Foreign Agent (27 page)

CHAPTER 60

W
HITE
H
OUSE
S
ITUATION
R
OOM

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

P
resident Porter tapped his pen on the briefing binder in front of him. “Do you have any confirmation that Senator Wells was behind the
Washington Post
story?”

“Not yet,” McGee replied. “But we’re going to get it.”

“In the meantime, though, could the information have come from somebody else? Another member you briefed? Maybe the minority leader?”

“I know it was Wells.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Porter said.

“Sir, you know what kind of a man Wells is. He’s an absolute opportunist. He’ll do anything.”

“Could it have been one of the other members?”

Exasperated, McGee conceded, “Sure, it could have been one of them, but it wasn’t. It was
him
.”

The President didn’t necessarily disagree, but every question needed to be asked. The case being built against him was incredibly serious. “Let’s talk about what was said on
Meet the Press
.”

“About there being advance knowledge of the attack on Secretary Devon in Turkey.”

Porter nodded. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“That’s how you trap a mole. You plant irresistible pieces of disinformation, watch where they pop out, and then work them backward.”

“Regardless of the cost?”

McGee felt terrible. “If I had known it was Wells and that he might
make it public, I would have done it differently. It was a mistake, and I’m—”

The President wasn’t happy about it, but he waved the apology away and said, “How sure are you that Senator Wells is communicating with the mole?”

“He may be an opportunist, but he’s not stupid,” McGee replied. “Not by a long shot.”

“So what’s the connection between them?”

“We think it’s his Chief of Staff.”

President Porter removed a photo from the binder and looked at it. “What do we know about her? Other than the fact that she’s extremely attractive.”

“Rebecca Ritter,” the CIA Director began. “Twenty-six years old. Born and raised in Davenport, Iowa. Attended St. Ambrose University and went on to earn a master’s in public policy from the Kennedy School. The youngest of three children, her father owns an industrial recycling company, and her mother is in banking.”

“How do you know that Ritter didn’t get the information from your assistant?”

“Because Brendan Cavanagh is a good man,” said McGee. “A
very
good man. He was an Eagle Scout as a boy, and not a single person who knew him was surprised when he joined the Marine Corps and was recognized repeatedly for valor in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’s got three silver stars.

“In fact, if he’d achieved a degree in law or accounting, he probably would have ended up over at the FBI. But he didn’t. We got him and the CIA is better for it. He’s a man of impeccable integrity. That’s why I chose him to be my assistant.”

“But he did,” Porter said for clarity, “have access to the information.”

“Yes. He had access to all of it.”

“And Ritter is his girlfriend.”

McGee shook his head. “I think it’s a lot more casual than that.”

“They’re sleeping together.”

“Correct.”

The President looked at his CIA Director, raised his eyebrows, and said, “So?”

“So I don’t think that makes Brendan the leak. That’s not his style.”

Porter held up the picture of Rebecca so McGee could see it. “Come on, Bob. Look at her. What man wouldn’t tell her whatever she wanted to know?”

“Brendan Cavanagh, Mr. President. That’s who.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know who he is. I know which direction his moral compass points. I know his country means more to him than anything else and I know he can be trusted.”

“Did you know he was sleeping with her?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, a chuckle escaped McGee.

“So that’s a no?” Porter prompted.

McGee shook his head. “Just the opposite. I not only knew about it, I encouraged him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Brendan is a sharp guy. Would make a hell of a spook.”

“How so?” the President asked.

“Until about six months ago, the only time Brendan had ever seen Rebecca Ritter was in conjunction with Senate Intelligence Committee business. Then she just happened to bump into him at a couple of spots he frequented.

“Like I said, Brendan is a sharp guy. He knew it wasn’t an accident. Nor was it an accident that she was dressed a little more provocatively each time.”

“As if she was trying to get his attention?”

“She wanted his attention, all right,” McGee replied. “And then some. But when it happened the third time, he knew something strange was going on, and he brought it to my attention.”

“What was strange about it?” Porter asked. “I’ve met him. He’s a big, strong, handsome Marine.”

“He’s big and strong, but he isn’t
that
handsome. At least he doesn’t think so. Which was why he figured Ritter had a secondary agenda. After all, her boss, Senator Wells, chairs the Senate Intel Committee.”

“And is not a fan of yours.”

