The Midnight House (33 page)

Whitby clicked on a circle near Islamabad. A satellite image appeared, a warehouse on a small army base. The photograph was extremely high-resolution, sharp enough to reveal dents on the Jeeps parked beside the warehouse.

Whitby clicked again. The satellite photograph disappeared, replaced with a blurry image of six large bunkers. “From a Predator with the new radar package,” Whitby said.

“That’s through the wall?” Shafer said.

“Yes.”

Beside the image, acronyms and numbers marched down the side of the screen: “5 (PLU/UA) Y 100/300 GS 400 (UR) PTI Med/High RA High AA Medium OTR High.”

“Any guesses what we’re looking at? Humor me, Mr. Shafer.”

“A Pakistani nuclear-weapons depot?”

“No fooling you.” Whitby ran a pointer down the list of acronyms, reading as he went: “Five weapons. Plutonium. Unarmed. Yield of one hundred to three hundred kilotons each. Four hundred guards on the site. No heavy weapons. Possibility of Taliban infiltration medium to high. Road access high. Air access medium. Overall threat risk high.”

Whitby clicked back to the main map.

“We have similar information for every nuke in the Pakistani arsenal. They have eighty-two weapons now, by the way. We knew they’d been moved around, split up, but we had no idea how much. Seems Musharraf”—theformer Pakistani president—“decided that scattered sites would be the best way to save enough weapons to survive an Indian first strike. Now, of course, the Paks have a slightly different problem. As do we.”

Whitby pointed out the red circles, one outside Rawalpindi, the other near Lahore. “These two bases are our biggest problem. Both with senior commanders who are sympathetic to the Islamist movement.”

“Why doesn’t the army move them?”Shafer said. “Or replace the commanders?”

“You know better than that. Every general is his own little power center. And those warheads, they’re prestigious. Tricky to ask a general to give up control. Especially one who might have a line to Al Qaeda.”

Whitby closed the map. “Mr. Shafer, you’re welcome to examine these estimates for as long as you like. At your leisure. I know you’re a strategic thinker. And in your strategic”—Whitby’s repeated use of the word somehow made it, and Shafer, sound ridiculous—“analysis, is this information precious?”

“If it’s accurate, sure.”

“It comes from the very highest levels of the ISI. It’s accurate. They even took us inside six depots. And we’ve checked the others with Predators and satellites, and as far as we can tell, they told the truth.” Whitby paused. “I don’t need to explain what this does for us, do I? Why do you think we bulked up in Afghanistan? Not just to play with the Taliban. We have a QRF”—a quick reaction force—“at Bagram on permanent alert. One of these depots gets hot, we’re in the air in fifteen minutes. For the first time ever, we have the Paki arsenal under control.”

“A genuine coup,” Shafer said. “But please. I’m a bit slow. How does this connect to 673, the murders? Last I checked, none of the detainees at the Midnight House worked for the Pakistani army. Or the ISI.”

“I can’t tell you. But I promise, this is related to information that 673 developed.”

“You promise. Sweet of you.”

“It’s true,” Duto said.

Shafer turned his head to Duto. “How long have you known about this? ”

As an answer, Duto coughed into his hand.

And then Wells saw the missing piece. One of them, anyway.

This map was the reason that Frederick Whitby, former congressman, former mid-level Pentagon analyst, had become one of the most powerful men in Washington. The reason he was the director of national intelligence and Duto was at Langley reporting to him. And it had come out of the Midnight House. But the Midnight House had been rotten. If the FBI’s investigation into the murders of Task Force 673 went the wrong way, Whitby’s triumph would lose its shine.

Shafer got it, too, Wells saw. He lifted his head, a dog on the scent. “Is this why you’re obstructing the FBI’s investigation?”

“I’m not—”

“You blocked them from seeing the letter to the IG.”

“That letter is nothing but rumor. Totally unsubstantiated.”

“It’s unsubstantiated because you didn’t let the inspector general investigate it.”

