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Chapter 19 Volta Park, Washington, D.C.

GABRIEL WAITED UNTIL SUNRISE BEFORE phoning Adrian Carter. Carter was already on his way to Langley, the first stop of a brutally long day. It included a morning of closed-door testimony on Capitol Hill, a midday luncheon with a delegation of visiting spies from Poland, and, lastly, a counterterrorism strategy session in the White House Situation Room, chaired by none other than James McKenna. Shortly after six that evening, exhausted and dispirited, Carter alighted from his armored Escalade on Q Street and, in semidarkness, entered Volta Park. Gabriel waited on a bench near the tennis courts, coat collar up against the cold. Carter sat next to him. The armored SUV rumbled at idle in the street, discreet as a beached whale.

“Do you mind?” asked Carter, fishing his pipe and tobacco pouch from his coat pocket. “It’s been a rough afternoon.”

“McKenna?”

“Actually, the president decided to grace us with his presence, and I’m afraid he didn’t care for what I had to say.” Carter seemed to apply all his considerable powers of concentration to the task of loading his pipe. “I’ve had the privilege of being dressed down by four presidents during my service to this great country of ours. It’s still never a pleasant experience.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The NSA is picking up a great deal of chatter suggesting another attack might be imminent. The president demanded to know the precise details, including the location, timing, and the weapon involved. When I couldn’t answer, he became annoyed.” Carter ignited his pipe, briefly illuminating his drawn features. “Twelve hours ago, I might have been willing to dismiss the chatter as insignificant. But now that I know we’re up against Malik al-Zubair, I’m not so optimistic.”

“When counterterrorism officers feel optimism, innocent people usually end up dead.”

“Are you always so cheerful?”

“It’s been a long few days.”

“How sure is Dina that it’s really him?”

Gabriel recited the basic elements of her case: his failed attempt to secure Bin Laden’s backing, the meeting at Kemel Arwish’s apartment in Amman, and the unique design of Malik’s suicide belts. Carter demanded no more evidence. He had acted on far less in the past, and he had been expecting this for a long time. Malik was the type of terrorist Carter feared the most. Malik and Rashid working together was his worst nightmare come to life.

“For the record,” he said, “no one inside the CTC has made any connection yet between Rashid and Malik. Dina got there first.”

“She usually does.”

“So what does one do with such information when one is in my position? Does one give it to the analysts toiling in the bowels of the CTC? Does one tell his director and his president?”

“One keeps it to himself, lest one blow my operation to pieces.”

“What operation is that?”

Gabriel rose and led Carter across the park to a second bench overlooking the playground. Leaning close to Carter’s ear, he outlined the plan while a childless swing squeaked faintly in the gentle breeze.

“This smells like Ari Shamron to me.”

“With good reason.”

“What do you have in mind? An anonymous donation to the Islamic charity of your choice?”

“Actually, we were thinking about something a bit more targeted in nature.”

“A direct donation to Rashid’s coffers?”

“Something like that.”

Wind moved in the trees surrounding the playground, unleashing a downpour of leaves. Carter brushed one from his shoulder and said, “It will take too much time.”

“Patience is a virtue, Adrian.”

“Not in Washington. We like to do things in a hurry.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

With his heavy silence, Carter made clear he didn’t. “It’s interesting,” he conceded. “Better still, it’s devious as hell. If we can actually become the primary source of funding for Rashid’s network . . .”

“Then we would own them, Adrian.”

Carter rapped his pipe against the side of the bench and slowly reloaded the bowl. “Let’s not get carried away just yet. This conversation is totally moot unless you can convince a well-to-do Muslim with jihadist street cred to work with you.”

“I never said it would be easy.”

“But you obviously have a candidate in mind.”

Gabriel glanced toward the basketball court where a member of Carter’s security detail was pacing slowly.

“What’s wrong?” Carter asked. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you, Adrian. It’s the eight hundred thousand other people in your intelligence community who have top-secret clearances.”

“We still know how to compartmentalize information.”

“Tell that to your friends and allies who allowed you to put black sites on their soil. I’m sure you promised them the program would remain secret. But it didn’t. In fact, it was splashed across the front page of the Washington Post.”

“Yes,” Carter said morosely, “I seem to remember reading something about that.”

“The person we have in mind comes from a country with close ties to yours. If it ever became known that this individual was working on our behalf . . .” Gabriel’s voice trailed off. “Let’s just say the damage would not be limited to an embarrassing newspaper story. People would die, Adrian.”

“At least tell me what you’re planning next.”

“I need to look up a friend in New York.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Only by reputation. She used to be a hotshot investigative reporter for the Financial Journal in London. Now she’s working for CNBC.”

“We have a rule against using reporters.”

“But we don’t. And as we both know, this is an Israeli operation.”

“Just watch your step up there. We don’t want you ending up on the evening news.”

“Any other helpful advice?”

“The chatter we’ve been picking up might be harmless or deceptive,” Carter said, rising to his feet. “But then again . . . it might not be.”

He turned away without another word and headed back to his Escalade, trailed by the security man. Gabriel remained on the bench, watching the childless swing moving in the wind. After a few minutes, he left the park and walked south down the gentle slope of Thirty-fourth Street. A pair of motorcycles ridden by slender men in black helmets roared past and disappeared into the darkness. Just then, an image flashed in Gabriel’s memory—a distraught raven-haired woman, kneeling over the body of her father on the Quai Saint-Pierre in Cannes. The sound of the motorcycles dissipated, along with the memory of the woman. Gabriel thrust his hands into his coat pockets and walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as the trees wept leaves of gold.