Hard Road (39 page)

“I think we've been blindsided all down the line. I have to inform you that we believe this is either a sanctioned or a renegade Pakistan terrorist operation currently in progress, as we speak, in the United States, aided and abetted, perhaps unwittingly, by a senior CIA officer.”

Audible gasps from the feed.

Meyerstein said, “Within the last few moments, we've just had confirmation that Scott Caan's father's real name was Mohammed Khan. Spelled K-H-A-N.”

Richard Blake leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “I always envisaged an Islamist threat to us on home soil from Iran or Syria. Are we absolutely sure this comes through Pakistan?”

Meyerstein composed herself and continued, aware of all the people hanging on her every word. “One hundred per cent. Scott Caan is a sleeper. I repeat, this is a sleeper. Scott Caan is an American. But his background, his deep background, hasn't been checked properly. Someone has fucked up way down the line, many years ago at the bio-lab. Maybe immigration, I don't know. There are preliminary indications that immigration files pertaining to Scott Caan's father have been altered to show he was born in the US.”

Blake said, “Who's the Agency guy?”

“Vince Brewling. His part was to hire someone to neutralise Frank Luntz. We believe he hired Reznick. The analysis is still to be done, but Brewling was probably kept in the dark about the bio-threat to America.”

For a few moments no one talked.

Meyerstein looked up at the screens. “This is a huge breakthrough.”

Richard Blake whispered in the ear of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, before he spoke. “Martha,” he said, “what is your current assessment of where we are?”

“My view would be that there were two separate aspects. The first part was assassinating Dr Frank Luntz. Jon Reznick got that job through a CIA front organisation. We now know Brewling ran this. The law firm and its operations may or may not have had special access program status. We're still checking. The planting of Scott Caan is a long-term plan by the ISI or factions within the ISI, to infiltrate the highest echelons of our bio-security. The proof? An embedded message, which was hidden within a decrypted telephone call. This is as serious as it gets. And the ramifications are, of course, profound.”

Blake said, “This is very grave. We have proof that the number two of the ISI, who I know personally, is behind this, and I can say without fear of contradiction, the fallout will be considerable. The fact that the NSA didn't pick this up is also very troubling.”

Meyerstein said, “I must correct you, sir. The NSA did pick this up. Thomas Wesley alerted them. The problem was that no one listened. Sir, what also concerns me, is who were the people who took Thomas Wesley away? Was it the ISI operating with impunity on American soil?”

Blake said, “Look, I don't think we can assume this was a sanctioned ISI operation.”

“With respect, sir, whether this was sanctioned or not, their fingerprints are all over this. The number two ordered this. The last briefing I read on Pakistan, which came out only last week, claimed the CIA had an agenda to get the Pakistan military to dismantle the ISI. We're all over them and they don't like it. They don't like what we're doing in the tribal areas of Pakistan, Afghanistan, and they don't like our developing links with India. And they sure as hell don't like the fact that we tracked down Bin Laden to their back yard, and took him out.”

Blake shifted in his seat. “I can't possibly comment on such talk.”

“We can't deny that there are influential people within the ISI who want America out of their backyard, sir.”

Blake stared down from the screen, face reddening. “There is a significant minority within the Pakistani military who are very hostile to any interference in their affairs. They continue to fund the Taliban. And I know Kashal was very involved with helping the Taliban during our proxy war with the Soviet Union. And he is against any American involvement in Pakistan affairs. Drones and such like. We've asked for him to be replaced on at least three occasions. I believe, also, just to compound matters, a cousin of his was killed at a wedding by a drone a year or so ago.”

Meyerstein said, “We can also point to the killings in Lahore by Raymond Davis, whose diplomatic status was disputed by the Pakistanis. They claim that he was a CIA operative.”

Blake said, “I don't want to comment on the Davis case. Besides, the families in Lahore agreed to take the blood money.”

“Look, if that's all, I need to get back to work.”

“Most certainly. Look, the President and the National Security Council need to be told right away. But for now, the FBI needs to find and neutralise Scott Caan.”

“Very good, sir.”

Then the screen went blank.

Meyerstein gulped down another coffee and paced the fifth floor conference room for the umpteenth time. She watched three separate feeds, which were focussed on the Crystal City platform. The first screen showed Reznick and the Red team milling with passengers, scanning the crowds. “Get the feed up for our lead guy down at the Crystal City Metro.”

A few moments later, the face of Special Agent Doug Hammett, appeared on the middle screen, coming from the command center vehicle down at the Metro.

“Doug, I'm watching the feeds come through from the platform, and all the time we're running the face recognition program, but still nothing. What about your guys on the ground?”

“There are more than one hundred agents scouring nine blocks, with more than one hundred shops, thousands of people moving to and from the Metro, and there are numerous entrances. We have the latest image of this guy, I know. But he could be anywhere.”

“Doug, listen to me, I want to remind you that there may be a wingman involved. We have got no ID. So this obviously complicates things.”

“Martha, all my people are fully briefed.”

“Know what worries me, Doug?”

“What?”

“That he's slipped away. I can't believe that we haven't managed to track this guy down. Unless…” She let the words hang in air.

“Unless what, Martha?”

“What image do you have of Caan?”

“The one we just got. A casually dressed white guy with long blond hair, brown satchel and quilted navy jacket. It's very distinctive.”

“What if we're looking for a guy like that, but… Doug, what if Scott Caan has changed his appearance again, fooling our guys on the ground?”

“But wasn't this image taken from the Metro Center a couple of hours ago?”

“Doug, remember the Dubai job which we analysed? Remember we ran through the scenarios, the identification problems.”

“You talking about the Mahmoud al-Mabhouh's assassination?”

