Black List (21 page)
Traveling on an Italian passport, Harvath wanted to select a U.S. point of entry popular with Italians. “How often does Iberia have flights to New York City?” he asked.
“That’s just it,” replied Peio. “I think Nicholas has a different plan for you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Before coming home, he suggested you stop at an orphanage he has a relationship with.”
“The one in Belarus?” asked Harvath.
“No, this one’s in Mexico.”
M
ARYLAND
T
here were over 1,300 historical structures within the 184.5 mile long Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park. Many of them were open to the public, including six “lockhouses,” or “canal quarters,” as they were known, which visitors could rent for overnight stays in order to experience what life was like along the once thriving canal that ran parallel to the Potomac. They came complete with all the modern conveniences of full kitchens, bedrooms, and bathrooms with showers. They were known as Lockhouses 6, 10, 22, 25, 28, and 49. The “blue” lockhouse, so named for the color of its shutters and front door, was also very historic and equipped for overnight stays, but it had never been opened to the public—and with good reason.
The blue lockhouse was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency. Inside, some of the most valuable defectors from the Soviet Union had been debriefed over the course of the Cold War. The term “Behind the blue door” had become synonymous with interrogations at the highest level. The majority of the agents who used the term had no idea where the blue door was, much less that it was attached to a diminutive C&O canal house. Many simply assumed the door existed somewhere
deep within the bowels of headquarters, where only the Director and a handful of privileged others were ever allowed to go.
Reed Carlton saw the signal—a bird feeder propped against the porch—and knew the front door would be open. He didn’t bother knocking; he didn’t need to.
In a chair near a small, wood-burning fireplace a man sat reading. He didn’t look up when Carlton walked in. He seemed content to read his book and listen to the crackle of the fire.
The man’s name was Thomas Banks. Those who knew him called him Tom. Those who knew him from the war called him Tommy. Carlton hadn’t served with him, but he had served under him and eventually took over for him at the CIA and had earned the right to call him Tommy.
One of the youngest OSS operatives in World War II, the exploits of Tommy Banks had been the stuff of legends. With no other marketable skills other than “Indian fighting,” as Banks liked to call it, he had agreed to help establish the Central Intelligence Agency. He found his niche in the Directorate of Plans, which would eventually be called the National Clandestine Service—the branch of the CIA that recruited foreign assets and ran clandestine operations around the world.
For decades, Banks worked in the field before settling down to “raise his chicks,” as he called the younger operatives, and teach them how to conduct ops even better than he had. Eventually, Banks would head the division as its deputy director, back when it was known as the Directorate of Operations.
Much of what Reed Carlton had learned about espionage and clandestine activity, he had learned from this incredible man, a quiet rock star in America’s intelligence and political arenas. Though most citizens would never know his name, there wasn’t a single powerful person in D.C. he couldn’t get on the phone in minutes.
“I could hear you crunching up the path from a mile away,” the man said as Carlton closed the door. “Looks like we’re going to have to train you all over again.”
He shook his head. “I think I’m getting too old for any more training, Tommy.”
“You’re never too old, Peaches. Just too lazy.”
Peaches.
Carlton hadn’t heard that nickname in a long time. He had trouble remembering exactly who’d given it to him, but it had been in reaction to his style of interrogation. Though in every other way he maintained the appearance and persona of a gentleman, he could be absolutely ruthless when interrogating a prisoner. If Americans or American interests were on the line, he would do anything it took to get the information he wanted. He could be the antithesis of sweetness, which is why so many of his colleagues and even a supervisor or two so enjoyed his ironic nickname.
“Speaking of lazy,” Banks continued, the slight Tennessee drawl still evident in his voice despite having spent the bulk of his life living within a half a tank of gas of the nation’s capitol, “You didn’t bring a cell phone to this meeting, did you?”
“I was taught better than that.”
Banks grunted his approval. “All this damn technology is dangerous. You didn’t use a GPS to get here, did you?”
Carlton shook his head. “I drove my old Jeep. It doesn’t have GPS.”
“And none of that damn OnStar either?”
“No. No OnStar.”
“Good,” replied Banks. “People have grown so soft they’d rather allow a company to catalog their every move and listen in to their private conversations than learn to read a map.”
Carlton hung his coat on a peg near the door. “It’s not all useless. They helped unlock my assistant’s car once when she had locked her keys inside.”
“That’s why God gave us rocks,” Banks stated. “No offense, but if you’re dim enough to lock your keys in your car, maybe you need an hour or two to sit and wait for the man with the slim jim to arrive while you reflect on your IQ.”
The man was as irascible as ever. He didn’t have much time for stupid or lazy people. He came from an age, as did Carlton, where people were expected to make their own way. They didn’t sit and wait for people to do things for them. “Thank you for meeting me like this, Tommy.”
“You made it irresistible,” the older man responded as he closed his book and waved his guest over.
