Bloodmoney (30 page)

“I know who you are,” Marx answered. “We all do. You’re famous.”

“Oh, good! Well, I am in Britain, passing through, and I thought perhaps you could meet me for breakfast or lunch, or whatever meal people are supposed to eat at this hour. I have been traveling, and I am a bit mixed up.”

“Where are you, Mr. Hoffman?”

“Essex, or Sussex, or something like that. It’s an air base. I can get a car and be in London in an hour. We need to meet somewhere, um, quiet, where nobody will have any idea who we are. I will book a room at the, let me see…Holiday Inn. I am looking on my infernal BlackBerry for the right one. ‘Holiday Inn Express Limehouse.’ That sounds dreadful, doesn’t it? It’s in the East End, in between you and me. I’ll see you there in an hour. Ask for ‘Fred Smith’ and come up to my room. Don’t worry, I’m quite harmless.”

“I’ll be there. I hope there isn’t a problem.”

“There most definitely is a problem. That’s why I want to see you. But it’s not your problem, if that’s what you mean. Just come to the hotel, and don’t tell anyone, please, including your mates out in Los Angeles, especially not them.”

The desk clerk at the Holiday Inn gave Sophie Marx a dubious look when she requested the room number of Mr. Smith: He called on the house phone to make sure that the guest was expecting a visitor. When “Mr. Smith” confirmed that he was in, the desk clerk gave a sorry shake of his head, as if he pitied them both for the encounter that was about to ensue.

Hoffman was waiting in a small room on the eighth floor that overlooked a parking lot and, beyond it, the architectural foothills of the City of London. He was wearing a navy cashmere sweater that gave him the soft, round look of a blue marshmallow. His eyes were rimmed with the pouches of fatigue. His reading glasses were dangling from his neck on a braided lanyard.

Marx hadn’t time to change into something fancy, so she was dressed informally, in the slacks and denim jacket she had worn to work. They made a most unlikely pair.

Hoffman shook her hand warmly, as if they were old friends, and thanked her for coming on such short notice. He motioned her toward a bright red couch on the other side of the bed, and settled his bulk into a matching red desk chair. He took out his cell phone and removed the battery. She did the same.

“You look familiar,” he said, eying her. “Have we met?”

“You spoke at the graduation of my Career Trainee class. You wouldn’t remember that. And then when I came home from Beirut, I was part of a group that briefed you on telecommunications tradecraft. You probably wouldn’t remember that, either.”

“I don’t, but I remember your face, from somewhere or other. And I have read your file, so I feel as if I know you. You have a very good record, I must say. People like you. They have confidence in you. That includes your current supervisor, Mr. Gertz. He expects you to unravel the mystery of who has been killing his officers, although I think he is becoming a tad impatient. How is it coming along, then?”

Marx looked at him warily, uncertain of how to proceed. Hoffman wasn’t her boss, and she wasn’t authorized to talk with him about her work, even though he was a senior CIA official. But he was a celebrated figure, and he conveyed an authority that transcended the nominal rules. She decided to answer.

“My theories have all been wrong so far, sir, but I’m working on it. If Jeff is impatient, so am I.”

“What does your intuition tell you? Be honest with me. I need to hear your ideas.”

“I think this isn’t a normal counterintelligence investigation, Mr. Hoffman. Usually we look for an inside source who has penetrated our operations—a rotten apple in the barrel. But that doesn’t fit the facts: The people who have been killed were based in different locations. They didn’t know each other. The only thing they had in common was that they were working on the same target. The only person who knew the details of what they were working on was Mr. Gertz, and he’s not a suspect.”

“So what does that leave as an option? Where’s our leak?”

“I don’t know yet. But if I had to guess, I would say that we have a technical problem. Someone is reading our mail. They are tracking our digital footprints. But that’s hard to believe. These groups in Pakistan are smart, but they don’t have the surveillance or intercept capabilities that a government does. At least we don’t think they do. That’s why it’s a puzzle. Does that make any sense?”

