The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (26 page)

The admiral saluted first as he walked out.

Virginia September 29, 2003

T
he civilian clothes were a welcome deception as she headed by train to the Foggy Bottom office building in Crystal City. On permanent lease to the CIA, the name on the portico was fictitious, but the armed guards inside the doors were not. Jericho turned off her cell phone and handed it to an impassive woman at a desk who placed it in an envelope then gave her a claim slip like she had just checked her coat. Jericho’s credentials were reviewed and she walked through the body scanner.

“Tenth floor, ma’am,” the woman said.

Stepping from the elevator, she passed through another checkpoint into a sterile complex, impermeable to usable wavelengths. Overhead, surveillance cameras watched all activity. Cottrell Herndon was waiting when she came out of the washroom. Reflexively her arm came to a salute. He grinned.

“Stop, Elaine, you’ll scare the civilians.” Her arm fell.

“Sorry, Admiral. Habit.”

“That outfit flatters you,” said Herndon. “I bet it makes you want to muster out and work for one of those K Street think tanks. Burn those uniforms…”

“Cottrell, how about a simple
hello
and
you look nice
?”

A firm smile followed, but Jericho knew the admiral couldn’t help himself. He pestered her endlessly to get out in the world, removed from the drabness of dispassionate satellite reconnaissance. He meant well, but she wasn’t interested. America was at war.

“Okay,” he said, his smile answering hers. “Hello, you look nice,”

“That’s better.” Jericho laughed. “Keep practicing, Grandpa. Now, is there anything more I need to know for the meeting?”

“I hear Priscilla’s in rare form today.” He rarely missed an opportunity to chide the woman’s behavior. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, straight faced. “The room needs more estrogen. Maybe your sweetness will rub off.” He patted her shoulder. “Ready?”

“Of course,” Jericho said, heading inside the meeting room.

She found her name card.

Cdr. E. Jericho, USN

NGA Senior Analyst

Middle Eastern Division

Nuclear Committee

After preparing her remarks for the last four hours at home, she settled in the appointed chair. Her toes ached. When she noticed that the table skirt touched the floor, her heels came off. Her green eyes scrutinized the room, meeting the porous looks of other members. Seemingly wallpapered, there were more silent bodies—the true experts with immediate answers to anything asked. There were four women in the room, but just one counted.

The doors sealed shut.

A man spoke into the ear of a well-dressed woman whose makeup was applied with an engineer’s precision. Priscilla Rushworth’s slight smile didn’t fool anyone. Her pencil clinked against a water glass.

“Good morning,” she announced.

Silence came rapidly.

“We are secure,” she said, smashing a gavel on a sound block. A transcriptionist’s fingers danced on the keys as voice and video equipment created an additional record of the proceedings. The smile left. “This committee will come to order.”

Priscilla Rushworth was in charge.

Every meeting began with praise to the White House and Congress, a flattering remark offered about the intelligence community, always including the CIA, and concluded with the importance
her
committee played in America’s fight against terrorism. She never used notes. She didn’t have to. She knew her script by heart. They all did.

Controlling each agenda item with her insistent style, Rushworth goaded everyone for information. The owners of unfinished old business received a saccharin-coated verbal flogging when assignments slipped past the finish date.

Once, when Jericho passed two committee members speaking quietly to each other in the hallway, she overheard the words that summarized the woman’s personality:
“The sweetest bitch you never want to meet.”
Jericho understood the sentiment from their first meeting.

“NGA update,” Rushworth said. “Commander Jericho, please?”

There was just enough charisma in her voice to make Cottrell Hendon roll his eyes.

Jericho presented data regarding her division’s most recent intelligence estimates, concluding with a summary and update on the status of the elusive freighter that was suspected of transporting elicit materials out of South Africa.

“Madame Chair,” said Jericho, “my analyst tracking the ship surmised her next port of call after Yemen was Abbas. Now, those first two containers offloaded in Mukha might’ve been empty or had their contents moved”—Jericho was speculating, something she tried to avoid in a formal briefing unless there was no choice—“We know Iran is pushing hard to go nuclear, and
we
believe the ship still had the other two containers aboard when she got there.”

“So you’re suggesting they were delivered to Iran?” Rushworth asked.

“We have no specific image confirming that, but two containers that were visible before the stop in Iran were no longer present in the later downloads.”

“Thank you, Commander Jericho,” Rushworth said, “for the work you’ve done.”

Herndon audibly sniffed.

“Thank you, Madame Chair, from
my
whole team.”

Rushworth ignored the rejoinder. Jericho saw Herndon wink at her from across the table.

“Richard Fields.” Rushworth motioned to her personal assistant. “More thoughts?”

“NSA is emphatic that the containers from South Africa held maraging steel for centrifuges,” he replied. “The reason two of containers went inland in Yemen is unclear.”

