The Echelon Vendetta (51 page)

“Up? Up here? Of course. Here you go—”

He leaned his forehead against the intercom casing and fumbled with the button for a while, his heavy lids closing, then he pushed himself off the wall and maneuvered his meticulous way back into the kitchen, where, after a few minor mischances, he managed to get some coffee brewing; coffee, since Mandy, like all right-thinking people, detested tea—an insipid footwash, she had once called it. The pot was filling nicely and he stood there watching it for a time, idly wondering where the thumping sound was coming from.

“Micah, it’s me. Open up.” That voice—it was oddly familiar. Could it be Mandy Pownall? At the door? He decided to look. It was. She stood there in the hallway, her arms full of papers and boxes,

her face pale in the soft glow of the hallway light. She was wearing a black silk Dragon Lady number and was done up perfectly, hair piled up into a kind of silvery tiara, a pale elegant face, slightly drawn, her lips outlined in black, her eyes shadowy, with a greenish light in them.

“Oh, bloody hell, Micah. You’re completely potted.” “Am I?” She swept past him and went down the hall with her burden of

papers and boxes, trailing the scent of frangipani and musk. He watched her as she walked away and reminded himself that, first of all, he was drunk, quite triumphantly drunk, and therefore quite out of the running, and, second, that this was Mandy Pownall, the Virgin Queen of London Sector and old enough to be his ...his aunt.

He followed her down the hall, using the wall to guide him, and found her behind his granite countertop, searching for coffee cups, straining to reach an upper shelf. The black kimono rode up her

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thighs and Dalton could see that she was wearing stockings and a

garter belt. Seamed stockings at that. She turned and saw him staring at her legs. “Oh stow that, boyo. You’re no use to anyone right now.” “I have been known to rise to that sort of challenge.” “Not with me, you manky git. Have some coffee.” “I do not desire coffee,” he said, with some precision. “I will

however have some more Bolly.” He looked around, blinking. The bottle was nowhere to be seen. “What have you done with my Bolly?” Mandy set a cup of black coffee down in front of him. He eyed it

as if it were a beaker of bunker sea oil. “Drink it.” “I would rather set my nose hairs on fire.” She reached for a candle and held it up to his nose. “Here you

go, then.” He waved it off, and sat heavily down on one of the bar stools. “To what do I owe ...?” “Serena Morgenstern told me you’ve been hiding out up here for

two whole days, getting yourself as pissed as a lord.” “Bright girl. Clever. Notices things. I was going to say ‘perspica

cious,’ but I didn’t think I could manage it.” “You look like hell.” “You, on the other hand, look like Hedy Lamarr.” “You mean Mata Hari, don’t you?” “Her too.” “Are you coming back to work?” “In the fullness of time, Mandy. Can’t you see I’m in mourning?” “Laura wouldn’t want to see you like this.” “Don’t you kid yourself. Laura was a cool hand with the Bolly

herself. I recall a New Year’s Eve party in Chicago where she was in-

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spired to do a rather memorable striptease on the bar of the Nikko; management was very exercised about it. God she had wonderful legs. And all those present agreed that her breasts were splendid. Both of them, although I tended to prefer the one on the right. Her right, not mine. I named them, you know? Muffin and Scooter. Scooter was the other one. God bless them both. I find it odd that women do not generally make it a practice to name their naughty bits. I mean, consider the possibilities. Not too late for you, dear. Have you ever—”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Didn’t think so. Would you like to know the name of my—”

“No, I would not.”

“You’re sure? It’s quite clever. A play on the Gaelic word for—”

“
Very
sure.”

“Well then, as Marcel Proust once remarked,
Où sont les meubles de ma tante?
Here’s to the remembrance of things past. Here’s to Muffin and Scooter, lost and gone forever. Where’s my drink?”

Mandy raised the coffee.

He took it with a sigh. “I see the forces of moral improvement are upon us. How may I assist you to the door, sweetheart? Or would you prefer a window? I have several, all of them offering speedy access to the cobbles that lie beneath.”

Mandy, ignoring him, was unpacking what looked to be company files from a battered cardboard box. She set them down in front of Dalton and placed a small stainless-steel laptop computer on top of the files.

He drank some coffee while she did this, staring dully at the files and thinking that they looked familiar. “This stuff is from Porter’s desk at Burke and Single.”

“Correct,” said Mandy, looking at him with her head tilted to one side, her expression unreadable, guarded.

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“What are you doing with it? We’re not allowed to bring that

stuff home.” “Did you love Porter, Micah?” Dalton blinked at her. Her dark eyes were fixed on his. “Love Porter? Love’s a big word—” “I did.” “I know, Mandy—it’s a damn—” “We were lovers. You understand? Micah, try to concentrate.” “Lovers? You and Porter?” “Yes. For years.” Dalton set the coffee cup down and rubbed his face, trying to

clear his head. Mandy refilled his cup and watched him in silence. “Okay. Lovers. Yes, well that’s ...that’s fine. I’m glad.” “I’m glad you’re glad. That’s not the point. All of this stuff is

supposed to go to Jack Stallworth by the diplomatic pouch.” “When?” She looked at the clock on the wall of the kitchen. “About two

hours ago.” “You didn’t send it?” “No. Micah, are you functioning yet?” “I’m getting there.” “So did you love Porter?” He looked at her carefully for a while. “Yes. I guess I did. He was

a fine man—” “I need your help. I can’t send this to Langley until I get it.” “What do you want me to do?” “You asked me to turn Porter’s life upside down. Remember? In

the bathroom at Porter’s house?” “Yes. I do.” She handed Dalton a dark blue business envelope. His name was

written on the envelope. In the upper left corner were the letters PN.

