The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (41 page)

Pruitt Farm March 2, 2004

“E
dward Gordon, Assistant Director of the FBI, calling for Mr. Jon Pruitt, please.”

The number was blocked.

“Yes, sir,” Gordon said. “I’ll be happy to have you call me back.”

Connie was by his side as Pruitt wrote down the exchange.

“FBI…” Pruitt said to her after hanging up. “Senior enough.”

His expression grew worried. Connie’s followed in empathy as Pruitt dialed the number.

“Edward Gordon.” It was the same voice.

“Jon Pruitt returning your call,” he said.

“Sir,” Gordon began, “I know you’re aware the FBI has been investigating the disappearance of Dr. Wesley Morgan, who, I understand, was in a relationship with your daughter.” He paused, cleared his throat and said, “And let me say this before I go any farther…I’m sorry for your tragic loss.”

“Thank you,” said Pruitt.

Reality began to sap his longstanding denial.

“Regarding Dr. Morgan…” he said, “and I don’t know how to say this easily…”

“None of it’s been easy,” replied Pruitt. “Please…speak freely.”

“Sir…” Gordon sighed and continued. “Dr. Morgan liquidated his assets and left the country last fall. His movements after that were completely unknown until recently. Although details are sketchy, we believe he was traveling under a false passport—”

“That’s odd,” interrupted Pruitt. “Why so?”

“Unknown. There are gaps in our information,” Gordon answered.

“I’ll say…”

“Unfortunately, sir, I have bad news.”

“Please.”

“Earlier this year there was a car bombing in Peshawar…that’s in Pakistan, sir…”

“Just tell me,” said Pruitt.

His eyes began to well with tears. Connie sensed the worst.

“According to sources in another of our agencies that I won’t identify, Dr. Morgan’s passport…at least the one he was traveling under…the false one…”

“Get on with it, man!” Pruitt raised his voice in frustration. “I can already guess what you’re going to say!”

“Well, sir…We can neither confirm nor deny the circumstances with certainty, but we think that Dr. Morgan was an occupant in the vehicle…and lost his life.”

“Was his body recovered?” asked Pruitt.

“That’s a problem, sir,” said Gordon. “The specifics of the tragedy were only recently clarified to us by the Pakistani government. There were…multiple parts of several bodies…burned beyond recognition in the wreckage. They were cremated together.”

“Christ on the cross,” Pruitt said. “Is that all you can give me and my wife?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, remorse pouring from each word. “There’s nothing else to share.”

Darra Adam Khel Arms Bazaar March 4, 2004

I
t was a time for Morgan to be audacious. Serene and disinterested, he stepped around the notorious guides hustling safe passage and walked past the wind-tanned faces guarding the bazaar’s gated checkpoint.

For barter, he sauntered in with the two AK-47s from the truck; he had rupees to pay the balance and buy whatever else he needed. A hidden grenade would provide a final gesture if warranted. But it wouldn’t likely come to that. The huge arms market was a neutral zone where sworn adversaries and centuries-old tribal feuds were placed in check at the entrance. Business was business. Trading in guns and other lethal gadgets of human ingenuity possessed rituals that were both historical and absolute.

Make your best deal and get out.

From the beginning Morgan knew he was being watched—at least until the eyes found another fresh subject. Then he felt released to wander and converse, no longer suspected of being a rogue. His scraggly looks and body odor offered more than enough evidence.

For a time he drank tea and talked to men with blown-off hands and fingers while inventorying what lay displayed proudly in the stalls under corrugated tin roofs. Behind a distant razor wire fence lay pallets stacked with large wooden crates—many with Russian or Chinese lettering. Guarded by heavily armed men whose foreheads were wrapped in keffiyehs, the tarantula eyebrows, long eyelashes, and almond-eyed gazes told nothing of the menace hidden behind.

“Enfield.”

A gray-haired bearded man elevated the rifle near Morgan’s face as though he was offering his firstborn grandchild for inspection.

