The Mercenary Option Page 20

  “You are too kind, Subadar. I was privileged to make a contest of it.” Again, he lowered his head.

  “Thank you,” Garrett replied. “But you are clearly superior with the rifle. Pistols,” he made a depreciating gesture, “are for policemen and the parade ground. The rifle is the weapon of the true fighting man.”

  “Again, Subadar, you are too kind.”

  The Gurkhas had given him the name of Subadar, which was their term for a British officer, specifically a British captain. It was also a title of respect. Bijay also called Garrett by that name, although when the two of them were alone, Garrett asked him to use his first name. In the company of the men, Garrett addressed Bijay as Sergeant Major, which was the American army equivalent of his rank in the Brigade of Gurkhas. The shooting contest had been a single-elimination event, something the Gurkhas had not experienced before, but they quickly warmed to the competition. Bijay considered this a good thing, though he himself was eliminated in the second round. Within the Navy SEAL teams, everything was competitive—winners and losers. SEAL culture was driven by competition. Gurkhas had a keen sense of duty that drove them to excel in their professional duties, but they were not competitive by nature—unless, of course, the contest was combat. So Garrett used head-to-head competition judiciously. Yet this had been a good drill. Garrett knew that very soon he would lose one of these infrequent shooting contests, and that in itself would be a good thing for this tough little band of soldiers. Garrett was accepting the shy congratulations from the other Gurkhas when he saw Steven Fagan roll up in his jeep. He motioned to Garrett, and Garrett politely excused himself from the group.

  “Did you win?”

  “This time, but I doubt it will happen again. These guys are good and getting better every day. And they get a lot more practice than I do.”

  Steven smiled and handed him a folder. “I managed to find that operations planner you told me about. I set up a meeting for day after tomorrow at the Honolulu airport—two o’clock in the afternoon. I plan to make the meeting, but I thought you might want to fly over with me. Can you take a day away from training?”

  Garrett considered this. “Let’s see, we have two jumps scheduled for tomorrow, one in the afternoon and a night drop, both equipment jumps. I may be a little short on sleep, but yes, I think I’d like to be there.” As he thumbed through the folder, his tanned features creased in a smile. “This operations planner is something else—a real piece of work. You’re in for a treat.”

  Friday, November 22,

  Honolulu International Airport

  Janet Brisco, Lieutenant Colonel, USAF (ret.), waited in a comfortable armchair in the United Airlines Red Carpet Room. She read the Washington Post while sipping on a Starbucks Double Americano Grande. What she really wanted was a cigarette, but the only places you could smoke in an airport these days were those glass enclosures that made you feel like you were in some county lockup waiting for the start of visiting hours. She swapped out the Post for the New York Times, pausing to once again consider why she was here. She had received the call only a week ago. Mr. Edwards was most polite in asking if she could fly to Honolulu to interview for a position for which she was uniquely qualified and that came with a generous compensation package. She would be paid a thousand dollars a day for her time during the interview process, and all expenses. The offer came with a first-class St. Louis–Honolulu round-trip ticket. This Mr. Edwards had rightly guessed that she was content but not really happy teaching international relations at Washington University in St. Louis. The day before yesterday, she had agreed to come.

  “Colonel Brisco?” She looked up. “My name is Steven Edwards, and I believe you and my associate, Garrett Walker, have met. We appreciate your making the trip out from the mainland.”

  She rose and offered her hand. Janet Brisco was a tall, striking black woman of indeterminate age, but she looked much younger than her forty-two years. She was fire and ice—a blend of grace and a certain competitive, in-your-face aggression. She was unknown to other travelers in the lounge, but many felt she was an actress or a model—someone they should have known. When she traveled, she was often treated as a celebrity, which she carried off with the appropriate level of condescension and impatient courtesy.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Edwards.” Then she turned to Garrett, smiling warmly. “Nice to see you again, Garrett. And due to the sketchy information concerning this meeting, I guess I’m not surprised to find you here. Or at least, someone like you.” The smile faded, and she continued in a softer tone. “I was sorry to learn of your brother’s death, Garrett. I understand his actions more than justified his Navy Cross. He was one of our best.”

