End of Enemies (7 page)

Washington,
D.C.

The President, DCI Dick Mason, and National Security Adviser James Talbot sat in the Oval Office reviewing the president's daily brief. Classified top secret and tightly restricted, the PDB offers the president a condensation of what's new in the world. Over the years, presidents have varied in how they got the PDB's information. The current president liked to read the PDB personally and in an informal setting. Shirtsleeves, coffee, and bagels were usually the order of the day.

Dick Mason watched the president put down his bagel. He knew which section his boss was reading: a transcript of the Iranian prime minister's most recent speech to a group of senior
Pasdaran
officers. The
Pasdaran,
also known as the Islamic Revolutionary Guards, was one of Iran's deadliest terrorist exports.

The CIA had long believed the prime minister was being influenced by the current ayatollah, which in itself was unremarkable, but the content of this particular speech contradicted the call for reconciliation he'd been spouting for the past eight months. In Mason's eyes, this meant that while Iran's goals remained unchanged, their methods were leaning more toward the covert.

“This is an accurate translation, Dick?” the president asked, running his finger along the text. “ ‘At every turn we lure the Great Satan into our traps, and then crush him under our heel like a squirming beetle. We have countless allies, more than there are stars in the heavens, and when the sky rains fire, our enemies will be pushed into the sea.'” The president looked up.

“It's accurate, sir. But to be fair, we couldn't expect him to talk nice about us in front of a group of fanatical
Pasdaran
officers.”

“How much is just talk and how much is real?”

“Not an easy question, Mr. President Islam is more than religion for them; it influences every aspect of their lives, including government. The U.S., along with the rest of the nonbelievers, are evil incarnate. Failing to set us straight jeopardizes their own souls. For them, that's serious business. The only change we can likely expect is a heavier reliance on covert action. Same goes for Syria and Sudan.”

“Define
covert,
”
said James Talbot.

“Increased use of surrogates, front groups, political interference. In short, deniable operations.”

The president was silent for a few moments. “Okay. Next topic.”

“Still Iran,” said Mason. “Latest estimates have their oil exports down four percent in the last six months, but production itself hasn't changed. Same with the peripheral industries.”

“Where's it going?”

“Into diesel production, then storage. This could mean a lot of things, but the clearest analogy we have is the Iran-Iraq war, we saw this same trend in the years prior to it Iran was stockpiling for tanks and trucks and the like.”

“Are you telling me something, Dick?”

“Not necessarily, sir. As I said, there could be any number of reasons. We know next month they're conducting an army exercise outside Hamadan. They've done it at this time every year, four years running.”

“Did they stockpile for previous exercises?” asked Talbot

“No. The point is, though, we've got nothing to suggest they're on the warpath. It does bear watching, and we're doing that”

“Jim,” the president said to his national security adviser, “OPEC's meeting in Bahrain next week. Talk to State, see if the Saudis will do a little probing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Dick, what's next?”

“Syria.”

“Good news or bad news?”

“Good news and undecided news, sir. Routine ELINT shows the Golan is still stable, no changes. But yesterday the NPIC caught a side-lobe image of what looks like a group of Syrian APCs, tanks, and even a few companies of airborne troops making a drop a couple hundred miles south and east of the Bekka.”

“An exercise?”

“It appears so. It's an odd mix of forces: elements from the First Armored Division and the Seventh and Ninth Mechanized, which will probably be replacing their counterparts in the Bekka in a couple months. It's a routine rotation, but we've never seen them exercise this close to a changeover period. The other elements are remnants from the downsized Golan Task Group—the Third Armored and Tenth and Eleventh Mechanized. On the upside, the Dar'a Task Group isn't involved; all its units are accounted for.”

“Pretty big exercise,” said Talbot. “They moving in any particular direction?”

“It's early yet, but it doesn't look like it. We have no idea about the mission or duration, but it matches previous exercise profiles, if a little larger. The other interesting thing is the commander in charge: General Issam al-Khatib.”

“How do you know he's in charge?”

“He was at the site.”

“So?”

“We photographed him.”

Both the president and Talbot glanced up in amazement.

“Khatib was formerly in charge of the Saraya and Difa Defense Companies, about twenty-five thousand special forces soldiers, until it was re-formed into Unit five sixty-nine, ostensibly a regular armored and mechanized group,” Mason said. “He's also part of Assad's inner circle, fanatically loyal, and an Alawite to boot.”

“Alawite?” said Talbot.

“Assad's religious sect,” Mason explained. “It's a Muslim minority group, but it has key members in positions of power in both the government and the military. After Khatib left the defense companies, we lost track of him for a year. There were rumors he was attached to Air Force intelligence, which handles terrorist liaison: recruitment, training, supply, that sort of thing.”

