The Midnight House Page 8

Wells laughed. “When we get back to the office, I’m going to try. Then I’m gonna put you on a spit.”

  “Meantime, get to it.”

  “You really want to do this,” Wells said.

  “If nothing else, don’t you want to catch whoever killed your friend?”

  “You don’t know he’s dead.”

  “He’s dead, John. Until proven otherwise. Let’s find out who killed him.”

  “Simple,” Wells said. “And if the truth turns out to be complicated?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Or burn it. Whatever.”

  “All right.”

  “So, Duto wants us to play detective, we play detective,” Shafer said. “Spitball. Everything but the obvious, the jihadi connection. Save that for last.”

  “You know anything more about 673? Anything Duto didn’t tell us? ” Wells said.

  “Only this: we and the army paid the members of the squad their regular salaries. But the expenses were financed by the agency through what’s called a C-one drop. The squad got quarterly disbursements. No accounting of what happened to the money after that. No receipts, no oversight. It’s very rare. Seven-three got close to eight million through these drops.”

  “Eight million for a ten-man squad. Not bad.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Some went to the Poles who were running the base. Some for charter flights. Some for coms equipment, probably. Satellite gear, et cetera. But that’s another possible motive. Maybe whoever was in charge of the money skimmed a couple million. Now he’s worried the rest of the squad found out, so he’s eliminating them.”

  “What I don’t see, why kill the rest of the squad now? You’re just calling attention to yourself. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “I can’t disagree,” Shafer said. “Okay. Your turn.”

  “What about the woman, Rachel? The doctor. One woman, nine guys. Maybe she was having an affair. Two affairs. A love triangle.”

  “Then she gets home and one of the guys kills her? And makes it look like a suicide? Then starts in on the rest of the squad? Why now?”

  “Same problem as the money,” Wells said. “The timing doesn’t work.”

  “Okay, this is the worst yet,” Shafer said. “Say one of the members is actually a jihadi. Who worked for all these years for the agency. Or the army. Waiting to get put on this squad. And then, lo and behold—no. I can’t even say it. It’s so ridiculous.”

  “Try this. Coincidence. The doctor killed herself. Jerry Williams walked out on his wife. Karp got shot in a robbery—”

  “Tell it to the guys who just got popped in San Francisco and L.A.”

  With that they stood and looked over the Tidal Basin. Two helicopters flew low overhead, most likely headed for the White House, as an overweight jogger huffed slowly along the path that circled the pool.

  “Not the most productive ten minutes we’ve ever spent,” Shafer said.

  “What if—” Wells said.

  “Just say it.”

  “What if, let’s say, someone inside the agency or the Pentagon is embarrassed by what 673 did? Somebody high up? ”

  “So, they want these guys taken out? One by one? Okay, go with it. Six-seven-three was torturing detainees. They were dumb enough to keep evidence, videos or photos. And some senior official was stupid enough to put his authorization in writing. He’s got a problem.”

  “Big problem. The kind that puts him in jail.”

  “Sure,” Shafer said. “But that’s a lot of stupid. And even so, the risk of taking them out is huge.”

  “People have been known to do dumb things when they panic.”

  “True. But play it the other way. What if Duto’s telling the truth and 673 found something huge? Proof the Kremlin is financing terrorism against us. Evidence that the French were paying bin Laden before nine-eleven.”

  “Now someone’s decided that the information is too important to risk a leak. And so it’s time for 673 to go.”

  “In the immortal words of Avon Barksdale, ‘They got to be got.’ ”

  “Who? ”

  “Ever see The Wire?”

  Wells shook his head.

  “It’s great. You’d like it. You’re like McNulty, only less of a hound. So. Six-seven-three finds something big, gets the wrong people upset . . .” Shafer trailed off.

  “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “I never buy the big conspiracies. You know, half the time we can barely tie our shoes. And now we’re saying the SecDef or the President or the Pope is taking out these guys one by one? That they’re rubbing their hands together in the White House, whispering to each other, ‘First San Diego. Then New Orleans. They know too much. Kill them. All of them.’ Giggling. Bwah-hah-hah.”

  “The Russians,” Wells said.

