‘Still with me?’ asks Seethrough.
I nod, though it’s all getting stranger by the minute.
‘Most of the chatter we’re getting about Stinger purchases is coming out of the Sudan. Gemayel has an area-wide network based in the capital Khartoum. We on the other hand have precisely one operational officer, whose identity is already declared. What we need is for Gemayel to ask his people to listen out for noises about the Stingers. That way we can at least do some eliminating. He may be onside, but we can’t do a face-to-face with one of our known people without Mossad breathing down our necks. So when you’re back from America I thought you could talk to him and rekindle the spark. You’ve got the perfect excuse of wanting to catch up after all these years.’
‘I can remind him of our happy days together.’
‘Precisely,’ says Seethrough, taking me up on the irony.
‘Let’s say he agrees. What does he get out of it?’
‘He gets to keep his head,’ says Seethrough soberly, and turns the pages in the file to an immediate-level CX report from Lebanon station. It bears the secret router indicator actor, indicating that no one outside the Firm is allowed to see it. It’s addressed to the head of the Global CT controllerate, which is Seethrough, and the security caveat reads: UK T O P S E C R E T /DELICATE SOURCE. But it’s the subject title that shocks: proposed assassination of Elias Rashid Gemayel by israeli security services.
I scan down the page. The Israelis, if the report is to be believed, are planning to kill Gemayel with an explosive charge in his mobile phone placed by one of his own security staff. They’ve managed to buy one of Gemayel’s own bodyguards, and the plan is to be carried out later this month, when Gemayel returns from Rome to Beirut and will receive a new mobile phone. In exchange for this deadly snippet of information, Seethrough is hoping that Gemayel will pass on whatever his people can find out about the Stinger purchases.
‘Fair trade, don’t you think?’ says Seethrough, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows in his signature gesture of enquiry.
‘The Israelis won’t be too happy when you give away their plan,’ I say.
‘You win some, you lose some. Par for the course. They know that. Though I shall probably be denied that marvellous Mossad cheesecake from now on.’
There are some further details, which I struggle with because my head is spinning a bit from all this. I’m given the name of my CIA Counterterrorist Center contact and a phone number to memorise for when I’m in Washington. There’s also a backup number for use with a PIN and a code name in case I can’t use the mobile and need to call London. The rest is transparent, he says. I’m on a trip to see my children. The hotel is paid for, but any other expenses, he reminds me with a cynical glance of regret, are not deductible.
I dread America. More correctly, I dread the prospect of seeing my ex, who holds my children hostage there, and makes it as difficult as she possibly can for me to spend time with them by skilfully inflicting the maximum psychological damage on me when I’m at my most vulnerable. It seems unfair to indict an entire nation on the behaviour of a single woman, but the feeling of anxiety returns to me whenever I board a plane to the US, and is countered only by my excitement at the prospect of seeing my kids. It’s the emotional see-saw between these two extremes that’s hard to manage, like the toxins and antitoxins administered by professional torturers to their victims.
Flying west, time goes backwards, so I have the strange experience of arriving at Dulles airport an hour or so after I’ve left England. According to local time, on my arrival it’s 1 a.m. At the immigration desk a uniformed officer glances humourlessly at the bruise above my eye.
‘You should see the other guy,’ I say.
He runs my green card, which isn’t green, through a reader, stamps my passport, and a grin comes over his face as he hands them back.
‘Welcome home, buddy. It’s a lot safer here.’
Which is comforting, because I’m already nervous at the prospect of encountering my ex.
I have no checked baggage and pass into the arrivals hall, where I scan for a driver holding up a sign with the name of a forgettable business written on it. He looks like a former soldier, to judge from his haircut and the muscles squeezed into his tight black suit.
‘Welcome to Washington DC, sir,’ he says after we exchange innocuous-sounding pass phrases. We walk outside to a line of waiting cars and he opens the rear door of a capacious four-wheel-drive Chevrolet with darkened windows. On the far side of the back seat is the ops officer from the Counterterrorist Center. I haven’t been sure what kind of person to expect, but this isn’t it.
At first I see only the hat, an expensive-looking dark Stetson with a leather braid around the base of the crown. I see the dark blue blazer, the starched white shirt and the jeans and cowboy boots. Then I take in the long blonde hair falling over the shoulders. The Stetson tilts up, and I’m looking into the face of a good-looking woman of about fifty, whose features break into a gleaming smile that makes me freeze momentarily in surprise.
‘Howdy, amigo,’ she says with unexpected earnestness. ‘You look like you never saw a cowgirl before.’
This is quite possibly true. I’m stammering for a reply.
‘Just not this late in the evening.’
‘Well, better late than never,’ she says. ‘You ready to saddle up?’
I climb aboard and we shake hands. There’s a Germanic-looking strength to her face, softened by the fairness of her hair and skin. Her jaw is square and tapers towards a prominent chin, and the thinness of her lips suggests a masculine hardness. I feel the steely quality of her gaze on me, as if she’s assessing the nerve of her guest. We follow the convention, adhered to in certain circles, of first names only.
‘Good to meet you, Tony. Heard good things about you. I’m Grace.’ She leans forward to the driver. ‘Full chisel, Mike.’ An opaque glass screen rises between us and the driver, muffling a hiss of static as he radios the news of our departure to wherever we’re going. The car surges forward and we merge into the river of lights flowing along the Dulles Access Toll Road, heading towards Tyson’s Corner.
‘It’s a pleasure to be here,’ I say, ‘but do you mind if I ask why it has to be at night?’
‘God, you English are so darn polite.’ She laughs. ‘Course you can. I understand your time here is short. I booked you for the night so’s we can keep our appointment in Afghanistan. Time zone there is nine and a half hours ahead of us.’
‘We’re going to talk to someone who’s in Afghanistan?’
‘Better than that. But I hate to spoil a surprise.’ She clips an ID card to my jacket pocket. ‘When were you last in-country?’ I’m assuming by this she means Afghanistan, not America.
‘About four years ago.’
‘De-mining outfit, right?’
I nod.
‘Ever meet Massoud?’
‘Twice.’
‘Like him?’
‘I never thought he was a saint, but you can’t not admire him,’ I say.
‘Hell of a guy,’ she agrees. ‘Wish I could be there now. Kind of place that gets its claws into you. Ran four missions to our friend up north. Hell, I’m an honorary male Afghan.’
It’s hard to imagine. Massoud’s base of operations in the Panjshir valley and the northernmost province of Afghanistan called Badakhshan aren’t the easiest or safest places to travel. They’re the only portions of the country yet to fall to the Taliban, and are doggedly defended by Massoud and his dedicated soldiers. I travelled along the dirt roads of the region and through its spectacular mountain passes and valleys on de-mining surveys for the trust. Now Massoud’s ailing forces, squeezed between the Taliban’s inexorable advance from the south and the frontier of Tajikistan to the north, are fighting for survival. I’ve guessed that the CIA has sent advisers to the area to liaise with Massoud, the Taliban’s final opponent, but I never imagined that a woman was among them.