to pay him some money, of course. Probably a lot of money. He wants a million dollars, U.S.”
“Damn. Just a mil? He’ll have to buy a couple of new camels to carry all the gold they will give him to get Middleton back safe.” Buzz Higbee put the envelope in a deep sweater pocket. “How does Washington contact this asset if they want to do something?”
“Get a quiet message to our military attache in Washington. Paris will pass it on through a coded microburst transmission to the asset.”
“Sounds almost too good to be true, Jean-Paul, which means it probably isn’t. What’s the catch?”
“I considered that and asked about it. There is nothing that we know of,” the Frenchman said. “Nobody wants to see still another flareup in that region. This isn’t Iraq, and Paris is more than willing to work with Washington on the problem. So I believe the only downside, as you say, is that you are now in my personal debt. I demand a lunch.”
“Anywhere you want, and make it somewhere expensive. CIA is buying.”
Jean-Paul smiled. “I was hoping you would say that. I will call you in the morning to name a place. Tell Marie that I send my love.”
They shook hands and parted, heading toward opposite ends of the bridge, hurrying to reach shelter before the storm broke.
CHAPTER 13
THE CIA REPRESENTATIVE AT the meeting of the National Security Council wore a private, satisfied smile. He had something that would get Buchanan off his ass. CIA tapped the keys on a laptop computer and the photograph of a middle-aged man with dark hair and a thick brushy mustache flashed onto one of the wall screens. “His name was Pierre Falais when he served in the Foreign Legion. He became a Muslim after his enlistment was up and took the name of Abu Mohammed. Father was French, mother Algerian. Studied to be an engineer in France, but gave it up, did the military stint, and then moved to Syria in about 1985 and worked as a skilled carpenter. Injured in a fall from a ladder and couldn’t do the high work anymore, so he moved to this village and set up shop. Does a little carpentry, a little farming, and a lot of spying for the French.”
“Why should we trust the French on this?” asked National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan.
“They controlled the area for years in the colonial times, and French roots run deep there. The information was given to us through a totally reliable channel, Mr. Buchanan. Our own contact agent is retired, but has known his French counterpart for many years. He believes the information is valid.” CIA stopped briefly to consider his next words. “Paris has done an extremely rare, timely, and thorough breakout on this guy for us.”
“So this Abu Mohammed actually saw General Middleton and knows precisely where he is being held?”
“We consider the information to be accurate as of this moment. It could change at any time.” CIA replaced the large photograph with a map, satellite imagery of a small town just to the east of the rugged Mount Druz. It was only a couple of streets and blocky buildings. “This is where the informant claims Middleton is being held… right… here.” He tapped a key and a red circle blinked around one of the small buildings near the edge of town.
Buchanan tapped his fingers against his pursed lips. “Anyone care to comment?”
The table remained silent for a few moments as he watched them all carefully. Finally, the woman from State gathered her nerve. “I’m uncomfortable with it.”
“Why?” Buchanan had never liked her. One of those faceless drones who had lived overseas too long, enjoying the good life and throwing embassy parties. She had been in Rio until she came back home to that roost of diplomatic vipers over on C Street, for God’s sake. What would she know about the Middle East? “What troubles you?”
“It all seems too easy. Too convenient,” State said, keeping her voice quiet and level. Buchanan was trying to move too fast, she thought, and nobody was willing to buck him. “Any time there is a major incident, we start getting walk-ins to embassies, our intel communities see their switchboards light up, and the FBI has to beat informants away with a stick. These potential informants all smell money and want to swap information for cash. On the Middleton kidnap, however, the secret world has gone quiet. Nobody got anything until this retired old CIA guy is contacted by his buddy, a retired senior French intelligence officer, and the whole thing falls into our laps. We get a local guide, his picture and history, and the address where the victim is being kept.”
“So you think they are lying?” Let her dig her own grave.
“No. But it’s possible that both Washington and Paris are being used. I have been in government service more than twenty years, Mr. Buchanan, and it has never been this easy. Problems of this magnitude do not just resolve themselves.”
“Your concern is duly noted,” Buchanan said, knowing her comments were true. The contact in Syria was working with the Shark Team there and the information was intentionally being fed in from the field. He had to sidetrack her. The others at the table remained silent as Buchanan smirked. “This one indeed has come out of the blue. I think Paris realizes just how deep in the crapper they are with us on other things, particularly Iraq, and are offering this up as a goodwill gesture without having to do so publicly. That’s why they used the old boys. Okay, so everybody knows where we are. What’s the next step?”
General Henry Turner, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, leaned into his microphone. “We want to go in and get him as soon as possible. The navy is moving a task force into position in the eastern Med, and we can fly a Force Recon rescue team in over Israel and plop right down on these people. Thirty minutes on the ground and we bring out both Middleton and the informant. All we need to green-light the mission is the President’s authorization.”
Buchanan nodded once. Good, the general had shifted the attention of the group from questioning the “how” to the “what next.” He stood abruptly. “Sounds good. Make your final plans and prepare a briefing for the President.”
“Yes, sir. We will get him everything he needs to know.”
“Then let’s go and get your general,” said Buchanan. He turned and left the room.
State caught up with CIA on the way out. “This is too damned easy,” she repeated.
CIA shook his head almost imperceptibly in agreement. “I just work here,” he said. They left the White House together.
Gerald Buchanan stood at the window of his office with the door closed, ready to sign the death warrant. A high position carried burdens. He, and he alone in this building, including the fool who sat in the Oval Office, had the guts to sign an order of the sort he contemplated. Few men in the entire city would be willing to sign it. That bitch from State certainly could never do it. They were weaklings who did not understand putting higher needs over the survival of one man. For the good of the United States of America, General Bradley Middleton had to die.
General Turner had made a tactical verbal mistake in his eagerness to rescue Middleton by unveiling his determination to use only Marines. Buchanan had captured one of Turner’s pawns in that move, because he would now be able to confine his search for just the right man, someone qualified to carry out the order, to a handful of Marines to put U.S. military fingerprints on this assassination.
He moved to his wall safe, placed his right palm against the biometrie reader, and dialed a combination. When the heavy door swung open, he pulled out a file that had been secretly ordered from the CIA on a dozen Special Forces operatives who were occasionally used for unique missions. “The wet stuff,” CIA had explained.
Taking it to his desk, sitting in the black high-backed chair and studying the papers under the bright light, he flipped to a section that identified three Marines who were employed for such work, and saw that two of them were already on other assignments.
The remaining candidate was an expert scout sniper and gunnery sergeant. The statistics and the photograph showed that he was five-nine, 160 pounds, with gray eyes and short brown hair; a combat veteran; age thirty-four; single; and numerous decorations including awards from foreign governments and letters of commendation that were marked TOP SECRET. Buchanan read the biography with some interest, for it seemed that the man had been in almost every hot spot around the world for the past ten years, including special missions with the Israelis, the British, and the Russians. He was officially credited with eighty-one confirmed kills, but the real figure was much higher, for the number included only his victims who had been confirmed, and not any killed in special secret operations. Interestingly, the file also had a couple of letters of reprimand that indicated problems with authority. His last mission had involved a questionable kill on the wrong side of the Pakistani border, which had caused a
