Three Weeks in Washington, page 24
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
As if the question were a difficult one, Pike pressed two fingers to his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Yes and no. Even though the Free Syrian Army continues to fight Assad’s forces in the outlying areas, only a few neighborhoods in Damascus have been affected. So, yes, I agree our mission shouldn’t be endangered by the fighting.”
He paused and shook his head. “But I disagree with Katherine if she believes the civil war in Syria was brought on by the rebel fighters. This war is a direct result of the atrocities Assad has continually inflicted on his own people, including the use of chemical weapons.”
Katherine immediately spoke up. “I don’t believe I said that, and I certainly didn’t mean to imply it. I am more than aware of Assad’s vicious attacks on the civilian population. If anyone is to blame for this war, it’s Assad himself.”
Pike said, “It’s not just Assad. His whole power structure is—”
“Let’s save that topic for another day,” Carlton said.
Carlton seldom tolerated superfluous talk during a briefing, so it didn’t surprise me to hear him refuse to allow Pike to pontificate on the subject.
Pike was a big pontificator.
After Carlton consulted his notes, he instructed Wilson to explain the status of Marwan’s wife and daughter, Yamina and Samira.
Wilson said, “The two ladies have now been taken to a secure location. If Marwan needs some extra incentive to cooperate with us, Sam Wylie is offering to supply us with the photographs necessary to do that.”
Carlton nodded. “Tell him I’ll need several of those for my meeting with Marwan later this evening.”
For the next thirty minutes, we discussed the nuts and bolts of the operation and viewed aerial satellite photographs of Naballah’s headquarters. We were also shown photographs of Rehman Zaidi and Abdul Latif, members of Naballah’s security council who would be attending the meeting with General Suleiman. Most of the photographs were either taken by Pike or by the asset he’d been running, the man Hezbollah had recently beheaded for being a traitor.
I suspected this man’s death was on Pike’s mind when he brought up the subject of Marwan. “These Jihadists are always on the lookout for suspicious behavior, and they don’t tolerate betrayal. If Marwan gets skittish about attending the meeting with Suleiman, what happens then?”
The DDO spoke up for the first time. “If that happens, then I’ll issue an order for his removal.”
Chapter 32
Whether it was the DDO’s statement, or the fact he hadn’t said anything prior to uttering the words, there was a brief lull in the proceedings after his pronouncement. During those few seconds of silence, I was battling a loud voice telling me to keep quiet.
However, I lost that battle.
“Look,” I said, “Marwan is aware of what’s at stake here. If he doesn’t get us the intel we need, he knows he’ll never see his family again. That motivation alone will be enough to calm his nerves and execute the plan. It isn’t necessary to issue a call for removal.”
The DDO didn’t bother to mask his displeasure at my remark.
“I’m trying to prevent an attack on our nation’s capital. That means I’m keeping all my options on the table. Convince your man to deliver the goods and there won’t be a problem.”
I didn’t like the sound of Marwan Farage being “my man,” but common sense finally prevailed, and I didn’t respond.
I’d noticed Carlton’s eyes were glued to his legal pad during my exchange with the DDO, and although he’d appeared disinterested in my conversation, I seriously doubted his lack of concern.
Once it was obvious I had nothing else to say, Carlton immediately turned his attention to Pike. “I want at least two surveillance teams assigned to Hassan Naballah for the next several days.”
“I may need extra personnel to do that, and, if you can spare it, a surveillance drone wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
Carlton said, “I’ll check on the drone, and once I arrive in country, I’ll also look at putting some additional watchers on the members of Naballah’s council. What’s happening with Rehman Zaidi?”
“My surveillance on him is continuing, and I’d suggest we keep that up. According to my asset, Rehman knew more about the chemical weapons than anyone else on the council.”
I nodded. “I agree with Keever. If Naballah sends someone to Cuba to oversee those weapons, more than likely, it will be Rehman.”
Pike asked, “What about the gas canisters? Have they arrived in Cuba yet?”
“No, they—”
Robert Ira interrupted Carlton, never missing an opportunity to demonstrate he was a hands-on administrator.
“There was a tropical storm off the coast of Cuba yesterday. The ships weren’t able to dock at the port in Santiago last night, but they should arrive sometime tomorrow. C.J. has Agency personnel covering the docks and warehouse, and he’s also ordered UAV coverage for the entire area.”
The DDO’s update made me wonder how Mitchell was handling the delay in the ships’ arrival, but since Juliana was with him, I was betting he was handling it pretty well.
“That’s all I have for now,” Carlton said, looking first at Pike and then at me. “Do either of you have any questions?”
“I have one for Ms. Broward,” I said.
After Carlton gestured for me to go ahead, I asked Katherine, “Have you come up with anything new on Walid Khouri?”
I was surprised to see her glance over at the DDO before saying anything. Once he’d nodded at her, she said, “Deputy Ira has the update on Khouri.”
The DDO eased his considerable bulk out of his chair and stood to his feet. With his wide girth and short stature, he didn’t cut a very impressive figure, but when he spoke, his authoritative voice garnered everyone’s attention.