McGee shook his head again. “Not by a long shot.”

“So you told your assistant to . . . ?”

“Play along.”

“Meaning
sleep
with her,” the President said.

“
Meaning
whatever Cavanagh thought was appropriate,” the CIA Director replied. “If there was something nefarious in the works, you’re damn right I wanted to know about it. I’m a spy. It’s what we do.”

The President smiled. “It’s also why I recommended you for the job.”

“Then you need to believe me. Brendan isn’t the leak. It’s somebody else.”

Once more, Porter asked. “And you’re sure about that?”

McGee nodded. “I hate doing the Sunday shows. You know that. But considering all that had happened, and more importantly because you asked me to, I went.

“On my way out of CBS, Brendan called to tell me we needed to speak ASAP. He had just seen Wells on NBC. Gottlieb had asked him what he knew about a rumor that the White House had advance warning of the attack on Secretary Devon.”

“And where’d Gottlieb get that?”

“Rebecca Ritter fed it to NBC.

“How do you know that?”

“We have someone inside at NBC.”

“A spy?” the President asked, not pleased with the idea of the CIA infiltrating television networks.

McGee shook his head. “A friend. Someone who wants to make sure things are kept fair. When we reached out, this person tracked down where Alan Gottlieb had gotten the question.

“Ritter had fed it to a new producer. Some guy who had just moved down from New York.”

“But if it didn’t come from your man Cavanagh, where’d she get the information?”

“Do you want my professional or my personal opinion?”

“Both,” the President replied.

“Professionally, we have a leak somewhere within the clandestine service. It’s either an employee or someone with direct access to our communications. We’re looking at handful of potentials, but I hope to have an update for you soon.”

“Good,” Porter said. “Now, what’s your personal opinion?”

The CIA Director picked up the picture of Rebecca Ritter and held it out so that the President could see it. “Whoever it is, she’s sleeping with the leaker. Look at her,” he said. “Who wouldn’t tell her whatever she wanted to know?”

CHAPTER 61

M
ONDAY

N
ORTHERN
S
YRIA

P
roskurov’s laptop contained a wealth of information. The encrypted files were a treasure trove. When merged with everything Viktor Sergun had revealed in his interrogations in Malta, an amazing picture had come together.

Intelligence, though, was a tricky business. Dots didn’t always connect—and even when they did, they might not mean what even the brightest minds thought they meant.

Was the information on Proskurov’s laptop solid? Had it been vetted? Or was it a trap? There was a lot to digest.

Ultimately, it was Harvath’s call. The President, as well as Bob McGee and the Old Man, had all said they would respect whatever decision he made.

Harvath reflected on how many people had been killed—how many Americans. The operation posed incredible risks, but the potential reward was too good to pass up.

Outside of the sheer danger he faced, his next biggest problem was manpower.

The Hadids were on the CIA’s payroll. They weren’t crazy about it, but they would accompany him. Not so for the rest of their men. The ones from the saltbox assault were not on anyone’s payroll. Harvath had paid them in cash from the shoulder strap of his camera bag. He was now almost out of money.

That was a problem on multiple levels—not the least being that where they were going, the Hadids had absolutely no contacts. And even if they
could network their way in, no one was going to risk their lives to help them without being paid, up front, and in cash.

There was only one person Harvath could think of who might help. Taking out his phone, he had dialed Yusuf.

Late the next morning, they met on the outskirts of the city and Harvath introduced the Hadids. As the three Syrians chatted, he examined the vehicle, a white, four-door Toyota Hilux pickup truck.

So common were Toyotas in ISIS-controlled territory that you would have thought that they owned stock in the company. It would help them move a little more freely. All he needed now was the right weapon.

Forty-five minutes later, in a town northeast of Damascus, Harvath handed over nearly the rest of his cash and his camera. In exchange, he was handed a modified 7.62mm Romanian PSL semiautomatic rifle complete with a suppressor that had probably been stolen from the Iraqi Security Forces.

It came with an LPS 4X6+ TIP2 telescopic sight, a Russian NSPUM night scope, and a half-empty box of ammunition.

When Harvath demanded that a carrying case be included in the deal, the old, gnarled rebel arms dealer handed him a black plastic garbage bag.
Welcome to war in Syria.

With the rifle purchased, Yusuf drove them north. Mathan sat next to him, while Thoman sat in back with Harvath.

