“So do I,” he told himself. “We have the trucks,” Carroll said. “How did you get the message?”
“The man you saw earlier this evening — he is my contact. You’ll see him again.”
“Zakia, who do you work for?”
She shook her head, turned over, and went to sleep.
“Mike, why am I worried?” The President was walking down the steps to the Situation Room in the basement of the White House. Michael Cagliari, his National Security Advisor, and Andy Wollard, his chief of staff, trailed behind him.
“The situation is unstable,” Cagliari said. “Sometimes you have to read between the lines of the PDB. But it’s there.” He made a mental note to get on Bobby Burke’s case about the President’s Daily Brief that was supposed to summarize the best intelligence available. The beautifully printed document was only seen by four people and was beginning to read like standard bureaucratic cover-your-ass stuff.
A Marine guard held the door open for the President as he approached, and they could hear the shuffling of people standing up now inside the small wood-paneled room. The guard shut the door behind them. The President glanced at Admiral Scovill, chairman of the JCS, as he sat down and looked around the room. He saw a man he did not recognize sitting behind Bobby Burke, the CIA Director, and Charlie Leachmeyer. There was also a colonel sitting next to Simon Mado he had never met — but he knew a good deal about Rupert Stansell. “Well, Terry, what do you have for us this late in the afternoon?”
Scovill knew how the President worked. “Sir, I’d like to introduce Allen Camm, the CIA’s DDI.” The President nodded. He would never forget the new face or name, a valuable trait that always astounded his aides.
“And Colonel Stansell,” the President added, “glad we’ve had a chance to meet finally.”
“Mr. President,” Scovill said, returning to business, “we’re going to need a Go order on the POWs.”
“Lay the situation out.”
“Yes, sir, that’s why Mr. Camm is here.” Camm stood and moved to an easel near the President. He set a stack of twenty-by-thirty-inch briefing charts on the easel, each labeled with distinctive block letters at the top and bottom announcing that what was on the charts was TOP SECRET. Camm ran through the charts, filling the assembled in on the current situation, carefully avoiding anything that might lead to a question that would reveal the existence of Deep Furrow. He was saving his bombshell for last.
“Finally, sir,” Camm said, “an agent reported yesterday that the Albanian Embassy in Tehran informed the Iranian government that Delta Force was preparing a mission to rescue the POWs and would mount the operation out of Iraq.” Susan Fisher had worked out a logical explanation for the CIA learning about the Albanian-Islamic Jihad connection without revealing how the CIA had learned about it.
“How in hell did the Albanians get involved in all this?”
“Our information indicates that the Albanian Embassy in Washington has been supporting the Islamic Jihad’s operations in the United States,” Camm said as he flipped to the last chart, “and the Jihad is reporting through the Albanians. Of course the domestic side of this is in the jurisdiction of the FBI, and I don’t believe the Bureau has cracked the Jihad’s operations yet. So, bottom line, we don’t know how the Jihad learned about Delta Force.” Camm was scoring bureaucratic points by pinging the FBI and covering his own sources.
The last of Camm’s charts was a map with the launch base and Kermanshah highlighted. “Since my office is not privy to the current plans to rescue the POWs, we cannot evaluate the accuracy of the warning passed to the Iranians. But they have been warned and we are monitoring their reaction.”
Carom scanned the men’s faces in the stunned silence that hung in the room. Burke gave him a slight nod of approval.
“How many sources confirm what you’ve told us?” Leachmeyer asked. “The information the Albanians passed is our original plan. We now launch out of Saudi Arabia and refuel in Turkey on the way out.”
“Only the one agent in Tehran,” Camm said. “But this agent has a proven track record.” It was necessary to claim a CIA agent in Tehran had discovered that Delta Force had been compromised. Director Burke would be most unhappy if he suspected Camm was running a counterespionage operation inside the U.S.
“Ironic,” the President said. “We originally set up a cover for Delta Force to prevent this from happening. Now our first team is compromised while — what are you calling the cover operation? — is secure.”
“Task Force Alpha, sir.” This from Mado. “And we can’t be totally sure we are free from compromise.”
Cunningham snapped an iron will over his reactions, insuring his face revealed nothing. That bastard Mado. He watched Leachmeyer for his reaction. The relief on Charlie’s face was obvious. No wonder the President likes playing poker with you, he thought. “Mr. President,” Cunningham said, “my Office of Special Investigations is watching over Task Force Alpha. So far, sir, they have reported nothing.”
The President pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket. “CIA?”
“We have nothing to indicate a compromise of Task Force Alpha,” Camm said. For once being totally honest.
“Simon,” the President said, “I appreciate that you are the commander in the field and see things we don’t. You qualified your statement about Alpha not being compromised. Why?” He lit the cigar. No one else in the room would smoke.
“Sir, our intelligence specialist is an Iranian-American. She is fluent in Farsi and an accomplished analyst. But lately I’ve had doubts I can’t pinpoint. I consider that at least a warning not to be ignored—”
“Mr. President,” Stansell put in, “the analyst’s name is Dewa Rahimi. She has been thoroughly checked out and worked for the Air Force Special Activities Center. She was born and raised in the U.S. and has never even been to Iran. Her family there has been nearly wiped out by the Ayatollahs. I’ve never had any doubts about her …”
“Gentlemen,” the President said, his voice a flat monotone as he stubbed out the cigar, cutting off further discussion, “get your act together. Is Delta Force ready?”
“Yes, sir,” Leachmeyer said.
“And Task Force Alpha?”
“We’re very close,” Cunningham said. “The Rangers are ready. We’re arranging ground transportation for the POWs and getting a portable tacan beacon in place—”
“Who’s providing your ground support inside Iran?” Burke asked.
“We have established contact with Captain William Carroll. He’s with the Pesh Merga, the Kurdish liberation movement,” Cunningham said quickly.
“How did you find him?”—Burke was astonished—“establish contact?”
“Through the Israelis.” Cunningham stared at Burke. “We were the only ones to ask them for information,” he said, adding a mental “you asshole.”
“Gentlemen”—the President leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table in front of him—“does the word fubar mean anything to you? I’ll help you — fucked up beyond all recognition. Why do I get the feeling that word is becoming operative here? It means neither operation is secure, neither is compromised. I want the POWs rescued. ” He turned to Leachmeyer. “Charlie, move Delta out, since it’s ready. Hide them, move them around, get them into place unobserved … General Cunningham, I want Task Force Alpha brought on line as fast as possible so it is a viable option. Tell me the moment they’re ready. Everyone — no more leaks. I don’t care if you have to lock up every swingin’—” he caught himself—“that knows about this.”