He tried not to be irritated by the restrictions. After all, it wasn't like the Russians were matching Uncle Sam's restraint. They had killed that guy Victor Litvinenko in London with polonium. And there were all those dead journalists, too-Anna Politkovskaya, Paul Klebnikov, too many to keep up with. Ben thought he could make a pretty good argument that Ivan was getting more aggressive precisely because of Uncle Sam's overzealous devotion to the rules, but that kind of shit was above his pay grade and it wasn't as though anyone would listen to him anyway. But if he could, he would have asked someone what had happened to “You're either with us or you're with the terrorists.” He supposed it had been just another empty slogan from another lying politician.
They were all liars, actually. The left was naïve, thinking you could follow the niceties and still fight effectively against the kind of fanatics America was up against. And the right was hypocritical, thinking you could take off the gloves and still occupy the moral high ground.
Yeah, the left couldn't understand the nature of the fight; the right couldn't accept its true consequences. But Ben didn't care about the niceties, he didn't care about the moral high ground, he cared about winning. And the way you won was by being the hardest, dirtiest, deadliest motherfucker the enemy could ever have imagined in his worst nightmare. Christ, what good were rules if they made you lose the fight? What all the armchair analysts couldn't get their minds around was that when your tribe is attacked, you do what you have to do to win. You win by any means necessary. Later there could be a victor's justice, fine, but first there had to be a victory.
The thing was, most Americans wanted nothing more than to be safe. Maybe it hadn't always been that way, in fact he suspected things had once been different, but these days America had become a nation of sheep. Which to him was a pretty sorry way to live, a way that represented everything he'd joined the army to get away from; but that was American culture these days, and someone had to keep the sheep safe from the wolves. He understood at some level that the bullshit restrictions and the second-guessing just came with the territory. Still, it was galling to be put in a position where he was more afraid of CNN than he was of al Qaeda.
A BMW 750L pulled up in front of the Four Seasons and a doorman with an umbrella moved forward to open the door. Ben tensed, but no, it was an Asian couple, not the Iranians. He settled back onto the chair and resumed his waiting.
No one had told him where the intel behind this op had come from, of course. But from the quality of the information on the Iranians, and its paucity regarding the Russian, Ben suspected an Iranian mole-possibly in the country's nuclear program, more probably in the security services. An asset in the nuclear program would have known the scientists’ names and itineraries. He might even have known about the VAVAK minders. But only someone in charge of security would also have access to the false names and papers under which the men would be traveling, and to their passport photos. Also, understanding the likely fate to which he was condemning them, someone in the nuclear program would have found it harder to give up the scientists. After all, they would have been colleagues, men another scientist would know personally. Betraying your country is easier to rationalize than betraying a friend.
It was interesting. At one point, Uncle Sam had been more inclined to render the Jafaris and Kazemis of the world to friendly governments like Egypt and Saudi Arabia, where they could be interrogated with proper rigor. But then the CIA had screwed up the rendition of Abu Omar from Milan, leaving a paper trail so egregious an Italian magistrate had issued arrest warrants for the thirteen CIA operatives behind it, and then “plane spotters” had started to unravel the whole secret rendition network. The Pentagon had decided it was better to act more discreetly, and more directly. No one took the CIA seriously anymore anyway, not since the DCI had been made subordinate to the new director of national intelligence and the agency had been saddled with the problem of those nonexistent Iraqi WMDs. If you wanted actionable intelligence now, and if you wanted the intelligence acted upon, the Pentagon was the only real player in town.
Ben knew all this, but he didn't really care. He wanted nothing to do with politics, national or organizational. Hell, the politicians didn't even know men like him existed, and if they suspected, they knew better than to inquire. The military didn't invent “Don't ask, don't tell.” It learned it from Congress.
So basically, things were copacetic. There was a lot of work, and he was good at it. It all involved a simple understanding. If he fucked up, he would be denied, disowned, and hung out to dry. If he continued to achieve results, he would be left alone. It was the kind of deal he could live with. One where you knew the rules, and the consequences, up front. Not like what his family had pulled on him after Katie. Not that any of that mattered at this point anyway. They were all gone now, except for Alex, who might as well be gone, and good riddance, too.
Another BMW pulled up. Ben leaned forward so he could see more clearly through the curtains, and bingo, it was the Iranians, their first time back to the hotel before dark. This was it, he was sure of it, the chance he ‘d been waiting for. He felt a hot flush of adrenaline-a familiar, pleasant sensation in his neck and gut-and his heart began to thud a little harder.
The Iranians headed into the hotel, one VAVAK guy forward, the other aft. Ten to one they'd be on their way out within an hour, two at the most.
He stood and cracked his neck, then started doing some stretches and light calisthenics. He'd been sitting a long time with nothing but quick bathroom breaks. That was fine while he was waiting. But the time for waiting was done.
4 WAITING ROOM DOORS
Alex's mobile phone buzzed. He checked the display-Alisa-and opened it.
“You find him?” he asked.
“No. I'm in front of his apartment, though, and there are police cars everywhere. There are a lot of people standing around. They're saying someone was murdered.”
Alex felt an odd numbness take hold behind his ears. He could hear a faint buzzing, like the sound of a fluorescent light. “Oh, shit. Is it-”
“I don't know. I tried talking to one of the officers, but he'd only say it's a crime scene, which anyway I can tell because there's orange tape all around the building. But they're not letting anyone inside and I can't see anything from where I'm standing.”
“Who's saying someone was murdered?”
“Some of the people standing around watching. Maybe they're wrong, though. Maybe it's just a rumor.”
The numbness was spreading now. His breathing seemed very loud.
He wanted to drive down there himself, but knew that was irrational. It wasn't likely he could see or learn anything Alisa couldn't. And what if this whole thing were a gigantic coincidence? What if Hilzoy called or showed up right now-Sorry, caught a flat, and can you believe it, right in a dead zone where I had no cell reception! Of all the crappy luck-and Alex wasn't here? He would have turned a potential no-harm, no-foul situation into a catastrophe, all through his own bad judgment.
No, he couldn't let that happen.
He took a deep breath and slowly forced it out. Concentrating on his breathing settled him, a little.
“Stay there,” he said. “See if you can learn anything else, and call me right away if you do.”