And it makes no strategic sense
, thought Jericho. She had visited Yemen during a tour on the Horn of Africa Joint Task Force Command. The country was rural, and the common people barely literate. Al Qaeda only had a small presence there.
Why would that country be a nexus for nuclear materials?

Cottrell Herndon spoke without waiting for the nod of approval from Rushworth. She couldn’t prevent him, and the admiral wouldn’t stop if she tried.

“Maybe the two boxes had surface missiles in them, bound for Oman. Nailing a tanker in the straits would send oil prices to the moon. Nice little run-up for the crude market would make people in the know very rich.”

Rushworth’s impatience was noticeable. “I don’t like guessing,” she replied.

Jericho interjected quickly. “I recommend we survey from the Yemeni highlands east to hunt for—”

“Order it,” Rushworth said tersely, pointing to an air force attaché. “And, you may sit down, Commander Jericho.”

Jericho returned to her seat as the door opened and a messenger handed Fields an envelope. He read its contents twice before speaking. “Seems we’ve got fresh intelligence.”

Rushworth loathed information revealed this way—things she couldn’t review prior. It made her capacity to immolate the committee members more difficult.

“Richard…if you please…” Her politeness veiled irritation.

“Thank you, Madame Chair.” Fields reread the information before speaking. “Our sources report that this past July when the
Sagar
laid over in Houston, one of the crew was Jamil Sayyaf. If you recall, he’s been trying to secure a nuke for al Qaeda. A port guard confirmed his presence because he walked with a limp—a bullet injury that unfortunately missed a more vital spot—and used a black stick for support. The images over Berbera and Mukha suggests Sayyaf was—”

“Didn’t Houston detain him?” Rushworth interrupted.

“They didn’t know,” he replied.

“Oh, for God’s sake! That’s ridiculous!” Rushworth looked around the table, shaking her head. “Keep going,” she sighed noisily.

“Sayyaf wasn’t aboard the
Sagar
in Karachi, neither were three other men. But there are many pieces that we just don’t know at this point.” Fields looked at the document again, pausing to organize his thoughts. “As Commander Jericho stated, the ship stopped in Iran. I’d put my money on the hypothesis that Sayyaf and the other two containers got off there—then one of the commander’s analysts…his name is…” Fields shuffled through his papers. “I can’t find it,” he said.

“Glen Sorenson,” said Jericho proudly.

“Whatever,” said Rushworth. “Go on, Richard.”

The admiral saw Jericho’s face go red.

“So this analyst,
Sorenson
, sees a body hanging off the stern of this handy-size freighter as it’s turning into the Baba Channel. British sources confirm a Mayday
—
three men overboard. We get a search-and-rescue thing, but no bodies show up. All we do know is that the captain is missing, along with another crewman, and someone who we’ve just learned boarded in Houston.”

Jericho glanced at Cottrell Herndon. His eyes spoke clearly.

Behind the camera
.

“That’s just great,” moaned Rushworth. “Do we have this
someone’s
name?”

“No,” replied Fields. “Not yet, at least.”

“Border and Customs?” The harassing began. “You know this?”

“No, but we’ll look into it.”

Rushworth searched for another victim through glasses that magnified her wrinkled eyelids.

“Transportation?”

The TSA representative said nothing.

“Coast Guard, aren’t you supposed to monitor boat traffic?”

“Madame Chair, we get hundreds of freighters—”

“Save it. HSA?” The chair then answered the question herself. “Never mind.”

Rushworth’s voice trumpeted out her nose. “Look…We are the Nuclear Committee of the United States of America, so I shouldn’t have to ask these questions. Is this
someone
a domestic asymmetric threat from a sleeper cell whose work was done—and if so—what was he up to, and what the frick happened to him?”

It was clear to Jericho that grace and patience were not Rushworth’s strong suits.

“We’ve got an opportunity to assess our thirty-billion-dollar intelligence overhaul.”

Nobody in the room moved.

“I want to know who he is or was—and what happened to those boxes.” Her raised fingers closed to a clench. “That’s two simple requests.”

Rushworth waited only a second. “CIA, don’t feel like you’re being left out. Get Islamabad to hold that ship right where it is—now!” Her glare waned little. “Every additional second, the puzzle loses pieces. We need manifests, crew rosters, passports—before Karachi intelligence scours the ship and ruins what forensics might be there.”

“Working it.” The officer left the room.

“Thank you, CIA.” A gratified smile appeared. “So…anybody…why Houston?”

“That port serves eastbound traffic,” the ICE representative answered.

“So does Jacksonville. Try again.”

Drumming two fingers on the table, he thought for a moment. “If he was an alien, maybe his visa expired and was waiting for his ride.”

“So until then he stayed out of sight and
behaved himself,” she added.

The man rubbed the bridge of his nose “Still…even if he got picked up, remember they couldn’t hold him. Houston’s a sanctuary city.”

Rushworth slouched deep in her chair, spreading her palms open toward the ceiling. Her neck muscles contorted. “Whose frigging side are those morons on?” she whined.