  Few people, and indeed few women, could refer to a Navy SEAL killed in action as one of ours, but Janet Brisco could. She had earned the reputation in the tight-knit special-operations community as the best operations planner in the business. Most of her twenty-year Air Force career had been spent in special operations. Because she was so highly valued as a mission planner, she had not been afforded the command opportunities that would have led to her promotion to full-bird colonel. This had rankled her because she was much more capable than most colonels in the Air Force, and she had aspired to command. But the Air Force had its reasons. One of those was that she would have made a lousy commanding officer, just as she had been, in her words, a lousy wife. Like many highly intelligent people, she could be short with those not as gifted as herself, and that group included almost all of those serving in the U.S. Air Force, the U.S. Special Operations Command, and the capable but unfortunate man she had married. She was gifted but often intolerant. Still, she might have stayed on for the love of the job if not the service, but for her family. Her grandmother, who had raised her in East St. Louis and had encouraged her to accept the appointment to the Air Force Academy, was ninety-one. Granny Brisco was still going strong, but she was dependent on her granddaughter. Janet’s son, Aaron, now a teenager and the most important thing in her life, was rapidly becoming a man. He was the only good thing to come from her brief marriage. And then there was her extended family; she was their pride—respected and admired. The Brisco clan was a large and contentious brood. Her appearance at a parent-teacher conference, an awards banquet, or a parole hearing was impressive and effective. This “duty,” she realized, was her tour of command, one where she could be much more influential than in the Air Force. Still, she missed the business. Nothing she had ever done matched the intellectual challenge and rush she got from the fast-paced life-and-death event that was an unfolding special operation. Her decisions were often as important and as critical as those of a mission commander on the ground.

  “So,” she began after they were seated, “who are we going to kidnap or which government are we going to topple?” Her smile was radiant and genuine, but also said Let’s get down to business. In that respect, she was much like Garrett Walker. She was also very comfortable in the company of warriors. She had met Garrett on two occasions, once when he was going into harm’s way under her guidance and once when he was detailed to help her with the planning of a special-operations mission in Serbia when Milosevic was in power. His presence meant something interesting was in the works. She knew nothing of this Steven Edwards, but she had learned long ago that polite, observant men who take a moment to think before they speak are to be taken seriously. Men often stared at her, and Fagan was no exception. He had not taken his eyes off her, but there was nothing suggestive or sexist in his appraisal. Garrett watched all this in fascination. He had wondered how Steven Fagan, aka Steven Edwards, would handle her, and how she would react to what Garrett had come to call “the Fagan treatment.” He assumed that Fagan would try to overcome this strong woman with gentleness, and he was right. After a long moment, Steven began in a soft voice.

  “Ms. Brisco, I want to give you some background on a project that we have underway.” Again, another pause. Among Steven Fagan’s many talents was to know exactly how much information someo
ne needed, and when. All his instincts told him that candor was called for—to put his cards on the table, faceup. “I should first ask you to sign a nondisclosure document or at the very least, talk in the hypothetical. But I am not going to insult you with innuendo or insinuation. Your past service and your professional credentials make that unnecessary. In short, I know a great deal about you, and you know nothing about me—about us—and our current undertaking. Let’s fix that. First of all, my name is Steven Fagan, not Steven Edwards. In our recruiting process, and our business, we often elect not to use our real names. I am going to tell you what we have done to this point and what we plan for the future. Then Garrett and I will answer any and all of your questions. When we finish, and if what we have said kindles your interest, we can discuss your role in this venture at that time. If you have no interest, then we will just thank you for taking the time to talk with us. I do, however, ask that you treat what I am about to tell you as sensitive information. Is that reasonable?”

  Fagan folded his hands and regarded her with an open, straightforward expression. He asked this with the same tone and respect one might ask a dinner companion for permission to select a wine for the meal.

  “Mr. Fagan,” she said with just a hint of a smile, “you have indeed piqued my curiosity.” With a quick glance at Garrett, “Please continue.”

