of, as well as where they were paying for tolls and gasoline, all in an effort to try to figure out who was inside the subject’s home contributing to the increased use of power and water.
It worked around the clock, never sleeping, never stopping, and so had earned itself the nickname the Terminator. It was an appropriate moniker for its day, but the real terminator is what followed—TIP.
The Total Information Paradigm took PROMIS and wedded it with artificial intelligence. At that moment, the intelligence-gathering capabilities of the world’s intel agencies went supernova. It was like going from a Prius to a Lamborghini. Not only could TIP think like a person, it was alleged that it could actually anticipate human behavior.
Nicholas didn’t need to warn him about staying “off the grid.” He was the one, after all, who had schooled Harvath so deeply on both the PROMIS and TIP programs. Aside from observing good tradecraft, those programs were why Harvath had chosen to reach out to Peio and to do so in the manner he had. The priest was outside of practically any relationship tree anyone or any data-mining program could assemble around him.
For Nicholas to reinforce the need to avoid getting flagged by either program had to mean those programs were actively seeking him out.
“Did he say anything else?” Harvath asked the priest.
“He told me I needed to do everything I could to help you get back. Unfortunately, my contacts aren’t what they used to be. Getting you a new passport under a different name is going to take some time.”
“I already have one, so don’t worry.”
Peio nodded. “I should have expected that.”
“What I need, though, is a means to buy my airline ticket. All I have is cash, and that sends up red flags immediately.”
“I know someone with Iberia Airlines. Employees often book tickets for friends through their intranet system. The employee pays with a personal credit card and the friend reimburses the employee.”
Peio had obviously used this “friend” for similar travel arrangements before. No doubt, “reimbursement” meant the price of the ticket plus a premium for Peio’s contact who did the booking.
Traveling on an Italian passport, Harvath wanted to select a U.S. point of entry popular with Italians. “How often does Iberia have flights to New York City?” he asked.
“That’s just it,” replied Peio. “I think Nicholas has a different plan for you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Before coming home, he suggested you stop at an orphanage he has a relationship with.”
“The one in Belarus?” asked Harvath.
“No, this one’s in Mexico.”
CHAPTER 24
MARYLAND
There were over 1,300 historical structures within the 184.5 mile long Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park. Many of them were open to the public, including six “lockhouses,” or “canal quarters,” as they were known, which visitors could rent for overnight stays in order to experience what life was like along the once thriving canal that ran parallel to the Potomac. They came complete with all the modern conveniences of full kitchens, bedrooms, and bathrooms with showers. They were known as Lockhouses 6, 10, 22, 25, 28, and 49. The “blue” lockhouse, so named for the color of its shutters and front door, was also very historic and equipped for overnight stays, but it had never been opened to the public—and with good reason.
The blue lockhouse was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency. Inside, some of the most valuable defectors from the Soviet Union had been debriefed over the course of the Cold War. The term “Behind the blue door” had become synonymous with interrogations at the highest level. The majority of the agents who used the term had no idea where the blue door was, much less that it was attached to a diminutive C&O canal house. Many simply assumed the door existed somewhere deep within the bowels of headquarters, where only the Director and a handful of privileged others were ever allowed to go.
Reed Carlton saw the signal—a bird feeder propped against the porch—and knew the front door would be open. He didn’t bother knocking; he didn’t need to.
In a chair near a small, wood-burning fireplace a man sat reading. He didn’t look up when Carlton walked in. He seemed content to read his book and listen to the crackle of the fire.
The man’s name was Thomas Banks. Those who knew him called him Tom. Those who knew him from the war called him Tommy. Carlton hadn’t served with him, but he had served under him and eventually took over for him at the CIA and had earned the right to call him Tommy.
One of the youngest OSS operatives in World War II, the exploits of Tommy Banks had been the stuff of legends. With no other marketable skills other than “Indian fighting,” as Banks liked to call it, he had agreed to help establish the Central Intelligence Agency. He found his niche in the Directorate of Plans, which would eventually be called the National Clandestine Service—the branch of the CIA that recruited foreign assets and ran clandestine operations around the world.
For decades, Banks worked in the field before settling down to “raise his chicks,” as he called the younger operatives, and teach them how to conduct ops even better than he had. Eventually, Banks would head the division as its deputy director, back when it was known as the Directorate of Operations.
Much of what Reed Carlton had learned about espionage and clandestine activity, he had learned from this incredible man, a quiet rock star in America’s intelligence and political arenas. Though most citizens would never know his name, there wasn’t a single powerful person in D.C. he couldn’t get on the phone in minutes.
“I could hear you crunching up the path from a mile away,” the man said as Carlton closed the door. “Looks like we’re going to have to train you all over again.”
He shook his head. “I think I’m getting too old for any more training, Tommy.”
“You’re never too old, Peaches. Just too lazy.”
“Speaking of lazy,” Banks continued, the slight Tennessee drawl still evident in his voice despite having spent the bulk of his life living within a half a tank of gas of the nation’s capitol, “You didn’t bring a cell phone to this meeting, did you?”
“I was taught better than that.”
Banks grunted his approval. “All this damn technology is dangerous. You didn’t use a GPS to get here, did you?”
Carlton shook his head. “I drove my old Jeep. It doesn’t have GPS.”
“And none of that damn OnStar either?”
“No. No OnStar.”
“Good,” replied Banks. “People have grown so soft they’d rather allow a company to catalog their every move and listen in to their private conversations than learn to read a map.”
Carlton hung his coat on a peg near the door. “It’s not all useless. They helped unlock my assistant’s car once when she had locked her keys inside.”
“That’s why God gave us rocks,” Banks stated. “No offense, but if you’re dim enough to lock your keys in your car, maybe you need an hour or two to sit and wait for the man with the slim jim to arrive while you reflect on your IQ.”
The man was as irascible as ever. He didn’t have much time for stupid or lazy people. He came from an age, as did Carlton, where people were expected to make their own way. They didn’t sit and wait for people to do things for them. “Thank you for meeting me like this, Tommy.”
“You made it irresistible,” the older man responded as he closed his book and waved his guest over.
