“We all good to go here?” Harvath asked as he stepped into the room.
Morrison and Barton flashed him the thumbs-up.
Removing two hoods from his pocket, Harvath placed one over each of the prisoner’s heads and gave the command to move out.
By the time they stepped outside, Staelin and Haney were already in the courtyard, engines running, doors open.
While Morrison and Barton loaded the two Libyans into the cargo area of the Land Cruiser, Harvath laid a map out on the hood and illuminated it.
According to the NSA and the drone team, militia fighters were headed toward them from all directions.
The only way to avoid contact was to stay off the main paved roads. Crisscrossing the desert was a series of dirt roads predominantly used by local farmers. They’d be tough as hell to follow, but Harvath had a plan.
Quickly indicating the route he wanted to take, he told everybody to mount up, and then he let the drone team know they were rolling.
Outside the gates, they slowed only long enough for Haney to pick up Gage, and then put the pedal to the metal.
They were going to punch right through the center of the trap. There was only one way it could go wrong.
CHAPTER 28
The woman looked at him as if he was crazy. “You want me to put a full package on Lydia Ryan? The Deputy fucking Director of the CIA. Are you nuts?”
“Keep your voice down,” Andrew Jordan cautioned.
They were sitting at a small table in the back of the oldest bar and restaurant in town, the Old Ebbitt Grill. It was a popular spot for D.C. power players, just a stone’s throw from the White House. And while Andrew Jordan didn’t look it, he definitely considered himself a power player.
He was the hidden force behind Page Partners, Ltd. Without him, Paul Page would be nothing and would have nothing.
But unlike Paul, he had to keep a low profile. Every penny he made from his share of Page Partners, Ltd., was deposited into offshore accounts. From there it flowed into a series of shell corporations that invested in real estate and various foreign business ventures.
All of it stayed outside the United States, beyond the prying eyes of his employer, the Central Intelligence Agency. Nothing triggered an investigation faster than a report that you were believed to be living beyond your means.
To avoid getting flagged, he was extremely judicious with everything. He maxed out his retirement plans, had a mortgage below what he qualified for, drove a predriven car, vacationed modestly, and contributed generously to a handful of charities.
He had no vices, save one — from time to time, he liked to go out for a good meal. This time, it was dinner at the Old Ebbitt. With him was a contractor who did a lot of off-the-books work for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Unless someone from the Directorate of Operations had walked in, no one in the restaurant would have recognized either of them. And even then, it was highly unlikely they would have recognized the contractor. She was a discreet source whom Jordan had spent a lot of time quietly developing.
The woman’s name was Susan Viscovich. She had been in Army Intelligence, then the NSA, and eventually had gone out on her own. She was in her late thirties, but took very good care of herself and looked ten years younger.
She had long blonde hair, which tonight she wore up in a tight bun. This was business. And from what she had just been told, it was dangerous business.
Leaning over the table, she lowered her voice and asked, “Why the hell would you want a full electronic surveillance package on Ryan?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he replied.
Picking up her wineglass, she leaned back in her chair and said, “Find somebody else.”
“There is nobody else. You’re the best.”
Viscovich took a sip of her wine, but remained silent. She didn’t want this job. No good would come of it.
“I’m willing to double your fee.”
“I’ll bet you are,” she replied. Holding up her glass to get their server’s attention, she signaled that she was ready for another one. “You?”
He nodded and Viscovich motioned for a full round.
There were a dozen large oysters in front of them. She chose one and added some mignonette sauce. Then, she raised the shell to her mouth, tipped her head back, and let it slide down her throat.
Jordan watched, his appreciation for how she consumed her oysters a bit too obvious.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No, I was just thinking—”
“I know what you were thinking. Knock it off.”
He held up his hands. “This is just business. That’s all this is.”
“You’re damn right that’s all this is.”
Reaching down, she prepared another oyster and was about to eat it when she set it back onto her plate. “I understand why I get the kinds of jobs I do from you. It’s not necessarily because they’re hard, though most of them are, but rather because if I get caught, the Agency can deny any knowledge of me.”
“Correct.”
“And I’m okay with that,” she stated. “But this is different. Why does the Agency want to run covert surveillance on its own Deputy DCI?”
“I told you it’s—”
She raised her hand and cut him off. “Don’t bullshit me, Andy. Not if you seriously want me to consider this job. And if that’s what you want, you must have come here knowing that I’d expect an explanation.”
He saw their waiter approaching and waited until he had set the drinks on the table and had walked away before responding.
“Ryan is leaving the Agency.”
“Interesting,” she replied, pouring what was left of her wine into the new glass and then taking a sip. “What do you care?”
“Have you heard of the Carlton Group?”
Viscovich smiled. “Everybody worth their salt in our game has heard of the Carlton Group.”
“That’s where she’s going.”
“Again, why do you care?”
Jordan loaded up an oyster with horseradish and cocktail sauce. “Because she’s not going alone. She’s going to be taking key people with her.”
“Is that a crime?”
“It depends.”
“Then why not bring in the FBI?”
“It’s tricky,” he said, as he raised the overloaded oyster to his mouth, slurped it back, and continued to talk as he chewed. “Ryan may be sharing some things with her new employer that neither they nor the FBI should be hearing.”
Viscovich ignored the man’s poor table manners and redirected. “So use your own people to surveil her.”
“Therein lies our problem. Lydia Ryan has been at CIA a long time; everybody likes her. She’s got friends everywhere. We can’t do this internally.”
“It sounds like you’ve got a pretty serious problem.”
“Tell me about it.”
Taking another sip, she swirled the wine in her glass and asked, “Who knows about your investigation?”
“It’s a tight circle,” he said as he loaded up another oyster. “And needless to say, none of what we have discussed here goes any further.”
Viscovich rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. I know how this works. Is the Director involved?”
Without missing a beat, Jordan looked up from his oyster, smiled at her, and lied. “DCI McGee? Of course. He’s running the entire investigation. One hundred percent.”
“Good. From what I hear, he’s a reasonable man. He’ll understand I expect you to triple my fee,”