Morgan leaned the AKs against the table and took the piece. With deference he ran his fingers over each square inch of the stock and faded blue metal. He opened the breech, looked down the barrel, then placed his ear close to the action and opened and closed the bolt several times.

“Smooth,” he said.

“Like baby’s skin,” replied the man.

With the buttstock blocking his face, Morgan glanced past the cartons of American cigarettes, fake antiques, and stacked flasks of brandy to evaluate a rifle with a synthetic folding stock, short barrel, and scope.

Continuing to keep the owner’s attention on the Enfield, Morgan asked, “Have you had this beauty a long time?”

“My great-grandfather killed a British soldier and took it as a prize.”

It was honest pride, total bullshit, or a little of both.

Morgan shouldered the rifle and peered down its sights. A bullet from an Enfield was powerful and flew true, making the rifle a Taliban favorite for long-range sniping. Through the corner of his eye, he continued studying the other rifle with its integrated silencer, night-vision scope, and large magazine.

It was time to turn the deal.

“You cannot sell this treasure,” Morgan said, pulling out a piece of cloth from a pocket. As a sign of respect, he thoroughly wiped the Enfield’s metal surfaces removing any oil left by his fingerprints before handing it back. “I sense your grandfather’s spirit.”

The man looked disappointed.

“Besides…” Morgan laughed, “it is too heavy for my hunting journey far into the mountains with my son.”

To distract anyone who might be watching, Morgan gripped the barrels of both AKs.

“These hunks of metal,” he said, “are too inaccurate for the sport.” He made sure the man saw him glance at the scoped gun to the side.

The old man discreetly surveyed the crowd before touching the lightweight sniper rifle.

“I killed a Russian for this.” He smiled and nodded his head at the memory. “Very accurate…deadly for many, many meters…easy to carry…and cannot wake the family. It will hunt in the dark, if you desire.”

Both men laughed.

“Can I examine it?” asked Morgan, also concerned that interest might raise suspicion of the wandering guards.

“No.” The man added a vigorous headshake.

“I understand.” Morgan nodded. He reached into his satchel. His fingers flashed a large wad of bills.

The man whispered, “I’ll sell it to you if you wish, but we cannot trade here. You should buy my Enfield now even though the price will be high.”

“I would be honored to have it,” replied Morgan.

“It is yours,” the man answered. During a prolonged handshake, money, the AKs and a piece of paper exchanged palms. “We will meet later at my home for prayers and tea. Inshallah.”

NGA March 5, 2004

W
ith feet parallel, knees aligned and back erect, Elaine Jericho sat outside Admiral Platter’s office trying to control her apprehension.

“Tea, Captain?” the second lieutenant and admiral’s personal assistant asked. He knew she always took some if the wait grew long.

“No…thank you,” she replied quietly.

Occasionally Jericho had daydreamed about the implausible chance she and the good-looking man might have dinner together. Because of protocol, she knew it would never happen. After Herndon had briefed her yesterday about the morning meeting with Platter, the fantasy was gone.

The inner office door opened and Herndon walked out. She snapped to attention and saluted.

“At ease,” he said, his familiar grin absent. “Lieutenant, if you’ll excuse us for a minute.”

“Certainly, Admiral.” He rose, gave a quick salute and went into the corridor.

“Elaine, one more thing you should know…and I just found out about it within the last hour…Rushworth insisted she be present to represent the CIA.”

Jericho winced when he said that.

“Platter and I balked at first, but then decided it was best to let her speak her piece here, in private.”

There was an indisputable change in Herndon’s tenor. “I’ll stand by your side…the best I can…but for God’s sake—just let the woman talk.”

“What do you mean?” Jericho asked. Worry spread over her face.

“It’s got to be this way, Elaine,” Herndon said. “Sorry.”