“Is that significant?” asked the president

“Maybe, if it's true. Like his father, Bashar Assad has always placed someone from his inner circle in those kinds of roles. It could have been nothing more than a career builder. At any rate, wherever Khatib
was,
he's in the desert now.”

The president said, “So, bottom line?”

Mason paused. His boss wanted a prediction. Like most laypeople, the president didn't recognize the difference between capabilities and intentions. In the intelligence community the rule was: Never talk about intentions; talk about capabilities. Talk about what the enemy can do
if
he decides to do it. Intentions were, after all, products of the human brain, which is an unpredictable organ at best

Mason smiled, spread his hands. “Syria is conducting a military exercise.”

The president smiled. “Okay. Jim, any statements from Syria?”

“No, Mr. President”

“Let's let 'em know we're curious. Have State handle it and do it quick, before the Israelis get nervous. Dick, your boys will be paying close attention, I assume?”

“We've retasked the bird to include the exercise area in the Golan sweep.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“One thing, sir. SYMMETRY.”

“The Beirut operation.”

“Yes.” Mason briefly explained their loss of Marcus.

“Damn it! How in hell does something like this happen!”

“It just does, sir. Not often, but it does happen. Especially in Beirut”

“So I've heard. What are we doing?”

“We've ordered the network to go quiet and we're working the product. Maybe Marcus was onto something we missed. Also, we're checking OpSec—”

“OpSec?” asked Talbot.

“Operational security. That includes all the communication and cover procedures we had in place: dead letter drops, safe-call locations. As far as who took him, we're stumped. No ransom, no body … nothing. No one is taking credit for it, either. That worries me. Usually, they can't wait to let the world know they've snatched someone.”

“Suppose this isn't a routine kidnapping. Suppose somebody took him for a reason,” Talbot said. “What then?”

“If they've got him, he
will
talk. How long he holds out is the only question.”

“And the network?”

“We'd have to assume it's blown.”

The president took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Dick, we've got a lot riding on this thing—on that whole damned region—and SYMMETRY is part of the big picture. You know that.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Then fix it, Dick. Whatever it takes, fix it.”

La Guardia Airport,
New York

If polled, any pilot, military or civilian would ran takeoff and landing as the worst times for an in-flight emergency. These are times when the plane and its crew are performing their most complex functions, from braking to throttle adjustments to glide-path trimming. It's also the time when aircraft is most vulnerable, those moments when it's poised between being a 125-ton aircraft and a lumbering 125-ton bus with wings.

A former Thud driver in Vietnam, Carl Hotchkins was a seventeen-year veteran of the airline industry, the last five of which he'd spent in aircraft just like this 737. Today he was carrying 104 passengers, most returning from vacation in Kingston, Jamaica, and Orlando, Florida.

Crossing the runway threshold at 120 feet, Hotchkins was easing back on the throttle when the explosion came. In the cockpit it sounded like a dull
crump,
but Hotchkins instinctively knew what it was.

The blast had ripped a hole in the aluminum fuselage just below and aft of the port wing. Fire and shrapnel tore into the passenger cabin, most of it directed upward, but some of it engulfing the passengers on the right side of the aisle. Those opposite them tumbled, still buckled into their seats, through the gaping hole. At the wing root, shrapnel ripped open a pair of fluid lines, both of which immediately began gushing.

Hotchkins reacted instantly. Even as the 737 heeled over, he throttled down and punched a button that immediately sealed the fuel system. With his airspeed dropping rapidly, the landing gear down, and less than sixty feet of air between them and the Tarmac, his first concern was leveling the aircraft. If he could do that, the 737 could almost drop out of the sky, and they'd still have a fair chance of survival.

“Tower, this is Delta nineteen alpha declaring emergency,” Hotchkins radioed.

“Roger, Delta, we see you. Emergency crews rolling. Luck.”

Hotchkins switched to intercom. “Flight crew, prepare for emergency landing.”

“Fuel leak, Carl, port side system,” called the copilot. “Hydraulic malfunction, port side system. The wing took most of it.”

“Yeah,” Hotchkins grunted, struggling with the yoke. “Altitude?”

“Fifty feet … coming level.”

“More flap. Landing gear?”

“Starboard and nose are down and locked. … Shit! Port side's shows half.”

“Right,” Hotchkins said, and thought:
Gotta assume we're streaming fuel.
One spark and we're gone.
And they
were
going to spark when mat gear collapsed.

The Tarmac loomed before the windshield. Forty feet, Hotchkins judged—ten seconds. Out the side window, he glimpsed fire trucks racing down the opposite runway, their lights flashing and sirens warbling.

“We're still losing fuel,” said the copilot.

That decided it. Their best chance was to lay the wing into the grassy median; if the gear held, good, but if not, the ploy might just keep the wing off the concrete.