Hoffman nodded vigorously. There was a smile on his face. He had wanted to make certain that Sophie Marx was the right person for the plan he had set in motion, and he was reassured.

“Just so,” he said. “Someone is reading our mail, or, to be more precise, our financial records. That is how they are targeting us. They are inside the banking system in a way that allows them to see our people and where they are going. That’s how they have been killing our officers.”

Marx looked at him curiously.

“How do you know all this, Mr. Hoffman?”

Hoffman patted his stomach. He was smiling again.

“I have a source. And he’s about to become your source, if you will agree to help me.”

“What do I have to do? Just tell me.”

“It’s complicated. I need to ask you some questions. Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, but Hoffman called the front desk anyway and ordered two plates of french fries and two beers, both of which he appeared quite happy to consume himself. When he had placed his order, he turned back to Marx.

“Now, then, for starters, are you frightened? Personally, I mean. With three people from your organization dead, this is obviously risky business. Jeff Gertz says he has issued a no-travel order, with everybody grounded to their home base. But you’re still here in London. Why is that? Aren’t you worried?”

“Of course I’m worried. But I’m not about to go home. I don’t scare easily. If you read my file, you know that I had an unusual upbringing. All the scary things have already happened to me.”

“Are you willing to travel to places that would be more dangerous than London?”

“Sure, in principle. Where do you have in mind?”

Hoffman closed his eyes. He clasped his hands and put them under his chin. He looked like an overfed monk.

“Pakistan,” he said. “I want you to see someone in Islamabad, if you’re willing. You will have to meet him in person, and on his turf, I’m afraid. Otherwise we cannot obtain the information that he says he is prepared to offer.”

“Who’s the source in Islamabad, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“His name is Malik. He is the director general of Inter-Services Intelligence.”

“Well, fancy that. Good for you, Mr. Hoffman.”

“Thank you,” he said ceremoniously, with a small flourish of the hand that was meant to signify a bow. “But you understand what this means. My source is in contact with the people who have been killing your colleagues. That is the nub of our problem. He tells me that he is prepared to help us, and I believe him. But you are the person who will take the risk.”

“That doesn’t bother me. People in that part of the world are always playing a double game. It goes with the territory. I learned that in Beirut. So, sorry, if you’re trying to frighten me off, it won’t work.”

“Good girl. Now I have another question for you, if you please. What do you think about Jeff Gertz?”

“That’s not an easy question. He’s my boss. I report to him. He gave me this job and a chance to exercise responsibility, so I’m grateful. He’s never done anything to harm my career.”

“Yes, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Do you trust him? That’s what I want to know.”

She tried to think what the right answer was, politically speaking, and concluded that there wasn’t one. She just had to say the truth.

“He has powerful friends, Mr. Hoffman. That’s what people say, anyway. So my answer may get me in trouble. But no, I don’t trust Jeff fully. I don’t understand his agenda. He has a tight hold on our organization, but I don’t always understand what he’s doing. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, but it’s what I think.”

Hoffman had closed his eyes again while she was talking, so she couldn’t read his reaction. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds after she had finished her answer, but then he spoke up.

“You have it exactly, precisely right, as far as I am concerned. That’s why I am going to ask you not to tell Gertz anything about your trip to Pakistan, or what you learn there. I want you to report back to me, and then we will figure out what to do.”

“I’ll get fired, Mr. Hoffman. Jeff won’t tolerate disloyalty. I know that about him. He’ll find out, because he always does, and then I’ll be out the door. You’re asking me to commit career suicide.”

“I don’t think so,” said Hoffman slowly. “I am actually offering you a means of escape from professional ruin. But there’s no way for you to be sure, is there? The reality here is that you will have to take my word. I cannot offer you any assurance that would be credible. In the end, it’s like everything else in our business. It is about trust.”

Marx looked out the window of this antiseptic hotel, toward the clustered buildings of the City of London. She had always hoped there would be a moment in her career like this, when someone would offer her the chance to do something really important. But now that it had arrived, it was so fragile, no more than a thread between two people who, until an hour before, had never talked.

