“When are you French ever going to get it through your heads that you don’t matter? La Grand Nation ain’t a superpower. Hell, France isn’t even a player. I’ll never understand why you think you guys have to butt into other people’s business.”
“We have an obligation to defend freedom and democracy-something America used to understand.”
“And I supersize my freedom fries.” Chronister crushed his cigarette out against Ashland’s cheek. “We’re going to have some fun together. I can tell.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
The CIA has been hiding and interrogating some of its most important al Qaeda captives at a Soviet-era compound in Eastern Europe, according to U.S. and foreign officials familiar with the arrangement.
The secret facility is part of a covert prison system set up by the CIA nearly four years ago that at various times has included sites in eight countries
– The Washington Post, November 2, 2005, as reported by Dana Priest
The current transfers mean that there are now no terrorists in the CIA [black site/prison] program…
[T]he Supreme Court’s recent descision has impaired our ability to prosecute terrorists through military commissions, and has put in question the future of the CIA [black site/prison] program.
– President George W. Bush, Address to the nation, September 6, 2006
Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad
Camille shoved a Leupold Mark 4 spotting scope into a small suitcase stuffed with clothes she didn’t like and planned on dumping along with her other props as soon as she passed Uzbek customs. She stuck an encrypted Iridium satellite phone into a day pack. A few years ago she would have been pushing it to take such an advanced communications device along, but with the proliferation of cell phones, she doubted the border guards would take a second glance. “Hey, I thought you were picking up everything in-country like a good little assassin,” Iggy said as he stood in the middle of the small trailer and watched her pack. “What’s with the scope?”
“All you can count on getting there is old Russian equipment. I love Dragunovs, but their iron sights suck. The Russians have some great optics, but they can be hard to come by.” Camille tossed a pair of Zeiss binoculars and a birding field guide to Central Asia into the small suitcase. “As long as I look like some nutty birder after a scissor-tailed whatever, Uzbek border guards won’t think twice about a good spotting scope.
“Any sign of GENGHIS?” Camille said as she sorted through a stack of T-shirts, trying to lighten the load in the suitcase.
“None and I don’t like it,” Iggy said, shaking his head. “He told Pete he was off to a massage parlor last night after she showed him his rack. Our boys have quizzed every whore in the bubble. No luck.”
“You think he’s our mole?”
“He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s no traitor. I think someone didn’t want him going with you.”
“Not good.” Camille stopped packing and looked up at Iggy. “Any word on the overheads?”
“That’s why I dropped by.” Iggy grinned. “I put the spooks to work on it. Best they could get from Ikonos was that two years ago some company called Tasopé bought up all their satellite images over Uzbekistan-for the next three years.”
“Who owns Tasopé?”
“It’s like opening one those Russian nesting dolls-a bunch of shells. The mother company was an outfit called CRH Salvage. It’s got a dozen names on its board of directors.”
“Who are they?”
“Most of them are high-net-worth types-the kind you’d expect to be doing angel capital investments. The interesting thing is they only own forty-eight percent. Controlling interest is held by three mystery men. The spooks said they went through something like forty-six databases and nada. Can you imagine three people who’ve never had a credit card or a piece of junk mail to their name?”
“That has the Agency’s fingerprints all over it.”
“Get this, their birth dates were all in the forties, fifties and sixties, but the social security numbers were all issued in the past five years. Here’s the kicker: they all have post office boxes in Arlington and Chevy Chase.”
“So a CIA proprietary company is buying up every private satellite image of Uzbekistan for the next three years. The Agency is definitely up to something big there.” Camille zipped up the carry-on suitcase.
“Hold on. We’ve got more. The boys at Lyon are good. When this is all over, we really ought to think about buying them up.” Iggy picked up Camille’s suitcase and carried it to the door of her trailer.
“You’re not using our in-house spooks?”
“They’re busy planning your trip. Had to outsource it to the friendly competition.” Iggy carried her suitcase down the steps. Camille reached for the handle, but he pulled it away. “I got it. As I was saying, one of the guys recognized a name from the work we threw them a few weeks ago researching Rubicon’s holdings.”
“Overlapping directors?”
“Yup. One name-Garry Hoyes. Someone messed up and used him twice. Hoyes shows up on the board of directors of both a Rubicon subsidiary and one of the Agency’s proprietary companies-Tasopé. The Lyon analyst caught it because he once had a neighbor in Philly by that name, so it jumped right out at him.”
“So this confirms both the Agency and Rubicon are closely linked, but we pretty much knew that already. And we now know both are up to something secret in Uzbekistan, but we don’t know they’re working together on the same thing,” Camille said. She felt bad he was carrying her bag, but the sun-baked sand of the compound was as hard as concrete and he could’ve rolled it. “But I’d bet anything they are cooperating. Rubicon has to be working under an Agency contract, otherwise there’s no money in it.”
“There’s more. I was talking to some old Agency compadres about the black sites-you know, the prisons. Seems the heat’s been on ever since that Post reporter broke the story that the Agency’s running its own gulag system. The Poles and Romanians kicked them out. That Supreme Court ruling extending the Geneva Convention to detainees really mucked things up.”
“Interesting, but what does that have to do with Hunter?”
“Hold on. The Agency’s been scrambling to come up with a new way to keep control over prisoners and interrogations. Word is they’ve privatized.” Iggy raised his voice, trying to be heard over the roar of the generators.
Camille stopped walking and looked at him. “You’re kidding? You mean the Agency is using contractors to run their secret prisons?”
“Privately run prisons are a billion-dollar industry back home. Makes sense to me. They’re a proven concept.”
“Let me guess, another sole-source provider contract so they didn’t have to open it up for competitive bids. Damn. I’d like to have had that one. We never get anything decent from them other than knuckle-dragger gigs from the SAD.” She hated prisons, but knew they could be a good way to diversify her company if they could somehow land a contract. She could always hire someone else to run them.
“I heard that Fred Avocet gave Rubicon the contract right before he retired to work for them. Cofer was furious when Fred outmaneuvered him. He was sure Total Intel and Blackwater had it in the bag.” Iggy stepped into the shade of a palm. Its fronds rustled in the light breeze which carried smoke and soot from the burn pit.
The sun burned Camille’s face and she moved into the shade with Iggy. “Last I heard, the Agency only outsourced torture to shifty governments, not private companies.”