The Mercenary Option Page 6

  “Would this Thursday be all right, say twelve o’clock?”

  “That would be fine. Did you want to come out here?” The CIA had an executive dining room with exceptional food and a passable wine list.

  “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. Could you meet me at the Army-Navy Club at Farragut Square on Seventeenth?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you there at noon on Thursday.”

  “Thanks, Jim. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “So will I, sir. Good-bye.”

  Watson replaced the phone and sat for a long while staring out the window. The cold rain had let up for a while, and the sun had just broken through. The well-tended grounds of the CIA headquarters seemed so tranquil and serene compared with the ups and downs at Langley over the past several years. Just what does the former ambassador to Russia want? Does he want something from me? He pondered on this for a moment. And why doesn’t he want to come out here?

  Watson had been the Chief of Station, or COS, in Moscow. As the senior spook during Simpson’s tenure as ambassador, he knew the man well—professionally, very well. Watson smiled as he recalled when he and the other CIA station personnel learned that a rich industrialist with no diplomatic or foreign relations experience had been appointed as the ambassador to Russia. He had been a strong financial backer of the President, and this was his reward—or punishment, as some found out just how severe the Russian winter could be. Simpson had moved carefully when he first arrived in Moscow, deferring to the professionals on his country team. But then, gradually, he began to manage them, something few ambassadorial appointees tried to do and even fewer succeeded. Most either micromanaged the legation, making everyone’s life miserable, or handed over all but the ceremonial duties to the senior State Department staffer and quietly became alcoholics. CIA Station Chief in Moscow was the top field job at the agency. For Jim Watson, or any professional intelligence officer, it was the highlight of a career—and the end of the line, operationally. The COS, for all his power, still worked under the direction of the ambassador, which could make the job a rewarding experience or a nightmare. Joe Simpson hadn’t rolled over like his predecessor, who wanted to “know nothing so he could deny everything.” Simpson had been cooperative, supportive, and even helpful, but there had been no question that Ambassador Joseph Simpson was in charge. He had made Watson’s tour as COS a good one—productive and professionally satisfying. Watson owed him. He thought about telling his boss, the Deputy Director for Operations, of his lunch with the former ambassador, but decided to wait and see what Simpson wanted.

  Thursday, March 7,

  Washington, D.C.

  Simpson was waiting for him at a table in the corner of the ornate dining room precisely at noon. The Army-Navy Club was an old facility that had been extensively remodeled during Ronald Reagan’s second term. It retained the stuffy atmosphere of an exclusive men’s club, even though it was no longer that. The club provided a meeting place for Washington’s chowder and marching society, mostly retired career officers, and Watson recognized at least one former military attaché as he passed through the lobby. Watson himself, however, went unnoticed. Like most experienced CIA case officers, he seemed to have a cloak of anonymity, the result of his years in the trade. He was a smooth article, and when it suited him, he could move unnoticed in public. As soon as he entered the dining room, Simpson rose to meet him.

  “Thanks for coming, Jim. It’s very good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you too, sir. What’s it been, six years or more?”

  “You’ve a good memory. It was at a reception for Helmut Kohl at the German Embassy, the week before Easter. I left the legation shortly after that. Please, sit.”

  Watson took a seat across from him, noting that Simpson’s memory was also very good. He did remember the reception, a black-tie affair that Watson had attended at the invitation of the Bundesnachrichtendienst, or BND, resident. That was the last time he saw Simpson in person; he left his post soon after that. Watson had, however, seen his ambassador on television after the death of his wife. He looked at the man across the table and was able to detect only a hint of the reserved, sad nobility he recalled from the TV coverage. Watson was a trained observer. He could not put his finger on it, but Joe Simpson seemed very different from the man he remembered from those last days of his ambassadorial tour. They talked a while about the old times—compared the Washington, D.C., winter to that in Russia, where old colleagues were now posted. It was all very pleasant, but they were circling, like a pair of sparring partners.