“Tower, nineteen, be advised, I've got a fuel leak. I'm putting her down in the grass.”

“Rog, Delta,” was the reply.

“Help me, Chuck. …” called Hotchkins.

Altitude dropping through 30 feet, Hotchkins forced the 160-foot, 125-ton Boeing laterally through the air toward the median. Hotchkins eyed the blue border lights as they whipped under the wing. Almost there … steady … steady … Now!

Hotchkins cut power and flared the jet, lifting the nose slightly as the starboard gear thumped down with a screech. The port gear followed a moment later. Hotchkins held his breath. The gear trembled, then held. The plane shuddered as the wheels plowed through the grass. With a rhythmic
ca-chunk,
ca-chunk,
the wingtip sheared off the border lights. Hotchkins could hear screaming from the cabin.

“Speed?” he called.

“Eighty … seventy-five …”

“Braking … reverse thrust … ! Help me … step on 'em!”

At that moment, the port gear snapped.

The 737 lurched sideways. Hotchkins was slammed against the window. He pulled himself upright, hands white around the yoke, the veins in his neck bulging. He scanned the gauges. Sixty knots … 300 feet of runway left. Past the end of the Tarmac stood a row of maintenance sheds. In the middle of the runway a lone Cessna was desperately trying to taxi clear.

“Come on, come on,” Hotchkins chanted. “Stop, baby. …”

Slowly, the 737 began slowing, yawing to port as the wingtip plowed through the grass, bulldozing soil before it. Hotchkins fought to keep the nosewheel out of the ditch. He watched, transfixed, as the speed gauge wound down through thirty knots, then twenty-five, then at last to ten. Zero.

The aircraft shuddered to a stop.

Hotchkins exhaled.
Down safe.

Outside, emergency trucks were pulling alongside. Workers raced toward the plane as the firefighters began laying hoses.

Hotchkins took a moment to force some spit into his mouth, then switched on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. We are on the ground and safe, but as a precaution, we'll be deplaning rapidly. Stay calm and follow the flight attendant's instructions. Flight crew, proceed with emergency egress.”

He switched off the intercom and laid his head back against the seat. He cast a wan smile at the copilot and navigator. They were both pasty white.

Wonder what the hell I look like,
Hotchkins thought.

Two hours later, the crippled Boeing was sitting in a hangar at the east end of the airport, illuminated by the overhead fluorescent lights. Fire-suppression foam dripped from the wings and struck the ground with fat
plops.

The oblong blast hole measured ten feet and extended from under the wing mount to just below the cabin windows. Through the hole, the passenger cabin and baggage compartment were plainly visible.

Despite the bustling activity, the hangar was eerily quiet. Outside, Port Authority Police held back the already-assembling media. Each time the door opened to admit a worker, flashbulbs popped and reporters shouted questions.

Beside the plane stood a Delta Airlines vice president, a regional VP from Boeing, La Guardia's airport manager, and the maintenance manager. An inspector from the National Transportation Safety Board stood staring into the hole.

“Hey,” he called to one of the workers, “nobody touches any baggage. Got it? Leave everything.” He turned and walked over to the group. “Gentlemen, can I assume you agree this damage was not caused by a routine malfunction?”

“Well, Jesus!” said the airport manager, “what the hell do you think!”

The NTSB man smiled. The question did sound idiotic. Everyone knew what had made that hole. Still, procedure was procedure. Somebody had to make it official. “Please understand: My initial finding will determine where this investigation goes. It's awful hard to unring a bell.”

With that, everyone looked to the maintenance manager. The man removed his ball cap and scratched his head. “Ain't too tough a call. Nothing that was
supposed
to be aboard that bird could have done that.”

The NTSB man nodded. “Okay, gentlemen, I have some calls to make. Stick around. In a few hours, this place is going to be a full-fledged circus.”

Two hours later, the hangar's population had tripled. Now reinforcing the rapid-response NTSB team was a full investigative team made up of two dozen men and women. Next came a smaller team from the ATF, or Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms, followed by representatives from the governor's office, as well as the state attorney general's office. And finally came the FBI, represented by Harry Owen, the SPAIC of the New York Field Office, and Charlie Latham.

Owen and Latham sat in the maintenance office overlooking the hangar. They watched in silence as dozens of figures crawled under, over, and through the crippled Boeing. There was a lot to do, Latham knew, and it had only just begun.

There was luggage to be checked for additional devices; debris to be collected and sorted; samples to be taken, the most important of which would likely come from blast residue, and hopefully, from the bag that held the device—and better still, from the device itself. Considering the nature of the blast, Latham considered this unlikely. It could have been much worse. If the plane had been at altitude, that much explosive would have been overkill. The pilot had done a hell of a job.

