The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (39 page)

Swat District, Pakistan February 19, 2004

T
he bus stopped near a crumbling roadside bridge. While Morgan waited for the noisy diesel hulk to disappear in its dust cloud, he glanced around to make sure he was alone. With the early-morning sun stretching his shadow, he climbed down the weedy embankment and stepped into the stream fed by the snowfields thousands of feet above him to the east. His boots startled a trout.

“Damn…water’s cold.”

Morgan walked several yards until he was hidden under a canopy of tree branches. He removed a belted holster from his satchel and buckled it so the Makarov hung within easy reach under his coat. His finger checked the silencer. Bought several days before from a purveyor in a side-street shop in Kohat, Morgan went out of the city that afternoon and fired a number of practice rounds at a can. Quiet as promised, he cleaned and oiled the pistol, reloaded the magazine, and slipped the piece in his bag.

He looked around again. Nursed by the cool water, wild crocuses prepared to bloom under budding skeletons of peach trees while falcons suspended themselves in the updrafts. The serene surroundings tempted him to relax, but he knew better. Death remained imminent. He’d already been upright and motionless for too long, offering an invitation for a sniper to practice.

Morgan’s walk upstream began. The soaking trek had purpose. He’d leave no footprints, and moving water was less likely to have mines.

Turning around, he scanned the receding valley floor for movement.

A pair of wild sheep grazed along the bank, munching tender spring grasses, ignoring him. He moved his satchel to the other shoulder and continued his ascent.

The pine forest thickened, and the creek’s mouth ended in a rippling pool fed by a waterfall. Beyond was a high mountain pasture filled with sheep tended by an older man and two boys. Tethered by a leash to the smaller boy’s wrist were two hoggets straining to run off.

Morgan waved and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

The man beckoned for him to come close. They shook hands.

“I am Abdullah.” He introduced his sons. “Essam and Mohammed.” The father’s words were thick, making him difficult to understand. “Where do you come from?” he asked, offering Morgan fresh sheep’s milk.

“Kohat,” Morgan replied.

“A place very hospitable to strangers!” the father said. “I remember from when I was younger.”

“Be assured, my friend, Kohat has not changed.” Morgan smiled, gently squeezed the shoulders of the boys and handed each of them each a small chocolate bar.

“I commend you, Abdullah!” Morgan said. “Your sons are sturdy. Your blood is strong!” He offered his hand again. “I must continue. I have many miles to go before dark, Inshallah!”

“Where are you going?” asked the shepherd.

Morgan tapped his chest, pointing in the distance.

The father’s eyebrows lowered while he shook his head in disapproval.

“Dangerous. Taliban patrol,” he said. “You should camp here tonight. We would be honored.” His concern was clear.

“You are most kind,” Morgan replied but pointed again and started walking. “But, I must go. May God bless you and your sons.”

“May He make your path safe,” the father called. “Inshallah!”

Morgan turned, put his hand over his heart then waved.

The sons stood close to their father, his arms resting across both boys’ shoulders. They answered the wave and continued to tend their flock.

The trail continued for miles until it squeezed to a narrow ridge leading to an overhang and rock pillar. Morgan knelt, rolled on his back, and shimmied until he could see around the vertical outcropping.

The trail zigzagged higher. With his binoculars he studied the marred cliffs dotted with caves and stone porches, inventorying several and their heights above the ground. He briefly admired the colors splashing the soaring peaks, then before slithering to look over the edge, he placed shades on the lenses so the binoculars wouldn’t reflect the sun.

On a promontory half a mile away was a three-story building. Morgan saw no movement and the doors were shut. The chimney was cold.

He lowered the binoculars, laid his head flat, and waited motionless for several minutes. Then he began a more detailed appraisal.

The highest terrace of the building commanded a view of the entire valley. A camouflage tarp covered a large irregular contour. He adjusted the focus to study more carefully the angular outlines under the other tarps.

“I bet that’s a fifty caliber gun and extra ammo.”

