In the wake of the Soviet Union’s implosion, Azerbaijan had been deemed crucial because it had gobs of oil and bordered Iran and Russia; but after the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, the US focus had shifted to the war zones and the whole Azeri station had been downsized.
“Try going through Orkhan,” said Mark. “He’s the only guy we’re tight with who can spring her.”
“I said I’d handle it.”
Mark thought again of all the people dead at the Trudeau House and concluded that Kaufman, safely ensconced in a nice house in suburban Virginia, wasn’t up to handling squat.
“What was the Baku station working on that could have led to this kind of blowback?” Mark asked.
“Nothing.”
“So this was just a coincidence?”
“Don’t give me that crap.”
Mark was about to end the conversation when Kaufman added, “So after we got the news about Campbell, I spoke with the Azeri ambassador. She told me Campbell specifically requested that Daria be his translator at the convention.”
“Did they know each other?”
“You tell me.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why would he ask for her by name?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
“You worked with Daria for two years,” said Kaufman. “You know her better than I do. Any chance the Azeris are onto something?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Daria survived on the same day a former deputy secretary of defense, along with nearly all my officers in Baku, were killed. Do you think it’s within the realm of possibility that she was somehow involved with what happened?”
“Listen to me, Ted. You need to lock down the entire Baku station and get your remaining ops officers under protection. Including Daria. She’s your best asset over here, believe me. Then find out who hit us, and hit back hard. Blow them out of the fucking water. End of story. Daria’s clean.”
“It was a close call whether to even post her abroad.”
The doubts about Daria’s loyalty, Mark knew, stemmed from the fact that she was the product of a mixed marriage. Her mother was Iranian — hence her Iranian first name — and her father was American with English roots, hence the Buckingham.
The one time Mark had come across something vaguely suspicious regarding Daria — charges on a personal credit card that suggested she was traveling to a region outside of her declared area of operations — it turned out she’d been visiting an orphanage. On her own time. For the purpose of donating $500. When Mark had investigated the payment, he’d learned it had come from her modest personal bank account and had gone directly toward food and medicine for the kids. And when he’d investigated the orphanage, he’d learned that it was just a straight-up charity, with no ties to terrorists or corrupt money-launderers.
Mark knew, however, that fear often trumped logic at the CIA. As a result, most Agency officers were white guys like himself, men who had to struggle to blend in with the locals in Azerbaijan and Iran. And it was on Iran that Daria, with her honey-toned skin and fluent command of Farsi, had been recruited to spy, using Azerbaijan as a base. Her posting had been a welcome exception, an exception Mark had hoped would mark the beginning of a new way of thinking at the CIA.
That hadn’t turned out to be the case. When Mark had quit the CIA, Daria was the only operations officer in Baku who wasn’t vanilla white. And Kaufman had never liked, or trusted, her.
8
Colonel Henry Amato eyed his boss — National Security Advisor James Ellis — from the opposite side of an oval table. Ellis was a tall man, with a prominent chin, deep-set eyes, and a patrician air that had been perfected at Harvard and elite think tanks. On television, when he was wearing makeup and standing side by side with the president, he looked distinguished. But at ten to midnight, in a basement conference room beneath the West Wing of the White House, under fluorescent lights that exposed Ellis’s yellowing teeth and deep wrinkles, Amato thought cadaverous a better description.
And then there was the chewing.
Amato watched with disdain as Ellis methodically ground his jaw in small circles. It was a habit his boss lapsed into when other people were speaking, as if to suggest he was so engaged that he was literally chewing over what was being said. Which certainly wasn’t the case now.
At the moment, Ellis was pretending to listen to the director of national intelligence. Reading from a file marked Top Secret, the DNI was sharing preliminary satellite evidence and intelligence reports that suggested a limited troop mobilization was underway in Iran.
Upon finishing, the DNI dropped the file on the table and shook his head. “Now maybe I’m grasping at straws, but I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that Campbell’s assassination has something to do with this activity in Iran. God knows what the Iranians are really up to, but the timing is too suspicious to ignore.”
Ellis said, “What’s your take, Henry?”
Instead of answering, Amato — who was Ellis’s top Iran advisor — remained perfectly still, as though standing at attention before a superior officer. The fluorescent lighting above was unnervingly bright and flickering a bit, contributing to his feeling of nausea.
“Henry?”
He hadn’t seen any of this coming. It was as if someone had cold-cocked him with a two-by-four.
He was a deacon at Saint Mary’s. A volunteer at Walter Reed. His wife had died two years ago but he’d remained faithful to her since her death, just as he had for the twenty-three years they’d been married. What sins he committed, he regularly confessed to God. As of a few days ago, he’d thought that all he needed to do was to soldier on through a few more years in government and then tolerate a quiet retirement.
And now this.
Daria had survived, but they would hunt her down. They had the men and the resources. Good God, he wasn’t prepared to shut down the whole operation, but he had to do something.
“Henry?” repeated Ellis, and this time his tone was sharper.
“Sorry, sir. I worked with Jack Campbell years ago and I confess the news of his death hit me pretty hard.” Amato turned to face the DNI. “I don’t see a link between the troop movements in Iran and Campbell’s assassination,” he lied. “More likely what happened to Campbell is about settling old scores.”
“Old scores?” said the DNI.
“Well, of course Campbell had a long history with Iran.”
“I wasn’t aware.”
“Before the revolution in ’79, he helped coordinate training for SAVAK, the Shah’s secret police. After the revolution, when Ayatollah Khomeini ordered a review of all the old SAVAK records to see who’d been hunting down his followers, I’m sure Campbell’s name came up. Add to that the fact that Campbell took a hard line with Iran when he became the deputy sec. def., and it’s not hard to figure out why the mullahs might have targeted him. They’ve got long memories — they probably waited decades for the opportunity to present itself.”
The DNI asked a few more questions, then said, “Well, you could be right. Maybe Campbell’s assassination doesn’t have anything to do with the troop mobilization we’re seeing. But Campbell was a big player in his time, and if the Iranians think they can take him out and get away with it, they’ve got another thing coming.”
9
Mark let himself out of the Trudeau House the same way he’d come in, walked the ten blocks back to his apartment, and sat down at his desk in his spare bedroom, intending to work on his book. But after five minutes of staring at his computer screen and seeing nothing but the mutilated bodies of his former colleagues flash across his memory, he realized he was kidding himself. He was in shock. He wasn’t going to get any work done today. Nor could he just ignore all that had transpired since the night before.