“Precisely. Didn't the Dubai CCTV footage show one of the assassins disappearing from the view of the cameras in a hotel lobby as a bald man in a suit, before reappearing with thick black hair and glasses?”

“You think Scott Caan would go to such lengths in such a short space of time?”

“Doug, this guy is, we believe, planning to launch a bio attack two Metro stops away, striking right at the heart of the American military. Wouldn't you – knowing there were countless cameras around – ensure you weren't stopped in the final stages of the operation?”

Meyerstein was aware of a phone ringing in the background, which was not being picked up. She turned round and glared at one of Stamper's team, a young man, who picked up the ringing phone red-faced.

She faced the screen again.

“Doug, what if there has been a switch? A last minute change. To throw people off the scent just as a precaution?”

A long sigh as he shook his head. “Martha, we need to shut this whole Metro and complex down, until we find him, that's the only way.”

“I've asked for that. But sadly, that's not an option, unfortunately.”

“Martha, so what are we looking for? Any six foot plus blond guy, carrying any sort of bag?”

Martha stared at the screen as her stomach tightened. “Doug, get your guys to start asking for ID. Now, I know that Caan and any accomplices may be carrying professional IDs. But they may not.”

“What about body searches? Pat downs?”

“That wouldn't work. We're looking for tiny vials, which might be disguised in another less obvious form. It would mean airport style scanning. We've got to just roll with it and try and use our eyes and ears.”

“This is insane, Martha.”

“Tell me about it. If anyone acts up, get them out of there.”

THIRTY-SIX

The sound of two chimes echoed around the platform before a station announcement. A woman's voice boomed over the station tannoy. “
See it? Say it. The Metro Transit Police would like to remind you if you see something out of the ordinary to please call the Metro Transit Police at 202-962-2121.
”

Reznick watched the passengers thronging the Pentagon Metro platform. The smell from a cheeseburger being eaten by a young woman wafted his way. He felt sick at its odor. His nerves were jangling as he checked his watch. Where the hell was Caan? Had he escaped the Feds' dragnet?

A buzzing noise in his earpiece.

“OK, people,” Stamper said. “We're just being told that no man or woman is being allowed onto the platform without ID being checked, body searched and bags scanned. “Just so you know. Keep alert. And let's keep our focus.”

Reznick knew from working with the Israelis that a cursory check of bags was pointless. It was all about profiling. While the Americans look for weapons, the Israelis look for terror suspects. Highly trained screeners interrogate El Al passengers at length as Israeli police watch for suspicious behaviour. But the Israelis follow this up with computerised passenger profiling, which checks for anomalies in a passenger's travel plans, finances and profile.

The passengers on all El Al flights have to answer questions about why they are making the trip, where they are coming from and their occupation.

The chances of staying calm under such pressure were low.

Reznick scanned the platform surreptitiously and wondered what Scott Caan was thinking at that moment. If this indeed was a prelude to an attack, he would be wired. Psyched. But what were his motives?

The cameras, which were working around Crystal City, had not flagged up anything to the Feds' face recognition software. Was Caan still in Crystal City? Had he slipped through the net? Shit, the guy could be anywhere.

His Red team was well spread out across the length of the platform as the rumble and roar of trains came and went. The pale red lights at the edge of the platform came on when a train arrived. The familiar two chimes echoed as passengers disembarked to the stairs and then the escalators. He could see crowds were bunching up as they came down the steps to the platform. The security checks were fraying nerves.

“What the hell's going on?” a passing black man asked to his partner.

The crowds began to swell the platform, some people being squeezed up against the concrete pillars. The numbers kept on rising. Seventy, eighty, one hundred, two hundred and then well over three hundred.

A guy from behind him jostled Reznick. He spun around and a portly man in a suit was showing his hands. “Excuse me,” he said, blushing.

He had to push past a black woman with two children in a double buggy as the roar of a train sparked more jostling and pushing.

“Jon, let's just ease up,” Stamper said.

Reznick didn't feel like easing up, but he said nothing. He nodded to show Stamper that he had heard him. He had learned from his father that restraint was admirable and it was essential to think of the consequence of your actions.

The train approached the platform and screeched to a halt. The two chimes and the tannoy blared out instructions for the crowds to stand back as the doors opened. Hundreds of passengers streamed out into the large crowd of people gathered on the platform waiting to board the six-carriage train. Women in business suits talking into cell phones, a man chewing gum looking dead in the eyes with his sports bag over his shoulder, a couple of college kids wearing Georgetown sweat tops, talking and laughing loudly, blue collar guys, perhaps heading to or from their shift, soccer moms with their kids in tow.

Reznick took in each and every one in a microsecond whilst keeping one eye on those boarding. He tried to weigh up the way they carried themselves, how they related to other passengers, all in the blink of an eye.

The person who was attracting most of his attention was the young man wearing a white button down shirt, jeans and sneakers, chewing gum with a sports bag, standing at the far end of the platform. He had just got off the train and was lingering. Checking his watch. Twice. Thrice.

“Jeff,” Stamper said into his earpiece, “guy in the white shirt with the sports holdall. You got him?”

Reznick saw Jeff nodding.

“We have close-up cameras showing him looking highly agitated. His expression is changing from pained to paranoid, eyes darting real crazy. Escort him off the platform and find out what the hell is wrong with him. Something not right there.”

Jeff replied, “I'm moving in.” He stepped towards the well-built young man who looked around one hundred and eighty pounds, six foot plus, muscular build.

Reznick kept an eye on the guy as he glanced at those still boarding.

Stamper said, “He's got a glazed expression, Jeff, what the hell is wrong with him? Get him out of there.”

Suddenly, the man groaned loudly and collapsed in a heap, clutching his chest, convulsing violently on the ground.