Operation Sheba (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Julia was pulling a file when Michael approached her from behind. She felt her stomach tighten. Abigail Quinn was supposed to be laboring through the stacks of communications and news updates about the latest military recruiting and outfitting in Iran as well as a conflict developing again between Israel and Palestine. Titus Allen was in Florida of all places and Michael was to have a briefing with the Senate and House Select Intelligence Committees in two hours to bring them up to date on the CIA’s related intelligence gathering.

Analyst Chuck Atwater, the CTC’s official Middle East expert, was undergoing gallbladder surgery, and Susan had asked Abigail to have the important information culled for Michael in time for his meeting.

But Julia was struggling with nagging doubts about Michael’s possible involvement with the shadow CIA. Her gut told her he was innocent, but now that the seed of doubt had been planted, she couldn’t keep from thinking about it. Her brain kept replaying the last few months of their relationship over in her head as she looked for any hint of betrayal or manipulation on his part. She couldn’t come up with anything solid, but it was still easier to hide from him while she tried to figure things out than face him.

So she was sort of hiding, but still doing her job. After another round of morning intel analysis, she was picking up the trail of a known terrorist. One whom she was convinced was on his way to America.

Keeping her back to Michael, she pretended to be deep in concentration as she fought the butterflies in her stomach.
He’s innocent, Julia. You know he is. Just relax.

Loosening his tie a notch, Michael stopped to watch Abigail. Surrounded by the towering gray metal shelves that held rows of terrorist biographies, Abby was, Michael thought, the polar opposite of the fanatics she studied.

At one end of the spectrum were men focused on ideological and secular hatred, attempting to control the world through fear and violence. On the other, Abigail Quinn, a woman who they would perceive as weak and would expect to be submissive, fighting them and their fanaticism with every breath she took.

Watching Abby pull out another file, the male part of his brain admired the snug jeans and high heels that came bundled with her incredible intellect and integrity. Lucky for him
and
the United States of America, Abby was on their side.

Without turning, she addressed him. “Good morning, Director Stone.”

He smiled. “Good morning, Ms. Quinn. Finding anything of interest?”

Facing him, she pulled a file from the stack in her hand and tapped it against the others. “I think our long-lost friend Fayez Raissi is up to no good.”

“A hunch of yours?”

“He dropped off the radar after 9/11, but three months ago a field operator spotted him in Paris. Susan asked me to keep an eye on him, see if he was stirring anything up. Last week, a state department cable stated he was recruiting for Takfi-wal-Hijra in London at the Finsbury Park mosque. That group is a hard-line Islamist movement founded in Egypt as a splinter group from the Muslim Brotherhood.”

“I thought he was with the Armed Islamic Group.”

Abigail nodded. “He was, and before that he was with an extremely radical group in Kazbekistan. He joined them as a teenager to fight the K-stani Army whom he believed was responsible for the death of his two brothers.”

“Refresh my mind on his MO.”

“Charismatic and intelligent, Raissi is an expert in explosives and weapons. He is an excellent sharpshooter, has done some assassination work, but prefers taking out his targets in more spectacular ways, such as car bombs. He has no trouble finding young Muslims to do his dirty work and has orchestrated more than a few suicide bombings.”

“Hmm, builds bombs and jumps from one extremist group to another. Sounds like your kind of guy.”

A smile played on her lips. “The Takfi organization is under bin Laden’s umbrella of fanatic Islamic groups. They have received financial and material support from him, but Takfi is even more puritanical with their beliefs than bin Laden. Even Muslims who don’t adhere to their views are regarded as infidels and are targets in their holy war. Raissi has point-blank executed several Muslims himself.”

“What do you think our boy is up to?”

Abby shrugged. “His usual motive for anything is to bring attention to his homeland and destroy infidels. If he’s traveling and recruiting again, he’s up to something bad, probably involving a target that gets him some attention. From the trail he’s leaving, I’d say he’s moving fast and heading our way. I’ll do some more digging and type up a report for you and Susan later today.”

Michael had learned over the past year and a half to never underestimate the CTC’s top analyst. “I’d like to discuss this in further detail, but right now I need you to bring me up to date on the Israeli situation.” His attention wandered to her legs again. “Why don’t you bring those files”—he brought his gaze back up to meet hers—“with you to my office?”

Michael left Langley at 10:36 for his briefing with the Intelligence committees. He took Susan with him. Five minutes later, Julia shut off her computer, turned her voice mail on and took off for D.C. too. Only she was visiting a much smaller, much less conspicuous part of town.

The listing inside the door of Ace’s Mortuary informed Julia the funeral of R. J. Bellingham was in progress. It was the first time she’d ever been inside the converted Victorian. Ace was one of the few trusted contacts Conrad cultivated and used in the Washington D.C. and Arlington areas. A civilian who unknowingly provided useful information to Con on occasion and scored tickets for sold-out Knicks games regularly. Julia had never actually met him, only seen him from a distance years ago. She and Con had been home on a short leave at Christmastime and Ace had scored prized front-row tickets for Con. Julia had no idea the extent of Ace’s services, but she was determined to find out.

Organ music and singing voices filtered through the closed doors off to her left. She passed the doors and looked for Ace’s office. At the end of a long hallway she found a kitchen and mudroom, but no office. Retracing her steps, she climbed the carpeted stairs across from the front door. The upstairs held three bedrooms. One had been converted into an office. Ace had his worn desk chair tipped back, his feet on the window ledge behind the desk. He was talking on a cell phone.

Julia walked into the room, took a seat across from him in a barrel chair with gaudy red velvet upholstery. She cleared her throat and watched as Ace jumped. His feet hit the floor and he jerked around to see who was in the room with him. Julia smiled and gave him a little wave and almost laughed when his jaw dropped open.

