Raven Strike (11 page)

Chapter 19

CIA Headquarters

H
erman Edmund’s schedule was ordinarily too tight for Jonathon Reid to expect an immediate meeting, even on an important matter, and given their conversation the other day, Reid doubted that Edmund would be motivated to make time. So he was surprised when Edmund’s secretary kept him on the telephone when he made the request, and even more surprised to hear the CIA director’s voice rather than hers a few seconds later.

“I was going to call you myself,” Edmund said.

“We need to talk.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“Much earlier.”

“We’ll call it an early lunch, then.”

“We should talk in a very secure place,” said Reid.

Edmund hesitated for the slightest of moments before telling Reid that he had exactly the same idea.

They ate in the director’s dining room, only the two of them.

Reid ordered a cup of yogurt.

“You want to talk about Raven,” said Edmund as soon as the attendant left.

“I do.”

“Jon, it’s an unfortunate situation.”

“I think we both know it’s more than that,” said Reid.

Edmund raised an eyebrow. He pushed back in his chair, nearly reaching the wall. Photographs of all the Agency’s past directors hung in a line above their heads; William Casey glared down above Edmund’s.

“I understand that you’ve been making inquiries,” he said.

“I’ve been discreet.”

“As always,” said Edmund.

“You can’t expect me to put the lives of my people on the line without knowing what they’re being risked for.”

“Come on, Jonathon. That’s bullshit and you know it. People do that every day here. You do it, I do it—it’s the nature of the business.”

“The program is illegal, isn’t it?” said Reid. “There’s no executive order authorizing that Li Han be killed. And that’s the mandated procedure.”

“I never discuss specific orders like that.”

Reid was tempted to repeat Edmund’s line about bullshit back at him, but he didn’t.

“The UAV project is probably borderline as well,” Reid said. “But what I’m truly concerned about is Raven itself.”

“You told me you had located the UAV.”

“Raven is not the aircraft,” said Reid. “I need to know about the software, Herman. I need to know how much of a danger it is.”

“Software is software. It flies the plane.”

“That’s not all it does.”

“In this case, it is.”

“What are the safeguards?”

“I don’t know the technical data. Obviously, I’d be out of my element discussing them. As would you.”

“I want to speak to the people who developed the software and the computer that it runs in,” insisted Reid. “I want them to talk to my experts.”

“Can’t happen.”

“Why not?”

Edmund shook his head. “Can’t.”

A buzzer sounded.

“Come,” said Edmund loudly.

In response, the attendant opened the door and wheeled in a tray with their food. The director had ordered a cheese omelet with home fries.

“I had the chef hold the onions,” said Edmund. “I have meeting with the Secretary of State later. Though on second thought, maybe that would have been a good idea.”

He laughed at his own joke. Reid said nothing until the attendant left. “My fear,” he said then, “is that the program, if it were to get into the wild, would be unstoppable.”

“What do you mean, in the wild?”

“Like a virus. It has that sort of capability.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Jonathon. Your tech people should be able to tell you that.”

Reid rose as Edmund took a bite from his omelet.

“Where are you going?” asked the director.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Sit down, Jonathon.”

This was exactly the sort of situation Reid had dreaded when he decided to return to the Agency after his retirement. But it was also exactly the reason he had not taken the post of DDO.

“I don’t think we have anything else to talk about,” he said coldly. “If you’re not going to give me full access to the Raven program, anything else either one of us says would be pointless.”

“Jonathon—”

Reid hesitated, half expecting Edmund to change his mind, or perhaps appeal to their long friendship. But the director said nothing else.

“Maybe I’ll be hungry later,” said Reid, pocketing the yogurt before leaving.

Chapter 20

Western Ethiopia

T
urk had now been up for an ungodly number of hours, and while his own personal record was in no danger of falling, he was nonetheless feeling the strains of fatigue. With the Whiplash team back in Ethiopia and a Global Hawk now overhead for surveillance, he was no longer needed. Assuming the satellite arrived in a few hours, he could even go home.

Until then he had to stay nearby. So he called Danny and cleared himself to land at the Ethiopian base.

The runway was a long hash mark just off the peak of a ridge in the mountains, a little on the short side, though not a problem for the diminutive Tigershark. But the field wasn’t exactly the smoothest, with an almost wavy pattern running across the tarmac about halfway down, and several dozen poorly patched craters scattered over its length. The Tigershark took a couple of hard bumps as she landed, knocking Turk against his restraints. A funnel of dust followed him down the runway.

One of the Whiplash team members took a truck out to meet him, and guided him to the maintenance area—a lone fuel truck standing in the middle of an open space.

The Tigershark had been designed to operate from forward bases, and the aircraft’s engine intakes had special screens designed to lessen the possibility that they would ingest engine debris. This base was rough even by Whiplash standards, however; he’d need some help checking the runway before takeoff.

Turk popped the canopy, secured the aircraft, then clambered down to the ground. His muscles felt as if they’d atrophied after his long stint in the air.

“Captain Mako, welcome to Shangri-La,” said Boston, hopping from the truck that had escorted him in.

