“Redundant,” Lay objected. “We had already launched our own investigation of the incident through Lucas Ellsworth and the inspector general’s office.”
“Perhaps. Have you traced the source of the leak?”
“That information is classified,” came Lay’s sharp retort.
“Which is another way of saying you haven’t.” An irritatingly superior expression spread across the face of the FBI chief.
The DCIA leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the conference table. “And you have?”
“Our investigation was unfortunately interrupted this morning by the actions of one of the men under scrutiny, but we had already identified a person of interest in the matter.”
“Indeed?”
On-screen, Haskel could be seen to open a folder laying on his desk. “Our investigation came to focus upon one man. He is a paramilitary operations officer in your Clandestine Service. A man with the motive, the access, and the opportunity to betray your mission.”
“Go on.”
“The man’s name is Davood Sarami.”
Harry’s face froze at the declaration. Davood? It couldn’t be. No. There was no way he could have betrayed the team.
“And may I ask what caused your investigation to center on Officer Sarami?” Lay asked, his posture stiff, unmistakably hostile.
“Our investigation of the field team was thorough. Our focus turned to Sarami after we delved into the financial records of the mosque he attends in Falls Church. The imam there, Abdul Faisal Shabaz, a naturalized citizen of this country, has given large sums of money, ostensibly from his congregation, to a charity based out of Amman, Jordan.”
“Get to your point,” Lay ordered irritably when the FBI director paused for effect.
“The charity has close ties to Hezbollah and Hamas. In 2009, Shabaz was photographed with this man.” A picture came flashing up on screen, momentarily blocking their view of Haskel’s face. “Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. Thirty-two years of age, one of the bright young men of Hezbollah. He’s led field operations for the past three years following his successful assassination of a member of the Knesset.”
“So he was not a leader of their organization at the time of this photograph?”
“That is correct. However, he was on his way up. As you can confirm, he’s been on our watchlists for the better part of the last decade.”
“I recognize the name. Do you have any direct connections between Sarami and al-Farouk?”
“Not as of yet. As stated, our operation was blown this morning when one of your other paramilitary operations officers, one Harold Nichols, took it upon himself to pull a gun on Agent Caruso. I am still awaiting word of his release.”
“Wait away, it’s no skin off my nose. So, let me get this straight, your only tie between Sarami and Hezbollah is this imam?”
“That is correct. Undercover agents in the Muslim community in Virginia report that Sarami is seen as being very close to Shabaz, apparently regarding him as a spiritual mentor. Another point of concern is the activities of Sarami’s parents. His father is a partner in a legal firm based in Dayton, which took upon itself
“As did every fashionably liberal law firm in the country,” Lay responded with forced humor. “We knew that when Sarami entered training. If you have nothing more to offer, director, I believe we will bring this conversation to a close.”
“I want my agent. Under the provisions of the CIA’s charter, your detention of him is illegal, and I want him released immediately unless you want action to be taken.”
The DCIA seemed unperturbed. “He was processed out five minutes ago. Sorry, Eric, but you need to get your act together before you start making threats. Good day.”
The screen went black and a heavy, awkward silence fell over the conference room. Lay sighed heavily. “What do we have, Ron?”
The analyst’s face was pained as he looked up from his computer. “It’s not good, boss. The Israelis have fingered al-Farouk as being responsible for the attack on our field team at Eilat, based on security footage showing him in the hotel forty-five minutes before the blast.”
Harry sat there in stunned disbelief. It wasn’t possible. That Davood had betrayed the team, betrayed their brotherhood…
He heard Lay ask, “Was Sarami cleared for the Eilat mission?”
“Yes,” Carter replied. “He was fully aware of operational details.”
Through the swirling fog of emotion, Harry heard his name called and looked up to see Lay staring at him. “I will need you to contact Hamid Zakiri and alert him to the new intelligence.”
“Sir,” Harry began, “with all due respect, I would like to protest this. I have served with Davood, I’ve fought side by side with him, for heaven’s sake! I don’t want to see him hung out to dry on evidence this circumstantial.”
The DCIA seemed to ponder his words. “Not before TALON, right?”
“Sir?”
“You had not served with Sarami prior to TALON, had you?”
“That is correct.”
“Your loyalty to your men is commendable,” Lay began slowly. “And I believe we need to work circumspectly here. We have thousands of dollars of training invested in Sarami. Should he be in fact innocent of the suspicion now fixed upon him, we do not want that money to go to waste. But we need to be careful. Sarami will continue to serve in the field-but I will be counting on you to keep an eye on him. You
“Yes, sir.”
Memories. Hot water cascaded down Thomas’s body as he stood beneath the pulsating showerhead, his thoughts wandering unbidden.
He pushed the knob to turn the water off and slowly sank to the rough tile of the shower floor, feeling sick, like someone was twisting a knife inside him.
Her face rose before him, eyes full of recrimination and unanswered pleas. Calling out his name, a haunting entreaty. There was no help for it. How long he sat there, the water dripping down upon him from the showerhead, he would never know.
At long last, the silence was broken by the sound of his name being called. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, then it came again. “Parker? Are you still in here?”
He hadn’t heard the door to the showers open or close, but it was Davood’s voice. “Yeah?”
“Petras is setting up for mission debrief. Are you ready?”
“Is there such a thing?” Thomas asked. Pain shot through his side as he rose and staggered to the door of the shower, peering through the evaporating steam. “Hand me a towel, will you?”
Davood handed him an old towel, averting his eyes as Thomas dried off, the body modesty characteristic of his Middle Eastern background coming to the fore.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“The death of your guide-the Kurdish woman. Such a waste.”
