Moncrief gave him a puzzled look.
“It’s nothing.” Parker didn’t want to tell Moncrief the details. “You go ahead and check in with Scott like you just came in.”
“Yeah. Will do.”
Parker nodded, stood, and clapped Moncrief on the shoulder. “And let’s keep our ‘partner’ in front of us at all times.”
As they left the room, Parker’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He entered the pass code and scanned down to the text. It was labeled P-Message. The P stood for “plasma.” The identifier meant the message was hot, very hot. At six thousand degrees Celsius, plasma was hotter than the sun and, as a consequence, it was their flag for the most important of messages.
“What’s up?” asked Moncrief.
“Speak of the devil,” said Parker, reading the message. He shook his head, then handed it to Moncrief.
FYEO: FYI… 411 RE: MOSSAD. PRW… URGNT… MEET AEAP/SCOTT
Moncrief raised his eyebrows and whistled long and low.
The text meant that it was a for your eyes only, a 411 message, regarding the Mossad: People are watching, you are target, meet as early as possible, Scott.
Evidently the Mossad had just initiated surveillance on Sadik Zabara, whom they no doubt considered part of a hostile new cell in Britain.
In all likelihood, this had been part of Scott’s plan from the beginning. After all, there would be no better way of establishing Zabara’s credentials for Yousef ’s people than by having the Mossad declare him a hostile target. The Mossad would serve as the perfect reverse character reference. Unfortunately for Parker, the Mossad would be swallowing the Zabara identity in earnest — one more lethal pitfall for Parker to avoid on a daily basis, as his situation grew ever more fragile.
CHAPTER 22
The earpiece was the only visible clue. Otherwise, the guard looked like a well-suited stockbroker who might have played football in college. On second thought, given the scar under his lip, make that a rugby player.
“Gentlemen, may I bother you for your identification?”
“Yeah, no problem.” FBI Agent Tom Pope flashed his credentials and badge. The agent with him did the same.
“Need a little more than that, sir.” The guard still held his hand out. “This is Langley. You can understand.”
Pope handed over his badge. Rarely in his career had he needed to visit CIA headquarters, but he knew the protocol. It wasn’t his favorite place to visit.
The guard led them across the entrance hall to a side door where, inside, the clerk scanned the identification credentials, cross-checked them with the database, and smiled as she handed them visitor passes.
“Follow me, fellows.”
The guard led them back into the main hall, with its curved roof and far walls of glass. Tom Pope moved a little slower than the others, forcing the guard to slow down as well. The casual observer would notice only the slightest limp. Since Pope had a touch of gray in his hair, one might assume his age caused him walk that way. They would be wrong.
Pope was an unusual agent in today’s FBI. But for the waiver, he would have never been allowed into the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Prior to the Bureau, he had flown an attack Cobra helicopter for the Marines into Grenada. On that mission, a Russian ZU-23 shell tore through his leg. He kept the resulting Silver Star and Purple Heart medals in the bottom of a footlocker somewhere in his attic. Most days, he had more pressing things to think about than his military past, and today was no exception.
The brilliant sunlight of the early fall day bounced off the white linoleum floor, making the entrance almost unbearably bright. The trees in the garden beyond the glass wall had turned to bright, warm fall oranges and reds. They crossed over to the old headquarters building and the deputy director’s office.
“The deputy director is waiting for you.” The officer opened the door to an oak-paneled conference room lined with gold-framed photographs of the deputy director and leaders of intelligence agencies from around the world. The background of each of the photographs gave telltale hints, with some showing palm trees, others Bavarian ski chalets buried in deep snow. They looked like frames from a James Bond movie, and the tale they told was far from the truth.
The side door swung open.
“Hello, gentlemen, I am Robert Tranthan.”
“Mr. Deputy Director, I am Agent Pope. Tom Pope. And this is Special Agent Garland Sebeck.”
“I know of you, Mr. Pope. You were instrumental in stopping the North Korean agent several years ago.”
“I was involved in that. Yes, sir.” Tom didn’t think of that case as being the best definition of his career, but he was certainly known for hunting down the North Korean agent who had crisscrossed the globe, killing scientists.
“If you don’t mind, Agent Pope, the general counsel’s office wanted to be here. Someone should be here shortly.”
“No problem.” Pope leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to show a threatening posture. It wasn’t really the intent of the meeting.
The other door to the conference room swung open, and an attractive woman carrying a black leather writing portfolio came into the room.
“Gentlemen, excuse me for being the last one here. I’m with the counsel’s office.”
The men stood and welcomed her, introducing themselves.
“We’re sensitive around here about making notes.”
“I promise to keep it to a minimum.” Pope’s response was pleasant but firm.
“Okay, gentlemen, but I have a hell of a lot of things going on right now,” said Tranthan. “What can we do for you?”
“Mr. Tranthan, there is a Chechen by the name of Umarov.”
“Yes, we know of Abu Umarov.”
“We had a call.”
“A call?”
“Intercepted. He was on a flight leaving from La-Guardia. He spoke of an ‘Operations officer’ from Doha.”
“And your question is…?” asked Tranthan, his expression indicating nothing.
“Would that be your officer?
The question had two meanings.
“It could be Maggie O’Donald.” Tranthan hesitated. “You know where she is.”
“Yes, sir.”
The greater implication, the one that worried Robert Tranthan was the use of “your” Maggie O’Donald.
“He disappeared after his airplane landed.”
“Where was he going to?”
“Chicago.”
CHAPTER 23
The town of Spin Boldak stood just beyond the border on the flat plain that extended from south Afghanistan into western Pakistan. By truck, it wasn’t much more than seventy miles from Spin Boldak to Quetta, across the border. The main highway that passed through the center of the small town provided the only southern access to the country. With the many forces occupying southern Afghanistan, the highway continued to be busy with trucks bringing cargo loads of gasoline, engine parts, building materials, and much more. The convoy-created dust cloud drew a continuous line across the open desert.
On the north side of Spin Boldak, a ridge jutted up from the desert floor. At the one end of the ridge near the north side of the town, a square, mud-brick fort stood watch, as it had since the nineteenth century.
Abu Umarov scanned the walls of the fort with his binoculars. He noticed the antennas that stood beyond the parapets. They marked the French battalion. Its tanks and armored carriers were behind the walls. He counted the number of guards from left to right. It would be dark soon, and the French would be out of play. Except for the occasional patrol, the French didn’t wander beyond the walls of the fort when the sun went down. And he would know the instant a patrol left the fort. On the horizon, the brown fog of dust crept up the valley. The setting sun would bring a breeze from the south, hastening its arrival. Soon visibility would be severely limited.