Liberty (3 page)

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Authors: Stephen Coonts

BOOK: Liberty
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“Fifteen years … and now he gets the chop.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Doyle must be sacrificed for a larger cause.”
“Who made that decision?”
“I did,” Ilin said without inflection. “A man must take responsibility for the world in which he lives. If he doesn't, someone will do it for him, someone like bin Laden, Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mao … . Murderous fanatics are always ready to purge us of our ills.” He shrugged. “I happen to believe that the planet is better off with civilization than without it. This tired old rock doesn't need six billion starving people marooned on it.”
“And you? Are you a traitor?”
“Label me any way you wish.” Ilin grinned savagely. “I don't want to read about four two-hundred-kiloton nuclear explosions devastating the only superpower left in the world. Russia needs a few friends.”
“Where are the weapons now?”
“I don't know. They could be anywhere on the planet,” Ilin said, and puffed slowly and lazily. Airplanes came and went overhead. The late-winter breeze was out of the west and carried the smell of the Hudson.
“What kind of information is the SVR getting from Doyle?”
“That's an interesting question,” Ilin said, brightening perceptibly. “I don't see all of the Doyle material, but one listens, makes guesses, surmises. Doyle is quite a source. Almost too good. I got the impression that his control and the Center have wondered at times if perhaps he was a double agent, yet his information has been good. From
across a surprisingly large spectrum of the intelligence world.”
“He's getting intelligence from someone else inside our government?”
“He's remarkably well informed.”
“Any guesses where some of this other stuff is coming from?”
“Somewhere in the FBI, I would imagine. Counterintelligence.”
“Want to give me a sample or two?”
“No.”
“The Sword of Islam,” Jake mused. “I've heard of them. Rumor has it they were involved with something called the Manhattan Project, but we assumed it was that.” He pointed toward the southern skyline.
“That would be a dangerous assumption,” Ilin said. “Four tactical nukes, warheads for long-range, stand-off antiship missiles. Fleet killers. Each packs roughly twenty times the yield of the weapons you used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Easily transported. If competent technicians get their hands on them, they could be used as portable bombs.”
“Handy.”
“Quite. I would imagine each warhead would weigh about a hundred kilos, and be, perhaps, a little larger than a soccer ball. As some wit pointed out years ago, the terrorists could disguise them as cocaine and bring them in through the Miami airport.”
“Any other thoughts?”
“Don't assume that the target is America. Oh, certainly, America is the great Satan and all that, but the real target is Western civilization.”
He smacked his hands together. “This web of airplanes and computers and telephones and banks that move capital freely—all of that is in danger from religious fanatics who wish to destroy this secular edifice that feeds and clothes and houses billions of people. They want to create chaos, prove the primacy of their cause. In the new dark ages
that will follow they will build their holy empire. Think of it—billions of ignorant, starving people bowing toward Mecca five times a day.”
“They haven't won yet, and they won't win in the future,” Jake Grafton shot back. “If they succeed in bringing about a holy war—Islam on one side and civilization on the other—Islam will lose.”
“From your vantage point that would appear to be a safe prediction,” replied Janos Ilin. “These fanatics wish to shatter the primacy of the rich nations, foremost of which is America. They think that the struggle will radicalize the Islamic masses and destroy the secular Arab governments that attempt to straddle the cultural divide. The goal is to re-create the glorious past, build a united Islamic nation intolerant of dissent, obedient to their vision of God's laws.
They think they will win because God is on their side.”
“Whirling dervishes,” Grafton muttered.
“Many Muslims thought that bin Laden was the Mahdi, the Islamic messiah. He certainly saw himself in that role. In any event, the Muslim world is under severe stress, so we're doing holy war again.”
“The terrorists have won some and lost some,” Jake said thoughtfully. “People are indeed terrorized.”
Ilin turned to face upriver, leaned back against the railing. “In all my years in intelligence, I have never seen a covert operation as large as the September eleven attack. Quite remarkable.” Ilin sighed. “It was only possible because Americans are so trusting, so unsuspicious.”
“Not anymore,” Jake Grafton said sourly.
“Your countrymen have had an expensive education,” Ilin agreed. “One would suspect that future terror attacks will be low-tech, with only one or a few perpetrators. Poison in a municipal water system, adulterated food, something along those lines would maximize their chance of success, minimize the risk, and create terror. Yet, someone paid General Petrov a large sum of money for nuclear weapons.”
