Fisher was concerned. The grid reference Lambert had given was virtually on top of his pathfinder beacon, overlooking Jumeirah Road north of the Burj al Arab. Rendevous Point Charlie-Alpha One was a CIA safe house on Al Garhoud Road near the Dubai Creek Golf & Yacht Club.
Lambert’s order was unprecedented, not only because it required Fisher to remain in an OPAR (Operational Area) that had gone hot, but also because it went against everything Third Echelon stood for: invisibility. Presenting himself to what would likely turn out to be a CIA case officer at a CIA safe house left a big footprint indeed. Though his contact was unlikely to know anything about him and would be ordered to forget his face, that did little to comfort him.
Twenty minutes after he touched down on the beach and stuffed his parafoil in a crevice in the rocks, a red two-door Peugeot pulled off the road and coasted to a stop on the dirt shoulder. The driver got out and knelt beside his front tire. Fisher saw a flashlight wink against the hub-cap: one short, two long, three short.
He rose from the underbrush and walked over. Though he’d stripped off his exterior gear and stuffed it into his pack, he was still wearing his tac-suit. Even so, the man gave him the barest of glances, then said, “Are you Willard?”
Fisher shook his head. “My name is Bartle,” he replied, completing the recognition code.
The man opened the back door and said, “Best if you lay down on the floor.”
Fisher got in and did as instructed.
TWENTYminutes later the Peugeot coasted to a stop. Fisher heard the sound of a garage door opening. The car moved ahead and the garage door closed.
“It’s okay to get up,” the driver said. “We’re clear.”
Fisher sat up and climbed out of the car to find himself, predictably, in a nondescript two-car garage. He followed the man into the house, which was lit by several floor lamps and decorated in Spanish-villa style. They were standing in the kitchen.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” the man said. “Conference room’s down the hall, first door on the right. Your call’s cued up; just press the green button. The room’s a tank.”
All U.S. embassies and consulates and some CIA safe houses were equipped with a “tank”—a windowless, sound-tight room impervious to listening devices.
Fisher followed the man’s directions to the room. It was small, ten feet by ten feet, and empty save for a desk table arrayed before a thirty-two-inch flat-screen television monitor. Recessed ceiling lights cast pools on the carpet. He sat down and pressed the green button. The monitor went first to static, then black again as a series of word scrolled across the screen:
SEEKING SIGNAL . . . SIGNAL ENGAGED . . . ENCRYPTION ENGAGED . . . SYSTEM CHECK . . . READY . . .
Lambert appeared on the screen. He was standing in what Fisher immediately recognized as the White House Situation Room. In the background he could see a few people milling around the gleaming oak conference table, including the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the head of Homeland Security, the director of the FBI, and the NID or National Intelligence Director.
“Morning, Sam,” Lambert said.
“I’ve had better, Colonel. Tell me why I’m still in Dubai.”
“Apologies. A lot has happened since you left.”
“So it seems.”
“You’re the tip of the spear, Sam. I asked that you be allowed to listen in; you need to know what’s happening, and what’s coming. You’ll be able to see them, but they won’t be able to see you. Listen, but don’t speak.”
“I’m a ghost.”
“Tell me about the Burj al Arab.”
“Things got dicey. We’re not compromised, but Greenhorn’s dead—by his own bodyguards.”
“Accident?”
“No chance. They were too good for that. They knew what they were doing.”
“The question is, what did he know that was so important and who gave the order?”
“There’s got to more here than what we’re seeing. Maybe this’ll give us a clue.” Fisher held up the USB drive Greenhorn had given him. “His insurance policy.”
“Good. Get that to Grim.”
On the monitor, Fisher saw the President’s Chief of Staff walk into the room and take a seat at the head of the conference table. Lambert said, “Stick around afterward. Grim has a new mission briefing for you.” Lambert disappeared from view, then came back into frame as he took his seat.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Chief of Staff, “let’s take our seats. I’ll be updating the President following this, so let’s get started. “First, General, I understand you have updated figures from Slipstone.”
The Chairman of the JCS nodded. “Yes, sir. As of three hours ago, the total confirmed dead roughly three thousand, six hundred.”
There were murmurs of shock around the table.
“Of the reported two thousand survivors, approximately forty percent of them won’t survive another three days. We’re looking at a death toll that may exceed five thousand.”
The Chief of Staff was silent for a few moments, then asked, “Why Slipstone? Why did they choose Slipstone?”
The JCS chairman replied, “Just guessing, I’d say for impact. Slipstone’s a small town, in the middle of the country—in the middle of nowhere. The message is, ‘we can get you anywhere, at any time.’ Small town, big city, it doesn’t matter.”
The Chief of Staff considered this, then said, “Moving on. Jim, if you would. . . .”
The director of the FBI opened a folder, shuffled his notes, then started:
“Seventeen hours ago, our Special Agent in Charge on the ground in Slipstone acquired surveillance tapes of the local water treatment plant. Subsequent study of these tapes led our team to put out a nationwide BOLO for a late-model white Chevy Malibu, which was seen parked near the plant. Two unidentified men were recorded exiting the car, after which they disappeared from view. Twenty minutes later, they reappeared and drove away.
“An anonymous tip led to the traffic stop of the white Malibu by the Texas Highway Patrol units outside El Paso, Texas. The two occupants of the car were of Middle Eastern origin. They were in possesion of false drivers’ licenses, two semiautomatic pistols, and cash in the amount of three thousand dollars. The men were transported to the El Paso County Jail for questioning.
“After initially refusing to cooperate, one of the men let slip details that confirmed their presence at Slipstone’s water treatment plant, as well as their plans to exit the country. Using flight and credit card information, we’ve determined their destination was a house in Guatemala City, Guatemala.
“A raid of the house by the Guatemalan National Police turned up a cache of documents, which was immediately turned over to our local Legat, or Legal Attaché. We’re still in the process of sorting through the documents, but so far we’ve determined the two men were ultimately bound for Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. Ashgabat is fifteen miles from the Iranian border.”
Even from seven thousand miles away, Fisher felt the tension in the room skyrocket at the mention of Iran. This was the first true evidence pointing to the perpetrator of the Slipstone poisoning—and possibly the Tregoincident. Fisher saw the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was taking copious notes. He knows,Fisher thought. Unless something changed, he’d soon be asked for military options for Iran.
The NID added, “The CIA sent its chief of station from Uzbekistan over to Ashgabat to beat the bushes. Problem is, we haven’t had a solid presence in Turkmenistan for decades. We’re just now redeveloping a network.”
The FBI director continued. “The Ashgabat lead has been partially confirmed by the lone crew member captured from the cargo ship Trego,who was transferred to our custody from another agency three days ago. This subject claims his name is in fact Behfar Nassiri and that he spent time in Ashgabat before leaving to board the Tregoat sea, off the coast of Mauritania.”