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“It was in my lingerie drawer. In my flat. Taped to the back of the drawer. It’s been there for a while, I think.”

Dalton held the envelope under the downlight from a halogen, tapped it against his palm. “What’s this about, Mandy. You’re dead serious, aren’t you?”

“I am. Look at this.” She showed him a page of numbers. He blinked down at it. “Numbers are not my strong suit.” “This is one of the Burke and Single accounts that Porter was

handling. Five years ago a lot of funds started to move out of this account. I haven’t been able to trace all of it, but nine point seven million dollars went to the purchase of a ship. A cruise ship.”

“Nine million dollars?”

“Yes. A French ship, fitted out as a hospital ship—originally
La Celestine,
based in the Philippines. She was reflagged under a Tongan registry and renamed the
Orpheus.
”

“Who owns her?” “No idea.” “Are you suggesting that Porter has been using Burke and Single

funds to pay for a French hospital ship? And why would he, anyway? What would Naumann want with a cruise ship? Mandy, this is just paranoid bullshit. There has to be—”

“Open the envelope, Micah.” “You’ve already read it, haven’t you?” “Yes.” He peeled the cover back and extracted a satellite photo of two

ships, one white and one matte gray, moored very close together, somewhere at sea, and a single pale blue sheet.

—February 17 2005—Osama Hassan Nasr—Milan disappeared— whereabouts unknown —February 13 2005 Orpheus moored off Venice

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—March 19 2006—Hamidullah Kadhr—killed in crash of private

plane off Cagayan de Oro in Mindanao—no wreckage found— —March 21 2006 Orpheus docks in Guam —September 8 2006—Aphostikos Sidheros—plane drops off

radar en route to Rhodes —September 15 2006 Orpheus off coast of Naxos —June 10 2007—Musaf Ali Mabri—Deputy Chief Pakistani

Intelligence Agency—dies in crash of light plane while vacationing

in Alexandria —June 5 2007 Orpheus seen off Cyprus —photo: NRO Condor Six—Orpheus in International Waters off

coast of Ireland, being refueled by MT Montauk Tanker— August 11 2007 0923 hours

Dalton looked at the satellite shot again; digitally enhanced, the shot showed two long ships, surrounded by very heavy seas—one a white-painted cruise ship and the other a long wide-bodied tanker— with a boom slung between and some kind of heavy cable, or a fuel pipe, stretched between them.

“I looked up the MT
Montauk,
Micah. It’s leased to Sea Lift Command. It’s a shallow-draft tanker capable of mounting what’s called ‘under-way refueling,’ operated by the Defense Department. And here it is linked to a ‘private ship’ a hundred miles off the coast of Ireland. What does all this look like to you?”

Dalton rubbed his forehead, fighting a headache. “It looks

like ...what’s the word?” “Extraordinary rendition.” “Yes. It looks like we’re arranging the crash—” “Or faking the boarding in the first place—” “—of various light planes in order to cover the kidnapping of

these men. I know the first guy here—” “Osama Moustaka Hassan Nasr,” said Mandy. “He’s a terrorist.”

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“Yeah. He was scooped by one of our ER teams, right off the street in Milan. Some Italian prosecutor has indicted thirteen of our guys for it, or tried to. Hamidullah Kadhr is an al Qaeda computer tech. If we actually have him alive that’s a very good thing.”

“Especially if al Qaeda thinks he died in a plane crash.”

“Aphostikos Sidheros. We know he was funneling money to the Chechens. And this guy Musaf Ali Mabri, second in command of the Pakistani Intelligence Agency. Half of the Pakistani intel units are al Qaeda sympathizers. He’s one. Christ, this is a beautiful operation!”

“Yes. I suppose it is,” said Mandy, doubt in her tone.

“They’re using the
Orpheus
to hold them. Man, a hospital ship. In international waters. Completely secure. No tiresome visits from Amnesty International or the Human Rights Watch. Medical facilities on board. Lots of room for holding cells. Psych wards. They could take these guys apart cell by cell—”

“At sea no one can hear you scream?”

“Yeah...Man, forget Gitmo. It’s brilliant! Perfect! A textbook black op. Mandy, this is—”

“Micah, listen to me. This is why Porter was killed.”

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friday, october 26 231 belle haven estates huntington, virginia 5 p.m. local time

tallworth’s estate took up half a mile of frontage along the Potomac, a rambling Frank Lloyd Wright home composed of red cedar and tinted glass and square beams, hidden from the gate by a stand of old-growth oaks. The setting sun was casting long shadows across the well-groomed lawn, and a fountain jetting up from a formal garden sparkled with golden lights. Dalton walked around the house and found Jack Stallworth in his greenhouse down by the Potomac—a long, glassed-in Japanese-style building with a pressurized double door that hissed when he pushed it open. The interior was easily ninety degrees, the walls ran with mist, and a pale fog hung over the rows and rows of exotic plants that filled the interior. Stallworth called from somewhere deep in a jungle of ferns and vines in a far corner.

“That you, Micah?”

“Yes.”

“Back here. Mind the stones. They’re a little slick.”

Dalton walked down between two low brick tables and pushed aside a stand of sago palm. Stallworth, in jeans and a plaid shirt, was kneeling in front of a large Japanese urn, pushing peat into the rim.