Anonymous Sources (18 page)

    

T
wo hours later, at the US embassy in London, the phone rang. Jake Pearson answered on the second ring.

He was glad for the interruption. It had been an unusually slow day so far, and the prospect of spending the afternoon sorting through the paperwork piled up on his desk did not excite him. He had already fit in a long session at the embassy gym, three sets of pull-ups, squats, and free weights followed by half an hour on the StairMaster. He took pride in maintaining the physique of his college-football days. He was now approaching middle age, and long days sitting at a desk had added a bit more . . .
substance
to his frame, but he liked to think it made him look imposing.

Pearson worked in the embassy's commercial-affairs office. He was senior manager, charged with promoting exports of American goods and services into the UK market. At least, that is what it said on his business cards. In reality, Pearson knew little about trade issues. When he reported to work at the great hulking building on Grosvenor Square each morning, he took the elevator straight down, to the windowless, underground floors that housed the CIA's London station.

He had worked here for three years. It wasn't entirely clear what his job was—the responsibilities kept evolving—but essentially he was a logistics guy. He organized planes and passports for colleagues heading off to more exotic destinations. He knew where the safe houses were, and how to move money in ways that no foreign spy service—or US congressional committee—would ever see. He knew how to get things done. And he had one other key attribute, which was that he had no scruples. He did as he was asked, efficiently and quietly, because that was his job. He left the legal and ethical dilemmas to his bosses. Jake Pearson was that rarest of creatures at the CIA: a man who slept well at night.

Now, as he listened down the secure phone line to this latest request, he did allow himself briefly to wonder, Why me? It seemed a task better directed at one of his cloak-and-dagger colleagues. Pearson might serve on the operations side of the CIA, but he was a facilitator, not a spy. He used his real name at work. It was on the buzzer at his apartment building. But for this one assignment, the caller was suggesting he use a false identity. Anything would do. He would only need to use it for a few hours, and the cover did not need to stand up to scrutiny.

Pearson shrugged. It was really not in his nature to ask questions. The request was clear enough. He finished listening, nodded, and hung up the phone. He was about to have quite a different afternoon than he had planned.

    

    

T
hat afternoon found me wedged into a blue plastic chair at the Cambridge train station.

I was waiting for the 2:35 p.m. express back down to London. Even I couldn't think of any good reason to stay on in Cambridge. Or England at all, for that matter, not when I seemed to be spending all my time on the phone either to Pakistan or to the United States. I'd made up my mind to catch the first flight back to Boston in the morning. I could keep working the phones from there. And it would be better to face the wrath of Hyde in person.

Meanwhile, I was hatching a plan to do a bit of shopping in London
this afternoon. There's a little shoe shop on Marylebone High Street that I make a point of visiting every time I'm in London. It's just opposite my favorite place for afternoon tea, Patisserie Valerie. My mood was already improving at the prospect of a new pair of heels and a pot of Darjeeling.

I was pondering whether to try to squeeze in a stroll through Regent's Park after tea when my phone rang. I shifted my notebook and my copy of the
Guardian
onto the chair next to me and pressed the button to answer.

“Miss James?” came the voice.

“Yes, speaking.”

“Oh, that's great. Excellent. Glad I caught you.” It was a man. Friendly sounding, American. A touch of a southern accent, perhaps. “I'm calling from the US embassy in London. I understand you're looking for some information, and I thought I'd get in touch and see if we might be able to help.”

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“This is Crispin Withington.” He sounded rather pleased with himself.

“Crispin . . . Withington?”

“Yes, ma'am. I wonder if you might have a moment to meet me.”

“And . . . where exactly did you say you're calling from?”

“I'm with the embassy,” he repeated. “It's come to my attention that you have a few questions you'd like answered, and I'd love to talk them over with you.”

I sat still for a moment, puzzling this over. Then it came to me.

“Elias, for Christ's sake, if this is supposed to be funny . . .”

“Miss James, I assure you, no one's playing with you here. Your colleague conveyed your questions, and since I'm local, they were conveyed to me. Shall we meet in, say, half an hour?”

I fell silent again. Was it remotely possible that this guy was for
real? That Elias's feeble inquiries on my behalf had already been relayed to the American embassy here in England? And that someone there thought they were enough of a priority to set up a same-day meeting? I didn't have much experience working sources inside the federal government bureaucracy, but this seemed implausibly efficient. Maybe Elias had more clout than I realized.

“I'm not quite sure what to make of this, Mr. . . . Withington,” I managed finally. “But, yes, I'm trying to find out whether Nadeem Siddiqui—”

“Hold on, hold on. It really would be so much better to do this in person. How about we meet at Claridge's Hotel, the main lobby on Brook Street?”

