Incitement (19 page)

“These characteristics, combined with the location involved, naturally brought you here,” agreed Tom Hughes helpfully.

She had not been looking forward to approaching the Central Intelligence Agency. She had envisaged an uphill battle with a faceless bureaucrat who was not remotely interested in her
investigation. Stories of Langley’s uncooperativeness were legendary. And who could blame them? Between one scandal and another, it was understandable that they had developed a siege
mentality. But Hughes had been a pleasant surprise.

She had been waiting for less than five minutes outside his office when he had come jogging down the corridor, apologising for the delay. His appearance – mid-forties, average height and
reasonably good looking in a weather-beaten outdoors type of way – was totally at odds with her preconceptions. His tousled blond hair and open-necked shirt reminded her of some of the
younger, hipper, lecturers who had taught her in college rather than a senior Agency specialist on Central and Southern American affairs. It had taken about an hour for her to take him from the
first suspected engagement of the drug war through to her visit to France and Tuur’s statement. Hughes had listened attentively, interrupting her narrative only occasionally, to clarify a
particular point or make an observation.

“I’ve identified eighteen attacks on major Alliance resources throughout Latin America which are being treated as the work of the Kosovars.”

“And you need to compile a list of people who conform to a very specific profile?”

“Exactly,” she said. “I was thinking people who’ve served in Latin America in either military or intelligence roles. People who could now be working on a contract basis
or may even have a vested interest in the final objective.”

“I’m assuming you’ll leave those copies with me?” he asked, indicating the heavy folder he had on his lap that she had occasionally referred to over the hour.
“We’ll compile a list of all known personnel who have worked in one or more of these countries; sort it so that those with most hits are at the top of the list,” he said, flicking
through the folder. “Once that’s done, we can try to ascertain as many of their movements as possible from the past couple of years. Another thing we can do is get somebody to go back
to all the relevant station reports for the regions for, say, a month before a particular attack to a month after it. See if anything which might be related was mentioned.”

“That’s great,” she said and then felt compelled to add, “Look, I have to be honest. I’m pretty much on my own at the moment in thinking this idea of third-party
orchestration is a real possibility. Everyone else still thinks it’s a straight war between the Kosovars and Madrigal’s Alliance. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

He shook his head dismissively.

“I think it’s sensible to look at this.” He patted the file. “At the very least we need to be able to eliminate it as a possibility. Besides, even if the Kosovars are
wholly responsible, they would still need someone with the kind of background you described.”

She wished her superiors in the DEA were of a similar mind. When she had put forward her thoughts on the conflict having been orchestrated by another group, Samuels had been instantly
dismissive. In the unlikely event Tuur was reliable, he argued, ignoring the corroboration of all the facts, then all it proved was that the Kosovars had hired him. The fake travel documents were
meaningless. He had insisted that she drop it as a line of enquiry and dedicate herself to preparing dossiers on a number of suspected ex-KLA members living in Chicago and Detroit. That had been
the final straw, which resulted in her doing what she had tried to avoid for so long.

She had stormed into Marshall’s office, confronted him with her suspicions about TAIT being merely a tool for political appeasement and accused him of leading her on. She insisted, in
light of the lack of support he had shown her and the wasteful way in which Samuels was utilising her, that she be let pursue the orchestration theory. The grandstand play had been a huge gamble,
Marshall might very easily have been outraged. But, whether because of his chagrin at being presented with what was the obvious truth or some other reason, it had worked. He ordered Samuels to free
her from all other assignments and provide her with any support she needed. She doubted she would get any real help from Samuels but was content with being freed to do something she believed
in.

“Just out of interest, if there were a third party, who would you favour as the most obvious candidates?” Hughes asked. “Presumably another large player in the drugs market,
one of the Russian or Chinese syndicates?”

“They’re potentials but I have serious doubts that an established group would have taken the risks.”

“Because?”

“Well, and this was why I first started having problems with the Kosovars as instigators of the conflict, all of the major players’ cash-flows have taken a hammering. Surely they
could have predicted the anarchy that’s resulted?”

“Could it have been intended as a long-term strategy, something worth the damage for the ultimate gains?”

“Maybe,” she said, “but what I think is more likely, is a smaller group who want to destabilise things, create an opportunity for themselves and exploit it.”

“A possible variation on that is a subset within either the Alliance or the Fifteen Families who wants to grasp control and sees discrediting the current leadership, through creating this
crisis, as their route.”

“That’s another of the less far-fetched options.”

“How far-fetched do they get?” he asked.

“A terrorist initiative, possibly state-backed, designed to break down the social order of the consumer countries. One of the pharmaceutical giants stands to gain massively if drugs are
decriminalised, so they associate insurmountable problems with policing it.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Speculating on motivation is useless at this point, with so little to go on! To
progress this, a lot more hard facts are necessary.”

“Okay, I’ll contact you as soon as we start turning stuff up.” He stood up, signalling the meeting was over. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

As they were saying goodbye in reception, he stopped. “Alan Hopkins?” he asked.

She was taken off guard by the question and hesitated a second before saying yes. She wondered how he knew her ex-husband.

“I’ve met Alan a bit in the course of my work. He’s organised a few functions and attended several meeting on behalf of the Cuban-American lobby,” he said, guessing her
thoughts. Her expression was one of bemusement. “I’m sorry, I just made the connection and blurted it out before I realised. Foot-in-mouth syndrome! I hope –”

“No, no, don’t worry about it. You just took me by surprise. Alan and I split eight years ago when he was only starting out as a lobbyist. We’re still friends. I see him about
once a month.” She wondered why she had added that. “I’m surprised, though, that he mentioned me.”

