Even when governments are locked in extreme disagreements over international policy, sometimes even while at war, their intelligence services maintain unofficial contacts. Such was the case with the current strain between Paris and Washington. The French could not afford to be seen as helping the Americans in the Middle East, so passing an urgent and sensitive message was better done through very unofficial means.
Buzz put on his CIA game face for the first time in many years. It felt good. Jean-Paul had been an agent with Le Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage (SDECE) back in the dirty days of Algeria, and since 1982 with its successor, the Directorate of External Security. He was retired over his protests.
A crash of thunder rolled over the city, and raindrops began to fall from the churning, slate gray sky, speckling the bridge. In unison, they raised black umbrellas.
“It is your missing general. You heard about him? This Middleton?”
“Been all over the television. Yeah. What about him?”
“As you know, we depend heavily upon human intelligence sources, where you Americans rely more on technology. We don’t have your capability in that field, but we have been growing agents in Africa and the Middle East for better than a century.”
“Tell me about it. If somebody was about to fuck a sheep in Algiers, you knew about it before the sheep did.” They both laughed. The rain fell steadily, lightly.
“Buzz, the Directorate has been contacted by one of our people, a former soldier in the Foreign Legion. He now lives in southern Syria, travels all around the area for us, and he saw your general being taken into a house in a village called Sa’ahn. The general appeared unconscious, but our man recognized that distinctive Marine uniform.”
“Whoa, partner. You have a man on the fucking scene?”
Jean-Paul reached into the pocket of his sweater and pulled out an envelope. “Oui. Here is his name, photograph, and the location of the village and the house he maintains there. I am authorized to tell you that the Directorate persuaded him to stay where he is to help guide any rescue effort, and to point out the house where the general is being held. You’ll have to pay him some money, of course. Probably a lot of money. He wants a million dollars, U.S.”
“Damn. Just a mil? He’ll have to buy a couple of new camels to carry all the gold they will give him to get Middleton back safe.” Buzz Higbee put the envelope in a deep sweater pocket. “How does Washington contact this asset if they want to do something?”
“Get a quiet message to our military attaché in Washington. Paris will pass it on through a coded microburst transmission to the asset.”
“Sounds almost too good to be true, Jean-Paul, which means it probably isn’t. What’s the catch?”
“I considered that and asked about it. There is nothing that we know of,” the Frenchman said. “Nobody wants to see still another flareup in that region. This isn’t Iraq, and Paris is more than willing to work with Washington on the problem. So I believe the only downside, as you say, is that you are now in my personal debt. I demand a lunch.”
“Anywhere you want, and make it somewhere expensive. CIA is buying.”
Jean-Paul smiled. “I was hoping you would say that. I will call you in the morning to name a place. Tell Marie that I send my love.”
They shook hands and parted, heading toward opposite ends of the bridge, hurrying to reach shelter before the storm broke.
CHAPTER 13
THE CIA REPRESENTATIVE AT the meeting of the National Security Council wore a private, satisfied smile. He had something that would get Buchanan off his ass. CIA tapped the keys on a laptop computer and the photograph of a middle-aged man with dark hair and a thick brushy mustache flashed onto one of the wall screens. “His name was Pierre Falais when he served in the Foreign Legion. He became a Muslim after his enlistment was up and took the name of Abu Mohammed. Father was French, mother Algerian. Studied to be an engineer in France, but gave it up, did the military stint, and then moved to Syria in about 1985 and worked as a skilled carpenter. Injured in a fall from a ladder and couldn’t do the high work anymore, so he moved to this village and set up shop. Does a little carpentry, a little farming, and a lot of spying for the French.”
“Why should we trust the French on this?” asked National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan.
“They controlled the area for years in the colonial times, and French roots run deep there. The information was given to us through a totally reliable channel, Mr. Buchanan. Our own contact agent is retired, but has known his French counterpart for many years. He believes the information is valid.” CIA stopped briefly to consider his next words. “Paris has done an extremely rare, timely, and thorough breakout on this guy for us.”
“So this Abu Mohammed actually saw General Middleton and knows precisely where he is being held?”
“We consider the information to be accurate as of this moment. It could change at any time.” CIA replaced the large photograph with a map, satellite imagery of a small town just to the east of the rugged Mount Druz. It was only a couple of streets and blocky buildings. “This is where the informant claims Middleton is being held… right… here.” He tapped a key and a red circle blinked around one of the small buildings near the edge of town.
Buchanan tapped his fingers against his pursed lips. “Anyone care to comment?”
The table remained silent for a few moments as he watched them all carefully. Finally, the woman from State gathered her nerve. “I’m uncomfortable with it.”
“Why?” Buchanan had never liked her. One of those faceless drones who had lived overseas too long, enjoying the good life and throwing embassy parties. She had been in Rio until she came back home to that roost of diplomatic vipers over on C Street, for God’s sake. What would she know about the Middle East? “What troubles you?”
“It all seems too easy. Too convenient,” State said, keeping her voice quiet and level. Buchanan was trying to move too fast, she thought, and nobody was willing to buck him. “Any time there is a major incident, we start getting walk-ins to embassies, our intel communities see their switchboards light up, and the FBI has to beat informants away with a stick. These potential informants all smell money and want to swap information for cash. On the Middleton kidnap, however, the secret world has gone quiet. Nobody got anything until this retired old CIA guy is contacted by his buddy, a retired senior French intelligence officer, and the whole thing falls into our laps. We get a local guide, his picture and history, and the address where the victim is being kept.”
“So you think they are lying?” Let her dig her own grave.
“No. But it’s possible that both Washington and Paris are being used. I have been in government service more than twenty years, Mr. Buchanan, and it has never been this easy. Problems of this magnitude do not just resolve themselves.”
“Your concern is duly noted,” Buchanan said, knowing her comments were true. The contact in Syria was working with the Shark Team there and the information was intentionally being fed in from the field. He had to sidetrack her. The others at the table remained silent as Buchanan smirked. “This one indeed has come out of the blue. I think Paris realizes just how deep in the crapper they are with us on other things, particularly Iraq, and are offering this up as a goodwill gesture without having to do so publicly. That’s why they used the old boys. Okay, so everybody knows where we are. What’s the next step?”