The Washington Stratagem (23 page)

“Who is ‘we’?” asked Braithwaite, almost to himself. “What was on the phone?”

“The unlisted home numbers of Clarence Clairborne and several of his friends.”

“I would like to have those. Anyone especially interesting?”

“William F. Stone.”

Braithwaite furrowed his brow. “Founder of Stone and Partners, the most powerful law firm on K Street.”

Yael nodded. “That’s the one, among whose clients are Bank Bernard et Fils.”

“Our favorite Swiss bank. I told Fareed that the BBF immunity arrangement was a mistake and would come back to haunt us. They are untouchable. But he wouldn’t listen.”

A middle-aged man in an ankle-length coat strode toward them, shouting at his secretary on his mobile telephone. Yael and Braithwaite both fell silent until he was far behind them.

“It was not a mistake. Fareed was right. Off-the-books money has to move somewhere, somehow. It’s much easier for us to keep track of it if we know it goes through BBF. We have a line into that bank. It gives us ammunition. Clairborne could barely control his temper when I showed him the payment record.”

“Maybe,” said Braithwaite, unconvinced. He was silent for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. “Ten million dollars from Omega, the Prometheus Group’s Swiss subsidiary, to Nuristan Holdings, one of the Revolutionary Guard’s front companies in Tehran. So we have an American company, tied with the Pentagon, not just trading illegally with Tehran, but with the Revolutionary Guard.”

“And arranging security at the Istanbul Summit,” said Yael. “All thanks to Caroline Masters. Why do you think she agreed to that?”

Braithwaite stopped walking for a moment. He turned to look at Yael. “I don’t know. I guess she doesn’t know about the Nuristan Holdings connection. Why has Fareed surrendered without a fight? And what were you doing on the Staten Island Ferry anyway?”

Yael reached inside her jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Braithwaite. There were three photographs on the paper: one of the Staten Island Ferry terminal and two of Cyrus Jones. The pictures of Jones, showing him full face and side-on, seemed to be taken from an identity card. The letters spelled out the previous day’s date and 16:00. The letter
r
in
April
was missing its horizontal spar.

Braithwaite stared at the paper for several seconds before he handed it back to Yael. “So now he is calling himself Cyrus Jones.”

Yael looked at Braithwaite, momentarily surprised. “You know him? How?”

“From Baghdad. He was smuggled out, over the border into Turkey, after he shot a family at a checkpoint near Samarra. But first, I think it’s time you told me properly what happened in Istanbul.”

She is standing on the Eminönü waterfront, watching the police launch bounce across the waves. It is a perfect spring morning. The sun is warm on her face, the breeze scented with the smell of the sea. The V-shaped hull cuts through the water like a scythe at harvest time, pale spray fountaining in its wake
.

The three policemen grimace as they drag the dead man into the boat. His back is crisscrossed by deep welts, their ruffled edges bleached white by the water. His arms and shoulders are dotted with semicircular rows of tiny puncture marks, each two or three inches long. The police commander shakes his head in disgust. He covers the body with a gray blanket, gently smoothing the fabric as though tucking a child into bed
.

“We offered him a deal,” says the man standing at Yael’s side. He is wiry, muscled, in his midthirties. A long purple birthmark reaches from his left ear down the side of his neck
.

“Which was?”

“Better than that,” he replies, gesturing at the police launch
.

“An orange jumpsuit?”

He laughs. “Any color he wanted.”

Yael watches the paramedics maneuver the dead man into the body bag, his arms and legs lolling from side to side. His eyes are wide open and the water drips off his straggly beard. “Who was he?” she asks
.

“Nobody important.”

“Somebody thought he was, judging by his back.”

“The important one is Abdullah Gul. Your friend. The one you are bringing in for us.”

Your friend. Is Gul her friend? He certainly believes himself to be America’s friend. Abdullah Gul has a PhD from Harvard in artificial intelligence, a Twitter feed with twenty-six thousand followers, and loathes the Taliban as much as they hate him. Gul believes women should be educated, that Sufism
—a tolerant, spiritual Islam—offers a better future than the ascetic fanaticism of the Taliban. Gul has been courted by the United States and its allies, has visited the White House, spoken at the UN General Assembly, been touted as a future potential president. He is popular and, incredibly for an Afghan politician, not for sale
.