On the second level, a door led to a deck with a table and several chairs facing the steep, protective bluffs. The ground-floor patio had cracked tiles and a gravel path that led to a small nearby building.

A resolute smile came across Morgan’s dirty face.

It had to be an outhouse.

A metal gate barricaded the entrance while the decaying masonry wall surrounding the compound held coils of barbed wire strung along the top through twisted rebar except for a small space in back.

There were three directional spotlights. One was mounted on the high deck and two more on the wall.

He continued his survey west across the amorphous rocks, grass and sagebrush now covered in the twilight’s haze that blended with twirling sand. A long serpentine road ascended from the flatlands to the compound’s front gate—the sole entrance.

While drinking some of his sticky porridge, Morgan estimated the distances from his location to various places around the building and grounds. When he was finished, he crawled into a deep rill and fell asleep.

Two frustrated voices woke him. The men were loud and had walked the entire night without finding the stranger who had stepped off the bus at the trailhead wearing hiking boots and carrying a shoulder bag. When the hiker wasn’t waiting to board the bus on its return trip, the driver called it in.

The men discussed what the sheep herder had told them: that the hiker had left the meadow on the path that led to the cliffs even after warning him not to go that way. One of the men said the father should have killed him, and come into town to report it.

“The fool!” said the other.

Morgan removed the Makarov from its holster and held it ready.

They stopped outside the crevasse where he lay. Laughing, one of them urinated into the dank hole near Morgan’s face while the other man used a radio to report their lack of success so far in their search.

Breathless, Morgan waited to move until he could no longer hear their tromping footsteps. He wiggled out of the crack into the sunlight and peeked at the cliffs. Struggling up the path, their guns swung behind their backs, he saw the men talking with animated hand gestures, expressing gladness their uphill search would end soon. Morgan knew they’d have to return the way they came.

Keeping off the trail and in the woods wherever possible, Morgan started back. From time to time, he hid behind trees listening through the insects and birds for sounds that didn’t belong. When he was confident he remained alone, he resumed his quick pace.

A young ram howled from some bushes. The pasture was close. Suspecting the animal lost, Morgan hoisted him over his shoulders and continued on his way. He soon heard loud bays and saw the flock scattered. A kettle of vultures soared above the green space.

A sheep must have died.

He released the ram and continued on the trail, looking for the father and his sons. Ahead, buzzards floated down through the trees toward whatever was dead below. As Morgan approached, one bird seemed to be perched in the air, gobbling a piece of skin. Unruffled, it stared at him.

Morgan glared back.

The huge bird’s talons gripped deeper in the father’s scalp while its beak tore away another piece of flesh. His sons hung from the same limb, the unwrapped chocolate bars in their mouths. The hovering stench grew repulsive.

“Barbarians…” he said shaking his head in disgust.

There was no time to bury them. The men were on the trail behind him. They would see that the bodies were gone and call for more assistance. A search would concentrate in the lowlands where they would leave guards, possibly trapping him.

Morgan continued down the trail. It began to taper into a narrow chute with bedrock steps. He suddenly stopped, instantly tense. The small pile of stones hadn’t been there yesterday.

He stooped to see drops of dew clinging to a trip wire. His eyes followed one end to a sapling at the overhang where it was tied to a branch. He traced the other end into the grasses.

Morgan backed up, pulling several yards of thread off his belt. He tied it to a tree on the opposite side of the path then weaved the line to the sapling. After another surgeon’s knot, the trap was reset and he resumed his descent.

Flushed by movement ahead on the trail, a startled bird squawked and took flight.

Someone was ahead of him.

Morgan dropped from the trail into a ravine and followed it to an overlook. A Russian Uaz truck was parked at the trailhead where he’d started yesterday. He jumped to a lower clearing, rolled into the forest to another ledge, and climbed down to the valley floor, where he raced through the underbrush. At a sharp bend near the truck, he sat off to one side with the Makarov in hand.

