turns out, her aunt is none other than Rachel Ford.”
Kealey set down his fork and stared across the table. “As in our Rachel Ford? The deputy DCI?”
“One and the same.”
Kealey exhaled slowly, taking it in. “That’s incredible.”
“I know. I couldn’t believe it either.”
“It makes sense, though.”
“What do you mean?”
Kealey told him about the confrontation at the hotel that morning. “She said something strange, John. She was talking about the raid in Alexandria, and the way I knocked her to the ground to get her out of the line of fire. I guess I was a little rough. Anyway, she said, ‘Your little college flashback didn’t stop him from shooting me.’”
“So?”
“So I played cornerback at the University of Chicago. Just two seasons, and I didn’t start, but how the hell could she have known that unless she was checking up on me?”
Harper nodded slowly. “That makes sense. And the only way she could do that is with help from someone high up in the Agency. Someone like Ford.”
“That’s probably how she found out I had the laptop as well.” Kealey’s face tightened in anger. “This Ford woman is really starting to piss me off. Why is she going after me, and why in this way?”
“The accusation carries more weight if it comes from another agency, Ryan. And I already told you why she’s after you — because you keep making it easy for her, and because you’re part of my directorate. It doesn’t matter, though; you’re in the clear on the laptop.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
“The attorney general received a call from Harry Judd this morning. Basically, Judd accused us of interfering in a Bureau investigation and tampering with evidence. He was calling to ask about the possibility of filing charges.”
Kealey closed his eyes and shook his head. Crane must have set things in motion right after she left his room.
“Anyway,” Harper was saying, “the attorney general advised the president of the situation.”
“That probably wasn’t a good idea.”
“It wasn’t,” Harper agreed. “Brenneman already has too much on his plate. The election is coming up. He needs to be campaigning, but instead, he’s dealing with this shit in Iraq. More U.S. soldiers have died in the past week than in the past two months combined. A pissing contest between the Bureau and the CIA is the last thing he needs right now.”
“So he sent word to the respective directors to work it out themselves,” Kealey guessed. “Or face the consequences.”
“I know Andrews got the call, but I can’t say for sure what happened at the Hoover Building. Anyway, you said that Crane instigated this. My guess is that word trickled down from the director’s office. Someone probably told her she was lucky not to have gone the way of the ADIC and to keep her mouth shut.”
Kealey nodded. Craig Harrington, the assistant director in charge of the WFO, had already been placed on administrative leave. The Judiciary Oversight Committee was looking for someone to take the fall for the disastrous raid on Mason’s warehouse, and Harrington was emerging as the most likely candidate.
“The Bureau will still want the computer, though,” Kealey pointed out.
Harper nodded. Having cleared his plate, he set his fork aside and said, “Andrews advised me we are obliged to turn over the laptop within twenty-four hours. I guess he struck some kind of deal with Judd. Either way, I can’t postpone it forever, Ryan. I hope Naomi is working fast.”
At that moment, Kharmai was hurrying back to her temporary desk in McLean, holding a half-empty can of Sprite. Over the past two hours, she’d done everything she could think of to generate leads on Mason’s files. She’d entered every name she could find into the NCIC, but so far, no flags had been raised. She’d struck out with Interpol as well. In a final act of desperation, she had placed calls to a number of CIA stations, all of which were located in countries with ports on Mason’s list. She was hoping something might come of her last-ditch effort, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Her phone started to ring when she was halfway across the floor, and she immediately increased her pace.
Sprinting the last few feet, she snatched it up. “Kharmai.”
“Naomi, it’s Bill Staibler.”
Her heart thumped with anticipation. Staibler was a veteran case officer operating out of Cairo. She’d first gotten through to him two hours earlier. During that brief conversation, he’d intimated that his network of agents included a number of dockworkers on the Egyptian coast. That little tidbit made him a star on her sad little list of prospects. “Hi, sir. Thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem.” He sounded tired. Naomi remembered the time difference and glanced at her watch. It was nearly 7:00 PM in Cairo; Staibler must have been coming off a long day.
“According to your information,” he was saying, “this guy Mason had a container on the Kustatan, a Panamanian vessel which docked in Port Said East on the eighteenth of August. Unfortunately, you don’t have a container number. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. The info I have is fragmented at best.”
“Okay, well, here’s what I can do for you. I can give you a list of all the containers off-loaded that day, as well as the names of the people who collected them. It’s all documented. One of my assets came through for me, but I have to warn you: if Mason’s container was transferred to another ship, you’re shit out of luck. As for what came off the boat, I can tell you what is supposed to be in those containers. That information is listed on the manifests, but as you know, they don’t count for much. You can run the names I’m giving you through the system at Langley, of course, but I’d be surprised if anything comes back.”
He paused, perhaps sensing her disappointment. “I’m sorry, Kharmai, but this is the best I can do.”
She let out a little sigh of frustration before catching herself. She hoped he hadn’t heard it over the line. “I understand, Mr. Staibler. Anyway, thanks for trying. I’d still like to see the log, though, if you don’t mind sending it over.”
“You have a secure fax number?”
She gave it to him and ended the call, then walked over to a bank of fax machines on the east side of the room. A minute later, one of them started to whir. The machine spit out three sheets of paper. Naomi snatched them up and walked back to her desk, where she slumped into her seat and began to read.
Two minutes later, she straightened and her eyes opened wide. Placing the loose pages on her lap, she rapidly brought Mason’s files up on her screen, then scrolled down until she found the appropriate dates. Picking up the phone, she quickly got Staibler back on the line. He sounded slightly annoyed at this second demand on his time, but not unwilling to help.
“Sir, I think I have something here. Is there any way your asset can get me the collection logs from Port Said for two other dates?”
“Possibly. What are they?”
“June twenty-first and July seventeenth.” She continued to read from her screen. “On the date in June, I’m looking for a vessel registered in Italy, the Cala Levante. The vessel that docked in July is Honduran, the Belladonna. I want to know who collected the containers from both of those vessels. A complete list if possible. And, Mr. Staibler, I need this ASAP.”
“You got it. Give me an hour.”
For the next thirty minutes, Kharmai paced steadily behind her desk, the other analysts shooting her little looks of concern or annoyance, depending on their personal inclinations. Lost in thought, she was blind to the attention she was receiving, but eventually, she forced herself to sit down, take a deep breath, and concentrate.
Her feet were aching, so she slipped off her pumps and slid her feet under the desk, massaging one bare foot with the other, then reversing the process. She found this little quirk of hers to be immensely helpful when thinking things through.
First, she considered what she’d found on the collection log from the Egyptian port. Potentially, it was a very important piece of information, but it wasn’t a breakthrough. Even if Staibler could produce verification, it wasn’t going to bring them any closer to finding William Vanderveen, or Rashid al-Umari, for that matter. She needed a
