Now they were on the move again, and it was nearly time, he thought, for him to go back into the field and do his thing. Already his thoughts were narrowing to the mission. He was already in the process of leaving Washington and his wife and friends, placing all of that life in a safe corner of his head, so that he would be traveling without the baggage that could slow him down. More than one field officer had gotten into serious trouble because his mind had wandered back home at the wrong moment.
Rencke had called the main gate, so the guards there were expecting him. But even though they recognized him, they didn’t let him pass until they’d checked his ID. Security had become very tight at the Company.
The parking lot was a third full with the night shifts in the directorates of operations and intelligence, which had gone into high gear because of the increased threat level.
The OD sent an intern down to sign McGarvey in and escort him back upstairs to the Directorate of Operations Ops Center, which was called the Watch. It was a large, windowless room in the center of the building on the third floor that was electronically and mechanically scanned 24/7 for bugs. Operators manned dozens of computer stations, most of them in cubicles, filled not only with one or more large monitors and keyboards, but desks and file cabinets piled high with files, and maps, and reference books. The worldview was on display here, in one form or another. Political situations in dozens of problem nations around the globe, current hot spots where fighting was going on or was expected to start soon, and especially ongoing or developing CIA missions were kept track of. From the information gathered in real time here, and from written reports by our assets on the ground, called Humint, for human intelligence, and by electronic and satellite information-gathering techniques, called by the broader term Elint for electronic intelligence, National Intelligence Estimates and Watch Reports were produced for the National Command Authority.
Activity in this room was never at a lull, and when McGarvey walked in most of the operators didn’t bother to look up, they were too absorbed in their tasks.
Tony Mackie, the officer of the day, was waiting for him with Rencke and Gloria at a long conference table in a glass-enclosed office at the front of the room. Mackie was an ex — New York City detective who’d gone to work for the CIA after an early retirement because he had become so accustomed to being on the inside that it drove him nuts to be a mere civilian. Although he would never get to work in the field he was in his glory here, he was the perfect deskman.
McGarvey thanked the young man who’d escorted him upstairs, then went into the conference room.
“Here he is,” Mackie said, looking up.
Gloria turned around and gave him a dazzling smile of triumph. “You were right, Mac,” she said.
Rencke was at the head of the table, hopping from one foot to the other, and clapping his hands. “Oh boy, Mac, you hit the jackpot,” he cried. He turned the large-screen laptop they’d been watching so that McGarvey could see it. “We got them all,” he said. “All four.”
The laptop’s screen was divided into four quadrants, each of which was overlaid with a fairly small-scale map on which a small red dot moved slowly. Several lines of data scrolled across the bottom of each quadrant.
“Is this in real time?” McGarvey asked.
“Real time minus a thirty-second delay for the data from our satellites and a whole bunch of international air traffic control radars and computer systems to get here and be collated,” Rencke said.
Three of the quadrants showed the same map of the eastern Mediterranean Sea from just west of Cyprus to the coasts of Syria, Lebanon, and Israel. The red dots, which were the uploaded signals from the nano-GPS units that had been injected into the four men at Guantanamo Bay, showed those three bunched on top of each other and moving directly toward Syria.
“Those three are aboard an Air Mexico jet. Once they clear Israel’s northern border they’ll hang a hard right, which will take them south to Damascus,” Rencke said. “They’re not running home to papa, they’re heading to safe pastures. All-ee, all-ee, in free.”
The fourth map, however, was of south-central Iran, heading eastward to Pakistan.
The data scrolling at the bottom of that quadrant showed latitude, longitude, heading, and speed. The one target was aboard a Pakistan International Airlines jet inbound to Karachi.
“Do we know which one it is?” McGarvey asked.
Rencke was grinning like a kid with a new toy. “Al-Turabi, the guy who masterminded the hit on you at Arlington.”
“It could mean that bin Laden is hiding somewhere in southern Pakistan, probably Karachi,” Gloria suggested. “If he was hiding up in the mountains, like ISI is telling us, al-Turabi would have flown directly up to Peshawar rather than taking a chance of being spotted switching planes.”
“If he’s trying to get to bin Laden,” McGarvey pointed out, staring at the monitor. “He might simply be running to one of his own hideouts.”
“I don’t think so, and neither do you,” Gloria said. “He’s running home to Uncle Osama.” She was grinning. “What do we do now?”
McGarvey shook his head. “We don’t do a thing. You’re staying here to help Otto backstop me.”
Gloria flared. “Not a chance,” she said. “I’ve had a partner killed and some serious guys shooting at me — including the one on his way to Karachi. I have to see this through.”
McGarvey had been too distracted earlier to consider what her reaction might be. “I’m sorry, but I work alone.”
“Sorry my ass!” Gloria shouted.
“If need be I’ll talk to your boss, and have you pulled from the field,” McGarvey told her coolly.
“I’ve got plenty for you to do here,” Rencke said. “This op will have no official status. So far as the Watch goes, it doesn’t exist. What we’re doing here with Tom is nothing more than an exercise.”
Gloria turned away, but not before McGarvey saw a sudden glistening in her eyes. “Goddammit,” she said softly.
McGarvey could understand her frustration, but he was going up against bin Laden alone, and for more than one reason. And he wasn’t going to stop to explain it to her now.
“I can get you an Aurora by the time you get home and pack,” Rencke offered. The Aurora was air force. It flew nearly to the edge of space at speeds of more than mach six. Officially it did not exist. “You can be in Ramstein in a couple hours.”
“I’ll fly commercial,” McGarvey told him.
“I can do that,” Rencke said. “Which one of your work names do you want to use?”
McGarvey had given that bit of tradecraft a lot of thought. “I’ll go in under my own name,” he said.
Gloria had turned back. “He’ll know that you’re coming, and why,” she said.
“That’s right,” McGarvey said. He was counting on just that.
At that moment Gloria very much reminded him of his daughter. They were both bright women, but both of them were impetuous. They didn’t have the field experience they thought they had. Spying was a funny business. By the time you got it down to a fine art you were getting too old to work in the field, and too well known by the opposition. They were lessons the women had yet to learn well enough to manipulate them to their own uses.
FORTY-NINE
Noon traffic was heavy as the cab worked its way from the Hotel Cirta near the train station and post office out to the grounds of the new U.S. Embassy on Liason Nord-Sud, the Marasa Highway. The driver, spotting a break in traffic, recklessly shot around a bus that was starting to pull over to pick up several passengers, nearly hitting one of them, and just made the green light at the corner.