“Just as well you didn’t,” Stansell said. “We think the FBI got them when they tried to cross the border at El Paso.”
“Good deal.” Byers stood up, ready to leave, anxious to get back on his jet.
“Sarge, this is important,” Bryant said, “could they have been after you for a reason you haven’t told anyone about?”
Byers looked at the door, wanting to leave, “Shee-it, no. Not ‘less one was a jealous husband.” He ran now for his Jeep, ripping off his coat and tie as he went.
“What do you think?” Stansell asked Bryant.
“Have to read the complete report. But I think we’ve got the meat of it.”
“Not good,” Stansell said. “Too many unknowns. Are they looking at me? I don’t think the mission’s been compromised, only a handful of people know about it. But can we take the chance?”
Bryant nodded. He realized the colonel’s concern and wanted to break the connection between the rescue mission and what had happened to Byers. But Stansell knew the facts and read them the same way he did. Just like Waters, Bryant decided, you don’t run away from the hard decisions.
“Okay,” Stansell said, his decision made, “you go on to Nellis, I’m going to get us an Eagle driver.”
Allen J. Camm liked his office as Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA. The room was large, comfortable, well lit and tastefully furnished. Unlike his last office this one had windows. Camm had been a Baron, one of the area division chiefs buried safely inside the bureaucracy of the CIA. He had exercised almost feudal control over his division, the Middle East, and developed a reputation as a corner. Now he had reached a position that had real power — much more than he had ever imagined.
The door swung open and two men entered unannounced. The first one in held a finger to his lips and handed him a card — a routine security sweep for bugs. The second man ran a wand over the walls, looking for magnetic abnormalities. The first man then connected a delicately calibrated ohmmeter to Camm’s phone console and made a dialing motion. Camm was to test the phone. Camm, who had been through the routine many times, picked up the phone and punched the button to Susan Fisher’s office.
“Susan, please bring in the file you’re working on, say in about five minutes.” He hung up. The two men continued to sweep the office. They gave him a thumbs-up signal and left, Susan Fisher passing them as she came in.
She handed Camm the file on the Islamic Jihadi agents the FBI had arrested in El Paso.
Camm smiled at the young woman and shook his head. “My God, this reads like Keystone cops. They haven’t got a clue about how to kidnap someone.”
“They got their training on the streets of Beirut,” Fisher said. “What works there doesn’t work here. But they’re tough, the FBI hasn’t been able to crack them.”
“Is the Bureau onto the agents here?”
“No. We’ve also backed off and lost contact with the Jihadis. The FBI would be upset if they discovered us working their turf. We could drop them a few more hints, claim we monitored a phone call in Beirut.”
“No,” Camm told her. “Make them work for it. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I want the Agency to interrogate the bastards. By the way, have we turned the woman they’re using?”
“Yes. We told her she could expect a quick deportation to Iran if she didn’t cooperate. Also, to get her chador cleaned. I’m not sure which did the trick.”
He didn’t smile. “We can use the woman to flush out the agents.” A plan was taking shape. “Monitor Colonel Stansell’s movements. The next time he comes to Washington have the woman tell the Jihadis. We’ll pick the Jihadis up when they try to get Stansell.”
Fisher nodded. “We’ve never dropped Stansell.”
Camm was pleased with his case officer. She understood what was needed and did it. Both of them knew that if the FBI found the CIA operating inside the U.S. they would be in deep shit. The National Security Act of 1947 that established the CIA had been very specific: the CIA would have no role inside the U.S. or the power to arrest. Those two functions were the FBI’s. And the FBI had a simple remedy when they found the CIA infringing on their territory — publicity — the one thing no intelligence agency could stand.
But that would be nothing compared to what Congress would do if they learned about “Deep Furrow.” In the late 1970s, feeling hamstrung by Congressional oversight, the Director of the CIA had looked for ways to bypass the Congressional watchdogs, and found his solution in transferring agents from the closely watched Directorate of Operations to the Directorate of Intelligence. Agency money and personnel mushroomed in the Directorate of Intelligence, all accounted for in other departments. The DDI, the Deputy Director of Intelligence, had barely started moving into the covert operations business when the President fired the Director of the CIA, and the new head shook the headquarters building at Langley from top to bottom. Out of that Camm found himself the new Deputy Director of Intelligence.
He was delighted, especially when he found he had field operatives working in the area he had specialized in — the Middle East. When he learned that neither Congress or the new Director knew what he had, he decided to resurrect covert operations and make the CIA into the kind of organization he believed in. A good bureaucrat, he saw a chance to build an empire with himself at its head. And it was he who called his growing operation in the Middle East “Deep Furrow.”
“What does Deep Furrow tell us about the Jihadis?” he now asked Fisher.
“Quite a bit. The Council of Guardians in Iran is the mover behind the Islamic Jihad. The Albanian Embassy is providing support for the Jihad’s operations in the U.S. along with some help from Libya. We’re trying to find the channel they use for moving people in and out of the States. We’ve got an operative inside the POW compound at Kermanshah, who tells us they’ve got a Captain Mary Hauser and are … interrogating her.” She took a deep breath. “Another operative in Tehran reports that the Council of Guardians is putting on the heat to capture Captain Carroll. So far, he’s still on the loose. We’ve got our operatives trying to make contact and bring him out.”
“What in the hell is he doing there?” Camm asked.
“No idea, sir.”
“We’re running out of time on this one and need to fill in the gaps. Nail the two Jihadis. Turn them over to primary section. They’ll talk. Terrorists are like rats, see one, and be sure there’s more in the woodwork.”
She stood to leave.
“Susan, time’s critical. If Defense fumbles at Kermanshah … I want Deep Furrow to rescue the POWs.”
And he, of course, would get the credit. Maybe even be in line for Director.
“Whoever’s on that baby that wants to see me must be important,” Captain Jack Locke said to his wife. The two were standing in front of Base Operations at Luke Air Force Base watching a C-20 taxi in. The sleek military version of the Gulfstream III looked elegant in its blue-and-white paint scheme, and the two Rolls Royce Spey engines on the small executive jet were much quieter than the F-229 engines on the F-15.
Gillian, Locke’s English wife, had picked him up at the squadron after a Wednesday’s doctor’s appointment when a sergeant had run out of the building, telling them the Command Post wanted him to meet a VIP flight that was landing in ten minutes. The inbound pilot had radioed ahead the request. Gillian had protested that she was two months pregnant, but Locke had told her, “You’re beautiful, you can charm whoever it is with your tony English accent.”