The Cloud Collector (37 page)

‘Beyond total.' She shook her head against the repeated offer, all irritation gone at being summoned from the floor below by the deputy director to watch the transmission. ‘You think he actually tries to
do
a Hoover impersonation there!'

Graham snorted a laugh. ‘He'd look even more ridiculous than J. Edgar in a little black dress.'

‘Homeland's Joshua Smith can't have authorized this.'

‘Bowyer wouldn't have moved without some sort of approval. My guess is that he got carried away.'

Which she couldn't imagine David Monkton ever having done. Or drinking three fingers of bourbon at a time, which was another surprise of the evening. ‘He's brought Abu al Hurr into play.'

‘Personally identified with him,' enlarged Graham. ‘No longer our concern.'

No apoplexy after all, thought Sally. ‘Something that shouldn't go unrecorded, though.'

‘It won't be,' reassured Graham. ‘What's the latest from GCHQ?'

‘Slow but going in the right direction,' said Sally, continuing the myth of not knowing her conversations were being listened to. She was anxious now to get back to the incomplete transliterations from Meade and GCHQ that she'd been comparing when Graham called.

‘Nothing I can use then?'

‘Use?'

‘Fred really did get carried away up there in the limelight.'

‘Even associated himself with a dead man.'

‘And he should have waited until he heard from his task force in Peshawar,' said the deputy CIA director, who'd heard from his own more strategically posted team three hours earlier.

*   *   *

‘Did you see the television!'

‘Yes, Mr Director.'

‘Whad'you think?'

‘Very impressive, sir.'

‘Your input, Ben, won't be forgotten.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘You got any news for me?'

‘Our guy's Jimmy Lowe. Grade five, good agent. Lives on the same street as a NSA guy named Packer, an administration executive.'

‘I remember him now from Homeland sessions,' said Bowyer. ‘Tall guy, never contributes. I never expected to get this close.'

‘Neither did I,' acknowledged Hardy. ‘Both are Friday-night poker players. Jimmy's cried off tonight, of course.'

‘No, he hasn't,' hurriedly corrected Bowyer. ‘Tonight Jimmy plays better—or worse, if it suits the purpose—than he's ever played before. What's he know already about Packer?'

‘Divorced about three years ago. Wife got the two kids and the guilty husband's alimony that Packer tries hard to supplement from the Friday-night games but usually doesn't.'

‘Here's what I want. I want to know everything about how Irvine's team works, how close they are—or aren't—to al Aswamy. I want to know everything they're doing about the Madrid attack, and what this gal Hanning passed on from the interrogation of al Hurr before the Brits passed him over to us. I particularly want to know all there is about her, too, including how to get her into the sack.' Bowyer hesitated. ‘You get the picture of what I want?'

‘I'm sure I do, Mr Director.'

‘And as quick as you've organized everything else so far, Ben, okay?'

‘May I ask a question, sir?'

‘What?'

‘Is the Bureau leading the investigation now?'

‘There'll be a statement tomorrow.'

*   *   *

‘You got misled at the start,' sympathized Conrad Graham.

‘Each is greatly resented; none will be forgotten,' threatened the man.

‘Nothing came from the CIA,' quickly reminded Graham.

‘That's accepted. We don't like being misled. We're not being misled again, are we?'

‘That's for you to decide when we're through talking.'

‘Yes, it will, won't it?'

‘This guidance isn't too late for tomorrow's paper?'

‘There's plenty of time to go into everything.'

‘That's what I want to do, go into everything,' said Graham.

 

37

Forewarned, Sally stayed up for the BBC world news report of the following day's
New York Times,
which studio commentators variously described as staggering, disgraceful, scandalous, and unprecedented, all of which Sally considered understatements when she got her copy on her pre-dawn drive to the British embassy.

The coverage dominated the front page, the story Sally knew to be based on Conrad Graham's unattributed leak, separated from Frederick Bowyer's press conference—illustrated with a smiling photograph of the FBI director—by a feature headlined “Unacceptable Chaos.” Across five columns above all three articles ran a three-inch-deep strap disclosing the death in U.S. custody of Abu al Hurr, described as the Pakistani-born leader of the attack upon the British Sellafield nuclear facility.