They were headed deep into ISIS territory and the only way for Harvath to make the journey was in disguise.

He wore black gloves and a pitch-black burka. Mathan told him he looked beautiful. Thoman told him he thought the burka made his ass look big.

Harvath told them that if they didn’t shut up, he was going to shoot them both. Yusuf choked backed a laugh, lit another cigarette, and kept driving.

Once they were out of regime-controlled territory, they encountered multiple ISIS checkpoints.

Ever the accomplished smuggler, Yusuf handled them beautifully. Not a single penny changed hands.

He had brought with him his medical records and other important papers. He actually played the cancer card.

He told them he was returning home, to his village near Raqqa, to be
with the rest of his family. There was nothing else the hospital in Damascus could do for him. He wanted to die in his own bed, in the house he had grown up in.

None of the ISIS fighters knew how to react. Plenty of people had begged, cajoled, and threatened in order to get out alive. They had never seen anyone, much less such a good, pious Muslim, roll up and politely ask permission to enter their territory in order to die.

It was amazing. And it worked at each of the checkpoints. Not once were they searched. Not once were they asked to get out of their vehicle.

Had they been, Harvath was the most heavily armed. It was astounding how much could be hidden beneath a burka. Then there was the drone shadowing them high overhead.

They had taken the long way. Not by choice but by necessity. By heading for the open desert, they were able to avoid many of the joint Syrian-Russian air patrols. This allowed them to pick up and maintain U.S. drone coverage sooner.

Flying at fifteen thousand feet was a General Atomics Aeronautical Systems MQ-9 Reaper carrying two AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-ground missiles and two AIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles in case of any contact with hostile, enemy aircraft.

The last thing Harvath wanted to do was waste the Hellfires on an ISIS checkpoint. But all the same, it was nice to know they were there, just in case they needed them.

At Tadmur, near the ancient ruins of Palmyra, they stopped, but only Yusuf got out. He purchased food and more bottled water.

Returning with it to the truck, they ate en route to al-Sukhnah, where they topped off with gas and continued on to Dayr az Zawr.

The evidence of a long-drawn-out civil war and insurgency were all around them.

Bombed-out dwellings had been reinhabited by refugees with nowhere else to go. Those fortunate enough reroofed with corrugated metal. The less fortunate used plastic tarps. The completely unfortunate used reeds, pieces of cardboard, and anything else they could scavenge.

The shells of charred, burned-out vehicles littered the shoulders of the road in both directions. As they drove, they were gripped with the quiet fear of possible IEDs, or of being targeted by a regime-aligned fighter.

The road was so badly damaged that had they not had a 4X4, they wouldn’t have made it. Time after time, they were forced to go off-road and traverse long stretches of rock and sand.

Halfway to Raqqa, in the fertile corridor of the Euphrates River, south of where it flows from the Lake Assad reservoir, they stopped.

Just outside al-Kasarah was a small farm where a once-prosperous family grew dates and figs. What was left of the family now struggled just to stay alive.

ISIS had long ago confiscated all of their livestock—their goats, their chickens, even a cow. What ISIS didn’t take, the regime soldiers helped themselves to when they passed through. It was like being subjected to wave after wave of locusts.

Even so, the patriarch had refused to leave his land. He was too proud. His family had farmed here for generations. Conflicts had come and gone.
Insha’Allah
, they would persevere.

When the pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of his home, he kept his wife and children hidden inside. The ISIS fighters and the regime soldiers were equally cruel and depraved. His family had already suffered too much at their hands.

Stepping outside, the man put his hand over his eyes, to shield them from the sun. His face was creased and weatherbeaten from a life spent out-of-doors. He looked much older than he really was. Squinting, he tried to make out who was in the vehicle.

A white Toyota could be anyone, but it was probably ISIS. They had increased taxes again. No one had anything left to give. Everyone he knew had been bled dry. ISIS didn’t care.

The farmer’s pulse began to quicken. If he didn’t pay, he would be taken away. They would make an example out of him. His public torture—or perhaps even his death—would be used to frighten his kinsmen into paying up.

The thought of not ever seeing his wife or children again gripped his heart. He wished he had hugged them one last time before stepping outside. But how could he have known?

Straightening his crooked spine, Riad Qabbani prepared himself for the worst.