Father Ignatius smiled, folded the paper in his hand, and shoved it into a pocket of his cassock before he said, “She ran a facial-recognition program on both of you when you first entered my church. Standard operating procedure.”
“Presbyterians do that, too,” Kinkaid added.
The clergyman ignored him, and continued, “When we got a hit, I made myself available, to see if you’d make contact. And you did.”
“He works in mysterious ways.” Kinkaid shot a sideways glance at her.
“So I’ve been told.” Father Ignatius sat back in his chair, his fingers locked over his belly. “You didn’t lie about your names, only what you did for a living…and about your target. That will be ten Hail Marys by the way.” The priest swiped his hand in the sign of a cross.
“The night is young. Hold off on the penance, Reverend. I’m only gettin’ started.” Kinkaid’s sarcasm was on full throttle.
“Don’t you see? I had to know if I could trust you. The information we have on both of you is a bit sketchy— for most good operatives, that’s the way it is—but it seems we have mutual allies. And that was good enough for me.”
“What are you talking about?” Kinkaid looked annoyed. “Good enough for what?”
“Good enough for what I’m about to say. I hope you appreciate that I’m taking a risk to reveal how I obtained the name of Martini One. I could have listened to your cover story—very clever, by the way—and been very sympathetic before I sent you away without any help at all. But it appears time is of the essence…for all of us.” Father Ignatius reached for a cookie. “I love gingersnaps, don’t you?”
Kinkaid glared at the man. “If you’re not a priest, who the hell are you?”
“I’m the man capable of delivering divine intervention. That’s all you need to know. As I see it, you could use the hand of Providence.” The priest dunked the cookie into his coffee and tossed it into his mouth. He chewed as he spoke.
“If you ask any good Catholic in town, I minister to the needs of my parishioners. I have a rather daunting schedule of baptisms, marriages, confessions, and funerals, and I conduct masses. I’m rather a jack-of-all-trades, you might say.”
Alexa knew there was more pressing business to discuss with this faux priest, but she couldn’t resist asking the obvious.
“If you’re not ordained, how can you misrepresent yourself as a priest? You’re marrying people under false pretenses…listening to their confessions?”
“Who said I wasn’t ordained?” Father Ignatius cocked his head in question. “Being a priest has its moments. I quite enjoy it most days, but what I do for my employer is my true calling.”
No matter how this man justified what he was doing, Alexa didn’t buy that he was a real priest. And she didn’t miss the fact that he never actually admitted to being ordained either. The best undercover agents were the most convincing when they believed their own lies.
“And what exactly is it that you do for your…employer?” she questioned.
“I monitor the region and maintain Echelon III,” the man said. “I intercepted your SAT-phone communication and eavesdropped, I’m afraid.
“Echelon is a surveillance program, isn’t it?” Kinkaid slumped back in his chair. He didn’t look happy at being taken in by this unassuming guy, especially not after the man saw through his lies.
“It’s much more than that,” the priest argued. “It’s an entire network that provides vital information to support national security, military operations, and law enforcement. Such intelligence is at the heart of the world’s struggle against terrorism. And the intel we obtain can also act as a deterrent against serious crime.”
Alexa sorted through her memory for details on Echelon. Run by four agencies within the United Kingdom and counterparts within the U.S., Echelon III was an updated version of a global network of computers that automatically searched through cell-phone calls, satellite transmissions, faxes, and e-mails, acting like a massive vacuum cleaner.
The program intercepted messages and funneled the gathered data through state-of-the-art computer processors in a network of stations, looking for keywords that generated an alert. And each station had its own Echelon “dictionary” that was merged with all the keywords for the four agencies. The interactive array would disseminate the analyzed data, filtering a wealth of raw information down to a manageable report for further oversight.
If this priest monitored the region, he maintained the local “dictionary,” which stored extensive data on specific targets, including names, topics of interest, addresses, and phone numbers—a database of key surveillance parameters for this part of the world.
“If you manage Echelon”—Alexa furrowed her brow—“that means you’re a spook undercover. Who do you work for? The NSA? GCHQ?”
The Government Communications Headquarters was the U.K.’s version of the NSA.
“That doesn’t really matter. We’re on the same side. And besides, you have limited options.” The priest took another cookie. “If you hadn’t come to me, I would have sought you out. From the first mention of Sayed’s name on your SAT phone, a red flag went up. Abdul Kabir Sayed was involved in an incident in the British Virgin Islands that my people investigated. This fellow has been making a name for himself. He’s ambitious enough to become the next Bin Laden. So it would appear we both have an interest in him.”
“I have only one interest in that bastard. He abducted a friend of mine. A woman. And he still has her,” Kinkaid said, leaning forward. “We’ve tracked him to Baracoa. You have any idea who he’d go to for help?”
“Yes, I have a pretty good candidate,” the man told them. “Jamal Ghazi is an arms dealer with connections to al-Qaeda. He lives in a compound north of Baracoa. Only one road runs north out of Baracoa. It will take you straight to him. He’s well armed and has a small army working for him.”
Father Ignatius not only provided the address, he gave them a sketched layout of Ghazi’s compound, including his best guess on where captives might be held. He told them that since Ghazi had been under his surveillance, he had such information readily available.
“If Sayed is looking for a place to hide, that’s where he’d go. But you’d better have more than just the two of you making a house call.”
Alexa almost told the priest that she had a backup team coming, but she resisted the urge to share the intel. In her line of work, trust had to be earned. And there was too much at stake for her to blindly have faith in a wily stranger like Father Ignatius.
“Tell me, what will you do with him once you find Sayed?” the clergyman asked her, then shifted his gaze to Kinkaid. “You look as if you fancy yourself a cowboy. Will it be a gunfight at the O.K. Corral?”
“That’s none of your…”
Alexa interrupted Kinkaid. “Thanks for opening up to us…Father.” She stood and shook the man’s hand. “And we appreciate the intel.”
“God’s speed.” The clergyman nodded.
Alexa left the church with Kinkaid and pondered what the priest had told them. Dark scenarios ran through her head, especially if Father Ignatius had ulterior motives for sending them into a firefight. The man could be in league with local terrorists or be looking to disgrace U.S. operatives on foreign soil.
Neither of them spoke until they got far enough away from the cathedral and had made certain they were not followed. Without asking, she knew Kinkaid was heading back to the motel.
Her backup team would arrive soon. And they had a siege to plan.
“Do you trust him?” she asked as she kept pace with his lengthy strides.
He thought too long about his answer to give her any real comfort.
“He’s all we’ve got.”
New York City
Sentinels Headquarters
Garrett heard the insistent knock on his door and knew who stood on the other side. Tanya had called earlier and said she had something urgent.