Two men shuffled along the path, breaking the boredom by kicking stones. A voice blurted over their radio. “We could not find him. Heading back to the truck.”

One man responded, “We are almost there.”

Morgan took off the safety when he heard their boots crunching stones.

“Hola, amigos!” he said.

Their AKs slung uselessly, the confused men looked at him, then at each other.

“I need your wheels…”

Puff.

Puff.

Morgan added an additional bullet into each of their heads before dragging the bodies deep into the brush.

He sat in the truck with their guns, thirty-round magazines, and two grenades lying on the shredded seat next to him. Morgan drank from some bottled water he found in the back, took his boots off and stuck his feet out the driver’s window to air his socks.

He opened the glove box. There was an open pack of cigarettes.

“Tsk…tsk,” Morgan said. “How disobedient…”

He lit one, hoping the tobacco would blunt the memory of rotting flesh.

It didn’t.

He continued to wait.

When sounds of thunder tumbled down the hillside, Morgan flicked the second butt to the ground and pursed his lips, slowly exhaling a long cloud of smoke.

“Enjoy Hell,” he said.

Chicago February 20, 2004

A
rriving downtown after a cab ride from Midway airport, Jericho left her bags with the Palmer House Hotel concierge and sat in the lobby sipping tea, trying to read the newspaper. Restless, she put on her raincoat and walked along State Street in the drizzle, looking in store windows until it was time to go the restaurant.

She stood inside the corridor away from the revolving door, studying each man who came through. Eventually he’d appear.

“Elaine?”

Jericho turned when she heard her name.

“Hello,” she said.

“Paul Cotsworth,” the white-haired man said, secretly showing her his badge then offering his hand.

“Where did you come from?” Jericho asked, shaking it.

“Through the bar entrance.” He smiled immediately. “Wanted to give the place the once over before we met.”

“And…”

“Everyone’s seen your hair.”

“A lifelong problem,” she replied.

Cotsworth seemed trustworthy, but despite his disarming humor, Jericho’s edginess remained.

They walked to the host station.

“You’re holding a table for
Smith
,” said Cotsworth. “The one in the far corner.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Follow me please.”

They hung their coats on the wall hooks and sat down.

“Calling you
Elaine
okay?” Cotsworth asked. “My last rank was master sergeant.”

She laughed cautiously. “Of course. I’m still on vacation…I hope.”

“Reality will return soon enough,” he said. “I’m convinced sometimes it’s best not to leave town.”

“Been my modus operandi for years, and look what happened. It got me diverted from New Mexico to Chicago in February.”

“Sorry about the crummy weather,” he apologized.

As Jericho unfolded her napkin, he glanced at her manicured nails. His first impression was consistent with her résumé: She was a perfectionist. The naval officer had excelled in what had been until recently a male-dominated world, and her rank and position spoke clearly of a tenacious spirit. She was certainly an elastic thinker. That trait gave her a dynamic advantage in the spy world. Why she had parlayed that into research on Morgan baffled him. Cotsworth decided to let small talk rule until they finished eating.

While their waiter cleared the plates, Cotsworth said, “I guess we need to get started.”

Jericho placed the tea bag in the stainless server. While it steeped, he watched as she measured a teaspoon of milk into her cup.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked with a sideways tip of her head.

“Probably not…but I hope that’s neither here nor there.” Cotsworth sipped some coffee. “I said our words would be private. I’m not secretly recording us or planning to take notes.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Tell me,” Cotsworth learned forward and said quietly, “what you do at the NGA.”

Her pupils grew huge at his bluntness.

“That’s some opener,” Jericho replied. “What I do is classified.”

Cotsworth leaned forward more. “Let’s do this right, okay? I’ll help.” His voice lowered. “You’re a United States Navy Captain, who, before becoming an assistant director of the National Geospatial Agency, was in charge of its Middle Eastern nuclear division.”

He smiled, but not gently. “Maybe with your spiritual awakening in New Mexico you’ve forgotten the NGA does global satellite intelligence procurement?”

