breath.
'What the Israelis just handed us, is those records. All of them.'
'What?' The note of disbelief in Rayburn's voice hung in the air, an almost physical thickening of the atmosphere.
Fitzsimmons drank his water, trying to keep his throat from drying out completely. 'Tischler handed over a copy of the Israelis' complete file on the IUF. Uncensored, unedited, straight from the Mossad computers.'
'Holy shit.' Rayburn flipped through the top file, which was a pre-made abstract of the information on Tischler's CD. Fitzsimmons had printed it raw from the disk. 'Why would they just hand us this? We've cooperated with them before, but they don't let go of any information without a reason.'
'Zimmerman, in the hands of the IUF, is much more a threat to them than it is to us. And they know that, once we have this file, the IUF will cease to exist.'
The President of the United States looked up from the abstract as if he could hear the nerves behind Fitzsimmons' words. 'You better explain that, Larry.'
'It's in the abstract.'
'I want to hear it in your words.'
'We've been wrong about what State actually sponsors the IUF.'
Rayburn just stared at him.
'The IUF—we've traced Syrian backing, Libyan involvement, ties to several Islamic republics from the Soviet break up. All of it is camouflage. The IUF is, whole cloth, the result of a runaway covert operation managed by the CIA, an operation that began in the mid-eighties.'
'You've got to be fucking kidding me.'
Fitzsimmons shook his head. 'Remember William Casey and his dream of an 'off-the-shelf CIA?
Remember all the hostage negotiations? There were a hell of a lot of Mid-East contacts made back then. A hell of a lot more assets developed than the Senate Intelligence Oversight Committee ever discovered.'
'Are you saying that we created the IUF?'
Fitzsimmons nodded. 'I've backtracked a lot. The quality of our Middle-East intelligence started gaining a lot of credibility right after the IUF formed. Even when the IUF was still a secret society, not publicly known. We knew more about the World Trade Center bombing than we should've. There's even a chance that the site to park the truck was a piece of misinformation that we fed the terrorists—I mean their goal was to bring the building down. If the truck was in a better spot they might've. Oklahoma City, we seem to have known it was a domestic bombing within twelve hours— Days before anyone else. Ever since the overt formation of the IUF, there's been Arab terrorism, but their efficacy against U.S. targets has been remarkably reduced.'
'My God . . .'
'It gets worse.' .
Rayburn looked up at Fitzsimmons.
'Emmit D'Arcy was in the CIA then, a Mid-East analyst. He was one of William Casey's proteges.'
Rayburn was shaking his head.
'D'Arcy's been in a prime position to develop the IUF, and deflect any inquiry. Look at the damn Daedalus theft. Look who was in on the theft, two live CIA agents and a handful of freelancers from the Iran-Contra days. Even though their capture was securely under wraps, someone tipped Zimmerman, the IUF, or both, that we were running a trap for them. D'Arcy's been playing the angle that Zimmerman has compromised everything, casting her as pretty much omniscient— How better to cover up a mole in our own ranks?'
'What are you saying? That D'Arcy engineered that whole warehouse fiasco on purpose?'
'No,' Fitzsimmons said. 'I'm saying that those computer thieves were never meant to be caught. D'Arcy's a genius at improvisation. Within an hour of the capture he had his people there claiming National Security, and was setting up shipment of the Daedalus to DC, and drafting press releases on how the computer was yet to be recovered. He had us believing that it was a carefully calculated plan to capture Zimmerman—so much so that I provided the manpower to take Zimmerman in—and it was all a charade.'
Rayburn shook his head. 'But that means that D'Arcy planned Zimmerman's disappearance. Why?'
'I don't know.' Fitzsimmons could hear the nerves in his own voice. 'But I don't think we have much time to find out. I can't find the Daedalus.'
'What?'
'The computer, D'Arey, and one of my agents, Christoffel, all seem to be missing.'
'Christoffel?'
Fitzsimmons nodded. 'He worked the same Mid-East desk that D'Arcy used to. He was also in charge of Morris Kendal. I've looked at his debriefing of Kendal, again. It now strikes me as much too brief.'
'What a fucking mess.' Rayburn shook his head and put a hand to his forehead, 'D'Arcy?'
'D'Arcy.'
Rayburn's voice became a shallow monotone, drained of most of its regional character. 'You know he was on the short list of people to replace you, once you retired.' He looked over at Fitzsimmons and said, 'Now I have to have the fucker's head on a plate.'
'I know, sir.'
'None of this shit is going to stick to this Administration.' Rayburn stood. 'None, understand?' Rayburn's voice had regained his character, and anger was leaking in. It wasn't directed at Fitzsimmons, but he still felt it, and it was frightening. 'This is the news, Larry. This is not a rogue operation. This is a mole.'
'What are you saying, sir?'
'The United States does not sponsor terrorist organizations. The only other interpretation is that the IUF turned D'Arcy while he was in the CIA, probably others as well.'
'Sir?'
'The IUF created D'Arcy, not the other way around. Do you understand?'
Fitzsimmons nodded.
The day had lengthened until Gideon thought that their captors might have forgotten about them. It seemed to be mid-afternoon before the door to their dark little Victorian room opened. Gideon stood as the door started opening, expecting Volynskji or another armed-guard type.
What he got, instead, was a tall white guy with a buzz cut. It took him a moment to recognize the man
from the group picture of the Evolutionary Theorems Lab.
The other Michael, Michael Gribaldi.
Mike wore a white turtleneck and a pair of blue jeans. He must have been in his late thirties, but he looked like a grad student. Gideon didn't know exactly what it was, something in the posture or the facial expression. There was an odd—for this situation—sense of repressed excitement, a sort of 'gee whiz' look to the man that seemed more appropriate for a teenager.
Mike stood at the door and looked at the two of them, half-smiling. 'Welcome to Chez Zimmerman. I see you've met the help.'
Ruth didn't take Mike's glibness very well. 'Who the hell are you? What right have you got to hold us prisoner?'
Mike backed off and held up his hands. 'Hey, don't hold me responsible for the government hacks, I just work here.'
Gideon stood up and stared into Mike's face, looking for any sign of duplicity. He didn't see any. The guy's face was almost too open. And what he said started the wheels turning in Gideon's head, and the resulting thoughts weren't encouraging.
He stepped forward, between Mike and Ruth to prevent another angry exchange. He held out his hand and said, 'You're Michael Gribaldi?'
Mike took his hand and nodded. 'And you are?'
For a moment Gideon found himself stymied by anyone who didn't already know who he was. 'Gideon,' he said. 'Gideon Malcolm.'
Mike nodded. 'I'm sorry if the boys don't know how to treat guests. Sometimes they act as if they run the place.' Mike gave Gideon such a broad wink that Gideon was certain that the man had no clue about what 'the boys' had been up to.
'Guests!' Ruth's voice cracked on the word. 'We were taken prison—'