In short, Gul is everything that the United States says Afghanistan needs: a pious but modern and progressive Muslim. Yael has enjoyed his company. Perhaps he is her friend. Lord knew, she didn’t have many
.

“Who was he?” she asks insistently
.

The police launch docks at the waterfront. Two paramedics step out of an ambulance and wheel a stretcher forward
.

“I don’t know.”

Yael knows he is lying. “You should. You killed him.”

“I did not,” he snaps, his voice rising in anger
.

She turns to look at him. “But you were there…. You watched. You supervised.”

He blinks twice before he speaks. She senses his body tense, despite his determined effort to stay relaxed, to give nothing away, which is itself the biggest giveaway of all
.

“It was badly handled. He didn’t know anything,” he replies, a hard edge to his California accent. The paramedics zip the body into a black bag, and the ambulance speeds away from the dock, maneuvering a path into the slow-moving traffic

Yael pushes harder. “You watched him die. Who was he?”

He looks away. She feels anger, defensiveness, even a wisp of guilt. “He was Gul’s cousin. If you are so concerned about his fate, take it up with the MI·T.” The Turkish intelligence service is one of the United States’ most reliable allies in the region
—or had been, until recently
.

“Try again, Mr. Jones,” says Yael, remembering the rows of puncture marks. Dogs were anathema to Muslims. “The MI·T didn’t do this. And I think they would much rather talk to you than me. Three drone strikes inside the Turkish border in a month. Twenty-seven civilians killed last week, including nineteen women and children who had gathered for a birthday party.”

Jones is unmoved. “Very regrettable. Sure, the Turks shout a lot. They have to. But they understand. There is a war on. The border is porous. Jihadis are crossing back and forth from Syria. This whole region could go up in flames.”

“Tell me why I should bring Gul in.”

“He is the point man between the poppy growers and the Taliban and al-Qaeda. He runs the business end, takes care of the money and launders it. From Kandahar to Kabul, Kabul to Baku, and then on to Zurich.”

“Really?” says Yael, her voice disbelieving. “Last time I met him, Gul was setting up a microloans bank in conjunction with USAID, which is a US government agency. So Gul is a colleague of yours.”

“Gul conned us. It’s a front. He controls the drug trade. He uses the microloans to move the money,” says Jones, his voice insistent
.

Yael watches his face. A small vein pulses at the side of his neck. Jones is lying. There is something else going on
.

Yael says, “Fifty bucks doesn’t buy a lot of heroin, even in Afghanistan. And why do you need me? Why don’t you just kidnap him, wrap him in a giant nappy, and send him to Guantanamo?”

“We don’t do that anymore,” says Jones regretfully. “Gul needs to come over of his own free will. Everything has to be squeaky clean. Which is where you come in. We are offering Gul a deal.”

“Which was what?” asked Quentin Braithwaite.

Yael grimaced at the memory. “They were holding Gul at a villa on the island of Büyükada, an hour’s boat ride from the mainland. He thought he had come to Istanbul for a back-channel meeting about Afghanistan to discuss policy options after the American pull out, this year. They detained him as soon as he arrived.”

“Why?”

“The Americans are courting the Taliban. The Taliban wanted Gul out of the picture. Gul is their worst nightmare. Imagine, a patriotic Afghan Muslim leader who actually wanted girls to go to school. Gul was the price of the peace deal. The Americans refused at first, but half heartedly. Then the Taliban shot down an Apache helicopter and killed seventeen marines. The Americans got the message. They dumped Gul like he was radioactive. They said he was laundering money for al-Qaeda.”

“Was he?”

“The Americans gave Fareed a file on him, full of e-mails that he had supposedly written, copies of bank transfers, photographs of Gul meeting al-Qaeda operatives. It certainly looked impressive. Fareed took it at face value. Or said he did.”

“Which Americans?” asked Braithwaite. “State? Pentagon? Langley?”

Yael thought for a moment. “Good question. I don’t know. It came via the USUN mission. I was not convinced. The whole thing didn’t feel right to me.”

“Why not?”

