In the beginning, Vorsalov had been just another “legal” assigned to the Russian embassy, but four years after being arrested and “persona-non-grata-ed” from the country for attempting to recruit a Raytheon employee, he returned to the U.S. as an “illegal”—a spy working without diplomatic cover. This was the most dangerous kind of agent, for if caught, they face prison rather than deportation.
Latham knew all this, but it hit home one night in Rock Creek Park when the ambush they’d set for Vorsalov went bad. To everyone’s shock, the Russian had bolted and run straight into the arms of one of Latham’s agents.
The memory was still vivid for Latham: sitting in the rain, cradling the agent as he stared at the oozing puncture in his sternum. He’d never had a chance. Vorsalov had been good with the ice pick, a KGB favorite, and it had taken only a split second.
Though an inquiry said otherwise, Latham knew the agent was dead because of something he’d missed, a detail he’d overlooked, and he’d spent the last ten years trying to figure out what it was.
The door opened and Latham’s partner, Paul Randal, entered with a clear plastic bag; inside was a piece of charred suitcase material.
“That it?” asked Latham.
“Yep. Plus a few pieces of what looks like a device.”
“What kind?”
“Hard to tell, but it’s complex… not an egg timer and dynamite, that’s for sure.”
“What about explosive?”
Randal opened the evidence bag and held it in front of Latham’s nose.
“Plastique,” said Latham. The odor was distinctive. Now the trick was to determine its kind and origin. He was betting it was Czech Semtex, a favorite of terrorists.
“And the owner of the luggage?”
“Should have that within a couple hours.”
Owen said, “Good news, bad news.”
“Yeah.”
Latham was both relieved and frightened. Frightened because it took a fair amount of sophistication to not only design such a device but also get it aboard an aircraft. Relieved because that same sophistication would narrow their list of possible suspects.
DDO George Coates stepped off the elevator and into Mason’s outer office. Ginny looked up. “He’s on the phone, Mr. Coates. He should be done in a couple minutes.”
“Okay.” Coates sat down.
On his lap Coates cradled a file labeled DORSAL. Containing all the nuts-and-bolts details of an ongoing operation, it was what case officers called “the book.” So restricted is a book’s information that it is traditionally off-limits to everyone but the case officer, his division chief, and perhaps a handful of others. This restriction extends even to the DCI and his deputies. However, the summons from Mason had been unambiguous: “Get the book on DORSAL and come on up.” Next to SYMMETRY, DORSAL was his directorate’s most important ongoing operation.
Ginny said, “Okay, Mr. Coates, you can go in.”
Mason waved Coates to the seat in front of his desk. The television was tuned to a CNN report of the crash in New York. Coates watched for a moment. “How bad?”
“Five dead, seven injured.”
“Accident?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ve got a call in to the FBI director. I meant to ask: How was your heart-to-heart with Smith and the IOC?”
“Manageable,” replied Coates. “He’s a prick, but there’s not much to him. I think he gets a thrill out of seeing himself as part of the spy business.”
“That was my impression, too.” Mason muted the TV. “Does the name Umako Ohira mean anything to you?”
“Not offhand.”
“Check.”
Coates opened the DORSAL file to the bio section. There was only one agent, the primary: “Code name, Kingfisher. Identity, Umako Ohira.” Coates turned the file for Mason to see.
Mason nodded. “Ohira was murdered two days ago outside Osaka.”
“What?”
“A shooting. The report just landed on the embassy LegAt’s desk. Aside from the fact that an American saw the whole thing, it didn’t mean anything to him or the station chief.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” Kingfisher — Ohira — had been working alone, with no controller. “That’s where we got it, the LegAt?”
“No. Blessing or curse, the witness is — or used to be — an operator.”
“Used to be?”
“I’ll explain later. He’s one of Dutcher’s people.”
Coates nodded. “I know Dutch. Good man. You’ve lost me though. How—”
“Dutcher’s man claims there’s more to it. The car Ohira had been driving was shot up, and the next day Dutcher’s man—”
“What’s his name?”
“Tanner. The next day he was followed by the same kind of truck used in the shooting.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Understatement of the year. In a span of forty-eight hours, two of our biggest ops have been gutted.”
“You think they’re connected?”
“Doubtful, but we can’t rule it out till we know more. I want you and Sylvia to dissect this thing from top to bottom, just like we’re doing with SYMMETRY. All the product, all the OpSec.” Mason pushed a file across the table. “Dutcher’s report.”
Coates scanned it, then said, “We’re worse off here than with SYMMETRY. Ohira ran the network. We don’t know much about it — next to nothing, in fact.”
Mason heard the self-reproach in his deputy’s voice. “It was the only way, George. Running an op on Japanese soil is about as dicey as it gets. It was either let him run it or get nothing. Besides, we may have a trump: Tanner. He’s on the ground. He might be able to—”
“Dutcher’s guy? I don’t know—”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Not unless I sign off on it, it isn’t.”
Mason wasn’t offended. In all things operational, Coates was king unless Mason decided to overrule him, and that wasn’t his style. You didn’t give your people the authority unless you trusted them, and trust was not something you awarded and withdrew capriciously.
“Understood,” Mason said. “Before we take that route, you’ll know everything you need to know about him.”
In the city’s old quarter Ibrahim Fayyad stood on his veranda at the Hotel M’Rabet and watched the bustle of the souk market below. Here, not five miles from the heart of Tunis proper, few tourists ventured into the mazelike medina without a guide. He did not blame them.
For thousands of years, Roman, Turk, and Arab conquerors had built and rebuilt the streets and alleys of the medina, each hoping not only to memorialize their supremacy but also to thwart invaders. The result was Old Tunis, the epitome of ancient Arabism.
Fayyad enjoyed Tunis not only for the anonymity it provided him but also for the irony. Here he was, hiding just a few miles from the one-time headquarters of al-Fatah, where Arafat himself had signed Fayyad’s death warrant. Back then, as the PLO was growing cozier with the Israelis, certain activities and individuals — like Fayyad — became unpopular, and al-Fatah decided his execution would make a wonderful sign of goodwill.
Fayyad turned away from the window. On the television, CNN was repeating the top story of the day. He turned down the volume and watched the images of the crippled plane sitting on the Tarmac.
The bomb had malfunctioned. The engineer had come highly recommended, a well-trained former Egyptian soldier. Apparently his reputation was ill-deserved. No matter, Fayyad thought. He’d done his part; he was safe. She would not remember his face as clearly as she would remember her feelings for him. It would confuse her, this fuzziness.