“The records you requested,” he said. Then, with some indignation, he made a point of saying that the airport security force had nothing whatsoever to hide and would assist the Department of Border Enforcement however they could, as quickly as they could.
The flight records were in Kurdish. Daria was able to translate the headings of the different columns, explaining how one was for the date and time of each flight, one for the destination and point of origination, and another for the registration numbers of the individual planes.
It was a low-traffic airport, with usually no more than ten arrivals and departures per day. Knowing the size of the runway — it was nearly two miles long — and seeing how little use it actually got, made Mark think that the Kurds must be an awfully optimistic group of people.
Many of the registration codes popped up again and again, the same commercial planes making their biweekly runs to Dubai or Amman or Istanbul or Damascus. All Mark really cared about was a few days in July.
He soon came upon a charter plane that had departed on the morning of July 16, at 7:05 a.m., headed for Dubai. Its registration code — M-GBHN — corresponded to a Lockheed Jetstar.
It didn’t take long for them to check the rest of the flights. The Jetstar was the only Lockheed plane on the list.
Daria, who was watching over his shoulder, said, “I don’t have any contacts in Dubai.”
“I do,” said Mark.
53
Colonel Henry Amato was being driven down Forty-Second Street in a black Cadillac limousine, en route to the United Nations headquarters, when the call from Iraq came in. Lieutenant General David Obeir, a former protégé of Amato’s who’d stayed in Army Intelligence and had risen quickly through the ranks, was on the line.
National Security Advisor James Ellis was also in the limo, reading a dossier on the Iranian ambassador to the United Nations — with whom he and Amato were about to meet. The meeting would be secret and pointless, Amato knew. The Iranian ambassador would pretend to be shocked at the US accusation that Iran was in the midst of a major military mobilization, and Ellis would pretend to be shocked at the Iranians’ denial.
Speaking into his BlackBerry Amato said, “David, how are you?”
Amato had felt uncomfortable asking Obeir for such a big favor — they’d never been personally close and hadn’t spoken in years — but Obeir had been decent about it.
“NSA got a hit on the names you gave me.”
Amato tightened his grip on his BlackBerry.
“What’s the word?”
“Mark Sava left Sulaimaniyah Airport three hours ago.”
“Left
“Yeah.”
Which meant, thought Amato, that every cent of the $30,000 he’d wired private contractors — to watch both Esfahan and Ashraf — was down the drain. The Ashraf team wasn’t even supposed to arrive on site until later today.
Dammit. He hadn’t thought it possible that Daria could have gotten so far so quickly. Dammit to hell.
“When did he come into the country?”
“We have no record of him entering, but he’s definitely on the departure list.”
“Alone?”
“No. He was traveling with a woman who checked in as Jennifer Tirani. But that’s almost certainly not her real name. The passport number matches a diplomatic passport stolen from a State Department rep in Baku a year ago. They’re both headed for Dubai, Iraqi Airways flight 180. They’ll touch down any minute. You got access to assets in the Emirates?”
“Maybe.”
Sure, he could get assets in place, but in time to make a difference? Amato didn’t think so.
“Anyway, I just found out.”
“I appreciate it, David.”
After Amato hung up, Ellis said, “Who was that?”
The limousine was passing through Times Square. Amato stared out at the electric-blue Chase Bank logo and Madame Tussauds and McDonald’s and the blinking NASDAQ tower with its LCD facade and streaming stock quotes…The intensity of the lights made him think, with something bordering on shame, of the Latin masses at Saint Mary, Mother of God, and of the mustiness of the old church, and he suddenly felt that those old ways, his old ways, didn’t stand a chance in this new world. He wasn’t even fighting for the old ways anymore. Somehow things had gotten all twisted up.
“A guy I know from Army Intelligence,” said Amato. “He’s holed up in the Green Zone monitoring a couple of Revolutionary Guard units in Iraq. I want to be clued in when the Iranians really start panicking.”
“Smart move.”
Amato forced himself to turn his gaze from a giant billboard — advertising some action movie that he’d never see — to the screen of his BlackBerry.
Ellis, who still hadn’t looked up from the file he was reading, said, “Any sign of panic yet?”
“No. We’re still good.”
54
Nine years ago — the last time Mark had met up with Larry Bowlan — his old boss had still looked formidable. A bit grizzled perhaps, but with lines of experience that suggested a hard competence. They’d had a few too many drinks together.
Those lines of experience had since deepened into lines of old age, Bowlan’s Adam’s apple had grown more pronounced, the skin that covered it sagged, his salt-and-pepper hair had gone completely gray, and he’d shrunk a bit.
The Marlboro cigarettes he still chain-smoked used to seem like a cheerful poke in the eye to the young health nuts in the Agency, but now seemed more like a slow way to commit suicide.
His appearance certainly didn’t suggest that this was a man who’d graduated from Yale with a degree in classical studies, although Bowlan had. He was old-school CIA, the white elite.
Mark and Daria sat down across from him at a table in the Take Five restaurant at the World Trade Center Tower in downtown Dubai. It was really just a run-of-the-mill self-serve cafeteria, located a few floors below the US consulate. The surrounding tables were empty but the cafeteria lines were long because the Mahgrib salat, the evening prayer coinciding with the setting of the sun, had just ended, marking the end of the day’s fast.
Bowlan palmed a large cup of cardamom coffee and glanced with disgust at the food line. He shook his head. “I can’t wait until this crap is over. Every restaurant closed from sunup to sundown and then it’s a feeding frenzy. Christ, just look at them go.”
“It’s good to see you, Larry.”
Bowlan smiled. “Good to see you too. An unexpected surprise.”
“Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
Mark introduced Daria. Bowlan shook her hand lightly and awkwardly, as though embarrassed by the huge gap between her youth and beauty and his current condition. He said it was a pleasure to meet her and asked whether her flight over was comfortable.
Daria started to reply when Mark interrupted. “We’re in a bit of a time crunch, Larry. By the way, I’ve left the Agency.”
“No kidding? On your terms?”
“Mostly. I wasn’t pushed out.”
“I don’t blame you for leaving. Kaufman’s a prick. I assume you heard that I came back.”
“Yeah, I did hear that.”
Five years ago, Larry Bowlan had been running his own station in Belarus. When Langley recalled him, instead of taking a figurehead position, he’d retired. A year later he’d begged to come back. Only he hadn’t been rehired at his former GS-14 level. Instead he’d been offered a temporary contract analyzing suspicious visa applications in US consulates and embassies abroad. It was roughly the equivalent of an executive vice president at a major company retiring and then coming back to work in the mail room.