“It was all too pat. The e-mails were written in perfect idiomatic American English, from Gmail addresses. Nobody would use Gmail to talk to al-Qaeda. I checked with a friend who worked for Google. The Gmail addresses had never existed. One of the banks had gone out of business three years ago. The photographs had been photoshopped. Very skillfully, but still photoshopped. Joe-Don started asking around. There was something else going on. I told Fareed but he was not interested. Just go to Istanbul and bring Gul in, he told me.”

“And Gul still surrendered, even though the evidence was fake?”

Yael nodded.

“Why?”

Jones takes out his smartphone from his pocket. The screen shows a young, pretty woman, with olive skin and dark eyes, chatting on Skype at an Internet café in Istanbul. She is dressed modestly in brown trousers and a long-sleeved beige top, her hair tucked away in a patterned hijab that reaches down to her shoulders
.

She next appears sitting in the backseat of a car, jammed between two men whose faces are hidden in shadows. A hand is clamped over her mouth. She is wide-eyed with fear, a bright red mark down one side of her face, her head scarf askew. The third segment shows her lying on her back in a bare room with concrete walls, wearing a shapeless gray slip. Her eyes are closed and she appears to be unconscious. Her left foot twitches sporadically
.

“His wife?” asked Braithwaite.

“No,” said Yael, frowning. “His daughter.”

Braithwaite shook his head, his face tight with disgust. “My Lord. These people. And what did you do?”

“Jones said he worked for something called the DoD—the Department of Deniable. He could kidnap people. Make them disappear.”

Yael softens her voice and edges closer. She smooths her auburn hair behind her head, subtly arching her back to show off her slim figure and the swell of her breasts
.

She turns to look at him. “OK, Cyrus. Like you said, it’s a war. And in a war there are casualties
—not always the right ones. But if we can cut off Gul’s money, we can stop the financing to the terrorists, and the attacks on American troops, defeat the Taliban, and bring democracy to Afghanistan.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“The money men are the key to everything.”

Jones nods, pleased that she seems to understand. “You said it.”

He moves toward her, and she smiles, leaning back on the railing at the water’s edge, raising her face to the sun. Her denim jacket falls open; she senses his eyes on her
.

“We can talk about it some more at dinner tonight if you like,” says Jones. “I know a wonderful place overlooking the old city. No tourists. They have private dining rooms. It’s quite isolated, at the end of a foot track. The view is incredible.”

Yael holds his gaze. “Count me in, Cyrus.”

“What about the Turks?” asked Braithwaite. “All this is going on in their territory.”

“They were furious. They had no idea that the DoD had set up a black prison in a villa on the coast. You know how proud the Turks are. And that on top of the drone strikes and Big Oil making nice with the Kurds, handing them suitcases full of cash, which they gave in turn to their brothers inside Turkey to finance their independence movement. The Turks were really pissed with the Americans. That gave me an idea.”

The ferry from Istanbul to Büyükada docks and Yael steps ashore. A policeman walks over and asks for her passport. She hands him her red UN laissez-passer. He leafs through it. A man in a leather jacket appears. He shows the policeman an identity card and holds his hand out. The policeman instantly hands Yael’s passport to him, salutes, and leaves
.

The man is wearing a black leather jacket, unzipped, and is standing with his hand in the right-hand pocket, just as Yael had been told he would. He gestures for Yael to follow him. They walk through the crowds at the harbor, tourists chattering excitedly as they decide where to eat in the rows of seafood restaurants that overlook the water. The smell of grilled fish makes Yael realize how hungry she is. All she has eaten that day is a banana for breakfast
.

Yael’s escort stops at a stand selling
pide
, the Turkish version of pizza
—a slab of crispy dough covered with minced lamb, tomato sauce, and peppers—and greets the owner. The food smells delicious. The owner immediately picks up two pide, rapidly slices them into sections, wraps them in greaseproof paper, and hands them over, together with two cartons of
ayran
, a sour yogurt drink. The man in the leather jacket offers to pay but the owner waves him away, already focused on the next customer. Yael and her escort walk away from the crowd toward Fayton Meydani, the central square. It is lined by pastel-colored houses, crowded with hansom cabs, tourists on bicycles, and locals chatting, drinking coffee, and smoking. There are no cars on Büyükada; the only means of transportation is by bicycle, horse, or foot
.