Fayyad nodded. “You have my word.”
24
Pleasantries exchanged and coffee poured, Dick Mason said, “Senator, George tells me you have some questions regarding SYMMETRY.”
“Ever the diplomat, your Mr. Coates,” Smith replied. “Grave reservations would be the more appropriate phrase. And I’ll tell you this, Director Mason: Before we’re through here, I’ll have answers.”
The other attendees, Coates, Sylvia Albrecht, and Senator Dean, shifted nervously in their chairs as Mason and Smith faced one another across the table.
Though Mason had never considered Smith a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, today the senator had underdone himself; red-eyed, hair askew, and jacket rumpled, he looked like he had just come off a three-day binge, which, Mason reminded himself, was a distinct possibility.
“You’ve reviewed our report, I assume?” Mason said.
“And found it lacking. I’m looking for the truth, not rhetoric.”
“What else do you want to know?”
Smith flipped open his legal pad and read off a list of questions: names of terrorist groups Marcus’s network had penetrated, particularly those in Lebanon; the network’s communication protocols; what, if any, side-lobe product had been uncovered by the network….
George was right, Mason thought. Smith was far out of bounds. Such details were beyond even the DCI’s purview.
Mason’s first instinct was to be suspicious, but regardless of his personal dislike for the man, Smith’s handling of IOC matters had thus far been beyond reproach. Herb Smith a traitor? Mason didn’t buy it. The man was a grade-A son of a bitch, but he wouldn’t sell out his country. So what, then? Mason wondered.
“How long have you been chairman of the IOC, Senator?” Mason asked.
“You know very well how long. Four years.”
“In all that time have we ever given you these kinds of operational details?”
“Damn it, don’t patronize me! Your agency’s history of withholding information is well-documented. You don’t like us shining the light on you and your pet projects; it makes you scurry for the corners.”
“I’m sorry you feel—”
“You’re perfectly happy keeping your secrets and playing your games. You’ve wasted millions of dollars and a man’s life on this fiasco, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
“Senator, there are reasons for withholding certain details—”
“To cover your collective asses. Yes, I—”
“It’s called compartmentalization and need-to-know. The theory behind—”
“I don’t need a lecture, Mason.”
“I think you do. Operations are compartmentalized so damage to one part doesn’t spread. And need-to-know is just that: If you don’t need access to classified information, you don’t get it. Period. Even I’m not privy to the particulars of all ongoing ops.”
“Including SYMMETRY?”
“Including SYMMETRY.”
Smith grinned, shook his head. “Looks like I just found one of the problems. Do you even know what’s going on in your own agency, Mason? Maybe this fiasco is just the tip of the iceberg. I wonder what else I might find with some digging?”
“You haven’t been listening, Senator.”
“Oh, I’ve been listening — maybe too well, and it’s got you worried. All of a sudden you’re finding yourself up against somebody who doesn’t buy your spook-speak bullshit!”
Senator Dean laid a hand on Smith’s forearm. “Herb, why don’t we—”
“No! No, goddamn it! I’ve listened to this double-talk for too long.” He jutted his finger across the table. “I’ve watched you people dance in the dark and play your games long enough. The president has given you people too much power, and this SYMMETRY disaster proves it. You haven’t got the slightest idea of the concept of accountability to the public you serve. Well, guess what? That’s about to change. Starting now. Starting with you answering my questions!”
Smith’s left eye twitched. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Are you feeling all right, Senator?” asked Sylvia Albrecht.
“I’m fine! I’m waiting, Mason.”
“Senator, since you’ve been so frank with us, I feel obliged to do the same. I don’t care — even remotely — about your impressions of this agency. I’m proud of our accomplishments, and I stand behind every project we’ve undertaken during my tenure.”
“That’s very moving, but you still haven’t answered my questions.”
“And I don’t intend to. Everything you need to know is in that briefing folder.”
“That’s not good enough. I want—”
“Senator, I don’t pretend to understand politics, and I have no desire to. I’m not sure where this agenda of yours is coming from, but I suggest you drop it. You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Smith blanched. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did. Now, if that’s all—”
Smith pounded the table. “No, that’s not all, you son of a bitch!”
Senator Dean blurted, “Jesus, Herb!—”
“Shut up! Mason, you—”
The DO stood up. “This meeting is over. George, Senator Smith is leaving; let’s get him an escort. Senator Dean, it’s been a pleasure.”
Smith bolted up. “I’m not going anywhere! You can’t… can’t…” His face flushed. He plopped down in his seat, gasping.
“Senator?” Mason asked.
Smith waved him away. “I’m fine…” he croaked.
Mason said, “George, call Medical.”
Seven floors below Mason’s office, Latham hung up the phone and turned to the other team members. “He just deplaned in Heathrow. They’ve got him.”
Vorsalov was now under the watchful eyes of MI-5, the British counterpart to the FBI. If the world’s intelligence services were to hold Olympic contests, Latham was convinced MI-5 would come out the undisputed champion of mobile ground surveillance. Vorsalov wouldn’t be able to use the toilet without eyes on him.
“How long before his connection?” asked Randal.
“Forty minutes.”
“Plenty of time for something to go wrong,” muttered Art Stucky.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Latham said. He hadn’t liked Stucky upon their first meeting four years ago and liked him even less now. He was a narrow-minded bigot and generally an asshole. Latham had encountered enough sociopaths to recognize their aura, and Stucky was steeped in it.
“You hope nothing goes wrong,” Stucky replied.
“He’s not going anywhere.”
“Always the bright side, eh, Charlie?”
Paul Randal asked, “Did he come in on the Karnovsky passport?”
“Yep.”
“Surprised he hasn’t switched.”
“Me, too. If he’s going to do it, Heathrow’s his last chance.”
“Does MI-5 know that?” Stucky asked.
“They wrote the book on this, Art,” Latham said.
“Right. Nobody tighter-assed than the Limeys.”
Latham began reviewing his mental checklist. They had eight hours from the time Vorsalov boarded at Heathrow until he touched down in New York. As of two hours ago, Harry Owen and the New York FO were putting the finishing touches on the surveillance net. The machinery was in place. Now they waited.
Why had the Russian come back? he wondered. The man knew how badly they wanted him, so what could be worth it? Whatever it was, Latham wasn’t about to question his good fortune.
Aside from the details of Vorsalov’s itinerary, the most interesting piece of information from the FIS’s Larnaca team was their description of his contact aboard the ferry. Though far from a positive match, it sounded like the unidentified Arab from Khartoum. Latham played the scenario in his head: The Arab, based in Beirut, hires Vorsalov and Fayyad in Khartoum; Vorsalov’s travel is related to the job. But in what way? And where was Fayyad now? The most obvious answer was also the most frightening: the United States. Again, Latham found himself asking the same question: What had drawn Fayyad here only weeks after the Delta bombing?