He flipped away his cig. It took a curving path into the dark water. “This talk of justice I see in the press worries me,” he continued. “This war is beyond courts and lawyers, with their sophistry and legalisms. Your enemies will win a victory if you give them a courtroom forum. If you people don't understand that, you are lost.”
Ilin held out his hand. Jake shook.
“Good luck, my friend.”
“Thanks for coming, Ilin.”
Ilin nodded once, glanced again downriver, then walked away. Jake watched him walk the length of the pier and disappear up the sidewalk into the naked trees.
One of the closest fishermen reeled in his bait and disassembled his rod. When he had his gear stowed in carrying cases, he came over to where Jake stood, still looking downriver.
“What did he have to say, Admiral?”
The questioner was Commander Toad Tarkington, Grafton's executive assistant. He had been with Grafton for years. He was several inches shorter than the admiral, with regular, handsome features marked with laugh lines.
“He says that several weeks ago some Russian general sold four missile warheads to an outfit calling themselves the Sword of Islam.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Well, the story sounds plausible. He claims that the SVR doesn't know he is giving us this information, which he is donating to the cause of civilization out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Where are the weapons now?”
“He says he doesn't know.”
Toad pursed his lips and whistled softly. “Four warheads ! As usual, we're right on top of events.”
“Makes you want to cry, doesn't it?”
When Jake returned to Washington that afternoon, he went straight to CIA headquarters at Langley. His boss was a man named Coke Twilley. He was heavyset, balding, and, Jake gathered, had joined the CIA when he graduated from college. He had once mentioned that he was a Yale graduate, which was no surprise; in the 1950s and 60's, the CIA had recruited heavily from the Ivy League. He wore what appeared to be his college class ring on his right hand. Twilley had the look and mannerisms of a college professor. On rare occasions his fleshy features registered faint amusement, but usually his features betrayed no emotion except boredom. One was left with the impression that the only part of his professional life he enjoyed was intellectual give-and-take with his social peers, who were few and far between in the down-and-dirty trenches of espionage and office politics. His one human quality was an addiction to Coca-Cola, the sugared variety, which he sipped more or less all day, hence his nickname. What his beverage of choice did to his blood sugar level only his doctor knew.
His assistant department head was a man named Khanh Tran, though everyone called him Sonny. He was a whippet-lean Vietnamese who had come to the States when he was seven years old. He didn't speak a word of English then, and today still had a trace of an accent. A
graduate of Cal Poly, he had spent his adult life in the CIA.
This afternoon in Twilley's office, Twilley and Sonny Tran listened to Jake's report without interruption. He carefully covered every point. When Jake finished, Twilley asked, “Do you have any suggestions for verifying this tale?”
“Get it from another source,” Jake replied dryly.
“So where do you think the weapons are now?” Twilley idly played with an expensive fountain pen, a Christmas or birthday gift from days gone by. As usual, today he looked mildly bored, and perhaps he was.
“I haven't the slightest idea. Neither did Ilin.”
“Richard Doyle? I've known him for years. A Russian spy? Do you believe that?”
“It strikes me that allegation is certainly worth checking. If it's not true, no harm will be done. If it is …” He left the comment hanging.
“I've never liked Russians,” Twilley said now, apropos of nothing. He took a sip of Coke from a coffee cup, then leaned back in his padded swivel chair and laced his fingers across his ample middle. He had a habit of staring owlishly at people, which he indulged in now with Jake, blinking so rarely that some people thought he never blinked at all.
“An intelligence gift from the SVR—that KGB crowd …” Twilley snorted derisively. “Worst collection of scum on the planet. Stalin's thugs. Murdered thirty million of their own people! I'd bet my pension those bastards have been selling weapons to terrorists for years and pocketing the proceeds. Now they're worried that the terrorists are going to pop a nuke somewhere and the shit is going to splatter on them, so they're covering their ass by whispering to us, blaming it all on some weenie brigadier rotting out in the boondocks. That crowd would sell coal to the devil!”
“You've had past dealings with Ilin, Admiral; you probably know him better than anyone in our government,”
Sonny Tran said smoothly. “Have you any other thoughts that you wish Mr. Twilley to pass along?”