  While the waiter delivered water glasses and reviewed the luncheon specials, Watson watched his host carefully. It’s the eyes, he finally concluded. Joseph Simpson was at a point in his life where he aged very little physically. He was a man with good bone structure and one who took care of himself. His rich white hair was as thick as ever, and while his face was lined, the complexion was richly tanned. But the royal blue eyes that had always made him look younger than his years now had a special intensity, almost the look of a bird of prey. Watson somehow found this faintly disturbing. Simpson selected the poached salmon and Watson the chicken Florentine. Both ordered iced tea, which suggested that Simpson might have something serious on his mind and that Watson would be prepared, if necessary, to act in an official capacity.

  “I understand that things have been a little strained at Langley the past few years,” Simpson began over coffee, “notwithstanding the finger-pointing in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks?”

  Watson shrugged. “The world and our business have been changing since the wall went down. Not all of the cold warriors have chosen to go quietly. There’s always been work to do, and a lot of the old hands had a hard time making the transition. Now, of course, there is a new urgency and a new focus. We’ve known about al Qaeda and many of the splinter terrorist groups for a long time, and we’ve reported extensively on the prospect of a domestic terrorist attack. I think we’ve always done well with our reporting on the terrorist target in general. But I don’t mind saying, we certainly didn’t expect what happened on 9/11. Trouble is, they’re street fighters, often beyond the control of governments. They don’t play by the old rules, and there is resistance in this country, or at least there was, to playing by theirs.” Watson pursed his lips. “It won’t get any easier if that’s what you mean.”

  “How is it with you, Jim? Having trouble adjusting to Langley?”

  “I don’t think so,” Watson replied honestly. “I’ve had my day in the sun—I was Moscow COS. I’ll play the hand out and go quietly; I’ve no complaints.”

  “Any chance at the DDO?”

  Watson sipped his coffee carefully. “I don’t really think so. Armand will be looking for younger men for the key jobs, and well he should. Only Armand is exempt from being too old or too dated for the task. The Agency’s not had an easy time of it—the Ames thing, the reporting and policy failures that came to light in Kosovo and the Middle East. There’s no hiding the fact that we could have done better with the likes of bin Laden and al Qaeda. And there have been some other things that can only be viewed as breaches of trust. Maybe I had nothing to do with them, but my generation of spies did. We let the country down. I think we even let Armand down. Maybe it’s time for a lot of us to go.” He smiled ruefully. “And contrary to what some of the old hands may think, there are some damn fine young intelligence officers coming up through the ranks. It’s their turn to keep the wolves away from the door. I, for one, think they’ll do just fine.” Watson set his cup down. He was not one to make speeches and realized that he just had.

  “It would appear that these current wolves could turn out to be just as nasty as the old ones, maybe more so,” Simpson replied as he held Watson with his intense blue eyes.

  “You just may be right about that, Ambassador,” Watson replied evenly. “There are a lot of people out there doing things clearly not in our national interest, some with state sponsorship and some acting on their own. Sadl
y, we know far too little about them and how they operate. With the Soviet Union and the Russians there were rules. For the most part, they played by them, and so did we. It’s a lot different today.”

  They both sipped at their coffee, and neither spoke for a while. Finally Simpson wiped his hands with his napkin and folded them in front of him, elbows on the table.

  “Jim, I need to ask a favor. If you think you can help me, fine. If not, then it’ll not be a problem, and we’ll just call it a lunch. But I’ll have to ask that you keep my asking and the favor, whether you do decide to help me or not, strictly confidential.” He paused a moment before continuing. “I can assure you that my request does not violate your charter, nor will it embarrass you or the agency.”

  “Moscow rules?”

  Simpson flashed a smile and replied, “Moscow rules.”

  There was really no such thing in the CIA, but Watson remembered that Ambassador Simpson had been an avid fan of David Cornwall, alias John Le Carré. Le Carré’s tattered spymaster, George Smiley, often played by what he termed as Moscow Rules—assume that your own organization is penetrated, so tell no one, not even those on your own side, about your next move.

  “Very well, Ambassador. How do you think I might be of service?”

