When her eyes closed again, Smith rose from the bed and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
Once he was sufficiently far from the hospital grounds, he removed the SIM card from his cell phone, put it in his pocket, and tossed the device. He headed to a drugstore, purchased a prepaid phone, and called Klein. He was inordinately relieved when the man answered on the first ring.
“I have a problem.” Smith told Klein about Russell’s concerns about a mole and Wendel’s claim that someone had tampered with the technology systems inside Langley. “Does the CIA manage the White House configuration? If so, your conversations with the president could be at risk.”
“They secure some of the information flow, of course. The president receives a daily briefing and a portion of that comes from Langley onto the White House’s data stream. It’s not inconceivable that whoever is hacking into the CIA grid could be accessing the president’s conversations as well, but I highly doubt it. We have endless redundant systems designed to thwart such an occurrence.”
“And Covert-One’s? Possible?”
“Again, anything is possible, but I doubt it. And it would be your phone at risk because, while it’s encrypted, it still uses the airwaves. They can’t be secured as readily as dedicated phone lines. I notice that your number has changed. Did you buy a prepaid?”
“Yes. I’m headed to Nolan to debrief her on the Dattar matter. As soon as I know something I’ll check in.”
“Don’t lose sight of the coolers. Unless she has vital information, debriefing her is a secondary consideration. And frankly, this new information about a mole has me convinced that Covert-One should take the lead on recovering them. Stay with it.”
“Understood.”
“But watch your back. A compromised CIA is extremely dangerous. The secrets they maintain can put this entire country at risk.”
Smith took a deep breath. “Also understood.”
25
MANHAR WOKE TO FIND HIMSELF tied to a metal girder that supported elevated tracks above his head. The cold steel chilled him from his neck to his ankles. Plastic handcuffs encircled his wrists, which were stretched behind him around the support. Other ties bound his ankles together, while even more wrapped around his legs just above the knees. There was one around his neck that cut into his throat every time he swallowed. He looked down and saw that in addition to the ties he was bound by rope around his waist and under his armpits. He twitched to test the hold and it was clear that he wasn’t going anywhere without assistance. It was night, and the only light was a weak glow from a streetlight nearly thirty feet away. The area was deserted. Piles of trash lay in heaps under the tracks along with the occasional paper napkin thrown away by someone or blown by the wind.
He saw Howell standing five feet away thumbing away on a phone. Beckmann sat on the ground with his back against the metal girder opposite Manhar’s. He smoked a cigarette, the tip glowing with each pull, and watched Manhar with a steady gaze.
“He’s awake,” Beckmann said.
Howell glanced up. “What’s your name?” Manhar spit on the ground. Howell rolled his eyes. “Spare me the theatrics. I’m English and Mr. Beckmann here is German. We don’t indulge in displays of emotion. Tell me your name or I’ll beat it out of you.” Howell shoved a toe at a metal pipe on the ground near his feet. The steel looked solid enough. Manhar decided that telling his name would be harmless.
“Manhar.”
Howell nodded. “Well, Mr. Manhar, I want to know who hired you to kill me and how you are communicating with him or her.”
Manhar snorted. That these two thought he’d simply divulge such things showed their stupidity. He spit on the ground again.
“Hmm. I thought that would be your answer. It really is quite shortsighted of you.” Howell kept tapping on the phone. “Got it,” he said to Beckmann.
Beckmann rose. “Excellent. Let’s leave this one to him.” He took another drag of the cigarette and then looked at his watch. “Don’t forget to tell him about the pipe. He may want to use it.” Manhar did his best to follow their cryptic conversation, but he had no idea what they were talking about. Howell pocketed the phone.
“We’re off. Good luck to you,” he said.
Manhar was astonished at his good fortune. They only intended to tie him to a post and leave him? He’d get free of the ropes eventually, and when he did he’d come after them. Next time he’d make them pay for humiliating him. He almost laughed out loud at the fools. Howell stepped closer and put up his phone.
“I’m taking a photo. Smile,” Howell said. Manhar looked at the back of the device and a small prickling of premonition started at the back of his neck. “I’ll send this to your colleague, Khalil, over an e-mail address that I believe he monitors. Of course I’ll also give him your location. He’ll be furious that you not only failed to kill me, but that you also managed to get yourself caught in the process. Khalil takes failure poorly, don’t you think? Knowing Khalil the way I do, I suspect he’ll be along shortly. I don’t think that you’ll enjoy these next few hours before your death.”
Manhar felt fear surge through him. He’d expected a beating or worse from these two, but nothing they could dream up could possibly match what he knew of Khalil and his torture techniques. Still, Manhar clamped his mouth shut. Perhaps he could convince Khalil that he’d kept silent. Beckmann finished the cigarette and tossed the butt into a nearby oil drum.
“He’ll start in right away. Khalil doesn’t allow failures to live long.” He looked at Manhar. “If you want to tell us now what you know, we’ll untie you. Give you a fighting chance to save yourself.” Beckmann shrugged. “I think it’s a fair deal, don’t you?”
A cool breeze blew and Manhar shivered. In that instant he decided to bargain. The idea of being tied to a post when Khalil started in on him was unimaginable.
“I don’t know anything,” Manhar blurted out. Beckmann shook his head, a sad look on his face.
“Send the e-mail,” he said to Howell.
“Wait!” Manhar said. Howell paused, his eyebrows raised. “I’m telling the truth. Khalil told me nothing. Only that he intended to kill you, Smith, and another American.”
“I’ve heard about the American. Who is it?”
Manhar shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Howell frowned. “I don’t believe you.” He looked back at his phone.
“Wait! It’s a woman. That’s all I know. But Khalil is in charge of Smith. He said he was hard to kill. I was to have you.”
Howell looked outraged. “Khalil thinks I’m easier to kill than Jon Smith? I’m appalled.”
Beckmann laughed, but suppressed it when Howell shot him a glance. “Sorry. You shouldn’t take it personally. I haven’t known Smith long but he seemed to be quite inventive in his techniques.”
Howell waved a hand. “Well, he’s overeducated so that’s to be expected.”
“Didn’t you go to Cambridge before you joined MI6?” Beckmann said.
“Yes, but I had the good sense to stop once finished. Smith just kept going.” Howell frowned and turned his attention back to Manhar. “Who’s paying Khalil?”
Manhar shook his head. He’d told these fools all that he would. “I don’t know.”
In an instant Howell had the pipe in his hand and smashed it against Manhar’s left knee. The speed of the attack and the shock of the extreme pain caused Manhar to scream. His knee felt like it was disintegrating. Manhar’s eyes filled with water, but he still saw Howell swing the pipe backward in preparation for another blow.
“Dattar! He’s the one paying.” Manhar yelled the name at the top of his lungs. “Please, let me go. If you break my legs I can’t run from Khalil.”
Howell paused. “What’s the plan?” Manhar’s nose was running and his knee was in agony. At first he didn’t understand the question.