“After receiving the analysis report from Ms. Broward’s ASA team last night, I made the decision to deliver the results of the background check on Walid Khouri myself.”
I could only recall one other instance when the DDO had attended a briefing in order to present the findings from an ASA report himself. That had been several years ago when a full data probe had been executed on a U.S. ambassador suspected of sharing intel with the Saudis. Everyone in that meeting had been required to sign a separate confidentiality agreement following the DDO’s presentation, and I had been the person assigned to deliver the Director’s message to the ambassador.
Ira lifted a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Here’s a bio Walid Khouri’s public relations office released on him for a recent newspaper story.”
“In 2005, when Walid Khouri arrived in the Washington, D.C., area from Amman, Jordan, he opened up a studio in Brentwood, where he specialized in portraits and headshots. In 2009, after expanding his portfolio to include commercial advertising, he moved his studio to its present facility in the Dover district to accommodate his growing reputation. Today, he employs several photographers, and his client base includes commercial establishments, celebrities, government agencies, as well as several Congressional leaders. Just recently, he broke ground on a new studio facility, which includes a photography showroom, plus outdoor landscapes for accommodating creative wedding photos and family portraits.”
The DDO put down his notes and picked up a remote mouse from the table. He clicked it once and a man’s image appeared on the screen.
“Here’s a photograph of Walid Khouri as seen on his website.”
The photograph was of a Middle Eastern man in his late forties with thick, heavily gelled black hair and a sparse beard. His dark eyes held a look of surprise, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting the camera’s flash. Since I knew he was in the business of taking photographs for a living, I had to believe his startled look was totally staged, perhaps intending to show his vulnerable side.
Khouri was wearing a light-colored, open-collared shirt under a navy-blue blazer, and his left hand was hooked around a leather camera bag slung over his shoulder. If Khouri had chosen this particular shot because it portrayed a sophisticated, yet approachable photographer, he had definitely accomplished his purpose.
The DDO said, “The background information Khouri gives out on himself is short on details. Here’s what it says on his professional website.”
He picked up his notes and read from them again. “Following the death of his father, Walid Khouri arrived in the United States from Jordan and decided to invest his inheritance in a photography studio, fulfilling his lifelong dream of living in America and pursuing his love affair with photography.”
The DDO laid aside his notes. “While there’s evidence Khouri spent his early years in Jordan, Ms. Broward’s team of analysts have determined Khouri’s father worked in a bicycle shop in Amman for most of his life and barely eked out a living for his family.”
This discrepancy didn’t surprise me.
I suspected it was one of the red flags Katherine had spotted as soon as she’d run a preliminary data scan on him. The DDO said as much when he clicked on the next slide.
“This red flag is one of many inconsistencies in Khouri’s background, inconsistencies which were only revealed when our analysts initiated a full investigation on him. I’ve asked Ms. Broward to present those findings for you now.”
The DDO sat back down, and, for the next hour, Katherine laid out what she and her team of analysts had turned up on Walid Khouri, including his source of revenue.
As much as I appreciated the analysts’ work, some of the stuff was mind-numbing—especially the explanation of the money trail—and I was getting really bored by the time Katherine made her summary statement.
“I’ll try to pull all these threads together for you now,” she said, displaying a slide with several bullet points.
Circling the first one with her laser pointer, she said, “First, we discovered Walid Khouri left Amman, Jordan, in the late 1990’s and moved to Iran where he attended Tehran University. There, for reasons unclear at this time, he drew the attention of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), who ended up paying for his education and directing his studies. Second, following his graduation, the records show he joined the IRGC, where he received further training in photography.”
Katherine turned away from the screen and said, “Although we couldn’t find any definitive evidence of this, we believe it’s safe to assume Khouri also received tutoring in English and American business practices during his time with the IRGC.”
She pointed her laser at the screen again. “Third, a few days after Khouri arrived back in Amman in 2005, several million dollars was transferred from an IRGC account in Tehran to a private bank in Zurich under Khouri’s name. Two months after that, Khouri arrived in Washington, D.C., where he invested some of that money in WK Photography.”
Katherine clicked off her summary slide and projected a collage of photographs showing Khouri with a bunch of beautiful people. I found it easy to identify the Washington bureaucrats in the shots, but I had no clue who the rest of them were.
“As you can see from this collage from his Facebook page, Khouri fosters his reputation of being a first-class photographer with ties to both Hollywood celebrities and Washington insiders.”
Her next slide showed Khouri aiming his camera at some fashion models on a white sandy beach. I immediately recognized a famous landmark in Dubai in the background.
“Since arriving here in 2005, Khouri has seldom traveled outside of the United States. However, last month, he booked a photo shoot for an Arabic fashion magazine and traveled to Pakistan, Turkey, and Dubai. We haven’t been able to determine if he met with any IRGC or Hezbollah members in those countries yet, but we’re still shifting through that metadata, so we may yet come up with something.”
At this point in her presentation, Katherine displayed a photograph of the yellow bag of potato chips found in Felipe’s backpack. A close-up shot showed the phone number Reyes Valario had contacted before entering the Navy Yard and killing a bunch of innocent people.
