have realized Salazar would ask the DDO to allow him to explore the drug cartel’s role in the Navy Yard incident.
I had no doubt Carlton had also encouraged the DDO to give Cartel Carlos that assignment—moving the pieces on the board in such a way as to protect his territory and remain in control.
Carlton pointed over to Katherine. “Ms. Broward’s team will continue to do a deep background check on Walid Khouri, whose phone number was found in the second shooter’s backpack. If she finds a Hezbollah connection, I’ll let you know.”
At the mention of her name, Katherine smiled and glanced across the table at me. I was tempted to give her a wink, but I didn’t want her to interpret it as anything other than signaling we were co-conspirators when it came to Walid Khouri.
I gave her a brief smile instead.
She returned my smile with a wink.
* * * *
Our flight to Buenos Aires didn’t leave until four o’clock the next day, so, after leaving Langley, I headed back out to The Meadows to spend the night.
The moment I pulled in the driveway, I got a call from Nikki.
“Your timing’s perfect. I was just about to call you,” I said.
“Does that mean you’re still in Virginia?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes, in a way. My captain was involved in a pretty bad car accident today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s not—”
“No, no. Other than having two broken legs, he’s okay. His doctor said he’ll be fine in a couple of months, but I’m afraid this means Stormy will have to stay in a kennel after all. I couldn’t ask the captain’s wife to take care of an extra dog while she’s busy taking care of the captain.”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m sorry it worked out like this. I know he won’t like being confined. I’m talking about Stormy, not the captain.” She laughed. “The captain won’t like it much either.”