Carlton joined him, taking the chair opposite his in front of the fire. “It shouldn’t have been so easy to get to you. You’re a creature of habit. That’s dangerous.”
Banks nodded. “I like my morning walk.”
He lived on his own in a small town house in Georgetown, and his morning walk took him past many of the dead drops he’d used during the Cold War. They were the same drops the old spy had used to train Carlton and his young CIA colleagues years ago. “Lucky for me I know your route.”
The older man was momentarily transported. “Seeing that chalk mark really took me back. At first I thought it might have been a mistake, or maybe a new bunch was using my route for training, but then I checked the drop and found your message. I figured you were either jerking my chain or this was serious.”
“I’m not jerking your chain, Tommy. This is serious. You’re the only one I could come to with this.”
“If I’m the only one you could come to, then you really
are
in trouble. What’s going on?”
“The long knives are out. Somebody has killed all my operators, and they tried to kill me too.”
Banks’ eyes widened. “Who? How?”
Carlton relayed everything he knew. He told the old spy about the fire at his house, his inability to access his Skype account and his inability to reach any of his operators via any of the established protocols set up for just such an emergency, as well as the multiple articles he found online about several of their deaths.
When he was done, he leaned back and held the gaze of his former boss. The wheels were already turning in the old man’s mind. He could see it.
“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” said Banks. “Any chance a Muslim terrorist organization could have penetrated your group this deeply?”
Carlton shook his head. “No way. They not only don’t have the sophistication necessary to pierce our network, they don’t have the talent to take out all my men the way they did. This isn’t some terror organization.”
“What about someone inside your group?”
“A mole?”
“Or someone who wanted to make some money and didn’t care about the damages.”
Carlton thought about it for several moments. “All of my people are solid, except…” His voice trailed off.
“Except for what?”
“Nicholas.”
“Who’s Nicholas?”
“The Troll.”
Banks couldn’t believe his ears. “I’ve heard about him. He’s really on your payroll?”
“It’s worse than that,” said Carlton. “We physically have him in-house, in the center of our operations. We even built a special SCIF for him.”
“You do need to be retrained—completely. Why the hell would you bring a person like that into the heart of your operations?”
“I didn’t bring him in. Harvath did.”
Banks had met Harvath before and he liked him, but still. “What the hell does Harvath know about running an intelligence organization?”
“Harvath knows plenty,” Carlton said. “Initially, I was against bringing Nicholas in—”
“That’s his real name?” Banks interrupted. “Nicholas?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a hell of a lot of difference. Did you even vet the little thief?”
“Yes, we vetted him, for all the good it did. There’s not a lot out there on him that can actually be verified.”
“So you just threw the castle gates wide open and let him in. I’m surprised at you.”
“We firewalled a lot of stuff off,” Carlton said in his defense. “We made sure he only had access to certain things.”
“You should have assumed he’d find a way to get access to everything.”
“He was primarily Harvath’s asset, but you should’ve seen the amount of stuff he did for us, for the country. If he’s a con man, he’s the best there ever was.”
“Could he have accessed your operators’ files?” Banks asked.
“According to you, we should assume he was able to access everything.”
“And would have been able to find a buyer for whatever he wanted to sell. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. Once a thief, always a thief.”
Carlton shook his head. “I’m not saying I don’t agree.”
“Where is he now? Have you reached out to him since all this went down?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then that’s our first step,” Banks replied. “The next step, though, is going to take some doing. Your guys were all Tier One operators. They weren’t killed easily. It took a pretty high level of proficiency to go after them.”
“Which is why I came to you. Whoever is behind this has access to some serious military or intelligence personnel.”
“You think this is domestic? The Agency settling up its score with you?”
“In all honesty, I don’t know what to think,” said Carlton. “Have we been an embarrassment for the CIA? Of course we have, but killing American operators just to get us out of the picture? No way. I think this is something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t help you, Reed, if you don’t give me
some
idea. Who else’s toes have you stepped on?” Banks demanded. “Who else would have a score this big to settle with you?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve had on-and-off disagreements with a couple of investors, and the company board has stood up a couple of good pissing matches, but that’s corporate stuff, and I deal with it when it pops up. That’s not what this is. This is something else; something more. And frankly, I can’t think of anybody at this level who’d have a score to settle with us.”
“
Cui bono
is the question then.”
“Exactly,” said Carlton. “Who benefits from having me killed, my operators killed, and my organization zeroed out? That’s what I’ve been
racking my brain over and why I need your help. I have to be very careful about what doors I knock on.”
“Knock on the wrong one and you could get shot in the head.”
“True. You, though, don’t have that problem.”
Banks understood what his former protégé was asking. “It doesn’t take much work to connect the two of us you know.”
“I’m aware of that, but I think there’s a way we can use it to our advantage.”
A
NNAPOLIS
J
UNCTION
M
ARYLAND
F
RIDAY
S
chroeder double-checked the information on his screen and then ran it again before picking up the phone and calling his boss at home.