  “From what I understand, a large number of highly capable intelligence officers have been let go in the last several years—many of them in the prime of their operational careers.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I would expect that among those pensioned off there may have been one or two highly capable covert-action specialists.”

  That was certainly not a secret. Watson knew, as he assumed Simpson did, that among the congressional oversight committees, covert action had been as popular as a special federal prosecutor. The agency had been all but gutted of its covert-action capability. This was an issue that was sure to be revisited in the wake of the events of the September 11 attacks, but there was little current capacity for offensive covert operations. It took years to build that kind of capability.

  “Perhaps one or two, sir.”

  “Jim, I need the name of one, a good one. One with personal and operational integrity, who would not…say, take on a project unless he felt he could bring it to a successful conclusion.”

  “No matter what the job paid?” Watson added.

  “Exactly,” Simpson replied.

  Watson did not move or say anything for several moments. “Can I get back to you on this, Ambassador?”

  “By all means.” He handed Watson a card. “I have a suite at the Watergate, and I’ll be there through the end of the week. If I’m not in, leave word that you called, and my service will find me.”

  Watson slipped the card into his shirt pocket and smiled. They sipped at their coffee, chatting amiably about old colleagues and times gone by, but the business of the luncheon was over.

  “Thank you for lunch, sir,” Watson said as he laid his refolded napkin back on the table. “We’ll speak again soon.”

  They rose and shook hands. Watson left, and Simpson reclaimed his chair to finish his coffee. This certainly was not an agent meeting, but Simpson remained out of courtesy to Jim Watson. Leaving together would have been a flagrant violation of tradecraft.

  Friday afternoon, March 8,

  Langley

  Armand Grummell’s misgivings about the venture had not been groundless. Neither Turkey, Russia, nor India supported the measure. As he predicted, the Indians were furious because it benefited Pakistan. The Russians would extract concessions, like a freer hand in Chechnya, for while it was a unilateral action on the part of the United States, they would need at least Russian compliance if not assistance. They had decided to consult no one else. Had they done so, someone would have told the French, and the French would have told the world. The only favorable support had come when the ISI, the Turkish security service, had quietly suggested it might not be a bad idea. An American military presence in the area might make their job of controlling fundamentalists just a little easier. And if Istanbul felt the need to take a heavier hand with their Kurdish minority, well, the United States would be reminded that the Turks were owed one. The old spymaster was in his study when the President appeared on television. Grummell’s study, which was small and richly appointed, adjoined his office at the CIA headquarters at Langley. This extravagance in a government building had raised a congressional eyebrow or two over the years, but then it was pointed out that Grummell often spent sixteen hours a day at the office and drew a salary of one dollar a year. The news conference was carried live. The impact of the Trans-Afghan Pipeline was considered of such import that the announcement was scheduled after the New York Stock Exchange closed for the weekend to allow international markets to adjust to the news.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

  They rose from their seats amid a gentle murmur that suggested this was going to be just another press conference. Bill St. Claire waved them to their seats in a gesture that, though it stopped short of being condescending, was slightly dismissive. The polite, perfunctory applause quickly subsided.

  “Thank you. It’s good to see you all again,” the President lied. “I have a statement to read, and then I will take questions.” He made a show of leafing through his briefing papers. “An agreement has been reached between a group of Central Asian oil and natural gas producers and a consortium of American and British oil companies to build an oil pipeline from the Caspian Sea region, beginning in Turkmenistan, across Afghanistan to a deepwater port in Pakistan. Along with the governments of Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, the United States will also enter an agreement to provide certain safeguards during the construction and operation of this pipeline.”

  The President turned to an easel off to the side of his podium. An aide lifted back the cover sheet to reveal a map of the area. It showed a black line representing the proposed pipeline, trekking south from the Turkmen border across Afghanistan to the port of Pasni in Pakistan. The oil terminal that would service the supertankers would be well offshore.