  “The Russians do enjoy their conspiracies. They might be crazy enough to kill our guys this way. But if Duto and Fred Whitby think it’s the Russians, why wouldn’t they tell us?”

  Wells couldn’t think of an answer.

  The jogger had reached them. She wore red shorts over her doughy white legs and a pale blue T-shirt with the University of Maryland terrapin logo. She kept her head down and avoided eye contact with them. Looking at her, Wells had a vague sense of déjà vu. He didn’t know why. Then he did. She looked like a younger version of Keith Robinson’s wife. Keith Edward Robinson, the CIA desk officer who’d spied for China and then fled for parts unknown, leaving his alcoholic wife, Janice, behind. Wells had met Janice only once, in a house that stank of hopelessness.

  “You like her? Didn’t think she was your type,” Shafer said.

  “She makes me think of Janice Robinson.”

  “Keith’s wife?” Shafer looked again. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Never found that guy.”

  “No, we didn’t. Probably buried in some jungle. He didn’t strike me as having much candle left. Though some of these guys, they last longer than you think. Keep pouring out misery. On themselves and everyone else. You know she quit drinking, right? Janice. Just in time, too. She had about two ounces of liver left.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Maybe one day he’ll send her a postcard, give us a chance to pay him a visit. No statute of limitations on what he did.”

  “He got to be got, right, Ellis?”

  “Exactly right. So. Assuming we’re out of wild theories. Let’s go back to the beginning. Say it’s a jihadi op.”

  “Tell me how they got the members of the squad.”

  “Bad opsec”—operational security. “Somebody in Poland found a flight manifest, didn’t put it in a burn bag like he was supposed to. Or the guy they released, Zumari, he knew where they were operating, and after he got out, he went back and bribed somebody there. Or the Berlin prosecutor’s office hates the agency and leaked the names.”

  “I still don’t see it,” Wells said. “But if you got the names, you could do it. And maybe this is how you would. One at a time. Quietly. Once you’ve killed three or four, you lift the veil, go public with it. Shove it in our faces. Revenge on the American torture squad.”

  “Makes as much sense as anything else,” Shafer said.

  “How do we find out if the names leaked?”

  “We don’t,” Shafer said. “That’s the FBI’s job. I’m going to work on Duto, push him to open the records. Even if he can’t give us the interrogation records, we’ve got to get more on the detainees. Names, nationalities, what we’re holding them for. And I’m going to talk to Brant Murphy.”

  “The guy who still works for us.”

  “Yes. At CTC”—the agency’s Counterterrorist Center.

  “What’s that leave for me?”

  “You’re going to do what Duto said. Go to Cairo to find Alaa Zumari. An encore performance. John Wells, back to his roots, undercover as a jihadi. For one night only. Acoustic. It’ll be fun.”

  “And how do I get to him if the muk”—short for mukhabarat, the Arabic word for secret police—“
can’t? I got it. I’ll ask Khadri and the rest of my buddies for references. Only they’re all dead. I killed them, remember?”

  Though in truth, Shafer was right. Wells wanted to go, to be undercover again, to speak Arabic, to hear the midday call to prayer roll through dusty streets.

  “As it happens, I’ve got an idea on that.”

  6

  CAIRO

  The security at the big Egyptian hotels seemed good. It wasn’t. At the Intercontinental, a blocky pink tower on the Nile, a low gate protected the front driveway, and a bomb-sniffing German shepherd nosed around every car. But a determined bomber could have plowed through the gate, Wells saw. The guards had AKs and pistols, but they didn’t wear bulletproof vests. Wells wondered if the men he hoped to meet on this trip had made similar calculations.

  Since the mid-1990s, dozens of terrorist attacks had hit Egypt, killing hundreds of tourists. Still, Americans and Europeans came here every day to gawk at the pyramids and visit the splendid tombs near Luxor. Wells wondered if they understood the resentments in the giant city around them.

  Wells reached the Intercontinental’s front doors and gave up his cell phone to pass through the hotel’s metal detector. Inside, the lobby was air-conditioned, with a pianist playing at a black baby grand, its elegance oddly disconnected from Cairo’s dirt and noise.

  At the reception desk, Wells handed over his newly minted passport, which proclaimed him William Anthony Barber, forty-one, of Plano, Texas.