“I just can’t say anything.”

His beating fingers quickened in ire.

“Let’s start over.” He had more coffee. “Pretend this is a first date, let’s try that.” He added a more cordial smile. “So tell me, Elaine, what do you do for a living?”

“Let me answer you this way.” She could not tell at what point his bravado met frankness but at least it was now clear that he knew enough about her to ease any lingering concern about security breeches. “Jimmy Laymonjaylo is an alias for someone the agency was interested in.”

He heard her use the past tense.

“An alias,” he said. “Do you know his real name?”

She nodded. “Barif Ali.”

Cotsworth responded quietly,
“Barif Ali…”

She nodded and stirred her tea.

“Let’s just refer to him as
Jimmy
for right now,” he suggested.

“Agreed.”

“Why is your employer interested in Jimmy?”

“Several companies are…
Were
might be more accurate.”

“Were…” The past tense troubled him. “Okay. Keep going.”

“Jimmy boarded a tramp freighter in Houston, carrying a fraudulent Pakistani passport with the name
Ali
…later he started using a Lebanese one.”

Cotsworth scratched his head. She was handing him puzzle pieces, but none were fitting together, so he simply said, “And…”

“His entrée to the freighter and confidant while aboard was a known”—Jericho whispered, her voice barely audible—“nuclear terrorist.” Her napkin shielded her lips so no one could read them. “Close to…bin Laden. Inner circle.” She sat back and looked around the restaurant.

“That’s interesting,” Cotsworth said.

It sure as hell was! The information confirmed his belief that Morgan left Houston by boat, but with a terrorist?

“When I was in my earlier position,” Jericho began to whisper again, “we knew while Jimmy was aboard that ship, it was transporting a high-grade type of steel used in centrifuges—from Africa to, we believe, Iran. The other player on board, who I’ll leave nameless, coordinated the materials passage start to finish.”

“Do you think Jimmy’s presence could be incidental?” None of this was making sense. “Maybe he wasn’t dirty?”

“Not likely.”

“Why?” Cotsworth asked. His curiosity increased more.

“Jimmy appeared out of nowhere and contacted one ship from dozens of possibilities. None of this is coincidence.”

Looking out the windows, she drank some tea and grew silent as if she was finished talking.

“Please, it’s too early for intermission,” Cotsworth said.

She smiled. “Inbound to the Port of Karachi,” Jericho continued, “we found the freighter by satellite. An IR image showed a body hanging off the stern.”

“M…” Cotsworth almost said Morgan’s name but caught himself. “Jimmy?”

The current story was still too incredible to associate it with the name he knew.

“Yes,” she said. “There’s more.”

“I’m hoping so.”

“That was after he probably killed two men, including the captain.”

“Whoa.” Cotsworth held up his hand. “Thinking about that one…”

Recalling the pictures from the Midway that Brosinski had given him, Cotsworth knew Morgan was capable of killing. If true, there had to be a damn good reason.

“Why would he do that?”

“Not certain,” answered Jericho. “A friend of mine thinks there may have been an assault on him or maybe an attempted rape—”

“I’d kill them too,” he commented. “So…what happened to Jimmy after that? Crew throw him overboard?”

“Nobody knows,” Jericho said. “But
I
think a satellite picture taken right after that suggests he intentionally jumped ship.”

“Jumped ship…You’re making this up ‘cause it’s crappy weather outside, and you’re bored.”

“I wish,” she replied.

“Anybody know if he survived?” Cotsworth asked.

“Weeks later there was a robbery aboard a Pakistani train. Some bullet fragments came from a .357.”

“Now I know you’re making this up,” laughed Cotsworth. “But please continue. I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Jimmy stole one in Houston,” she said. “I think those are his bullets, but the rest of my coworkers don’t.”

“I’d have to agree with them without ballistics.” The agent shook his head.
“Even so, why would he rob a train?”

She shrugged.

“Where he is now?” he asked.

