“The number of dots on the screen is a prime number,” said Rubens, without bothering to look.
“3267000013,” said Johnny Bib, pronouncing each digit triumphantly. “What a glorious number.”
“Indeed,” sighed Rubens as he left the room.
“We always intended to arrest Asad. I’m merely suggesting we move up the time schedule.”
“I designed the operation, Dr. Bing. I am fully aware of its outline, as well as its ultimate goal.” Rubens pressed his hand around the phone handle. “I see no reason to arrest him yet. The device is working perfectly and he has no idea that it’s been inserted. We can track him at will.”
“You’ve gained no new information. The longer you wait, the higher the risk of compromise.”
“And the more useful information we will obtain,” said Rubens. “We’ve already found this connection to Germany, which no one has developed until now. If the president has changed his mind—”
“Carry on as you see fit,” said Bing, finally retreating. “I will contact the German authorities and have someone get back to you.”
Before he could say anything else, Bing hung up the phone.
Rubens pushed his chair out from his desk and took off his shoes. He stepped onto the hand-woven silk rug next to his workspace and bent over, arms together, to begin the
Bing was going to be an incredible problem, far more difficult to deal with than he had foreseen. He needed to prepare a long-term strategy, but this was not the time.
Rubens continued his yoga routine, sliding his full body to the floor. He spread up into cobra position, pushing his head back. It was too abrupt a move: “too mad Western” in the words of his instructor. Before he could try again, his encrypted phone rang.
“I understand we had a problem yesterday,” said Debra Collins, the Central Intelligence Agency’s deputy director of operations, when he picked up.
“Debra, good to speak to you.”
“I’ve talked to both of the officers involved,” continued Collins. “It won’t happen again.”
In CIA-speak, that was an abject apology. It was so out of character for Collins, Rubens immediately began wondering what she really wanted.
“For what it’s worth,” she added, backtracking in a much more familiar tone, “they thought he was going to escape. And they weren’t entirely briefed on his importance. The people working on Red Lion have been kept on a strict need-to-know basis, and there are a lot of gaps.”
“I wouldn’t think any officer needs to be told to avoid using a weapon whenever possible,” said Rubens.
“Point taken. But they are good people. They have good track records. It won’t happen again.”
“I appreciate that,” said Rubens, still wondering what she was really after. He gave her a brief update, mentioning the German connection and then saying that Bing had suggested bringing Asad in immediately.
“That makes no sense,” said Collins. “I hope you told her that.”
She sounded sincere, but Collins was a master at political grappling, and Rubens didn’t trust her.
“She made it clear we could proceed,” Rubens said, remaining neutral, or at least as neutral as possible. Then he changed the subject. “You’ve heard what happened to George Hadash?”
“Yes,” said Collins. “It was a shock. We knew the operation had risks, but still. It was a shock.”
“Yes, it was,” said Rubens, though he resented the ‘we.’ Collins and Hadash had never been close.
“Are they planning a state funeral?”
“Yes, though his daughter would prefer something more private. She called the president last night. It’s been arranged for tomorrow already.”
“So soon.”
“Yes.”
“What did the president say?”
It occurred to Rubens that this might be an elaborate plot by Bing to see if Rubens was using his connections to confer privately with the president. The idea galled him, and instantly he decided he was being too paranoid.
And yet, given Collins’ history, such a possibility could not be entirely ruled out.
“I don’t know,” Rubens told her. “Irena spoke to him herself.”
“George deserves a state funeral.”
“Surely,” said Rubens. “Surely.”
CHAPTER 43
Lia spent the next two hours tailing Asad as the al-Qaeda leader zigzagged around Istanbul’s old city, having lunch in a restaurant a few blocks from the Blue Mosque, then visiting the Tomb of Sultan Ahmet I and the Haghia Sophia. She changed her clothes twice, following along dutifully, making sure that what the Art Room was hearing jibed with what he was doing.
“Don’t get too close,” her runner Sandy Chafetz told her as she tagged along into the Haghia Sophia. “We have everything under control.”
Right, thought Lia. You have everything under control. She liked Chafetz better than Rockman, but even she succumbed to Art Room Ego, thinking she knew all and controlled all just because she had a half-dozen computer screens in front of her.
When the Haghia Sophia—“the church of holy wisdom”—was built in the sixth century as a Christian church, it was one of the wonders of the world, its walls glittering with gold and elaborate mosaics of Christ and the saints. Sacked during the Crusades, it was turned into a mosque during the fifteenth century, and the mosaics and other art were removed or plastered over. Some of the plaster had been removed from the walls in the western gallery, and a mosaic of Christ and the Emperor Constantine IX peeked out from the whitewash. Raised as a Roman Catholic by her parents, the desecration sent a vicious shock through Lia when she walked onto the second floor, and for a few seconds she remained fixed to the spot, absorbed by the image and the violence it implied.
When she lowered her gaze, she realized Asad stood less than ten feet away, a smirk on his face.
Lia was dressed as a tourist now, and Asad had been doped when he saw her yesterday. Still, she had gotten closer than she wanted. She’d let her emotions interfere with her actions.
Slowly, she turned to the side and wandered off to a group of schoolchildren who were inspecting some of the recent restoration work. When she looked back in Asad’s direction, she saw that he was heading for the stairway.
“He’s outside,” said Rockman a few minutes later.
She kept her distance after that.
Around five, Asad went to a house on the northern outskirts of the city, apparently abandoning the one he had used earlier. Lia set up another surveillance net and then moved back, the intercepts indicating that Asad had no plans to go out. The Art Room decided it was a good time for a conference and Lia began trolling the area, looking for a place where she could talk to herself without seeming out of place or being overheard. Finally she settled on a small park, taking out her satphone to pretend to talk to it. Lia had changed again, donning another conservative jilbab. This proved to be out of step with the neighborhood, as she realized when a middle-aged woman passed by and gave her an odd, disapproving glance.
“We’re all comfortable?” asked Telach.
“I’m not,” said Karr. “I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” said Dean. Lia could hear the helicopter in the background when he spoke; he’d changed places with Karr.
“The operation has been quite successful,” said Rubens, coming onto the line. “You’ve all done very well.”
“But,” said Lia.