Sally did not read in detail until she reached the seclusion of the communications room, concentrating first upon what had come from the deputy CIA director. The introductory paragraph promised important developments in the fight against what was now unquestionably an organized global jihad. Progress in those CIA developments had been seriously impeded by the grossly inadequate investigation of another agency suggesting a connection between James Miller, one of the Madrid bombers, Abu al Hurr, and an Al Qaeda cell in Peshawar, Pakistan. That time-wasting, false, and totally unsubstantiated claim was solely based upon the coincidence of Miller's having studied at New Jersey's Rutgers University, at which Abu al Hurr had been offered an engineering-faculty place he had never taken up. Hurr had been accepted on the basis of completely false, forged information. He was unknown in Peshawar and had no connection with its university. The two men had never been contemporaries at Rutgers. There was no evidence of their ever having met. In conjunction with other intelligence agencies, the CIA had also dismissed the claims of conspiracy between Giovanni Moro and the Madrid bombers.

The separate strap story said that a pathologist's report was awaited to establish the cause of Abu al Hurr's death. He was understood to have denied leadership of the nuclear-facility attempt to British interrogators or any knowledge of intended terrorist attacks the CIA believed to be imminent. It was not known how Abu al Hurr was transferred to U.S. custody or the whereabouts of the man's death. No statement or explanation had been forthcoming from British authorities.

The
Times
opinion column demanded immediate explanations from the CIA and FBI directors before a public hearing of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. The enemy confronting the FBI and the CIA were the jihadists, not each other. Both directors and both agencies needed reminding of their remits and of the boundaries of their responsibilities. The director of Homeland Security should also appear before the committee to account for how such an appalling situation had been allowed to degenerate to the point of endangering America's internal security.

‘How much advanced warning did you get?' asked David Monkton, the moment Sally was connected.

‘None, not in any detail. What's the reaction back there?'

‘The inevitable. A question already tabled in the House. It'll completely dominate prime minister's question time. Our story stays the same. We made Abu Hurr available for questioning in the UK, nothing—and nowhere—else. There was never any discussion and certainly no agreement about rendition. I've already asked through the Foreign Office for an explanation from the U.S. embassy of how he got there. I've already briefed our ambassador there, so don't get involved. How's it otherwise going to affect you?'

‘Personally, I'm still working it out. At the moment I think Graham's been damned clever, which surprises me. And makes me question my judgment of the man up to now. He's got the FBI and the two admirals who were ganged up against him all on the rack at the same time. Everyone will know Graham was the source, but if he can face down his accusers, he could emerge the kingpin, which puts me very definitely in the right place.'

‘This promised development is a code breakthrough, right?'

‘I can't think what else, but I haven't heard any justification of that from Meade. I'll speak to them before calling GCHQ.'

‘And then call me directly afterwards,' insisted Monkton. ‘I can't be caught out on this.'

None of us can, thought Sally. ‘It'll probably be from Langley.'

‘We'll speak carefully.'

It was still only 6:45
A.M.
Washington time when Sally emerged from the communications room to find Nigel Fellowes very obviously waiting in the outside corridor.

‘Here before dawn again!' greeted Fellowes. ‘What ever happened to beauty sleep!'

‘I didn't pick out your car behind me,' challenged Sally. Why this ambush? she wondered, her curiosity piqued.

‘Parking-lot arrivals log, timed four forty-five a.m. Much simpler.' Fellowes smiled easily, looking at
The New York Times
under Sally's arm. ‘We need to talk.'

‘Monkton's already briefed your ambassador,' assured Sally, shifting the newspaper.

‘Not directly about that,' qualified Fellowes, gesturing towards the newspaper.

‘What then?'

‘I'm not breaking London's rules of engagement, trying to encroach on forbidden territory. But I think you've been dealt a pretty shitty hand.'