Saying no more, they went into Platter’s office. Jericho immediately snapped to attention. Herndon shut the door and stood with Platter as he came away from his desk. Rushworth put her coffee cup on a side table and uncrossed her legs. Choosing to stand away from the pair, she folded her arms, not letting the uniforms to one side alter the scowl she aimed at Jericho.

“Stand at ease, Captain Jericho,” Platter said. “You understand the reason you’re here, Captain?”

“Admiral Herndon briefed me, sir,” she answered.

“Then I won’t labor through those details,” Platter said. “But I need to say this: Captain Jericho, I’m well aware of your desire to stand firm for your country…but your recent activities are highly irregular.”

“To say the least,” Rushworth fumed.

“Madame Director…if you don’t mind, I’ll have the first words,” he retorted. “As you know, Captain Jericho, you’ve been working outside your position and responsibilities, investigating a US citizen without proper authorization.”

Rushworth charged immediately. “And Captain…this is what gives the government,
my
agency, and the PATRIOT Act a bad name! And, gets us smeared by the press—all of which makes it impossible to do our jobs…properly!”

“As I was saying—” Platter continued.

“What about your oath, Captain Jericho?” Rushworth gulped for more air. “Along with being insolent, you’ve violated the public trust! You could undermine future intelligence efforts! And right now, you may have risked our plans to capture bin Laden! What the hell were you thinking?”

She came within an arm’s reach of Jericho.

“Ma’am—” Jericho began.

“Don’t call me
ma’am
! I’m not military!” the woman corrected her. With a whine, she said, “I worked a long time for my title. It’s
Madame Deputy Director
.”

“I apologize, Madame Deputy Director.”

“Okay, let’s settle down,” said Herndon.

“Cottrell, I’m not finished!” Rushworth almost shouted. “Jericho, if you had information, you should have informed CIA instead of chasing around…talking to pig farmers…the FBI!”

Rushworth gave her a chilling stare. “And how did Cotsworth get involved? Somebody pulled his strings, I’m certain! I’d just love to know who!”

She pushed her glasses up her nose, stepped back and snarled. “By the way, he submitted his report—and will keep his job. He thanks you very much!”

Her lips rolled inward while her cheeks puckered. After a hard sniff through her nostrils she continued. “I’ve been instrumental in finding that bastard bin Laden…and now, two damn weeks before the most major, important covert operation since the Manhattan project, and I have to worry about this?”

Both admirals looked shocked by her presumptive audacity.

“But God help you, Jericho,” one corner of Rushworth’s mouth drew in and up to form a unilateral smile, “if your antics cause the President to violate Pakistani airspace to assault a family picnic!”

Herndon chuckled out loud.

“You get what I mean, Admiral,” said Rushworth.

“Response, Captain?” asked Platter.

“Madame Deputy Director,” Jericho began, “you quashed the Ali investigation. If it weren’t for me, this information would have never been discovered.”

“What!” Rushworth shouted. “How dare you? Of all the unmitigated gall!”

“Captain Jericho,” Platter said, trying to regain control, “what do you believe Morgan is doing?”

“You value her opinion why?” asked Rushworth, her voice snippy.

Jericho looked at Platter. “I don’t know any longer, sir.”

“You sure did until recently!” injected Rushworth.

“Go ahead, Elaine,” Herndon said.

“What? You address a subordinate by her first name?” Rushworth interjected. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t just end with her.”

Herndon looked severely at Rushworth. “Be careful with your threats,
Priscilla
.” By using her name maybe she would smolder long enough for Jericho to answer. “At present we are discussing intelligence information. Do you understand?”

Rushworth’s jaw stayed firm.

“Captain…if you please,” Platter said.

“Sir, Agent Cotsworth searched for Morgan and discovered nothing.” Her voice trailed off. Regaining focus, Jericho continued. “Now we learned that he left a trail of death…which is very different from saving babies. Everything he’s done appears calculated, so even if his passport showed up in a car bombing…he might not be dead. What’s he doing? I really believe he’s over there trying to kill bin Laden.”

