“They use their own guys for the heart-to-hearts. It’s the facility management they’ve outsourced, along with detainee transport. Remember the president’s speech about how the CIA was no longer in the business of black sites? He was telling the truth, more or less. The CIA isn’t doing it anymore-Rubicon is.”
“Any idea what the money’s like?”
“Margins are supposed to be terrific. I’ll make some calls and get the specifics.” Iggy’s Gargoyles sunglasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back into place as he started walking toward the helicopters. “You know, it’s brilliant. The Agency for once is actually looking ahead and positioning itself for the future. Bush isn’t going to be around forever. If the next president’s a bleeding-heart liberal, first day in office he’ll repeal the presidential finding that allows black sites. Even Clinton let us outsource interrogations to the Third World, so I’m sure that’ll still be an option, but so much of what they give you is self-serving shit. You need control of your own interrogations. That’s the beauty of outsourcing: you can do whatever the fuck you want. You don’t need a presidential finding because you’re not the SOB doing it-the contractor is. Things go south, the contractor went too far. And god only knows if any laws apply to them. Geneva Conventions sure as hell don’t. So much for that Supreme Court ruling. It’s a beautiful workaround.”
Pete pulled up beside them in the Gator as they approached the rows of helicopters. A Little Bird lifted into the air.
“News?” Camille shouted over the roar of engines.
“The spooks are buzzing that the spy our boys nabbed a few days ago in Syria led to the bust of some big French agent,” Pete said as she turned the Gator off and pulled up the parking brake.
“I meant about GENGHIS.”
“Not a trace. He must’ve split. Guys here do that sometimes-or maybe he was our mole and he couldn’t take it.”
Camille didn’t believe for a second that GENGHIS would betray her, but she wouldn’t put it past any of the guys to suddenly take off or shift over to another company. They did it all the time. “Guess I’m off to Ukraine alone.” Especially after GENGHIS’ disappearance, Camille wanted to keep the final destination as compartmentalized as possible and tell only those who absolutely had a need to know. Rubicon had to keep believing she was after their wild Ukrainian goose so their Uzbek operations weren’t put on the alert. She walked under the giant rotors of a Black Hawk and waved at Beach Dog, who was sitting in the pilot’s seat. He pointed his thumb and little finger to the ground in the Hawaiian wave he always did.
“You need two shooters for your plan to have half a chance,” Iggy said as he lifted Camille’s suitcase into the crew area of the helicopter.
“You coming with me?” Camille looked over the top of her custom-made Oakley sunglasses.
“You asking? Thought you didn’t want to risk taking along a tin man.” He knocked on his artificial hand.
“Where we’re headed, there’s no chance of rust. I thought about what I said earlier. I was wrong. I need someone I can trust and right now, the three of us are the only ones I’m absolutely sure about.”
“I’ll go.” Pete glanced at a Little Bird as it seemed to circle central Baghdad. “I’m a damn good shooter and you won’t find anyone better at scrounging up whatever you need.”
“I’ve got to grab my dumb leg and extra batteries for my combat arm. Like it or not, I’m going to snag a third operator. We need someone for a third position to provide security. I’ll be back in a flash.” Iggy sprinted over to the Gator and drove off. Camille remembered that he’d had problems with the smart leg in loose sand before and she assumed he wanted to minimize the risk of electronic failures since the bendable ankle wasn’t all that critical to the mission.
Camille took off her sunglasses and wiped the lenses on her shirt. Pete stood there, staring at her, waiting for something.
“Pete,” Camille said. “I need someone I can trust back here just in case.”
“We all know you can trust Virgil. He’d be the one you’d call anyway. I’m a good spotter, too, and you’re going to need all the help you can get if Hunter’s going to have half a chance. I’ve watched your back for years. Don’t cut me out of the real action.”
Camille squinted as she stared at Pete, trying to make up her mind. Pete had the expression of a little girl, begging to be taken along with the big kids. Camille preferred working alone and she had her father’s old contacts to get the equipment they needed, but things always came up. Pete had more than once proven her loyalty and she felt bad about having been short with her lately. “Okay. You’ll go as far as Tashkent, help us with the staging, then leave the country when we proceed to the target. You’ve got fifteen minutes to pack and tag someone to take care of the woman in my trailer and get her to the States.” Camille patted the side of the Black Hawk. “This bird lifts off at eleven-hundred with or without you.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The airplane is a Gulfstream V turbojet, the sort favored by CEOs and celebrities. But since 2001 it has been seen at military airports from Pakistan to Indonesia to Jordan, sometimes being boarded by hooded and handcuffed passengers… [T]he agency is flying captured terrorist suspects from one country to another for detention and interrogation. The CIA calls this activity “rendition.”
– The Washington Post, Dec. 27, 2004, as reported by Dana Priest
Private American contractors who help the CIA capture terrorism suspects abroad and transfer them to secret jails are increasingly becoming the target of investigations in Europe and at home… In some cases, inquiries focus on companies that appear to be thinly veiled CIA fronts… But in other cases, scrutiny by European investigators and human rights advocates has focused on mainstream companies whose part-time work for the CIA now threatens to leave a permanent mark on their reputations.
– The Boston Globe, December 11, 2005, as reported by Farah Stockman
The Next Day
Hunter’s arms ached from being cuffed behind his back for so long; he guessed they had been riding in the van for ten or twelve hours. A black hood covered his head and they wouldn’t allow him to talk, but he could sense at least four other prisoners on the transfer with him. He figured they were either taking him overland to Syria or to an airstrip so remote there was no chance of Black Management noticing them. His bladder was full and it hurt when he shifted his weight. At least just before the trip they had given him an MRE to eat, the first food he’d had in days. It wasn’t enough, but he could feel some strength returning. With little warning, the vehicle came to a stop. They opened the door and hot air rushed inside. It was heavy with the smell of jet fuel.
So it was going to be a rendition flight-a secret flight to a secret prison.
Someone pulled his arm and he tried to climb out, but his legs were shackled with plastic zip-ties. He fell onto the hard ground, smacking his right shoulder. Someone laughed.
He climbed to his feet, then a guard unhooked the hood and pulled it off. The bright morning sun hurt his eyes and it unnerved him that they were allowing the prisoners to see the guards’ faces. Clearly they were on a one-way trip.
There were three other prisoners. Scott Miller, a fellow Bushman from Force Zulu, nodded recognition. Hunter recognized a man with a funky jaw-line beard as a retired Delta operator, GENGHIS, who worked for Black Management. Suddenly things were looking up. He had no idea how Stella managed to infiltrate the group of prisoners, but he was confident she had something clever worked out.
A guard had trouble with the buckle of the last man’s hood. When he finally got it open and took it off, Hunter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The hook nose, deep-set eyes and chin that was too short for the face Hunter could’ve recognized anywhere. In fact he had-among the Taliban in Afghanistan, in the insurgent safe house, in the Rubicon offices in the middle of the night. He was staring at the man who had started Hunter on this entire hellish journey when he accused him of selling arms to the tangos: Ashland.