“Yes, I do,” Jake Grafton said. “Ilin gave us a place to start. The Sword of Islam. Regardless of why Ilin passed this information to us, we must investigate. It would be grotesquely irresponsible not to.”
“We
will
investigate, Admiral,” Tran assured him.
“And it goes without saying that the allegation against Doyle must also be investigated.”
“Then why say it?” Twilley shot back.
“I want to be on record as strenuously recommending an investigation. Just in case Ilin's allegations fall through a bureaucratic crack.”
Twilley's face was a mask. “I find that comment offensive, Grafton. The implication is that this agency is full of criminal incompetents.”
“No one can win every battle,” Jake replied, “but we'd damn well better win the war. You can take that remark any way you please.”
It had been that kind of day. He was in a foul mood, and this little session with Coke Twilley hadn't improved it. He got up and left Twilley's office, closing the door behind him.
When he got home that evening to the apartment in Roslyn, Jake Grafton found that his wife, Callie, and daughter, Amy, were serving dinner to guests. Toad Tarkington's wife, Rita Moravia, was seated with her three-year-old son on her lap beside Jack Yocke, a reporter and columnist for the
Washington Post
that the Graftons had known for years. Yocke had brought a date, a tall woman in a business suit who appeared to be about thirty years of age. Her name was Greta Fairchild. After the introductions, Jake followed Callie into the kitchen and kissed her.
“How'd it go in New York?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
“So, so.”
“How is he?”
“About the same, near as I could tell. Still smokes incessantly.”
“Hope you don't mind the crowd. I didn't know when you were coming home, and we invited Yocke and the Tarkingtons weeks ago. Rita says Toad will be along in a few minutes.”
“Don't mind at all.” He kissed her again. “I missed you, lady.”
“Be careful,” she cautioned as he pulled off his sweater and tossed it on a chair. “Fairchild is a lawyer, sharp and, I suspect, a wee bit argumentative.”
“Afraid I'll get sued?”
“Afraid you'll get in an argument. You look like you could chew nails and spit tacks.”
Jake took a deep breath, exhaled, then smiled broadly. Holding the grin, he asked, “How's this?”
“Fine. Go sit down and I'll bring you a glass of wine.”
The Tarkington toadlet squirmed off his mother's lap and ran to Jake as he pecked Amy's cheek. “Uncle Hake, Uncle Hake, I pooped today.”
“Made his mama proud,” Rita proclaimed as the adults laughed. “Keep that up, son, and you'll make your mark in the world.”
“You're getting to be a real big boy,” Jake said as he lifted the youngster and gave him a smooch on his cheek. He took his usual seat at the head of the table and kept the boy on his lap.
Yocke was tall and lanky. He grinned as Jake listened solemnly to the three-year-old tell of the day's toilet adventures. When that topic had been exhausted, he said to the admiral, “I didn't realize the navy had gotten so casual. Jeans, no less.”
“We try to keep up with the times.” Away they went, chattering lightly. Greta Fairchild specialized in administrative law, had been with a Washington firm for five years. She was from California and, Jake gathered, had been dating Yocke occasionally for a year or so.
“Do you have any spare time now that you're stationed in Washington?” Callie asked Rita.
“Only on weekends. I've gotten my civilian flight instructor rating. Tommy Carmellini is my first student. Getting time to fly is difficult, but I've given him four lessons.”
“Is he still scaring you?”
“Not so badly now. He's learning. I think he likes it. Afterward he drinks beer with Toad and tells him all about it.”
Toad arrived fifteen minutes after Jake, carrying a high chair. He shook hands all around, pulled Amy upright from her chair and bent her over in a passionate matinee kiss, then dropped into the empty chair beside his wife. Amy seized the back of her chair to steady herself and gasped, “I love it when the Tarkingtons come to dinner.”
“Two days you've been gone,” Rita said icily to Toad, “and
I
don't get the romantic treatment. Is this a hint?”
“Stand up, babe.”
As everyone cheered, Toad gave Rita a movie kiss like the one he had bestowed on Amy. When they broke, Rita's cheeks were flushed.
“Well,” Toad demanded, “are we still a number?”
“You've sold me, Toad-man. Sit down and behave yourself.”
Trust the ol' Horny Toad to lighten the mood, Jake thought. He winked at Callie and had a sip of wine.
