The Camel Club

in the van they were in. Whether it was accidental or intentional had never been determined. The crime scene had been horrific, with body parts instead of bodies to collect. Other than Muhammad al- Zawahiri, none of these men were on the “A-list” of terrorist suspects, but it was still fortunate for America that they were dead.

Gray had no way of knowing that the photos of al-Rimi and others had been altered subtly. They were not the pictures of the men who’d actually died either. They were a digitized combination of the real al-Rimi, for example, and the dead man identified as al-Rimi. This was done so that any “earlier” photos of the men still floating around would not look so different as to raise suspicion. It had taken time and considerable expertise. The result had been worth it, though. It was now virtually impossible to identify any of these Arabs from their photos in the NIC database.

The other brilliant stroke had been leaving no “faces” behind on the dead men to identify. What had been substituted in their entirety, of course, were the men’s fingerprints, the forensic signature by which they’d been positively identified. Fingerprints never lied. Of course, in the digital age nothing was inviolate.

And yet with all that, Carter Gray’s gut was telling him something was not right.

Gray clicked out of the file and decided to go for a walk around the NIC grounds. He was allowed to do that, he supposed.

As Gray strolled outside, he looked at the sky, following the flight of a Lufthansa 747 as it made its way into Dulles Airport, and his mind wandered to the past.

Early on in his career at the CIA Gray had been assigned to the CIA’s ultrasecret and now abandoned training facility near Washington, Virginia, a bit over two hours west of D.C. The building, extremely well hidden within the surrounding forest, was known, in CIA parlance, as Area 51A, demonstrating that the Agency did, indeed, have a sense of humor. Unofficially, though, it had usually been referred to as Murder Mountain.

Long since closed down, NIC had recently moved to have it reopened as an interrogation facility for terrorist suspects. However, the Justice Department had gotten wind of the scheme, and the process had slowed down considerably. Then, after the cumulative effects of “Gitmo” Bay in Cuba, the disgrace of Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq, and the Salt Pit prison fiasco in Afghanistan, the plans to reopen the facility were on the verge of being nixed.

Gray was unconcerned, though. There were lots of other places outside the country that would serve the same purpose. Torture of prisoners was illegal under American and international laws. Gray had testified before many committees regarding compliance with this law by his intelligence community, lying to the Congress with virtually every word he spoke. However, did those great and pious legislators who neither knew one word of Arabic nor could even name the capitals of Oman or Turkmenistan without a staffer’s help, really think that was how the world worked?

Intelligence was a filthy business where people lied and people died all the time. The fact that the U.S. president was right now contemplating the assassination of another country’s elected officials was testament enough to how complicated the global politics were.

Gray returned to his office. He wanted to take another look at all these “dead men” who might somehow figure prominently in his future. God help America if they did.

CHAPTER

32

ALEX E-MAILED HIS UPDATED report to Jerry Sykes as soon as he got back to WFO. Unlike his first filing, however, the response this time was very swift. The phone call didn’t merely instruct him to go to Jerry Sykes’ office, or even the SAIC’s. He was ordered to report immediately to Secret Service headquarters and meet with none other than the director of the Secret Service.

Okay, Alex thought, this was probably not a good sign. It was close enough to WFO that Alex could walk, and he did. The time in the fresh air allowed him to ponder his future after the Service, which might be coming faster than he had envisioned, in fact about three years faster.

He had met the current director face-to-face only a couple times before. They’d been social occasions, and the few minutes of chitchat had been quite pleasant. Alex’s gut was telling him that this encounter wouldn’t be nearly as chummy.

A few minutes later he walked into the director’s spacious office. Jerry Sykes was there, apparently trying to disappear into the sofa he was perched on, and, much to Alex’s surprise, Jackie Simpson was sitting next to Sykes.

“You want to close the door, Ford?” Wayne Martin, the director of the Secret Service, said.

Close the door. That was definitely not a good sign. Alex obeyed this instruction and then sat and waited for Martin to start speaking. He was a large man who favored striped shirts with big cuff links. He’d worked his way up through the ranks and was one of the agents who tackled John Hinckley after his attempt to assassinate Reagan. Martin was studying a file in front of him. Shooting a quick glance at it, Alex thought it appeared to be his Service history. Okay, this was really not looking good.

Martin closed the file, sat on the edge of his desk and said, “Agent Ford, I’ll get right to it because, believe it or not, I’ve got a lot of things to do today.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said automatically.

“I got a call from the president a little while ago. He was on Air Force One. The man was on his plane going to a string of campaign events, and he took the time to call me about you. That’s why you’re here today.”

It was as though all the blood were evaporating from Alex’s body. “The president called about me, sir?”

“Would you like to take a guess what about?”

Alex shot a glance at Sykes, who was studying the floor. Simpson was looking at him, but she didn’t appear to be in a helpful mood.

“The Patrick Johnson case?” Alex could barely hear his own voice.

“Bingo!” Martin boomed, slamming a fist down on his desk and causing everybody to jump.

“Since you’re batting a thousand, Ford, you care to take another guess as to what you did that prompted a call from the president of the United States?”

Alex had no saliva left in his mouth, but the man obviously wanted an answer. “I’ve been investigating the death of Patrick Johnson. That’s what I was ordered to do.”

Martin was shaking his head halfway through this answer. “The FBI is the lead investigative agency on the case. My understanding is that you were assigned to merely observe that investigation so as to protect the interests of this agency. And that our only connection to the deceased is that he was technically a joint employee of this agency and NIC. But in reality he was fully under NIC’s control and jurisdiction. Do you disagree with that assessment?”

Alex didn’t even bother to glance at Sykes. “No, sir.”

“Good, I’m glad that we’ve got that established. Now, the FBI found drugs at Mr. Johnson’s residence and is following up along those lines, which would tend to indicate that he was selling said drugs and generating considerable income from that endeavor. And consequently, his employment at NIC was not being considered as possibly connected to his death. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good again.” Martin stood, and Alex braced for what was coming. He wasn’t disappointed.

Martin erupted, “Now, with all that said, would you care to tell me what in the living hell you were thinking when you went out to NIC and questioned none other than Carter Gray about this matter?” This was conveyed in what could only be described as one long drill sergeant scream.

When Alex finally found his voice, he said, “I thought that to cover all the angles, going out to NIC was proper. They had run an analysis on a note for us and—”

“Did you or did you not interrogate Carter Gray?”

“I did not, sir. He showed up and offered to take us to Johnson’s work space. Until