“It has nothing to do with these murders. Whoever’s killing those men, a foreign terrorist group, a domestic criminal, the FBI has the tools it needs.”

“Does the FBI know you oversaw 673 at the Pentagon?” Shafer said.

“Senior bureau officials are aware of my previous position and don’t believe it’s pertinent to their investigation.” Whitby was tense now, falling into bureaucratic jargon, Wells thought.

“Maybe if they knew about the letter, they’d reconsider.”

“Mr. Shafer. You and Mr. Wells have not an iota of authority to investigate these crimes. Director Duto made a mistake in thinking otherwise.”

“I made a mistake,” Duto agreed. Almost cheerfully. Not even an eyelid twitch.

“We can’t risk letting this leak. If the Pakistani public finds out we’ve been monitoring their nuclear stockpile, there will be riots. The army will face enormous pressure to relocate the weapons. At best, we will then lose our knowledge of where they’re housed. At worst, terrorists will try to steal them as they’re being moved. And none of this has anything to do with the 673 murders. So, I’m asking you now, don’t get in the way. Let the FBI do its job.”

“But there’s something I don’t get,” Wells said. Playing the naïf, as they all seemed to expect of him. Whitby turned his frozen blue eyes on Wells.

“You were in charge of 673?”

“In a manner of speaking. I helped set it up. It ran autonomously.”

“But you saw the take.”

“Yes.”

“And you know what tactics they used?”

“It ran autonomously.”

“I didn’t ask if you okayed them. I asked if you knew of them.”

“We’re not here to talk about this.”

“Bear with me,” Wells said. “My question is, how can you be so sure of the information that 673 developed without knowing exactly what they did to the prisoners?”

“The information was incontrovertible. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Did it come from the missing detainees?”

“What missing detainees?”

“The two who aren’t in the system. The two who don’t exist.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. There are twelve prisoner numbers mentioned in the letter. Ten match detainees. The other two don’t go anywhere.”

“That letter is nothing but rumor. It’s quite possible whoever wrote it decided to put in fake PINs to cause this kind of trouble.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I am through discussing the letter, Mr. Wells. It should have been destroyed.”

Wells wondered if he should push further, bring up Jim D’Angelo, the former NSA software engineer who’d gotten the no-bid contract. Then decided to wait. They still didn’t know exactly what D’Angelo might have done for Whitby, or why. They didn’t know where Duto stood. They needed evidence, not hunches.

“So, that’s it,” Shafer said. “We leave it alone.”

“You leave it alone.”

“And what if somebody picks up the phone, calls us with a tip?”

“You refer them to the FBI.”

“And if we happen to stumble on some bit of evidence—”

“You give it to the FBI.”

“Got it,” Shafer said. “Got it, John?”

“Got it, Ellis.”

“So, we’re done here?”

“Most certainly.”

Shafer pushed himself back from the table. Wells followed.

“Gentlemen,” Whitby said. “I’m not sure I’ve made myself clear. Don’t press me on this. Director Duto can’t protect you. Your reputations won’t protect you. You are to stay away from this investigation. That is a direct order. Understood?”

Wells raised his hand. “Question.”

Whitby stared at Wells’s upraised arm as if he wanted to chop it off. “Is this funny to you, Agent Wells?”

“I’m just used to a more direct threat. Drop your gun or I shoot you in the head. That kind of thing. I can be a bit slow. And you’re being, you know—”

“Vague—” Shafer said. “He’s being vague, John. And that’s unhelpful. I, too, want to know exactly what’s at risk here. Will we be losing our parking passes at Langley? Our per diems on road trips?”

Whitby smiled. And Wells saw that they weren’t close to cracking him. “I’ll bring you in as material witnesses, hold you until the FBI finds the killers. Worst case, you two get stuck in detention for years and even the agency can’t get you out.”

Whitby slid a thin, red-bordered file folder across the table to Wells. Wells opened it. Gruesome photographs, a crime scene in Moscow. Wells recognized the men. He’d killed them.