“I trust you,” she said. “Let’s talk about the details.”

They spent another hour within the four bland walls of the Holiday Inn Express. Hoffman ate his french fries, both plates, but Marx had one of the beers. He explained the procedures for contacting Lieutenant General Mohammed Malik through his personal email address and his private cell phone number. Hoffman said he would send the Pakistani general a message advising that she was coming.

With that transmission of information, he warned, the real danger would begin. For it was a certainty that General Malik had been in contact with the people who were killing Marx’s colleagues, and he might do so again if he decided it was in his interest. And even if General Malik didn’t breathe a word, the trackers from Al-Tawhid might be able to follow Marx anyway, through their own surveillance, just as they had the other operatives of The Hit Parade.

They talked, finally, about what Marx would say to Jeff Gertz about her absence. She proposed the cover story: She had uncovered something important for the investigation in the files of Alphabet Capital: Howard Egan had met with someone in Dubai on his way to his fatal visit to Karachi. She needed to debrief this person immediately, and there hadn’t been time to check first with Gertz. She would apologize in an email that she would send from the airport, as she was about to board her plane.

“Will he believe that?” Hoffman asked.

“Probably not. But it will be too late for him to stop me by then. And you’ll protect my back when I return, assuming that I return.”

Marx meant that last line as a bravura joke, but neither of them laughed. This was a situation in which it was impossible to be sure that she was not walking into a trap.

That afternoon, when Marx returned to the Alphabet Capital office in Mayfair to make her travel arrangements through Perkins’s secretary, she received a “book cable” message from The Hit Parade in Studio City that had been sent to all personnel abroad. It stated that an officer of The Hit Parade had been killed in Afghanistan that day while on his way to a covert meeting. That made four.

The cable repeated, more emphatically, the earlier directive that no officer of The Hit Parade should travel without explicit permission. There was a global lockdown. Every foreign officer should take immediate precautions to ensure personal security, varying their routes, procedures and communications practices. They should stop using all credit cards and cellular phones, including those issued to them in alias names.

Sophie Marx ignored the message. Mona, the secretary at Alphabet Capital, had booked the initial leg of Marx’s flight to Islamabad via Dubai for that evening. She knew that if she didn’t leave immediately, she might not be able to do so at all. She knocked on Perkins’s door to say goodbye, but Mona said that he was out of the office, visiting his lawyer. She tried to write a note, but gave up after several tries in which she said either too little or too much.

When she got to Heathrow, Marx sent a message to Jeffrey Gertz, as planned, saying that she was on her way to Dubai. She was sitting in her seat waiting to take off when her phone rang. She moved to turn it off, fearing that it was Gertz, but she recognized Perkins’s number. When he came on the line, his voice was enthusiastic, almost breathless, as if he’d just made a big decision. He apologized that he had been away from the office. He had been doing some thinking, he explained.

“I’m not going to keep working with these bastards,” he said.

“Good,” she answered. “Don’t.”

“But you’re one of them.”

“Not anymore. I’m out.”

They were closing the door of the plane. The flight attendant was telling people to buckle their seat belts and turn off their cellular phones.

“What are you, then?” asked Perkins.

“I’m not sure.”

The flight attendant was walking down the aisle. Marx pretended to turn off her phone and when the attendant had passed, she put it back to her ear.

“Where are you?” asked Perkins. “It sounds like you’re on an airplane. Where the hell are you going?”

“I’m in a good place,” she whispered. “I can’t say any more now. Don’t ask.”

“Don’t go. I want to see you. I want to be with you. I’m the only one who knows your real name.”

“Don’t be a sentimental ass,” she said, which made him laugh. “And don’t do anything self-destructive. I like going to good restaurants.”

“Come back,” he said.

But she was gone. The flight attendant had threatened to take away her phone and have her removed forcibly from the plane if she didn’t stop talking immediately. She turned off her phone and removed the battery, so that nobody could track her GPS movements while she was away. Then she sat back in her seat and closed her eyes.

ISLAMABAD