  “Mr. Barber. You will be with us for a week.”

  “You got it, sweetheart.”

  The receptionist tapped on her computer, handed over his passport and keycard. “Room 2218. Please enjoy your stay in Cairo.”

  “Of course.”

  Room 2218 had two queen beds and a pleasant view of the luxury hotels and apartment buildings along the banks of the Nile. Feluccas, single-masted Egyptian sailboats that catered to the tourist trade, puttered along the water, along with open-air cruisers that ferried tourists and even some native Cairenes between the riverbanks. Wells watched for a while and then pulled the curtains and closed his eyes. When he left this room again, the mission would begin in earnest.

  HE SLEPT WITHOUT DREAMING and woke dry-mouthed but refreshed. In the bathroom, he stripped. A day earlier, at Langley, he’d taped a plastic bag to the back of his thigh. Now he pulled it off, trying not to take his leg hair with it. He showered and scrubbed, and when he was done, he looked himself up and down in the bathroom mirror. Despite the wounds he’d suffered on his missions, age had been kind to him. Being free to work out for hours every day helped, too. Only actors, pro athletes, and spies, perfect narcissists all, could devote so much time to their bodies. And, of course, he didn’t have a wife or family or kids to distract him. Though that wasn’t entirely true. Wells closed his eyes. His boy was a ghost to him. When this mission was done, he would go to Montana and insist on seeing Evan, whatever his ex-wife said. It was time.

  Back in the bedroom, Wells popped open his suitcases. The first was filled with jeans, khakis, polo shirts, sneakers, even a Dallas Cowboys cap. Just what the housekeepers at the Intercontinental would expect William Barber to be wearing. Wells neatly folded the clothes in his dresser and turned to the second, larger case.

  It held a different culture’s clothes. One brown galabiya, the simple robe worn by many Egyptian men. Two pure white dishdashas, the more elegant robes favored by Saudis and Kuwaitis. For his feet, heavy brown leather sandals. A cell phone with a 965 prefix, the code for Kuwait City. A thick steel Rolex. No self-respecting Kuwaiti man would be caught without one. Under all the robes, an expensive Sony digital video camera and a brushed-aluminum iMac.

  Wells considered a galabiya, then changed his mind and decided on a dishdasha. Then he pulled the fake passport that the agency had given him from the bag he’d carried strapped to his legs. According to the passport, he was a Kuwaiti named Nadeem Taleeb. An Egyptian visa showed that he’d entered the country at Suez, on a ferry from Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. The passport came with Saudi entry and exit stamps to support the story.

  Back at Langley, Mike Merced, a talkative twentysomething who was Wells’s favorite document geek, had promised Wells that the passport would hold up to almost any inspection. “As long as you don’t try to get into Kuwait with it,” Merced said. “Though I don’t know why anyone would ever want to go to Kuwait.” Besides the passport, Merced had given Wells a wallet stuffed with Kuwaiti dinars and Saudi riyals, along with credit cards and a driver’s license in Taleeb’s name.

  But Wells was missing one item that he normally would have considered essential. A weapon. He could have connected with the station here for a pistol. Instead, he was coming in dark. Not even the chief of station knew he was here. He’d chosen this course for two reasons. One was logical, one less so.

  First, the Egyptian mukhabarat would have tails on all the station’s couriers. Wells preferred not to risk blowing his cover before his mission even began. More important, this mission wasn’t the kind for which a gun would help. If he wound up sticking a gun in someone’s face, he’d already failed. No, to succeed in this mission, Wells would need to become Nadeem Taleeb. And Nadeem would naturally stay as far from the CIA as possible. So Wells wanted nothing to do with the agency. Now, as Nadeem, he flicked the television to channel 7, MBC, and watched an Arabic sitcom, talking back to the screen, finding the rhythm of the language for the first time in years.

  After an hour, he rose, pulled the curtains. The sun was sinking behind the city. As the heat of the day eased, Cairo came alive. On the Nile, the boats flipped on neon lights and glowed red and blue and green. Couples and families and packs of teenagers filled the sidewalks on the Tahrir Bridge, savoring the breeze that fluttered down the river. Beside them, battered black-and-white taxis and boxy green buses filled the pavement. The sun disappeared entirely, and the sky darkened. From every direction, the calls to evening prayer began, eerie amplified voices that echoed through the city.