She said, “The second suspect in the Navy Yard massacre wrote down this phone number, which he believed belonged to a drug dealer willing to buy several kilos of heroin he was carrying. In reality, this is the personal phone number of Walid Khouri, who, as far as we have been able to tell, has never had any kind of connection to the drug trade.”
Katherine concluded by showing the passport photo of Reyes Valario and explaining his connection to Hezbollah. “According to Valario’s cell phone records, he was in regular contact with Khouri. He even called his number just hours before arriving at the entrance to the Navy Yard. Of course, we’ve filed the necessary forms requesting the NSA supply us with the transcripts of those conversations. As soon as they become available, I’m sure many of our questions will be answered.”
Katherine ended her presentation, and the DDO started speaking again. When he began cautioning everyone about reading too much into the data, I tuned him out for a few seconds, because I was trying to decide whether or not I should say something about Frank Benson’s trip down to Arkansas and his discovery about Valario’s connection to the Razorback Century Club.
I realized it would be difficult to mention this information without getting Benson in some hot water, and since I’d already done that earlier in the week, I decided to keep my mouth shut—at least for now.
When I tuned the DDO back in, he was saying, “So I suggest we all take a deep breath before jumping to any conclusions. While there’s every reason to believe Walid Khouri is a deep cover operative sent here by the Iranian regime, there’s no reason to believe he’s connected to the threat we’re facing right now from a chemical weapons attack on Washington. That’s why I believe, before contacting our friends over at the Bureau, we should give our analysts more time to explore Khouri’s background.”
He began gathering up his notes while delivering his final remarks. “Whether Khouri is a lone wolf or part of a larger sleeper cell, it’s imperative we gather all the facts before exposing him. Everyone should keep in mind, during the past ten years, Khouri has been given unequaled access to photograph Congressional leaders and high-level government officials alike. Not only that, he’s become close friends with some of them.”
Ira appeared to be looking directly at me when he made his concluding statement. “I’m sure everyone will agree with my decision.”
Most people in the room probably agreed with the DDO’s decision. I wasn’t one of them.
* * * *
When my briefing ended, I stayed behind in order to meet with Legal and put my signature on the if-you-die-during-this-mission-we-can’t-be-sued document, which was required of all covert operatives before heading out on a mission.
After finishing with them, Josh Kellerman, who directed the Legends arm of Support Services, went through the intricacies of the cover story I’d be using while in Syria.
“You’ll be operating in country as Donovan Bartlett, a freelance journalist from Chicago.”
“You know how much I hate to write, Josh. Couldn’t you think of a better cover for me? And Donovan? What kind of name is that?”
Kellerman, who was used to hearing such protests, ignored me. “You and Keever Pike have been friends for years and, just in case anyone gets curious about you, an internet search will pull up several stories you’ve filed with newspapers here in the States.”
After Kellerman had walked me through my travel documents and the contents of my wallet, he handed me a well-worn duffel bag containing some scruffy-looking clothes, a Kevlar jacket, laptop, toiletry kit, camera, cell phone, sat phone, backpack, and first-aid kit.
All the tangible items Legends issued to an intelligence officer were collectively referred to as The Kit, and when Kellerman had finished going over these items with me, he said, “Of course, since you’re flying commercial, your Kit doesn’t contain a weapons package. However, once you’re in country, Keever will get you whatever you need. If he doesn’t have it, I’m sure we’ll hear about it.”
I didn’t doubt that.
Pike never went anywhere without a small arsenal.
And, of course, his attitude.
* * * *
The moment Josh Kellerman finished up with me, a driver from Transport arrived to take me over to Dulles, where I was scheduled to catch a flight to London. After a brief layover there, I’d be on a flight to Damascus.
When the driver pulled away from CIA headquarters, I asked him to take a short detour over to McLean Medical before dropping me off at the airport.
The driver—who said his name was Jefferson, but who insisted I not call him Jeff—was responsible for making sure I arrived at the airport on time, so when I asked him to take me by the hospital, he pulled an electronic tablet out of his front pocket and consulted it before agreeing to my request.
“My dispatcher always builds an extra fifteen minutes into the schedule. As long as this stop doesn’t take too long, we’re good.”
“Fifteen minutes and I’m outta there.”
“Let’s do it.”
Jefferson ran into some traffic on our way over to the medical center, so I called ahead and got Olivia’s room number, which meant I was able to bypass the main reception desk and head straight to the elevators.
When I arrived at the nurse’s station on the sixth floor, a flirty charge nurse there asked me what I was doing on her floor. After I told her I was a close friend of Olivia McConnell, she personally volunteered to escort me down to her room.
On our way down the corridor, I used the opportunity to quiz her about Olivia’s condition. “Can you tell me how Olivia’s surgery went today?”
She stopped in the hallway outside her room. “She had a double mastectomy with no complications, but depending on her lab results, she may be required to have some radiation treatments. Her surgeon was just here looking for her family. I’m sure he would have been happy to answer your questions.”
“Olivia asked me not to come.”