“Hey, Boston.” Turk stuck out his hand. “Long time no see. Call me Turk.”

“Yes, sir, Turk.”

“Where can I get some food and a bunk?” he asked.

“Empty beds in either that little building over there, next to the two big ones,” said Boston, pointing. “Or else one of the tents. We have prisoners in the ones with guards outside them.”

“I’ll stay out of those.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“Where’s Colonel Freah?”

“That would be the big building on the left.”

“Wash the windows and check the oil,” said Turk as he started for the building.

“Jeez, very funny, sir. I never heard that one. Har-har.”

Turk cracked up. Corny jokes always put him into a good mood.

He walked up the slight rise toward the buildings, warmed by the sun as it poked between the nearby peaks. He was just pulling open the door to the large building when someone on the other side yanked it from his hand. A furious cloud flew out of the door, knocking him back.

It was the most beautiful cloud he’d ever seen.

“Wow, aren’t you pretty,” said Turk.

“And aren’t you an asshole,” said Melissa, practically spitting at him.

“Come on,” laughed Turk. “You must have seen bigger ones.”

“Asshole.”

Turk watched her walk away. He had never seen a pair of fatigues move with such sexual energy before.

“Enjoy the show?” asked Danny Freah when he turned back around.

“I would have landed hours ago if I knew the sights were so pretty,” said Turk.

“Watch yourself, Captain.”

“I will, Colonel. Definitely. Say, you got a minute? I may need a little help inspecting the runway to make sure we don’t have debris before takeoff. Plus, I have a couple of ideas about where the bad guys may be.”

Danny frowned at him. “I have to go into town. Talk to me while I walk.”

N
uri waited impatiently by the Mercedes for Danny to finish talking to the pilot. They should have been in Duka already. It was important to show that he had no connection with the raid; so important that he was willing to go in even without a connection to MY-PID.

Of course, this might be a wild-goose chase. The rest of the aircraft could be hundreds of miles away by now.

“Sorry that took so long,” said Danny, finally coming over. “I wanted to make sure we have some more people and gear in case you can’t work out a deal.”

“How long before it gets here?” asked Nuri.

“It’s en route. It may be a while.”

Nuri walked to the driver’s side door. “I’ll drive.”

“Hold up,” said Danny.

“What?”

“I thought we were taking Melissa.”

“She’s not here, that’s her problem.”

“What is it with you and her, Nuri?” said Danny. “What do you have against her?”

“She’s not telling us the whole story,” said Nuri. “And I don’t trust her.”

“Y
ou have to keep the Whiplash people cut out of the picture.”

Harker was practically shouting. Melissa started to raise her right arm to rub her forehead, but a shock of pain stopped her. Sugar probably had been right—she almost certainly had torn a ligament.

“Look, the only way to get the UAV back is with their help,” Melissa told her boss.

“That’s not a question—get it back.”

“Then I have to work with them. You sent them.”

“I didn’t send them. The director sent them. Not the same thing.”

She glanced at her watch. She was ten minutes late. Nuri would have a fit.

Hell, he’d probably left without her. It would be just like him.

“I have to go,” she told Harker.

“Melissa. Get this done. Take out Mao Man. If you—”

She killed the line, turned off the phone, and shoved the sat phone back into the safe box in her footlocker. Her other phone was already in her pocket.

Melissa locked up everything, then paused at the door. She didn’t have a mirror; all she could do was glance down at her clothes.

Frumpy. But that was the best she was going to manage. She pulled open the door, locked it behind her, and started down toward the Mercedes. No one was standing near it, and her first thought was that she wasn’t late at all. Then she realized that both Danny and Nuri were inside.

She started to run.

“A
bout time you got here,” said Nuri as she pulled open the door. He started the car and put it in gear, not waiting for her to buckle her seat belt.

“Gonna be a long drive folks,” said Danny. “Let’s all relax. Where you from?”

“San Francisco,” Melissa said.

Nuri felt his cheeks burning as the two began a trivial conversation about their backgrounds.

The problem was that she was good-looking. If she’d been ugly—or better, if she’d been a guy—Danny would have played it entirely straight. He’d have kept her at arm’s length, trusted everything Nuri said. She’d be back at the base, or even in Alexandria, where she couldn’t screw anything up.

Granted, she might be useful at the clinic. Maybe.

Nuri’s foul mood settled over him as he drove. About two miles from the border, he went off the main road to bypass the guards at the main crossing, using a trail he’d spotted from the satellite photos. It was clearly well traveled—though dirt, it was hard packed, and even doing fifty, the Mercedes raised little dust. Within an hour, they were approaching Duka.

“We’re going to switch, right?” asked Danny. “I’m your driver.”

“Right,” said Nuri, feeling a little foolish. He took his foot off the gas and coasted to a stop. “Thanks. I forgot.”

Chapter 21

Washington, D.C.

I
f the Agency was running a deeply dangerous and illegal operation, how far would it go to keep the secret to itself?

The ends of the earth, and beyond.

The first step from the director’s dining room felt like liberation to Reid; he knew what he had to do, and there was power in that certainty.