“Murder, plain and simple,” Whitby said. “Not a CIA operation. Just a rogue agent, out of control, killing FSB agents. The same man who just went to Cairo and pissed off our closest Arab ally. Make for some interesting reading in the
Post,
wouldn’t it? Or
Vanity Fair.
It’s more a
Vanity Fair
kind of story, the hero with the feet of clay. And you’re in jail, no way to explain yourself.”

“The same rogue agent who stopped a nuclear attack on Washington—”

“That didn’t happen, Mr. Shafer,” Whitby said. “Or did it? It’s so highly classified, it’s practically a myth. And it’s going to stay that way. Could provoke national hysteria otherwise.”

“Times Square wasn’t classified.”

“Times Square was a long time ago. What’s he done lately?”

Whitby slid another red-bordered folder to Shafer. “As for you—I’ve got twenty years of you giving classified information to the French, Israelis, Saudis. Even the Russians.”

“Trading. Not giving.”

“Was it authorized? In writing?”

“We always got as much back as we gave,” Shafer said. “Or more.”

“I’ll bet I can find a couple exceptions. Those might be tough to explain to a jury. Or the
Post.
Yes. Strikes me as more of a
Post
story. Nothing operatic about this one. Meat-and-potatoes espionage.”

Wells slid back the file.

“Director Whitby,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

“The same. Agent Nieves will show you out.”

 

 

THAT NIGHT,
Shafer and Wells sat high in the upper deck at Nationals Park. D.C. had once been home to the famously lousy Washington Senators. Sportswriters had joked that Washington was “first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League” before the Senators decamped to Minnesota in 1960 and became the Twins.

Now Washington had a new team, the Nationals, itself a refugee from Montreal, with a new name and a new six-hundred-million-dollar ballpark. But the Nationals were no better than the Senators had been. And Nationals Park was three-quarters empty even on sunny days, making it an excellent place to avoid eavesdroppers.

Wells stretched his long legs on the seat in front of him. He and Shafer were in the upper deck, with an entire section to themselves. “So?”

“He can make it messy for sure. He knows how to work the press. Knows your stuff is classified and tough to leak. It really would be a problem if people knew how close we cut it last year. Meanwhile, Whitby goes to town. Bold move. Instead of dancing around your reputation, he attacks it straight on.”

“Paints me as out of control and dangerous.”

“Thinking you’re above the law. Yep.”

“How could he be so wrong?”

Shafer laughed. They both knew Whitby’s accusations had more than a grain of truth.

“What about you?”Wells said.

“He’s got ammo. You see it in context, it makes sense, but if he takes a couple examples, Shafer gave this satellite imagery to the Saudis, this NSA intercept to the French—it would take some time to explain to a jury. More important, money. Probably all I have.”

“And Vinny’s locked up tight.”

“Looks that way,” Shafer said. “Though I have a theory on that.”

“You think he set us up.”

“I’ll tell you when it’s all done. I promise. So, what do you think, John? Do we quit? Walk away? Give the man what he wants?”

Wells didn’t bother to answer.

“I didn’t think so,” Shafer said.

Far below them, a Nationals batter—a slim black guy who reminded Wells of Darryl Strawberry circa 1986, tall and lean and quick—stroked a scorching line drive to right field. It spun into the corner, and by the time the Brewers outfielder corralled it, the batter was rounding second, eating up the basepaths with smooth, long strides. The right fielder fired a strike from the corner, but by the time the third baseman got the tag down, the runner had touched the bag for a triple. The crowd, such as it was, cheered.

“Nice,” Wells said.

“You used to be able to run like that. Must be hard to get old for an athlete like you. Feel the reflexes go.”

“I still have enough left to toss you over the railing.”

Shafer squeezed Wells’s biceps. “Maybe. How about putting that muscle to good use?”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“We have to go to Jim D’Angelo. As soon as possible. Find out who asked him to replace those names. And why.”

“But won’t he run straight to Whitby?”

“Not if we play him right.”