“Hey, man, I gotta call you back.” He snapped the cell phone shut before the person on the other end could reply.

“You really should have a bell on your front door,” Julia said, still smiling. “Or an electronic buzzer to let you know someone’s downstairs. Less chance of them sneaking up on you.”

Ace, still standing, stared at her. “That’s what Con—” He stopped, wiped a hand across his forehead. “Security system’s down. Buzzer don’t fly right now.”

“Conrad could fix that for you.”

“Shit.” Ace slipped the cell phone in the side pocket of his cargo jeans. “He all right?”

“Conrad’s fine,” Julia said, studying the younger man. “Relatively speaking, anyway.” She sat forward. “How deep are you into this operation, Ace?”

Ace seemed to consider sitting down in his office chair, but a glance at Julia and he chose to stand. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But you know who I am.”

“I know who you are. You’re Sheba.”

“And you know what Conrad’s done to me.”

Ace eyed her with suspicion. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that. All these years, I just delivered Solomon’s messages for him. To you. To Smitty, and back to him sometimes. That’s it.” Ace moved his hands in gesture. “Just a messenger.”

Julia watched him for a moment, enjoying the fact he was so nervous. No telling what Con had told Ace about her. “You were following me this morning. I’d say you’re a lot more than just a messenger service.”

Shaking his head, Ace swore under his breath. “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

Technically that was true and Julia found no value in threatening Ace, scaring him into helping her. It wasn’t her best option. Hearing the organ music below rise in a crescendo, Julia decided on a different approach. “It’s kind of fun, isn’t it?” She fixed her best smile on him again. “Playing
007
?”

Ace crossed his arms, but his posture relaxed a smidgen. He slouched against the wall behind him.

She went on. “Conrad’s good at all that covert stuff. You could learn a lot from him. I did.” She shifted in her chair, crossed her legs and tried to look nonthreatening. “He trusts you and that’s nothing to sneeze at. Next he’ll have you tapping phones and videotaping suspects. And if you’re not careful”—she chuckled under her breath—“he’ll be signing you up for The Farm. You’ll be a legitimate employee of the CIA before you know it.”

Dropping his arms, Ace eyed his chair. Thought for a moment. Looked back at her. “The Farm? That’s that place where they teach you spy mumbo jumbo, right?”

Julia nodded, dropped her smile. “I bet being a mortician is hard, isn’t it? Long hours, sad people. Not a lot of excitement. Sort of a dead-end job. No pun intended.”

One side of Ace’s mouth quirked up. He let himself sit in his chair. “It’s a community service for my brothers here, you know? My daddy did it, now I do it. Funerals are important in my community. Everybody wants to go out with a bang, even if their life wasn’t so good. But some days…” He shook his head and slid down in the chair. “Dead-end job is right.”

Julia noticed Ace had dropped the casual vernacular he’d been using. She sympathized with a nod. “It’s a good cover, though. You might want to think about keeping it as your day job. Do a little spying on the side, like you did today.”

Ace looked up at the ceiling. Scratched his chin. “Might not be so bad.”

Julia let him think it over for a minute. “I’ve got something you could help me with,” she said offhandedly. She saw interest spark in his eyes as he dropped his gaze to her face. “That is, if you’re not too busy working for Solomon.”

“I might have some free time.” Sitting up, Ace rocked his chair. “What do I have to do?”

“I just need a little information. All you have to do is ask a certain person a few questions and feed the answers back to me. Without him knowing, of course. This is strictly top secret. And, you can be sure he’ll never even know why you’re asking. Think you can handle it?”

“Sure.” Ace nodded. They shared a smile and were conspirators. “Who’s the person?”

Julia leaned forward, her smile turning wicked. “Guess.”

“You failed the polygraph.”

For the second time that day, Abby sat across from Michael in his office. It was the end of another twelve-hour day and Michael was tired. He dangled his pen between his fingers and tried to gauge Abigail’s reaction to his news.

There was no surprise, just an edginess that had been with her all day. She studied him with guarded eyes. “I’ve failed them before,” she said with forced neutrality. “You know they are less than sixty-percent accurate.”

He scanned the sheet of paper in front of him for a moment before leaning back in his chair, feeling like the professor about to give his failing student a stern lecture. “I have to tell you I’m disappointed.”

She shrugged indifference. He knew it wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words in her life, but it was the first time from him. “You failed a very serious question, Abby.”

Refusing to meet his gaze, she remained detached. He waited for her denial. At the very least, he’d thought her analytical brain would want the complete picture and she would quiz him about what questions she had failed.

Silence was all he got.

“Let’s see.” He looked down at the paper again for reference and struggled to keep the smile off his face. “The question you failed was ‘Is your name Abigail Quinn?’”

Silence again enveloped the room. She arched an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “I failed because I lied about my name?”

“Dr. Passarti thought it was odd, which under normal circumstances it would be. He suggested I follow up with you.” This time Michael let his smile break free, and that seemed to coax a faint smile from her.

“The polygraph machine is only as good as the operator running it,” she said. “In my professional opinion, Dr. Passarti is an idiot. Why don’t you hook him up to the box and let
me
ask
him
a few questions? I could start with his cross-dressing and work up from there.”

“A little testy, are we?” he teased.

Abigail folded her hands in her lap and worried the silver band with a fingertip. “I’m not being testy. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

A twist of the ring. “You know for years I lied about everything. I mean my whole life was a lie. And the psychologists and the polygraphers and everybody else around here would stroke out if they knew the things I did in that other life. Quite a few wouldn’t be too happy if they knew what I’m doing in this life either, functioning under an assumed name, hiding in the bowels of CIA headquarters, sleeping with you.” She looked up at him. “I don’t like other people sitting in judgment of me, Michael, and, quite honestly, some days I’m not sure what’s true and what isn’t.”