watchers on them, just to be on the safe side.
With Chiara in Washington, Gabriel sharply curtailed the amount of time he spent in Rashidistan. He would arrive at Langley in time for the morning senior staff meeting, then spend a few hours peering over the shoulders of the analysts and the data miners before returning to Georgetown to meet Chiara for lunch. Afterward, if the skies were clear, they would do a bit of shopping or stroll the pleasant streets discussing their future. At times, it seemed they were merely resuming the conversation that had been interrupted by the bombing in Covent Garden. Chiara even raised the subject of working at Isherwood’s gallery. “Think about it,” she said when Gabriel objected. “That’s all I’m saying, darling. Just think about it.”
For the moment, though, Gabriel could think only of Nadia’s security. With Carter’s approval, he reviewed the Agency’s plans for Nadia’s long-term protection and even had a hand in drafting the material that would be leaked to the American press. Mainly, he waged a tireless campaign from within Rashidistan to prevent the arrests from happening, telling anyone who would listen that the Agency, by bowing to political pressure, was about to make a catastrophic blunder. Carter stopped attending meetings where Gabriel was present. There was no point. The White House had ordered Carter to bring down the hammer. He was now in constant contact with friends and allies in a dozen countries, coordinating what was to be the single biggest haul of jihadist militants and operatives since the fall of Afghanistan.
On a Friday morning in late March, Gabriel pulled him aside long enough to say that he was planning to leave Washington to return to England. Carter suggested Gabriel stay a little longer. Otherwise, he was going to miss the big show.
“When does it start?” asked Gabriel gloomily.
Carter looked at his watch and smiled.
Within hours the dominoes began to fall. They toppled so quickly, and on such a wide scale, that the press struggled to keep pace with the unfolding story.
The first arrests took place in the United States, where FBI SWAT teams executed a series of simultaneous raids in four cities. There was the cell of Egyptians in Newark that was planning to derail a New York–bound Amtrak train. And the cell of Somalis in Minneapolis that was plotting chemical attacks against several downtown office buildings. And the cell of Pakistanis in Denver that was in the final stages of a plot to murder hundreds of people with a series of attacks on crowded sporting facilities. Most alarming, however, was Falls Church, Virginia, where a six-member cell was in the final stages of a plan to attack the new U.S. Capitol Visitor Center. On one of the suspect’s computers, the FBI found casing photos of tourists and schoolchildren waiting to be admitted. Another suspect had recently rented an isolated warehouse to begin preparing the peroxide-based bombs. The money had come from the Algerian in Montreal, who was arrested at the same time, along with eight other Canadian residents.
In Europe, the haul was even larger. In Paris, the terrorists were plotting to attack the Eiffel Tower and the Musée d’Orsay. In London, they had targeted the Millennium Wheel and Parliament Square. And in Berlin, they were preparing a Mumbai-style assault on visitors to the Holocaust memorial near the Brandenburg Gate. Copenhagen and Madrid, victimized by the first round of attacks, yielded additional cells. So did Stockholm, Malmö, Oslo, and Rome. Across the Continent, bank accounts were frozen and businesses were shut down. All thanks to Nadia’s money.
One by one, prime ministers, presidents, and chancellors appeared before the press to proclaim that disaster had been averted. The American president spoke last. Resolute, he described the threat as the most serious since 9/11 and hinted that more arrests were coming. When asked to describe how the cells had been uncovered, he deferred to his counterterrorism adviser, James McKenna, who refused to answer. He went to great pains, however, to point out that the breakthrough had been achieved without resorting to tactics used by the previous administration. “The threat has evolved,” declared McKenna, “and so have we.”
The following morning, the
Chapter 47
The Palisades, Washington, D.C.
THAT SAME EVENING, THE CIA director summoned the staff to the Bubble, Langley’s futuristic auditorium, for a pep rally. Ellis Coyle chose not to attend. Such events, he knew, were as predictable as his nights at home with Norah. There would be the usual drivel about pride restored and an Agency on the mend, an Agency that had finally found its place in a world without the Soviet Union. Coyle had heard the same speech from seven previous directors, all of whom had left the CIA weaker and more dysfunctional than they had found it. Drained of talent, weakened by the reorganization of the American intelligence community, the Agency was a smoldering ruin. Even Coyle, a professional dissembler, could not sit in the Bubble and pretend that the arrest of sixty suspected terrorists heralded a brighter future—especially since he knew the truth about how the breakthrough had been achieved.
There was a four-car pileup on Canal Road. As a result, Coyle was able to listen to the end of
“I suppose that’s why we weren’t invited.”
“Don’t be petty, Ellis. It doesn’t suit you.”
She added an inch of Merlot to her glass as Lucy entered the kitchen, leash in mouth. Coyle attached it dutifully to her collar and together they walked to Battery Kemble Park. Near the base of the wooden sign, at a precise forty-five-degree angle falling left to right, was a chalk mark. It meant there was a package waiting for Coyle at drop site number three. Coyle rubbed out the mark with the toe of his shoe and entered.
It was dark in the trees, but Coyle had no need of a flashlight; he knew the footpath the way a blind man knows the streets around his home. From MacArthur Boulevard, it ran flat for only a few paces before rising sharply up the slope of the hill. At the top of the park was a clearing where the hundred-pound guns of the old battery had once stood. To the right was a narrow tributary spanned by a wooden footbridge. Drop site number three was just beyond the bridge beneath a fallen oak tree. It was difficult to access, especially for a man of early middle age with chronic back problems, but not for Lucy. She knew each of the drop sites by the sound of its spoken number, and could clean them out in a matter of seconds. What’s more, unless the Bureau had discovered some way to speak to dogs, she could never be called to testify. Lucy was a perfect field agent, thought Coyle: smart, capable, fearless, and utterly loyal.
Coyle paused for a moment to listen for the sound of footfalls or voices. Hearing nothing, he gave Lucy the command to empty drop site three. She darted into the woods, her black coat rendering her all but invisible, and splashed into the streambed. A moment later, she came scrambling up the embankment with a stick in her mouth and dropped it obediently at Coyle’s feet.
It was about a foot in length and approximately two inches in diameter. Coyle took hold of each end and gave a sharp twist. It came apart easily, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside the compartment was a small slip of paper. Coyle removed it, then reassembled the stick and gave it to Lucy to return to the drop site. In all likelihood, Coyle’s handler would collect it before dawn. He wasn’t the smartest intelligence officer Coyle had ever encountered, but he was thorough in a plodding sort of way, and he never made Coyle wait for his money. That was hardly surprising. The officer’s service faced many threats, both internal and external, but a shortage of money was not one of them.
Coyle read the message by the glow of his mobile phone and then dropped the slip of paper into a plastic Safeway bag. It was the same bag he used five minutes later to collect Lucy’s nightly offering. Tightly knotted, it
