"Okay," the president said, "so you're saying we have a sample on Caliph?"
Graham nodded.
"And what happened in Geneva? Did somebody send a piece of him to our Swiss Embassy?"
"Maybe."
Townsend's eyes narrowed. He'd meant it as a joke. "You can't be serious."
"We got a vial of blood that we're currently analyzing. It takes time. But there was also a copy of a report from a very reputable German laboratory. It showed the DNA profile of a second sample. This test was performed over a year ago, and we've already confirmed its authenticity with the lab. The data matches their records precisely."
"And?"
"The test results from last year are almost certainly Caliph. We should have results on the new blood sample in a day or so — like I said, it takes time."
"But what you have today is a lab report that matches Caliph and a random blood sample. That's a little thin to get excited about, Darlene."
"I know, I know. It could just be a lab tech trying to make a quick buck. But we haven't had many breaks in our search for Caliph. We're following it up."
"All right," the president agreed. "And what does that involve?"
"Whoever gave us this sample has asked for a meeting in Geneva."
"When?"
Graham looked at her watch. "In about six minutes."
Chapter THIRTY-FOUR
Hans Sprecht was not nervous. In truth, the idea of meeting clandestinely with someone from the CIA had grown on him. It was exciting, even dramatic. And in any event, he felt far more comfortable dealing with American intelligence agents than his increasingly nefarious patients.
He walked along the quai Gustave Ador, a busy thoroughfare that snaked through the central city and fronted Lake Geneva. Cars whisked by as cars did in Switzerland, in an organized, quick flow. As he neared the rendezvous point, Sprecht's attention was drawn to a small bird darting in and out of the street. The creature was trying to get hold of something in the road, perhaps a small insect. Yet each passing car proved a foil, the bird forced to flutter away at the last second. He thought, You risk a lot for a meal, my friend. Sprecht kept going, not wanting to know the outcome.
It was a terrifically cold day, soon to become an even colder evening. The air retained a dry, almost brittle quality, and the other people Sprecht saw were not near the park, but rather across the street, well-wrapped and scooting toward the warmth of cars, homes, and shops. That being the case, he had no trouble finding his contact.
As instructed, he was waiting near a quaint river ferry that was stilled for the season on a solidly frozen Rhone River. Also as instructed, he wore a brown scarf, a theatrical touch Sprecht had not been able to resist at the time, but something he now regretted as amateurish. The man was rather short and heavyset, which seemed a disappointment. But then Sprecht chided himself for such a meandering thought. It was crucial that he stay focused on the only thing that mattered — the deal, reaching acceptable terms and conditions.
Sprecht had, at least, resisted the temptation to require any code words or silly phrases. He simply walked straight up to the man, on schedule, and said in strongly accented English, "Hello, I am Dr. Hans Sprecht."
The CIA man forced a smile that looked vaguely familiar. This puzzled Sprecht momentarily, for he had certainly never met the man. Then he realized it was merely the expression he recognized. It had been present on certain men and women who'd set upon his practice in the old days, the more hardened sellers of medical equipment and pharmaceuticals. It was the empty smile of a hustler, a practiced liar.
"Hello, Dr. Sprecht. My name is Edwards." The reply was in effortless German, the man's breath going to vapor in the cold. The name was certainly an alias, and Sprecht gave the man a knowing look.
"Edwards" held out a guiding arm and they began to walk, the CIA man steering toward the park. The walking paths were covered in a mix of fresh snow and old slush, and Sprecht's brand-new friend gave a turn to his brand-new brown scarf to repel the cold. He said, "We have not yet completed our work of analyzing the sample you've given us."
Sprecht had anticipated this. "But you have verified the laboratory report. You know I hold valuable information regarding Caliph."
"We know you have access to a lab report that probably involves him."
They came to the Promenade du Lac and turned to follow the shore of the frigid Rhone. Sprecht lost his footing momentarily on the icy sidewalk, and the CIA man caught his elbow, helped him right himself. They exchanged a look, but neither spoke. Sprecht immediately started walking again, feeling foolish. His eager anticipation of this meeting was slipping as well. Sprecht had no desire to joust with the man. He suddenly wanted only to get their business done. Arrange his payment and disappear.
"I can tell you where to find him. This will entitle me to receive the full reward, no?"
Sprecht saw a qualified nod. "Yes…" the man hesitated, "but the source of your information, it puzzles us. How does a — how shall I put it — a retired Swiss plastic surgeon know the whereabouts of the world's most wanted terrorist?"
It did not surprise Sprecht that the CIA had moved quickly to discover his identity, what he did for a living. It had likely come when they'd researched and authenticated the lab report. He was ready. "Is that not a question," he said coyly, "which tends to answer itself?"
The man stopped and stared at Sprecht. "Tell us where you think he is, Doctor. If your information is accurate, we will be pleased to pay the entire amount."
This was most of what Sprecht wanted to hear. However, he too had done his homework. Sprecht was familiar with the gray means of moving black money. He dictated his terms and handed over a card with account numbers carefully typed. He watched as the man studied them, and reasoned from the look on his face that the CIA was indeed serious. Sprecht's terms were solid.
The American nodded.
The deal struck, Sprecht could now only pray that his information would hold true. If not, he had more to sell, but the price would be something less.
He said, "Caliph is in Mosul, Iraq."
The man whose name was anything but Edwards asked, "Where in Mosul?"
Sprecht told him. Then he told him how he knew.
"You want what?" The clerk stared at the huge woman, trying to be polite as they fenced in broken English.
"Screen — you know, for bugs." She made a wiggling, flying motion with the fingers on one hand. Her other hand was occupied with a store basket that held an assortment of items from at least three other aisles — a hammer, a screwdriver, tacks, spray lubricant, and a utility knife.
"Insecte?" He was about to tell the wench that they didn't sell insecticide when he realized what she meant. "Moustiquaire!"
He led her away and turned down the aisle where the window frames and moldings were stocked. Halfway down, a six-foot roll of window screening was shoved back into a shelf. He pulled it out and wiped off the dust — the stuff hadn't caught on yet in France.
"How much do you want?" he asked, reverting to French.
She looked confused, so the clerk made a snipping motion with two fingers. Then he held out his arms at varying widths to suggest measurement.
She grabbed roughly and took the whole thing under one arm. Her face was curled and sour. Without so much as a "merri," she waddled away, dragging the filthy roll of screen behind her. There was probably enough material to cover a dozen windows, the clerk thought.