  Fagan told her the whole story, save for the involvement of Joseph Simpson and the source of funds. Garrett excused himself partway through Steven’s presentation and returned with a tray of coffee and scones. Steven abruptly reached a conclusion, and stared at his hands before turning back to Janet Brisco.

  “That’s about it. I again want to assure you that as yet we have no official or unofficial link to the U.S. government. That may change, although any connection will certainly have to be plausibly deniable. Still interested?”

  Now it was Janet Brisco’s turn to be silent. It was no small matter, she later reflected, that she was very comfortable sitting with these two men. This seldom happened to her. Finally, she took a long look at Garrett and turned to Steven.

  “Of course I’m interested. Who in my position, with my background, wouldn’t be? Since you know a great deal about me, I can only assume that you are aware of my family situation and my roots in St. Louis.”

  “I am,” Steven replied, “and at the risk of appearing intrusive, we would like to take that into consideration. We want you to be continually in touch with the project, but this may not require your full-time presence at the site. Please also understand that there will be times when your presence will be required twenty-four hours a day for an extended period of time. But there will be significant periods of time you can work from St. Louis. We are prepared to install a secure, interactive communications suite with an enhanced video teleconferencing capability in your home. Any travel, for whatever duration, here or to an advanced site, will include first-class accommodations. Should your son wish to join you here for a semester, I’m sure the Punahou School in Honolulu would be delighted to have him as a student.” Again, the pause and the politeness. “With apologies for an invasion of your privacy, I also understand that you have responsibilities for an extended family. We have yet to discuss fees, but I have taken the matter up with my employer. We are all paid well at GSI, but your compensation would allow for a foundation, a family trust if you will, for the education of your extended family. The trust would be discreet, irrevocable, and you would be the sole trustee.”

  Brisco whistled softly. “You guys are pretty well dialed in, aren’t you?”

  “We are; it’s our business,” Steven said evenly, “and once again, forgive me if I have presumed too much.”

  “Can I have some time to think about this?”

  “Absolutely.” Steven glanced at his watch. “There is a flight leaving for the mainland within the hour if you need to get back. Or there is a suite reserved for you at the Royal Hawaiian if you’d like to stay over. And not to press the issue, Garrett and I would love to treat you to an early dinner before we fly back to Kona this evening—no business, just a good meal. We get our share of barracks fare, and it would be a treat for us.” Steven could have said this with absolute sincerity if he didn’t mean it, but he did.

  Brisco chuckled. “You fellows are too much. I think I’ll take you up on that.”

  Garrett walked her to the curb of the airport, hailed a cab, and handed her in.

  “You sure do get around, sailor,” she said, looking up at him.

  “I do my best,” he replied with a broad smile.

  “Still wish you were back in the teams?”

  “Not anymore. See you tonight, Janet.”

  After an early dinner, Steven gave Janet Brisco a cell phone equipped with a very efficient scrambler chip. “Use this,” he told her, “for any questions that you may have or for points on which you need clarification. One way or another, we want your decision to be an informed one.” Two days later she called, but he was unavailable. Her voice mail simply said, “I want to join the team.” On Monday of the following week, right after Thanksgiving, she was on site on the Big Island and ready to go to work.

  5

  Monday afternoon, December 9,

  Langley, Virginia

  Armand Grummell sat in his office, deep in thought. On his credenza adjoining the desk were five reports, neatly arranged in a row. They were standard intelligence reports. The five reports were cause for concern but not alarm. All were raw data that might make a desk officer sit up and take notice, or even personally run it by his section chief. His division head would take notice, but then Near East Division had a great deal of information that needed to be noted, mostly concerning Iraq. Each of these five reports had been handled in the proper fashion and had resulted in a tickler file being opened. Each had generated ongoing reporting requirements and requests for more information. Yet collectively, the five reports, when read and digested by an experienced analyst with a feel for the Middle East, were cause for some anxiety. A number of things in the Middle East and Central Asia these days made people in the intelligence business anxious. And while Near East Division was not yet particularly alarmed, Elizabeth Johnstone was. Long ago, Armand Grummell had learned to take serious note whenever Elizabeth Johnstone became alarmed. He never let on to any of her superiors that he held the instincts of this particular analyst in such high regard; they would have massaged her product and perhaps cost him the benefit of her skill and intuition. It was she who had taken the five reports and arrived at a rather dramatic conclusion only a few days ago. She had not seen the recent message that had just landed on his desk. Could they be related, Grummell wondered? One thing was certain; if they were related, it spelled the worst kind of trouble.