“Compelling fantasy, Jericho, a doctor turned vigilante,” spewed Rushworth. “Over the death of a woman? Not a chance! Men get over women when they see the next skirt! Doctors are the worst.”

Herndon’s eyes rolled.

“Here’s a far more plausible scenario.” Rushworth again moved close to Jericho. “We know that freighter was dirty, and by happenstance one of the crew was a nuclear terrorist, whose brother mules him toward a terrorist camp. So what
I
think is going on is that after the woman’s death your Dr. Morgan went crazy…developed Stockholm Syndrome, and headed to Pakistan thinking he’d polish his jihadi skills, then come back to America with an armful of doll-shaped WMDs for his patients.”

Jericho winced. “I can’t believe—”

“It’s no wackier than what you suggested, Captain, that is unless you think Morgan’s movements are just the result of a series of coincidences,” impugned Rushworth. “But if for some far-fetched chance he is still alive and attempting to do what you say—”

“Priscilla,” Herndon said, intentionally using her first name again, “I’d wager big money Morgan’s long dead, either in that car bombing or beheaded somewhere along the way. I can’t imagine any of this is going to affect bin Laden’s extraction.”

“Unless the ISI has picked him up!” Rushworth’s anger flared again. “They’ll think he’s CIA and pry any information out of him they can use, then they’ll backchannel a warning to the Taliban…and…” Rushworth snapped her fingers. “That’s that!”

“Collaborative sources tell us the meeting’s still on,” Herndon replied in a controlled tone.

The hush lasted a moment.

Rushworth smacked her fist on the top of the closest wingback chair. “It
really
would have been helpful to know this crap, oh—shall we say—in
January
, so we could have factored it in!”

“Madame Deputy Director,” Jericho began, “I informed Admiral Herndon as soon—”

“The road to hell is lined with lame excuses!” Rushworth scoffed. The corners of her lips curled slightly. “And actually, Cottrell, I agree. This idiot is dead, or our sources would have told us otherwise.”

After the intensity of her harangue, neither admiral could believe Rushworth agreed with Herndon’s conclusion without argument. There was something more she was waiting for.

The lioness seemed to salivate. “So let’s move on to a more pressing problem. Gentlemen, what are we going to do with”—she thumbed toward Jericho—“her?”

“Madame Deputy Director…Admiral Herndon and I have discussed Captain Jericho’s misconduct,” said Platter. “Captain?”

“Sir.” Jericho came to attention again.

“The Navy and the Department of Defense want you to go away…and there are only two ways that will happen,” Platter said. “Neither is negotiable. Admiral Herndon, continue, please.”

Jericho felt like she was about to tumble down a crater opening beneath her feet. She had no idea if her friend was going to help push.

“Captain Jericho,” Herndon began, “you may request a trial in military court. That is choice one.”

He paused so she could consider her chances for success in that venue.

“Here’s choice two. Your service records indicate you have three years and change until your twenty-year mark. You may take a one-month leave of absence effective immediately, be given two hours under guard to clear out any personal effects from your office, surrender clearances and badges, and vacate the NGA. You will be demoted immediately, and in thirty days’ time report to the commanding officer at the navy base in Kingsville, Texas for your new assignment. There you will serve your country as instructed until discharge.”

Jericho knew Herndon had fought hard for her. His career was probably ruined as well.

“Number two is what I recommend,” he suggested.

“But—” Rushworth began, but Herndon held up his hand to silence her.

“This situation is a military matter, Madame Deputy Director, not civilian,” Herndon said. “These options were approved by DOD legal affairs and signed off by the Chief of Staff.”

He looked at her. “Lieutenant Commander Jericho, do you have anything more you’d like to say?”

Addressed in the lower rank, she knew her fate was sealed—the final act by her friend to save what was left of a shattered career.

“No, Admiral Herndon, thank you, sir!”

“Then…you are dismissed.”

She saluted. Neither officer acknowledged the gesture.