Chicago October 3, 2003

“H
ampshire hog,” said Horowitz.

“What the hell is that?” Cotsworth asked.

“You know, P-I-G. Bacon, sausage, ham—all that shit gentiles eat.”

“Horowitz, take pity. Are you sure? Why a pig?” Cotsworth felt a stratospheric rise in his blood pressure.

“You’re asking me? You told me the source was reliable.”

“Why would anybody keep a pig in an apartment?”

Cotsworth envisioned the snout sucking water from the toilet then nuzzling Morgan at night.

“Maybe the guy was planning to roast it.”

“You’re not helping. Anything else to tell me…that’s useful?”

“It came from a litter born in August 2002.”

“I said
useful
, not
useless.”

“Sorry, Cotsworth, that’s it.”

The FBI agent thought about pigs all weekend. Monday morning it was the first call he made.

“Horowtiz, this is Paul Cotsworth.”

“Hey, need mustard?”

Instead of saying
fuck you,
Cotsworth asked, “How did you know when that pig was born?”

“They analyzed that crap you gave me, then a program linked me to the National Swine Registry.”

“The what?”

“Registers pedigrees. Began in July 2002. All sires have their DNA cataloged. Protects breed purity, whatever that means. I guess that keeps the price of bacon up for those—”

“Give it up, man! Can you just give me a name and a number there at Purdue? Somebody I can talk to myself?”

“Give me a sec…” He gave him the information.

“Thanks,” said Cotsworth.

“Hey, let me know.”

Not likely…

“Better Scurry Farms, good morning,” the Slavic voice rumbled.

Cotsworth identified himself as an FBI agent then gave the man the necessary disclosures. “Sir, I’m calling from Chicago.”

“Yes?”

“Are you the owner?”

“Yes.”

“And your name is?”

“Mister Demetri Kubiak.”

“I understand, sir, that you owned a hog…a sire…” Cotsworth looked at his notes again. “
Aingeni Black
. Is that correct?”

Kubiak answered proudly, “My pig!”

Cotsworth looked at the time. However long the call took, it beat a trip to a pig farm in Texas.

“Big pig…much fat. Make many good pigs before slaughtered. You want to buy sperm? Much left!”

“Thank you, but no.” Cotsworth was already scribbling on the next page of paper. “Sir, did you have anybody working for you when Aingeni was alive?”

“Let me ask wife.”

Cotsworth heard some indecipherable back-and-forth yelling in the background.

“Only one man here for a while. Say he owned land in I-o-way and want to learn about sheep and goat.”

“Do you recall his name?”

“Wife very good with names,” said the farmer. There was more yelling. “Here. She talk to you.”

A deep female voice said, “Le Mon…Jaylo. Le-mon-jay-lo.”

Cotsworth asked the first name for grins. He already knew what it would be.

“Jimmy,” she replied.

Jimmy Laymonjaylo
—Give me Lemon Jell-O…

“Here, my husband now talk,” she said.

There was crackling as the phone was handed back.

“Mr. Kubiak,” asked the agent, “did you pay Jimmy to work for you?”

“No pay him. He want to learn…so he pay me.” A pause was followed by a panicked voice. “I pay taxes.”

“I believe you.” The FBI agent scratched his head. “Did Jimmy use a check or credit card to pay?”

“No check. Money. Give much money.”

“Did Jimmy spend time with Aingeni?”

“Jimmy spends time with all animals. Learned to cut them open…and Jimmy very good with knife.”

The agent wrote everything the man said.

“Wife says fingers like dancer when he cuts.”

Cotsworth had found what he was searching for. “So he cuts them up like he knows what’s inside?”

“Yes.”

That fits…

“What did Jimmy look like?”

“Wife think much sexy. Dark hair, beard…but talk little.”

“What else did Jimmy do when he wasn’t with the animals?”

“Never sleep. Running in dark. Read. Listening to iPod.”

“Very good,” said Cotsworth. His efforts were rewarded. “I know you’re busy, Mr. Kubiak, so I don’t want to keep you.”

“Is Jimmy okay?”

“We are all worried.” Cotsworth couldn’t say much else. “Do you think that you and your wife could help me draw a picture of Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

Cotsworth would have a composite artist there in forty-eight hours.

“Sir, I won’t keep you any longer. I know you have work to do. All I request is that if Jimmy comes back, please let me know.” Cotsworth gave the man his personal phone number. “Thank you and goodbye.”

He disconnected before bursting out in laughter. “You couldn’t make that up!” His lips quickly pressed together, and the seasoned FBI agent frowned.

A Hampshire hog was about to have its DNA entered into the National Missing Person Database under the alias of
Jimmy Laymonjaylo.
To the best of Cotsworth’s knowledge, it would be the first time an animal achieved such status.
The absurdity, however, would bring him no closer to the answer someone with a friend in Washington wanted him to discover.

Wesley Randall Morgan, MD, was still missing. From everything that Cotsworth had learned, he surmised the man would stay that way.