  The message that he had just been handed, by itself, was one of the most dangerous pieces of paper he had ever held. The Deputy Director of Operations had brought it to him straightaway. It had been sent as a flash priority message. Because of its importance and precedence, a copy had simultaneously gone to the White House. Grummell had immediately asked for a video tele-conference with his Chief of Station in Islamabad and the case officer who obtained the information that generated the message. Grummell was not surprised when the ambassador asked to sit in on the meeting. Most ambassadors and even most COSs do not like a case officer to be present at a conference that includes the Director of Central Intelligence and his DDO. But Grummell insisted, as he wanted the person closest to the source on hand, and that would be the field officer who gathered the information. This particular case officer handled an agent inside the A. Q. Khan Laboratory in Kahuta. The Pakistani Ambassador, a very cool and savvy individual, had not objected to Grummell’s request that he not contact the State Department until they, and the White House, had time to further evaluate the matter. In a matter of fifteen minutes, Grummell and his DDO were sitting in the CIA operation center, and the three men in Islamabad were sitting in “the bubble,” a clear plastic room suspended in one of the embassy o
ffice spaces. It was the only room that was considered bug-free and totally secure. After listening to the COS and carefully questioning the case officer, Grummell and the others quickly came to the same conclusion. The report was confirmed as accurate; Pakistan had lost two nuclear weapons from the storage vaults at Kahuta. Four scientists had gone missing, and two of them had just been found dead in Kashmir. Grummell immediately excused himself, leaving the others to conclude the meeting. He was on his way south on the George Washington Parkway from Langley to the White House when his personal phone began to purr.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, knowing perfectly well who would be calling. Grummell’s secretary had phoned the President’s chief of staff to say that he was on his way.

  “Armand, what do you make of this? Can it be true?”

  “We grade this information to be double-A. It has been checked by a second source and verified. Naturally, we have not gone to my counterpart in the ISI about this, nor have they come to us. It is a very ticklish situation.” Then, sensing Bill St. Claire’s next question, “I have asked our ambassador in Islamabad not to report this just yet, so as far as I know, State is still in the dark. I thought it might be helpful if we talked first.” What Grummell was saying, in effect, was that he did not want the information coming in through channels. It was the President’s call to bring Jim Powers into this. After all, the message had gone to the White House as well. Grummell felt certain that Powers would be there when he arrived. He hoped so. He did not particularly like to keep the State Department in the dark, but there were too many leaks at State. Secretary of State James Powers was another matter.

  Powers was indeed in the Oval Office when he arrived, as was Secretary of Defense Anthony Barbata. All the better, Grummell thought. Grummell made his report, which added little but a measure of validity to what the White House had received from Islamabad. The discussion centered around the missing weapons, their size and configuration, and the indications that they may be headed for the Line of Control in Kashmir. Finally they reached a consensus, if not an agreement. The President would contact neither General Musharraf nor Prime Minister Vajpayee—for now. He would place a personal call to Musharraf in the near future, pending future developments and additional information, but in any case, no later than forty-eight hours from now. They would all meet again in twenty-four hours for further deliberations. In the meantime, a number of organizations within CIA, NRO, Defense, and State would quietly be tasked with additional duties and to seek additional information. And President St. Claire wanted his Ambassador to the United Nations to read into the problem. Other than that, all would be handled very quietly and very low-key. Oddly enough, not once was the pending confrontation with Iraq brought into the discussion nor did they talk about the President’s growing frustration with UN weapons inspectors. Only after the others had left did Armand Grummell ask his President for a moment alone. Then he briefed him on the other five reports, and what that might mean in light of these new developments.