  Wells turned east, away from the river—the orientation was easy enough, since the room faced straight west to the Nile—and fell to his knees and pushed his head against the carpeted floor and prayed. As Nadeem. As a Muslim.

  A HALF HOUR LATER, he walked out of the Intercontinental’s side entrance, carrying the larger suitcase. Before he could even get a hand in the air, a cab stopped.

  “Salaam alekeim,” Wells said. Peace be with you. The traditional Muslim greeting.

  “Alekeim salaam.”

  “Lotus Hotel,” Wells said in Arabic.

  “Come on, then.”

  Wells slipped in.

  “Where you from?”

  “Kuwait.”

  The driver was silent. Other Arabs often viewed Kuwaitis as arrogant. Then, as if realizing he might be missing an opportunity, the driver put a hand on Wells’s arm.

  “First time to Cairo?”

  “First time.”

  “Tomorrow. I take you to the pyramids! Giza, Saqqara, Dahshur. All-day trip. Only two hundred fifty pounds”—about fifty dollars. “Give me your mobile number!” The driver was a bit deaf, or maybe he thought he could shout so loudly that Wells would have to agree.

  “I’m here on business.”

  “I drive you around Cairo, then! Very good price.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely! ”

  Wells didn’t respond, and eventually the driver dropped his arm. They fought through traffic onto Talaat Harb, a brightly lit street crowded with clothing stores, restaurants, and travel agencies. The pavement ahead opened up, and the driver gunned the gas.

  As he did, a woman in a burqa stepped into the road about fifty yards ahead. With her feet hidden beneath her black robes, she looked as though she were floating over the pavement on an invisible river. A very slow river.

  The driver honked furiously. Still, the woman didn’t hurry, didn’t even turn her head to look at them, as if her robes were a force field that would protect her from
harm. Finally, the driver gave in and slammed his brakes. The taxi, a cheap old Fiat, pitched forward on its springs and skidded to a stop just short of the woman. She walked on.

  “Women,” the driver said. “Crazy. How many wives you have?”

  “Only one.”

  “Hah! And you a Kuwaiti! I have three. Three wives! And ten children!” The driver smiled at Wells with teeth as yellow and battered as the Cairo skyline. “How many children you have? Two? Three?”

  “Eleven,” Wells said, trying not to smile.

  “Eleven?” The driver frowned. Wells wondered whether he would try to have another baby tonight, or maybe two, to retake the lead. “And only one wife? You keep her very busy! I have six boys! How many boys you have?” “None.”

  “All girls and no boys! You need new wife, habibi. She wastes your time.” The driver patted Wells’s arm happily. He might not have as many children as Wells, but he had more boys, and boys were what counted.

  At the hotel, the driver, still hopeful, pressed a tattered business card into Wells’s hand. “Al-Fayed Taxi and Car for Transport.”

  “You call tomorrow.”

  “Shokran,” Wells said.

  “Ma-a-saalama.”

  “Ma-a-saalama.”

  THE LOTUS HOTEL was eight floors of dusty concrete. The receptionist gave a bored look at Wells’s Kuwaiti passport, took his credit card, and handed over the brass key—no programmable cards here—to room 705. The elevator was an old-school model, a metal gate on the inside. When Wells closed the gate and pushed the button for seven, it didn’t move for a while and then ascended as huffily as a smoker in a marathon. His room was narrow and dark, with a creaking three-bladed fan pushing the stale air sideways. Wells stripped off his dishdasha and lay diagonally across the sagging double bed, his feet hanging off the corner. The perpetual honking from the street should have bothered him, but instead it soothed him. He fell asleep instantly.

  He woke to the sound of the morning call to prayer, showered under a surprisingly hot stream, and slipped on his galabiya, feeling its loose folds envelop him. He lifted the mattress and slid the keycard for the Intercontinental into a tiny seam in its bottom, where it would be hidden from the most thorough of searchers. He peeked out the window. The street was temporarily empty, aside from a handful of teenage boys joking with one another. They looked as though they’d stayed out all night, smoking flavored tobacco from the tall water pipes Egyptians called shisha.