“I can’t remember how it came up, but that’s hardly surprising. Some of the receptions we go to can be so tedious, you’ll happily discuss anything non-work related. I
recalled him mentioning his ex-wife worked for the DEA. Again, I’m sorry.”

“It’s no problem, really. Well, thanks for your time today. I’ll talk to you soon.”

She heard someone approach and stopped what she was doing, swivelling around in her chair. Anderson, one of the junior agents, stood there holding a cardboard box that looked
as if the bottom was about to give way.

“This just came for you. Shall I leave it here?” He indicated a clear space on her desk.

“Sure, thanks.”

These were the files Hughes had promised her yesterday evening. They contained the listing and associated dossiers of operatives whose profiles made them the likeliest candidates for involvement
in the attacks on the Alliance. The other item he had promised to look at, the re-examination of the station reports in and around specific incidents, had drawn a blank. Mesi had been disappointed
and said it only proved how much care these people had taken, but Hughes had refused to leave it at that. He had initiated a series of interviews with the CIA’s station personnel and their
sources throughout the relevant countries. Between that substantial undertaking and the sheer volume of information contained in these files, Mesi was overwhelmed by his thoroughness and
application.

After their first meeting, having learnt that Hughes knew Alan, she had called her ex-husband to get his opinion of the CIA man. Alan had told her that Hughes did not have the highest profile
but seemed to be generally well liked. Popularity wasn’t something normally associated with a man in his line of work but the times Alan had needed something from him, he had been totally
engaging. She followed up her chat with Alan by calling one of her colleagues who had worked with Hughes on a number of inter-Agency initiatives involving Latin America. Apparently Hughes had been
considered quite special in his formative years and destined for great things before his upward career trajectory levelled off fairly unspectacularly. The general impression of Hughes, her
colleague added, was that he was a nice guy but he might lack the stomach for some of the harder, necessary, decisions Agency work entailed. Now, he did an adequate job co-ordinating the Central
and South American station chiefs and was not called upon to leave his moral comfort zone.

Well, she thought, regardless of what others might see as Hughes’ shortcomings, he had been outstanding in coming through for her so far.

He had enclosed a covering note with the listing, suggesting they could work through it in parallel. While he was trying to get up-to-date information on the operatives he had identified, she
could contact the various police agencies responsible for investigating the attacks. Perhaps one of operatives had crossed the authorities’ radar. He knew it was a long shot but this kind of
time-consuming, sequential work was the only avenue open to them.

Nothing else she had done since returning from France had resulted in any headway and she was thankful for something to apply herself to. Any feeling of progress would be welcome. Before
contacting investigating officers like Campas, though, she thought it might be more useful to get in touch with Julian Girard. If Tuur recognised any of these operatives as the man called Lorcy
then it would represent a huge step forward. She checked her watch and, after quickly calculating the time in France, placed the call.

“Agent Mesi,” answered the voice.

The grave tone differed so much from her recollection of Girard that she immediately asked what was wrong.

“I assume you’re calling in relation to Richard?” he replied.

“Yes, I’d like you to show him some photographs and ask him if he recognises anyone.”

“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. He was found dead early this morning.”

She felt a tremor run through her. “How?”

“The preliminary report indicates suicide.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Frankly, I’m not sure. I left Richard yesterday evening in an apartment, under the watch of four police officers. He seemed happy, much happier than when you saw him. The hardest
part was behind him; he had cooperated fully. Within a matter of days we would have had him established with a new identity, something he appeared to be looking forward to.”

“How was he found?”

“He usually woke very early to go for a walk but his guards thought he was having a lie-in. When I arrived shortly after ten and he still hadn’t surfaced, I went to his bedroom to
wake him. His wrists had been slashed. There were no signs of a struggle.”

“It’s strange that if he was going to kill himself he would do it at this stage.”

“That’s what I thought,” he agreed. “I got to know Richard quite well over the past month. Based on his service record and my own impression, I find this hard to believe.
The only time I saw him express any doubt or fear was when we discussed this Lorcy and even then it was nothing I’d have thought would drive him to suicide. Still, who knows what was going
through his mind?”

Girard promised to send her a copy of the final report as soon as it was ready and, sensing he wanted to get off the call, she wrapped it up. Afterwards, she tried to decide what the news meant.
If Tuur really had killed himself, it had no significance and even if someone else was responsible, there was nothing there she could use to bolster her theory. Samuels’ attitude would be
that the Kosovars were merely tying up loose ends. Tuur’s death had not changed anything other than to make things a little more difficult.

Reaching into the box, she retrieved the listing and the first handful of files.

Lawrence Wallace finished the call and switched off his cell phone. Once again he checked his watch then strode to within a few feet of the edge and felt himself being buffeted
by the heavy winds. The building had been completed as far as the fifty-fifth storey and where he stood now, on the eightieth floor, there was only a bare structure. The views of the Chicago
skyline, which the offices on this level would afford when the construction was completed, were breathtaking. The building would be wholly owned by Diversified Holdings, who would occupy the top
fifteen floors and lease the rest. It would be a symbol of the pinnacle of corporate America, a physical manifestation of power and proof of influence. The impotence Wallace currently felt could
hardly have rendered it less appropriate.