  “As many of you are aware, preliminary studies and surveys for a Trans-Afghan Pipeline, or TAP, have been in place for some time. We expect construction to begin in Afghanistan in a matter of weeks just west of Herat, and proceed northward toward the Turkmen border and south toward Pakistan simultaneously. The work on the deepwater port in Pakistan will begin approximately six months after the work on the pipeline begins. It will be an engineering project on a scale with the Alaskan Pipeline, and will open up the reserves of the Caspian to world markets. Needless to say, the TAP will also be of substantial benefit to those nations whose production is restricted by existing pipeline capacity and for those nations across whose territory the pipeline will travel. Obviously there will be engineering and political challenges to this undertaking, but the ultimate good to the world economy and the economies of those nations affected is undeniable.” The President returned to the podium. “And now I will take your questions.”

  Hands shot into the air, and the President nodded to an older woman in the front row.

  “Helen?” Helen Thomas was as perennial as Armand Grummell.

  “How many barrels a day will this pipeline be able to carry?”

  Bill St. Claire did not flinch. “About three million barrels a day—just under half the production of the Persian Gulf region.”

  There were shouts of colleagues all around, but she would not yield. “And will this lead to a buildup of American military forces in the region?”

  Here, the President backed off a little. “We will do what is necessary to protect our interests in the area, and the interests of our friends, business partners, and allies associated with this project.”

  Armand Grummell clipped off the TV and turned on one of his computers. He preferred to read the news rather than listen to the attack dogs in the presidential press gallery. This also applied to the talking-head analy
sis that would follow the President’s remarks. Grummell’s computer screen brought up a list of names, journalists around the world that he respected and sometimes trusted. When any of these published or broadcasted something, it was rapidly translated and placed in a queue on his machine. He selected a highly regarded reporter in Ankara and brought up his latest remarks, which were still being translated. He scanned the piece quickly and shifted to a Russian journalist. As he waited for the computer to bring up the new piece, Grummell quickly passed his handkerchief across the already spotless lenses of his reading glasses.

  Saturday morning, March 9,

  Al Kharj, Saudi Arabia

  Amir Sahabi sat in the study of was the largest structure in the walled family compound, located near the city, some ninety miles southeast of Riyadh. The study of Amir Sahabi was larger and far more grandiose than that of Armand Grummell, but the three monitors recessed in the mahogany wall paneling delivered the same message. William St. Claire’s announcement was flashed around the world, arriving live in Saudi Arabia just after 8:00 A.M. The Americans were going to tap the Caspian reserves and bring them out across Afghanistan to a deepwater port on the Indian Ocean. If this happened, there would be three regional competitors in the world oil market plus the rogue producers, as Sahabi called them—the Venezuelans and the Nigerians. Russia had just passed Saudi Arabia as the largest single-nation oil exporter. The Caspian could some day rival Saudi production. All of this spelled trouble for the house of Saud. And if the Saudis had trouble, then he had trouble. Those fools in Riyadh had made a mess of it, and now the Americans would provide the means for their final demise.

  Sahabi called for tea. He must take time to carefully review his options, which were not good. He was a man who had little time for religion, yet he was on the verge of asking Allah to intervene and save them all from this madness. But only Christians ask God for intervention. “Insha’allah,” he murmured; “if God wills it.” This turn of events was not unlike what had caused his father to be exiled from Iraq. And Iraq, still in the clutches of Saddam and his Sunni elites, was still a land where his family was not welcome. Sahabi and his family had exiled themselves to Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia had once been a stable monarchy, but that was changing. The royal family could not have handled the affairs of state worse. At one time, oil and gas revenues were more than adequate to buy off the loyalty of the population. That seemed no longer possible. Barely fifteen years ago, the population of the kingdom was 7 million; now it was 22 million. In 1986, domestic debt was zero; today it was just under 200 billion, a figure that rivaled their gross domestic product. The Sunni Muslim leaders now openly challenged the royal family. If oil revenues dropped further, which they certainly would when the American pipeline is completed, then the house of Saud would fall. If that happened, he would again have to go into exile, this time with the royal family, and that was something he did not want to do.