“Or—why not at the embassy?”

“Oh, no need to make this complicated. Kind of a hassle to get you cleared in through security and all that. Claridge's is pretty close by. Shall we say in twenty minutes?”

“No. I could—I could make it by four o'clock or so.”

“Actually, now would be good, Miss James,” he said, sounding a bit less friendly than before.

Then again, so was I. First Petronella, and now this guy. What was it with the last-minute summons to mysterious meetings in London? Also—and I realize this is pathetic—but I was irritated at the prospect of my shoe-shopping splurge slipping away.

“I'm not
in
London at the moment, just so you know, so that's impossible,” I said coldly. “I can be there by four. As I said. And, yes, I know where Claridge's is. I'll look forward to seeing you there.”

“I'll be waiting,” he said, and hung up.

AND SO HE WAS. HE'D
obviously done his homework, too, because he recognized me the instant I walked through the door.

“Alexandra,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Great to meet you.”

I was caught off guard. I'm not sure what I'd expected Crispin Withington to look like, but this wasn't it. I suppose I'd imagined someone who worked at the embassy would look more . . . diplomatic. Sophisticated, slender, fluent in five languages, that sort of thing. Instead he was built like a bouncer. Beefy. He looked utterly, unmistakably American. Withington was wearing a yellow polo shirt that strained around his biceps. It was tucked tight into a pair of neatly pressed, front-pleated, slightly too short khakis. His hair was short and sandy and his teeth were perfect. Crispin Withington would have fit right in at a meeting of the Wichita Kiwanis Club. In the lobby of a posh hotel in Mayfair, he stood out.

“How do you do, Mr. Withington.” I shook his hand.

“Great.” He flashed the perfect teeth. “How about we go for a walk? It's a nice day. By London standards, anyway. It'll give us a chance to stretch our legs while we talk.”

He had his hand on my back and was steering me back toward the front door when I had the sense to object. I had no idea who this man really was. No way was I leaving a well-lit, public space.

“You know, I'd rather not. I've got my bag and everything.” I nodded at my suitcase. “And it's easier if we sit down so I can take notes.”

“Well. Let's just start by talking, why don't we?”

“Let's just start by ordering tea.” Before he could answer, I grabbed my suitcase and headed straight back into the hotel. He had no choice but to follow me.

The room where they serve tea at Claridge's is legendary. I'd been there before, years ago, with one of my Scottish aunties. If it is possible for a place to be ostentatiously tasteful, Claridge's succeeds. Everything gleams in ivory and cream. The silver sparkles. The waiters manage to convey both fawning politeness and the absolute certainty that they are superior to you. I suspected it was usually impossible to get a table, but
by this hour of the afternoon, the ladies-who-lunch crowd had moved on, and only a few Chinese tourists dotted the tables.

A waiter swept over. If I couldn't have my shoe splurge, I would at least get proper afternoon tea. I waved away the menu. “A pot of Darjeeling, sandwiches, scones, and clotted cream.” I glanced at Withington. He looked lost. “For two,” I added, and smiled at the waiter. He bowed decorously and backed away. Then I took out my notebook, opened it to a clean page, wrote
Crispin Withington
and the date across the top, and looked up. “Did I spell that correctly?” I pointed at his name.

He stared at the words as if he needed to consider the question.

“And can you give me your full title? You're from the press office? I don't know quite how it works here in London.”

He leaned over, took the pen from my hand, and quietly tore the piece of paper with his name out of my notebook. “Let's just talk. Off the record.”

I shook my head. “No. Let's at least start on background, meaning I can quote you, just not by name. We can figure out whether I identify you as a ‘US official,' or something more specific. Otherwise this meeting isn't really much use to me.”

“I'm afraid you're not grasping the point of this meeting.” His tone had changed. He moved his arm close to mine on the table, not quite touching it, but the message was clear: I was not free to go.

“We are off the record, Miss James. I'll give you any guidance I can. But let's do this by my rules. Now, I understand you're interested in a certain gentleman from Pakistan, and what his current whereabouts might be. Have I got that right?”

I didn't have much choice. “Yes. That's right.”

“And who exactly is this gentleman, and how do you know him?”

I wasn't sure where to begin, or how much to tell this man, whoever he was. It seemed a good bet his real name wasn't Crispin Withington. Elias had failed to answer his phone or respond yet to my e-mails asking if he knew Withington and why he'd invited me to tea. So I started with
a basic summary: that in the course of my reporting the name Nadeem Siddiqui had popped up, that Siddiqui might have useful information for a story I was working on, but that he had disappeared and I needed to find him.