But with every step that followed, doubt crept in, then paranoia.

Would Edmund order he be detained? Or even killed?

It was a ridiculous idea, Reid told himself. Even if they hadn’t been friends, Edmund would never do such a thing. Nor would any director. He was sure of it.

And yet, he couldn’t seem to shake the paranoia. It intensified as the day went on, until it began to feel like a hood over his head, furrowing his vision and pushing him physically closer to the ground. Reid spent the afternoon in Room 4, studying more of the data, reviewing everything that might be even tangentially related to Raven.

That alone would have stoked his fears—the more he learned about the class of programs, the more he realized Raven was potentially unstoppable. “Killer viruses,” declared a paper written by an Australian researcher. The man foresaw a cyber war that would paralyze the world inside of five minutes.

A little past 4:00
P.M.
the phone system alerted Reid to a call from the Senate Office Building. Thinking it was Breanna’s husband or his staff looking for her, he took the call, and found himself talking to a member of Senator Claus Gunter’s staff.

“Mr. Reid, can you hold for the senator?” asked the secretary.

Reid hesitated for a moment. Gunter was a member of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee, but Reid barely knew him.

But of course he had to be polite. “Surely.”

“Jonathon, how are you?” said Gunter, coming on the line.

“I’m fine, Senator. Yourself?”

“Very good, very good. I wanted to speak to you in confidence. Is that possible?”

“I’m at your disposal, Senator,” said Reid.

“You know, between you and I, George Napoli is retiring from the DIA in a few months,” said Gunter.

“I hadn’t heard that.” Napoli was the head of the Defense Intelligence Agency.

“In some quarters, your name has been raised,” said Gunter.

Reid realized immediately what was going on—he was being bought off. He wondered—did Gunter know about the operation, or was Edmund using him?

Surely the latter.

“Interesting,” said Reid.

“Is that the sort of post . . . you’d be interested in?”

“I hadn’t really given the matter any thought,” said Reid. It was best to be noncommittal—it might draw more information from Gunter. “I hadn’t known it was even coming open.”

“Well it is. And a lot of people think highly of you. On both sides of the aisle. I believe the President could be persuaded,” said Gunter.

“It is an interesting opportunity,” said Reid. “Who— Are there people putting my name forward?”

“I’ve heard in several places,” said Gunter, so breezily it was clearly a lie.

“I don’t know if I would have support,” said Reid. “I don’t know the members of the Intelligence Committee very well.”

“This will go through my committee, Defense,” said Gunter.

“I see. But even inside the CIA there might be people opposed.”

“I wouldn’t worry about a problem from that quarter. Perhaps we should have lunch.”

“I’d love to,” said Reid. It was a lie, of course; he’d sooner lay down across traffic on the Beltway. “When were you thinking?”

“I’ll have my secretary check the schedule and give you some dates.”

Reid’s first reaction as he put the phone down was relief: Edmund clearly had decided to try to buy him off. This meant his paranoia was completely unjustified—you didn’t try to kill someone you were bribing.

But once contracted, paranoia is a difficult disease to shake. He began thinking that it could every easily be a ploy to make him drop his guard. And the more he told himself that he was being ridiculous, even silly, the more the idea stuck.

He finally decided that he had to talk to the President as soon as possible, if only to retain his own sanity.

E
ven a longtime friend like Jonathon Reid couldn’t just show up at the White House and expect the President to see him. Christine Mary Todd was far too busy for that. Most evenings she spent away from the White House, at receptions or in meetings. And getting a formal appointment without giving the reason to the chief of staff could take days, if not weeks.

Getting in to see her husband, on the other hand, was far less onerous.

At precisely five after five Reid left his office to go to his car. He took a deep breath before stepping out of the elevator, assuring himself there was no reason to be so paranoid, and that if there
was
a reason, he would face his fate with equanimity and honor.

There was an unexpected thrill in that—a sense of the old excitement he had felt as a field officer so many years before.

But he had an old man’s heart now. Just walking to the car nearly exhausted him.

As Reid put his key into the ignition, he thought how easy it would be to attach a bomb to the wires, how quickly he would go.

There was no bomb; there was no plot; there was nothing but his paranoia. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t followed from the lot, nor on the local roads as he wended his way across town.

But his caution didn’t fade. Reid drove to the Metro and crisscrossed his way around the capital, changing trains willy-nilly amid the rush-hour throng.

He came up at the Mall and walked to the Smithsonian. Inside, he found one of the few pay phones left in the city, and called Daniel Todd’s private cell phone.

“Danny, this is Jon, how are you?”

“Jon—I almost didn’t answer. Where are you?”

“Knocking around in the city—it’s a long story. What are you doing?”

“At the moment I was heading for dinner,” said Todd.

“After dinner?”

“Probably watch the Nationals on the tube. They’re playing the Mets. I’d love to see them win.”

“You’re going to the game?”

“Too late for that. I’m staying in to watch.”

“Want some company?”

“You’re stooping to baseball?”

“Yes.”

“Game’s on at seven. I’ll leave word.”