“You gave the code a name?”
Chelsea shrugged.
“Maybe you should call it a night,” Massina suggested.
“We have a couple of bank accounts we can track,” said Chelsea. “I’m not going to leave until I get more results.”
“All right. But stop using ‘we,’” added Massina. “The AI program is just a tool.”
“Socrates,” said Chelsea. “His name is Socrates.”
94
The air was different. Wet. Pregnant.
That was what he always noticed about America. No matter where Ghadab was, a city, a suburb, a farm, the air smelled different than what he’d grown up breathing. It wasn’t just the scent of diesels or factory gases, the exhaust from cars or cows. It was more intrinsic.
Some would put it down to humidity, the most obvious difference to the deserts of the Middle East. There was something to that, especially on a day like today, when rain was only a few hours away. But Ghadab knew it was more than that, more an expression of the country and its people. What they breathed out.
And what he was now breathing in.
Ghadab continued down the long, twisted gravel driveway of the safe house, walking in the direction of the highway. Large fields lay to either side; given over to hay, in the early predawn light they looked more like jungles than cultivated farm acres. A large barn leased to a local farmer sat in the distance, close to the highway. In the shadows, the structure looked like a squatting soldier.
The image gave Ghadab some comfort.
He continued walking, strolling leisurely. Casual movement helped clear the mind of thoughts. Then, with distractions gone, he could focus on the tasks of the day.
Dealing with the traitor was first.
He had reached the highway and started back for the house when he heard the pickup. He stepped to the side and waited, watching as the headlights swept up from the road. The driver saw him and slowed before pulling alongside.
“Commander, you are up early,” said Amin Greene, leaning across the cab to talk.
“I always rise before dawn.”
“Can I give you a lift to the house?”
“I prefer to walk, then pray.”
“I’ll make you breakfast, then.”
Greene let his foot off the brake and moved away slowly. He was a jolly sort, perpetually happy, easily amused.
Useful, though not deep.
By the time Ghadab got to the house, it smelled of strong coffee. Greene was stirring a pancake batter.
“It’s time for prayers,” said Ghadab, entering the kitchen.
“A few minutes yet,” said Greene, glancing at his watch.
“Now, by my watch.”
“Of course.”
Greene turned off the flame and followed Ghadab out to the porch. Ghadab unrolled his prayer rug; Greene found one near the door and together they prayed.
As Ghadab finished, he took the knife from his belt.
“I have done you a mercy, though you don’t deserve it,” he said, reaching his arm around the front of Greene’s chest and pulling up quickly to stab his throat.
Taken by surprise, Greene grabbed at his chest, then floundered as Ghadab sliced him again and stepped back.
“You are a disgrace to the cause,” said Ghadab.
Greene started to shake his head. Blood fell from his neck like a waterfall, seeping in places, spurting in others.
“You spoke to them just before Easter,” said Ghadab. “The Turk learned this. I didn’t believe him, but I have seen the proof in your bank accounts.”
Greene slid down, eyes still open, but definitely gone.
“You will serve us in death,” said Ghadab. He took a flash drive from his pocket and slipped it into Greene’s. “So perhaps you will be considered a martyr after all.”
95
Gabor Tolevi had run dozens of “errands” for Johansen, but never in America. It was easy enough, though: a signal had been sent, which would require the contact to meet him at a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee shop just outside of town at exactly 12:03 p.m.
The shop was nearly deserted when Tolevi arrived a few minutes before noon. A quick glance around told him the contact wasn’t among the patrons — all but one were women, and the exception looked to be seventy at least, and very white.
“Coffee,” he told the girl at the counter.
“Donut?”
“Just coffee.”
“We’re serving a new lunch menu.”
Tolevi stared straight ahead.
“What size coffee?” asked the girl finally.
“Large.”
He gave her a five and told her to keep the change. He went and found a booth on the side.
Tolevi had no idea what his contact looked like; Persia was supposed to approach him, signaled by the New York Times he unfolded on the table.
They’ll need to revise their procedures soon, thought Tolevi. There won’t be any newspapers left in a few years.
He could see most of the parking lot from his seat. A car pulled in — right on time, Tolevi thought, until he saw that the occupants were both barely teenagers, one black, the other Hispanic. Neither gave him or his newspaper a second look.
And so it went for an hour. Even with their new lunch menu, business was not exactly booming. No more than twenty people came in, and none of them looked remotely like they might be his contact.
This sort of thing had happened to Tolevi more than he could count. It was never a good sign, but it was not necessarily disastrous. It could mean that the contact was being watched and had bailed; it could mean he hadn’t gotten the message. It could mean he felt he was being taken advantage of and wanted to demonstrate that he was worth more than he was being paid — respect always being a function of the money involved.
It could mean many other things as well. As far as Tolevi was concerned, its only importance was that it made it necessary to call Johansen.
“Didn’t show,” he told the CIA officer as he walked to his car.
“Not at all?” There was no alarm in Johansen’s voice, but still, the mere fact that he answered — Johansen did not like to talk on cell phones, especially ones that were not encrypted — was a surprise.
“No, he did not.”
“OK. I’ll text you an address.”
“I have other things to do.”
“I need this,” said Johansen.
Tolevi hung up. He considered driving back to Boston, but there was always a chance that he might need Johansen for something important in the near future. Even if he didn’t, having the CIA as an enemy always complicated one’s life.
The phone rang five minutes later — not only was it a call rather than a text, but it was far sooner than he expected.
“This is the address where he works. I need you to bring him to me.”
“What?”
“I need you to do it.”
“This is way out of the ordinary.”
“You’ll be paid, don’t worry. I need you to bring him to Langley.”
“Me?”
“Don’t take no for an answer.”
Tolevi knew where Langley was, of course, but he’d never been there. The request was completely bizarre. But Johansen not haggling over money — that was the most suspicious thing of all.
The company Greene worked for specialized in demolitions, primarily taking down derelict buildings. Destroying things made some people very happy, including the woman who worked as the company receptionist.
“Good afternoon!” she said, practically shouting.
He nodded. The floor was heavily carpeted but still squeaked as he walked across the room toward her desk. She was the only person in the very large office; it was easy to guess she didn’t talk to many people in the course of the day.