Carl Hotchkins had already been debriefed, as had the flight crew and passengers. Their statements would be combined with those of the tower personnel, then checked against the 737's black box recorder. According to the FAA's snapshot report, there was no indication of malfunctions, no weather problems, no air control or approach miscues, and no pilot error.

That left one possibility: Somebody got a bomb aboard the 737 and blew a big hole in it.

Latham was guessing the device had malfunctioned. Though landings and takeoffs were vulnerable times for an aircraft, nothing was surer to kill one than violent depressurization while flying 500 miles an hour at 35,000 feet. Pan Am 103 was proof of that.

But instead of hundreds dead, this one had cost only five lives.

Only,
thought Latham.

The dead had already been tentatively identified from the plane's manifest. Visual identification was going to be impossible, since the bodies had skidded along the concrete for more than a quarter mile. There wasn't much left to look at. Of the other 175 passengers, only 7 were injured.

“So tell me again,” Latham said to Owen. “Why'd you call me? Hasn't your office got its own—”

“C'mon, Charlie, it was headed for your desk anyway. I just speeded things up,” Owen replied. “To the regular guy on the street, this is the kind of thing that happens in Europe or the Middle East. It happens here, it's different. Once the media gets its teeth into it, it's going to turn into a big, ugly circus.” Owen grinned.
“Your
circus, pal.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

Among its many other responsibilities, the Criminal Investigations Division was tasked with all of the Bureau's counterterrorism efforts, and Latham was the best they had. CT work was not that different from CE and I, and with Latham, the FBI had the best of both worlds.

Short, wiry, and bald save a fringe of salt-and-pepper hair, Latham was patient and tenacious and flexible—all qualities that made him not only a great spy hunter, but an even better hunter of terrorists.

Latham started out in CI eighteen years before as a brick agent from the academy and immediately fell in love with spy hunting. Playing cat and mouse with superbly trained KGB and GRU officers was hugely satisfying, and through the years he'd been involved in some of the biggest cases: Pollard, Walker, Koecher … and Vorsalov. KGB Colonel Yuri Vorsalov.

In the beginning, Vorsalov had been just another “legal” assigned to the Russian embassy, but four years after being arrested and “persona-non-grata-ed” from the country for attempting to recruit a Raytheon employee, he returned to the U.S. as an “illegal”—a spy working without diplomatic cover. This was the most dangerous kind of agent, for if caught, they face prison rather than deportation.

Latham knew all this, but it hit home one night in Rock Creek Park when the ambush they'd set for Vorsalov went bad. To everyone's shock, the Russian had bolted and run straight into the arms of one of Latham's agents.

The memory was still vivid for Latham: sitting in the rain, cradling the agent as he stared at the oozing puncture in his sternum. He'd never had a chance. Vorsalov had been good with the ice pick, a KGB favorite, and it had taken only a split second.

Though an inquiry said otherwise, Latham knew the agent was dead because of something he'd missed, a detail he'd overlooked, and he'd spent the last ten years trying to figure out what it was.

The door opened and Latham's partner, Paul Randal, entered with a clear plastic bag; inside was a piece of charred suitcase material.

“That it?” asked Latham.

“Yep. Plus a few pieces of what looks like a device.”

“What kind?”

“Hard to tell, but it's complex … not an egg timer and dynamite, that's for sure.”

“What about explosive?”

Randal opened the evidence bag and held it in front of Latham's nose.

“Plastique,” said Latham. The odor was distinctive. Now the trick was to determine its kind and origin. He was betting it was Czech Semtex, a favorite of terrorists.

“And the owner of the luggage?”

“Should have that within a couple hours.”

Owen said, “Good news, bad news.”

“Yeah.”

Latham was both relieved and frightened. Frightened because it took a fair amount of sophistication to not only design such a device but also get it aboard an aircraft. Relieved because that same sophistication would narrow their list of possible suspects.

Langley

DDO George Coates stepped off the elevator and into Mason's outer office. Ginny looked up. “He's on the phone, Mr. Coates. He should be done in a couple minutes.”

“Okay.” Coates sat down.

On his lap Coates cradled a file labeled DORSAL. Containing all the nuts-and-bolts details of an ongoing operation, it was what case officers called “the book.” So restricted is a book's information that it is traditionally off-limits to everyone but the case officer, his division chief, and perhaps a handful of others. This restriction extends even to the DCI and his deputies. However, the summons from Mason had been unambiguous: “Get the book on DORSAL and come on up.” Next to SYMMETRY, DORSAL was his directorate's most important ongoing operation.

Ginny said, “Okay, Mr. Coates, you can go in.”

Mason waved Coates to the seat in front of his desk. The television was tuned to a CNN report of the crash in New York. Coates watched for a moment. “How bad?”