They assembled in the operations center, a massive open space with computer workstations arranged in rows facing an enormous high-definition flat panel screen rivaling those in sports stadiums. Ringing the periphery, on a second story, were meeting rooms and an observation deck that looked down over the floor.
Douglas Knox stood with the CIA’s Tasset, Homeland Security’s Bolten, the Defense Department’s McNamara, and two other men Vail did not recognize.
Knox turned as the trio approached. “Agent Vail, this is the director of National Intelligence, Brandon Lynch.”
Vail and Lynch exchanged pleasantries. “Beautiful facility you have here, Mr. Director.”
Lynch, a black man dressed in a crisp dark suit, pink shirt, and a three-point folded handkerchief, harrumphed. “In the grand scheme, it’s a shame we need to have a place like this. But this is the world we live in.” He turned to Uzi. “Agent, good to see you again. And … Hector.” He gave a stiff nod.
Uh oh, there’s a history here. And it’s apparently not a good one.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Vail said to the as yet unidentified olive-complected man with a narrow, thinly trimmed beard.
“None of you have met him,” Knox said. “This is Mahmoud El-Fahad, CIA.”
Vail and DeSantos took turns shaking his hand. Uzi was slower, more reluctant — or more careful. Vail couldn’t determine which. Both, perhaps.
“You are …” Uzi said.
“Palestinian,” Fahad said, apparently understanding what Uzi was asking.
Although Uzi did his best not to react, Vail saw it. His body language was fairly restrained in times of stress — no doubt a learned trait from his days with Mossad. But she knew Uzi well. She saw the tension in his shoulder muscles.
“Great,” Lynch said. “Let’s go to the briefing room. The president should be there by now.”
The president? Had I known I would’ve worn my pumps. And my black sweater. And my — Jesus, Karen, stop it.
“Go on,” Knox said. “We’ll be there in a moment.” He waited until the men cleared the room, then addressed Uzi. “I am not immune to how this affects you, Agent Uziel. But Fahad understands the terrorist mind-set; he’s got contacts here and abroad in the Palestinian community and might be able to get us intel as to who’s involved. He’s lived in the West Bank and he knows Gaza.”
“I understand, sir.”
“How much access will Fahad have?” DeSantos asked.
“As much as any of you.”
“He’s an operative?” Vail asked.
“Fully vetted. Exemplary record. For now, he’s a member of the team. One of us.”
Uzi scratched at his temple. “Right, but—”
“Enough said, Agent Uziel.” Knox’s jaw was set. This was clearly not open for debate. “Let’s go. We don’t want to keep President Nunn waiting.”
As they walked, Vail glanced quickly at Richard Prati’s bio that Robby had emailed — and came away impressed.
A moment later, they entered the conference room. Like the rest of the facility, it had a modern bent. The walls were a multi-toned blue with a large NCTC seal behind the long ovoid desk, a fixed workstation that featured a maple laminate top, a power strip with computer ports in front of each seat and perforated stainless steel panels on the inside of the oval which featured dramatic floor lighting that looked more appropriate on a Star Trek set than in a government counterterrorism center.
Red LED clocks were mounted on the wall displaying the current times for Kabul, Beijing, Baghdad, Taiwan, Tehran, DC, LA, and Chicago, as well as “Zulu.”
Vance Nunn was seated at the head of the table, a small LCD display in front of him. Water bottles were set out for each of the attendees and tented name placards faced the president.
Also present were Marshall Shepard and Ward Connerly, the president’s chief of staff, as well as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and a handful of others from the NCTC whom Vail did not know.
Nunn watched as Vail, Uzi, DeSantos, and Knox entered and found their seats. The fifty-three-year-old, heavily jowled chief executive folded his hands in front of himself and made eye contact with the participants. “All the high-tech gadgets money can buy, all the brightest minds in intelligence, two hundred thousand employees, three dozen satellites, drones all over the goddamn Middle East, military bases all over the world, a $40 billion budget. And no one was able to tell me we have sleeper cells on our soil? That we had bomb makers holing up in Washington building explosive vests? How the hell is that possible? Anyone?” He glanced around, but no one answered.
“How many attacks on our homeland are acceptable before we get our acts together?” Connerly asked. His gaze settled on Uzi.
Uzi folded his hands and paused a moment to gather his thoughts. “Mr. President, Mr. Connerly … intelligence is an inexact science. We collect information from a variety of sources — HUMINT, satellites, intercepted phone calls and emails, captured hard drives — and so on. We analyze it all and make a best guess as to what’s going to happen, where it’s going to happen, and when. Sometimes we’re right and sometimes we’re not. Sometimes we just have blind spots. Despite all our technology, we’re still just people left to draw conclusions. And people make mistakes.”
Vail watched Nunn’s reaction; Uzi was dangerously close to talking down to the president, who should have been aware of that information, given the normal course of his regular briefings. Still, she thought Uzi was justified in pointing out the challenges they faced. If nothing else, it served as a reminder — as well as an answer to the president’s question.
“That sounds more like an excuse,” Nunn said. “And excuses don’t save lives, now, do they?”
“Sir,” DeSantos said, “we’re dealing with an enemy that adapts. They’re increasingly sophisticated and extremely well funded. These groups have people raising money all over the world — including inside the United States. And they’ve carried out kidnappings to extract ransom in the tens of millions of dollars. Al Qaeda and its member organizations have taken in over $150 million from kidnapping Europeans. Islamic State has billions from captured banks and oil fields.”
Nunn frowned, then turned to Tasset. “Earl?”
Tasset adjusted his glasses. “I have to agree. We used to be able to check visas, profile by screening for Muslims who’ve traveled to terrorist hot spots and training camps or who had suspicious family connections. But our enemy nowadays could be our own citizens, naturalized Americans who have passports that go to fight in Syria with Islamic State or al Qaeda or al Humat, then return home and walk among us. Our neighbors, teachers, doctors. They look like us because they are us.”
“Just like we have undercover operators infiltrating their mosques,” Uzi said, “they’ve infiltrated us. England has the same problem we do, maybe more so because their Muslim population is greater. After cutting their teeth with Islamic State and al Qaeda in Syria or Iraq, British nationals are returning home with perfectly valid passports and setting up terrorist cells. That makes it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to stop.”
Nunn shifted forward in his seat and leaned both forearms on the maple desk. “The American people don’t want long-winded explanations and political spy babble. They get that from the talking heads on TV. I have to give them answers. I have to give them hope and security. I have to deliver the goods. Which means you have to deliver the goods.”