2
Sami Haddad slowed as he turned into CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. He had worked there for only three years but it was already becoming old hat. He had the apartment, the badge, the cool job, and the respect that came from lowering his voice when he told people where he worked. This was the New CIA. The one with a website. The one that acknowledged its existence and allowed people to say that was where they worked. At least the analysts. It was only the spooks who went odd places and did unspeakable things who couldn’t tell people what they did.
He parked his ugly Nissan and slammed the door as hard as he could without being obvious about winding up. He listened for the telltale protest of the door with its trademark ping, the sound of a cheap, thin door. He wished his car would just die so he could have an excuse to buy another one. Until it broke he couldn’t justify a new car. His father would never approve. Only replace things when they need replacing, especially transportation. You don’t buy a car to make a statement or look good. That’s what his father said. Mr. Pragmatic, who drove an S class Mercedes. So Sami didn’t wash his car, or change its oil, or do any scheduled maintenance. He just waited for it to die, which it refused to do.
He walked to the building and held his key card in front of the red light on the other side of the window near the door. It recognized his card and let him in. The guard looked at him as he entered and nodded toward the X-ray machine and metal detector. All employees had to be checked every day. No exceptions. Too many people had too much against the Central Intelligence Agency to be sloppy about security.
“Morning,” Sami said, putting his briefcase onto the conveyor belt. He wondered, as he did every morning, whether the X rays affected his sandwich. Probably not. If anything, they probably killed some bacteria. He knew the rays didn’t affect the rest of the contents, the Arab newspapers, the Arabic dictionary, and the book he had taken home, The History of the Crusades.
Sami rode the elevator to the third floor and headed for his cubicle, where, like any good Dilbert, he put down his briefcase, took out his lunch to put in the refrigerator in the coffee room, turned on his computer, and sat down to work for the day. His mind immediately brought him back to where he had been the previous night at 9 p.m., the last time he had been at his desk. The very thoughts that had caused him to go to the Library of Congress and take advantage of the after-hours access that few ever used. He had checked out an obscure book on medieval Middle Eastern history and another on the Crusades.
He picked up the report that he had left on his desk. It was from the NSA. They had intercepted some communications they had found curious and sent them his way as they did many others in a given week. This was the only one he had kept.
It was from a very common transmitter, using ordinary voice codes that unsophisticated people used to allow themselves to think no one could figure out what they meant. But there had been a name that had been spoken in the signals. The name had created confusion at NSA, and caused them to make sure Sami was aware of it — he got all the unusual Arabic references.
Sami had a Ph.D. in Arabic studies from Georgetown, and was the son of a former Syrian diplomat. His father was a man who had found himself on the opposite side of Syrian President Hafez al-Assad, and had left the service of Syria to stay in the United States with his American wife. Sami had been born in the United States and had only a passing knowledge of Syria, based mostly on visits he had made to his cousins. But he knew Arabic, and he knew how Arabs thought. That made him invaluable to the Agency and in particular, the Middle Eastern Section, in the subdirectory of Emerging Terrorist Organizations.
“You still looking at that NSA report? It’s not that long,” Terry Cunningham said. Cunningham was a fellow analyst with a Ph.D. in political science. His strength was having knowledge of everything that had happened in the Middle East in the twentieth century. He knew all the political groups, angles, and implications. Although he wasn’t perfect, his ability to predict what would happen next was uncanny. He also spoke passable Arabic.
“I’m worried,” Sami said.
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Talk to me.”
“A new organization. That goes way back.”
“Where?”
“I can’t really talk about it and make sense yet.”
“What do you have?”
“I need to think about this some more.”
“The boss is going to want to hear about it.”
“Not yet.”
“I want in.”
“When I’ve got something to say.”
“Sounds to me like you do.”
“Soon.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Cunningham said, heading out of Sami’s cubicle for his own.
“Don’t worry.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” Tony Vialli asked Woods as they stood facing each other in the paraloft, where all the pilots kept their flight gear and hung their G-suits and dry suits. Vialli knew he was a hothead, but he also knew when he was right. He pulled the zipper on the leg of his G-suit all the way to the top, freeing the zipper, which he angrily pulled apart. “Well?” he asked, waiting for Woods to reply.
Woods was taking his flight gear off slowly, methodically. Sedge, Vialli’s RIO, and Wink were removing their flight gear and staying out of the discussion. Wink knew he was next. He and Woods were of virtually identical seniority in the squadron.
Woods finally replied, “What?”
“That stunt,” Vialli answered instantly, knowing Woods was stalling.
“Cool your jets, Boomer. No harm done.”
Vialli glared at him and continued, “Scared the shit out of me, man. That’s harm to me.”
“Keeps you on your toes.”
“When I’m already skimming an overcast?”
“See? You weren’t even complying with Visual Flight Rules. Violating cloud clearance requirements,” Woods said as he hung his torso harness — the webbed harness they wore around their legs and chest and attached them to their ejection seats — on the hook with his name on it.
“I’m serious. You went IFR and then thumped me. That’s reckless, Sean. Someone could have gotten hurt.”
“All right. It won’t happen again. Let’s forget about it.”
Vialli didn’t say anything.
“Let’s go to the wardroom. I need a slider. Wink’s coming.”
“Aren’t we going to debrief the hop?”
“What’s to debrief? We did twenty intercepts and didn’t see anyone trying to attack the ship. Skip it. Wink’s already done the intel debrief at CVIC.”
Vialli hung the rest of his gear on his hook. He pulled his green flight suit and the T-shirt he wore under it away from his chest to break the seal his sweat caused and rolled up the cuffs twice, exposing his forearms slightly. He was still peeved, but not sure what to do about it. He didn’t want to turn in his roommate, section leader, senior officer, and best friend for a flight violation. That would be a breach of the unwritten rules. “I’m going to hit the rack. Too damn late for a greaseburger.” He walked toward the door of the ready room.
“You still want to go to Pompeii when we pull into Naples?” Woods called after him.
Vialli didn’t even slow down as he let the door close behind him.
Sami stared at the pictures of the Gaza attack. “I don’t know. How could I tell just by looking at pictures of dead people?” he asked, annoyed.
“Is there anything in your research to point to them?” Cunningham asked.