“Is this what we have to look forward to?” Fairchild asked Jack Yocke, who put his hand on hers.
“Toad may have one more good smooch in him, if you ask him nice,” Yocke replied. Fairchild joined in the laughter. Tarkington rescued his son from his boss's lap and installed him in the high chair.
After dinner Rita insisted on helping Callie with the dishes. Toad got into a conversation with Amy about college—she was a student at Georgetown—so Jake led Yocke into the living room. Greta Fairchild stayed with the men.
“How goes the war against terror these days?” Yocke asked. The fact that Jake was currently assigned to the antiterrorism task force was public information, but his duties were not. After knowing Grafton for years, Yocke well knew that he would not get anything classified from him. Nor could he use Jake as a source, even an anonymous one. Grafton was, in the lingo of journalists, deep background.
Grafton's answer to the reporter's question was a shrug. Yocke glanced at Greta, who blandly met his eyes. She had no intention of being shuffled off to the kitchen. Yocke gave up. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other.
They talked politics for a while. Greta was not shy about voicing her opinion, which the admiral listened to with interest. Finally he said to Yocke, “So what's wrong with the CIA?”
Yocke snorted. “The organization was put together after World War Two to keep an eye on the Russians. The mission was to prevent World War Three, and everything else was secondary to that.”
“Yet they missed the collapse of communism and the breakup of the Soviet Union,” Grafton mused, “the most significant political event in Russia since the 1917 Revolution. Not a soul at the CIA even suggested that the collapse of communism was a possibility. Then, bang, it happened, leaving every policy maker in Washington stupefied with surprise. Why was that?”
“All I can tell you is what my sources say—”
“Larded with your own opinions,” Greta Fairchild interjected.
“Naturally,” Yocke said, not missing a beat. “The KGB was very good at rooting out Soviets who were spying for the U.S. And various American traitors were busy betraying these people to the KGB for money. Add in the natural aversion of liberals for intelligence bureaucracies—gentlemen don't read other people's mail, and after all, it is cultural imperialism—and you have an outfit that decided
it could find out what it needed to know by signal intelligence and imagery, which is satellite and aircraft reconnaissance. The agency never had enough good sources in high places in Moscow to let them see the big picture of what was really going on.”
“They missed nine-eleven, too,” Jake murmured.
“From what I hear, analysts at the agency were saying that the 1993 World Trade Center bombing was not an isolated threat. The Clinton administration didn't want to hear it. Then came the USS
Cole
. But still, the agency is structured to warn us if the Russians are preparing for World War Three, not tell us who in the mosques and bazaars of the Islamic world is plotting atrocities and making them happen.”
“Can the agency be reformed?” Greta asked.
“Certainly. Reorganized and refocused. Yet I don't think it will ever be as good as the KGB was. I think the American people and the politicians will lose interest in the war on terrorism—hell, you read the newspapers—and those are the consumers the agency serves. Frankly, the politicians don't want to pay people to hunt for bad news and they don't want to hear it when it's found.”
“Jack, you're a terrible cynic,” Greta remarked, and winked at her host. “But what about the FBI? Nineteen suicidal saboteurs running around the country with no one the wiser—J. Edgar Hoover must be pounding the lid of his coffin.”
“I'll bet he is,” Jake muttered.
The conversation had moved on to other subjects when Amy came to the door and announced, “Pie and ice cream.”
Richard Doyle lived in a middle-sized, middle-class, three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath house with a two-car garage in the endless suburbs of Virginia. His house sat tucked between two very similar houses on a quiet, tree-lined curvy street in a subdivision full of curvy streets and speed
bumps, a subdivision indistinguishable from a hundred others sprawled across the landscape west of the Potomac.
The Doyles had an above-ground pool in their backyard. They purchased it years ago for the kids when they were small, but now that they were in high school the kids wanted to go to the community pool in the summer to hang with friends, so the Doyles' pool was empty. Indeed, it had not contained water for several years.
Martha Doyle sold real estate from a nearby mall office of a national chain. She drove a late-model white Lexus, which she used to haul clients around to look at houses. The expenses on the car were a nice tax write-off. Many of the people looking for houses were government employees, like her husband, or worked for civil or defense contractors or consulting firms that did business with the government. Some worked in the high-tech industries west of the Beltway.

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