“No inkling.” Her voice trailed off. “Alive or dead, I just don’t know.”

“This is fun.” Cotsworth looked at his watch. “More tea, or perhaps a drink?”

“Just tea please.”

Amused, he watched her again measure the milk as the tea bag hung in a fresh pot of hot water.

“So how do you come to know Demetri Kubiak?” he asked.

Jericho stirred her tea, deciding how to answer. “Shipboard evidence discovered in Karachi by a field team.”

“What evidence?” he asked.

“Found it in his clothing,” she answered. “A pig DNA fragment.”

The fucking pig!
Cotsworth wanted to yell.

“The Purdue swine database provided the possible cross matches. Took a while because the sample was corrupted. I applied some software and eventually found Scurry Farms.”

“
You
found Scurry Farms?” he asked.

She nodded.

His head was propped on his curled palm to hide astonishment. “The picture you showed the Kubiaks?”

“Composite made by the detained freighter crew in Karachi.”

“Solid detective work,” he complimented. “How the hell did this research get appropriated to you…in your position?”

She was chewing on her lip. “The particle was dismissed by others as contaminate.”

The woman was smart—and stupid!

“Everyone ignored Jimmy because he was a ‘clean skin’ here and left the country without consequence. I thought they were too quick.”

“So when the august minds discounted it, you took it on yourself…” The woman was foolhardy as well as obsessive-compulsive. “Does anybody know you’re doing this?”

“No comment,” said Jericho.

“Elaine,
you’re way outside your jurisdiction…wandering in a place you shouldn’t be.”

She nodded meekly.

“You did this because…” He couldn’t imagine why the woman would be so fool-hearty.

“Paul, you’re never going to believe this,” Jericho said.

“Oh, I might.”

“Satellites alone can’t protect the country. I thought we skirted the issue without integrating the facts.”

“Jesus…” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “From what I learned about you, your career is well launched. You’re screwing it up with possibly…jail.”

“I know.”

His head rocked back and forth.

“If you promise me,” he began, “that you’ll go home and not visit this again, we’ll talk some more.”

“I’m game,” she replied, with gloom in her voice.

Cotsworth wanted to brighten her mood. “Sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” No, she wasn’t. “Okay. Maybe some white wine?”

Cotsworth flagged their waiter. A glass of wine and a beer arrived soon after.

“To sharing information and interlinked databases,” he toasted.

“Don’t use that at a wedding,” Jericho laughed.

She was feeling better.

“Anyway, I’m investigating Jimmy too,” Cotsworth said.

“Why?” she asked.

“First off, do you know what
Jimmy Laymonjaylo
means?” he asked.

Jericho shook her head.

“‘I’m hungry for
lemon Jell-O, give me some
.’”

“Oh damn!” Jericho blushed.

It was an old joke about how a less-literate mother named her baby from the daily menu at the hospital. The name fooled a pig farmer and, worse, an intelligence officer.

“It’s okay, Elaine. Remember, we all get hoodwinked.”

Her face remained red.

“We found a bigger piece of the same DNA that came from an apartment in Chicago.”

“What?”

Jericho put her glass down and squinted at him.

“Forensics traced it months ago to Scurry Farms, so I talked to Kubiak—by phone. Saved me from going there. Maybe your Wisconsin upbringing made you immune to those sorts of smells.”

“It didn’t.”

“He called me right after you left to tell me,” Cotsworth said, “that another person wanted to know about
Lemon Jell-O
.” He smiled. “Said he hoped he was doing the right thing.”

“A decent man,” Jericho commented.

“So here’s my quid pro quo. You should know that
Barif Ali
is also an alias,” the agent said. “
Lemon Jell-O
and
Ali
are really someone named Wesley Morgan…Dr. Wesley Morgan, a heart surgeon here in Chicago.”

“What?” Jericho exclaimed.

“Operates on babies…at least used to…and was good at it…and a decent guy… I gather that’s unusual for surgeons. I assumed they’re mostly assholes.”