‘Not a difficult judgment to reach,' encouraged Sally, conscious of the attention from some of the other embassy staff in the corridor.

‘I've got friends, assets of sorts, in the Agency. And in the Bureau.'

‘I'd expect them to think of you as an asset, too.' And be disappointed, she thought.

‘You're being targeted,' declared Fellowes flatly.

‘You sure about that, that it's against me personally?'

‘As sure as I need to be.'

Was she going to be challenged about herself and Irvine? Sally abruptly wondered. ‘Why?'

‘Inter-agency rivalry that's all over the paper you've got under your arm, is what I think. Only a lot worse. Homeland Security's too diversified to work effectively, properly: everyone's staking their leadership claim, and there's the proof of it, right there in your hand.'

He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know—he was practically quoting verbatim from the paper as well—but she hadn't anticipated danger beyond the tight circle into which she'd inveigled herself, the circle that very much included Jack Irvine. ‘Targeted how, exactly?'

Fellowes shrugged. ‘I don't know. Can't find out in any precise detail. Discrediting exercise, possibly: CIA having to bring in British help.' Hurriedly he added, ‘That's a pure guess. Another guess is that the Madrid leak in this morning's
Times,
resurrecting Abu Hurr from his unmarked grave, is part of it; maybe even a preliminary to more unspecified leaks.'

Sally's concentration was absolute now. ‘Did you get any steer on Abu Hurr and Madrid?'

‘Within an hour of it arriving at Pennsylvania Avenue. That's why I wanted us to talk like this.'

‘Did you speak to London about it?'

‘No way!' snorted Fellowes. ‘Forbidden territory, remember? Hands off, stay-away order signed by Director-General David Monkton himself. Which I'm ignoring talking to you now, putting myself at your mercy, in fact.'

‘Why?' demanded Sally, returning to the recurring question.

‘Not from altruism, believe me! From complete and utter self-interest and preservation. I don't know what's being mounted against you personally. But whatever it is, it won't stop at you. It'll ripple out to encompass the
rezidentura,
which I head. I don't want to be caught up in any part of what you're involved in: of what happens to you or Cyber Shepherd. I give you as much unofficial warning and help as I can—like I'm doing right now—I survive. I follow hands-off orders, I'm applying for jobs as a parking warden anytime soon. I don't like the choice.'

All the dots joined up to make a picture of sorts, conceded Sally. ‘I'm not sure I've even got a choice.'

‘I'm putting myself at your mercy.'

‘It'll stay between us. I want to survive, too.' Which—or whose—safety was she worried about, hers or Jack Irvine's? Or both of them? She wasn't sure of the answer.

*   *   *

For an organization in potential turmoil, outwardly Langley appeared as tranquil as its surrounding landscaped woodland. The customary taciturn escort—reduced by now to just one—delivered Sally to her room. The intercom sounded as she entered. An anonymous aide said Conrad Graham would see her and Irvine in two hours. They were to wait for his call.

Irvine answered his Meade number on its first ring. ‘I hear you're coming down?' she said.

‘In about two hours.'

‘I heard that, too. I'm at Langley.'

Irvine hesitated. ‘How is it there?'

‘Quiet. What about you?'

Instead of answering, Irvine said, ‘You spoken to Poulter yet?'

She should have called from the embassy, Sally thought, annoyed with herself: Why was she suddenly so concerned about their affair becoming known? ‘Not yet. What's he told you?'

‘Can't reach him,' said Irvine shortly. ‘He's at meetings.'

‘Since when?'

‘Early breakfast this morning, London time.'

Long after the
New York Times
disclosures, calculated Sally. ‘Anything else?'

‘Redeemer's gone quiet on us. Withdrawn.'

‘I'll see you here in two hours.' I hope, she thought. She had a lot to do before then.

*   *   *

‘This isn't a blame game,' assured Frederick Bowyer. ‘Far from it. You understand what I'm saying?'

‘I think I do, sir,' said Ben Hardy.