“I took precautions coming here.”
“How did you travel?”
“Economy plus,” Carter said resentfully.
“Did you tell the Swiss you were coming?”
“Surely you jest.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m not.”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder toward the skyline of Zurich, which was barely visible behind a cloak of low clouds and falling snow. The entire scene was devoid of color—a gray city by a gray lake. It suited Gabriel’s mood.
“When were you planning to tell me, Adrian?”
“Tell you what?”
Gabriel handed Carter an unmarked letter-sized envelope. Inside were eight surveillance photographs of eight different CIA field operatives.
“How long did it take you to spot them?” Carter asked, flipping morosely through the pictures.
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“I suppose not.” Carter closed the envelope. “My best field personnel are currently deployed elsewhere. I had to use what was available. A couple of them are fresh off the Farm, as we like to say.”
The Farm was the CIA’s training facility at Camp Peary, Virginia.
“You sent probationers to watch us? If I wasn’t so angry, I’d be insulted.”
“Try not to take it personally.”
“This little stunt of yours could have blown us all sky-high. The Swiss aren’t stupid, Adrian. In fact, they’re quite good. They watch. They listen, too. And they get extremely annoyed when spies operate on their soil without signing the guestbook on the way in. Even experienced field agents have gotten into trouble here, ours included. And what does Langley do? It sends eight fresh-faced kids who haven’t been to Europe since their junior year abroad. Do you know one of them actually bumped into Yaakov a couple of days ago because he was looking down at a
“You’ve made your point.”
“Not yet,” Gabriel said. “I want them out of here. Tonight.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because higher authority has taken an intense interest in your operation. And higher authority has decided it requires an American operational component.”
“Tell higher authority it already has an American operational component. Her name is Sarah Bancroft.”
“A single analyst from the CTC doesn’t count.”
“That single analyst could run circles around any of the eight dolts you sent here to keep watch over us.”
Carter stared at the lake but said nothing.
“What’s going on, Adrian?”
“It’s not what. It’s who.” Carter returned the envelope to Gabriel. “How much will it cost me to get you to burn those damn pictures?”
“Start talking.”
Chapter 37
Lake Zurich
THERE WAS A SMALL CAFÉ on the upper deck of the passenger cabin. Carter drank muddy coffee. Gabriel had tea. Between them they shared a rubbery egg sandwich and a bag of stale potato chips. Carter kept the receipt for his expenses.
“I asked you to keep her name closely held,” Gabriel said.
“I tried to.”
“What happened?”
“Someone tipped off the White House. I was brought into the Oval Office for a bit of enhanced interrogation. McKenna and the president worked me over together, bad cop, bad cop. Stress positions, sleep deprivation, denial of food and drink—all the techniques we’re now forbidden to use against the enemy. It didn’t take long for them to break me. Suffice it to say the president now knows my name. He also knows the name of the Muslim woman with impeccable jihadist credentials you’re in bed with—operationally speaking, of course.”
“And?”
“He’s not happy about it.”
“Really?”
“He’s fearful that U.S.-Saudi relations will suffer grave damage if the operation ever crashes and burns. As a result, he’s no longer willing to allow Langley to be a mere passenger.”
“He wants you flying the plane?”
“Not just that,” Carter said. “He wants us maintaining the plane, fueling the plane, stocking the plane’s galleys, and loading the luggage into the plane’s cargo hold.”
“Total control? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“It makes no sense, Adrian.”
“Which part?”
“All of it, frankly. If we’re running the show, the president has complete deniability with the Saudis if something goes wrong. But if Langley is in charge, any chance of deniability goes right out the White House window. It’s as if he’s trying to block a blow with his chin.”
“You know, Gabriel, I never looked at it in those terms.” Carter picked up the last potato chip. “Do you mind?”
“Enjoy.”
Carter popped the chip in his mouth and spent a long moment thoughtfully brushing the salt from his fingertips. “You have a right to be angry,” he said finally. “If I were you, I’d be angry, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I sailed into town with a cheap story thinking I could slip it past you, and you deserve better. The truth is that the president and his faithful if ignorant servant James A. McKenna aren’t concerned that the al-Bakari operation is going to fail. In fact, they’re afraid it’s going to succeed.”
“Try again, Adrian. It’s been a long few days.”
“It seems the president is head over heels in love.”
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Nadia,” murmured Carter into his crumpled paper napkin. “He’s crazy about her. He loves her story. He loves her courage. More important, he loves the operation you’ve built around her. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’s been looking for. It’s clean. It’s smart. It’s forward-leaning. It’s built for the long haul. It also happens to dovetail nicely with the president’s view of the world. A partnership between Islam and the West to defeat the forces of extremism. Brainpower over brute force. He wants Rashid’s network taken down and tied up with a bow before the next election, and he doesn’t want to share credit.”
“So he wants to go it alone? No partners?”
“Not entirely,” Carter said. “He wants us to bring in the French, the British, the Germans, and the Spaniards, since they were the ones attacked.”
“What about the partridge in a pear tree?”
“He works for a private security firm now. Doing quite nicely, from what I hear.”
“Need-to-know,” Gabriel said. “It isn’t an advertising slogan, Adrian. It’s a sacred creed. It keeps operations from being blown. It keeps assets alive.”
