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  His assistant knocked, then cracked the door open. “Phil’s on line one.”

  Jay pivoted in his chair and punched the line, putting it on speaker. “Phil, it’s Jay. I have Lisa in my office. She’s getting media inquiries about the Senate Finance Committee investigation of the IRS matter. What should she say?”

  “Tell them we’re still reviewing the subpoena,” said Battaglia.

  “Phil, I can’t keep using the same line,” said Lisa. “The natives are getting restless. When are we going to answer the question of whether or not we’re cooperating? Throw me a bone here.”

  “We’re going to cooperate as much as possible without surrendering executive privilege,” said Battaglia. “This is a fishing expedition. It’s an infringement on the president’s constitutional prerogative to confidential advice. It’s a politically motivated witch hunt. We’re not going to let Stanley and the Dems haul Jay or any other member of the president’s staff down to the Capitol anytime there’s a story in the New York Times suggesting somebody did something wrong.”

  “So our position is Jay is not going to testify?”

  “Correct,” said Battaglia. “But don’t say that. At least not yet.”

  “I think they’ll burn us alive if that’s our position,” said Lisa. She made eye contact again with Jay. He threw up his hands to signal his disapproval. She ignored him. “This is a question of an alleged interference by a top aide to the president with an IRS investigation of the leading conservative religious broadcaster in the country. The agent in charge says he felt pressured. He’s going to testify. If we crouch in the bunker on this, it’s going to get ugly.”

  “It’s ugly either way, Lisa,” said Battaglia. “We can’t surrender executive privilege.”

  “You can waive it.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Fine. But I’m on the record saying this is a bad idea. I respect your legal judgment, Phil, but I’m sending a memo to Charlie Hector stating my view.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, Lisa. Have a good day.” Battaglia hung up.

  Jay shook his head. “Why are you hanging me out to dry? There’s nothing there. This is a trumped-up political charge by the Times and Sal Stanley.”

  “Jay, the hearings are going to be a circus,” said Lisa. “I honestly believe the pressure will be so great you’re going to have to testify. So let’s make necessity a virtue and just waive privilege and get it over with now.”

  “Like I said, I’m fine either way,” said Jay. “I’m just doing what I’m told by the lawyers.”

  Lisa turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, by the way, we got a call from someone at Merryprankster.com. They claim witnesses saw you at a VIP table at The Standard in LA the other night doing shots and dirty dancing with Satcha Sanchez and some party girls.”

  “I was not!” lied Jay. “I met Satcha for a drink. The other chick was a PR flak.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I don’t even know her name.”

  Lisa lowered her chin and gave Jay a dirty look. “You’re off message, Jay. Always remember their names.” She turned to go.

  Jay laughed. “I’d never forget yours!”

  Lisa rolled her eyes with disgust and left the office, closing the door behind her.

  10

  Truman Greenglass was on the phone with the number two official at the Defense Intelligence Agency discussing the latest Intel on the dispersal of Iranian nuclear material. The DIA official was explaining the HUMINT regarding the Iranian operation. Basically, there was none. What else was new? Just then Greenglass received an e-mail on his desk computer, which made a characteristic bong noise. He rotated the mouse over the e-mail and highlighted it, clicking the mouse. It was from Bill Jacobs at the CIA. Anxious to read it, he wrapped up his call.

  “Truman, per our conversation the other morning during the daily intelligence briefing, I have attached a memorandum regarding communication between the CIA and the FBI on the subject of the investigation of Senator Perry Miller’s murder. Call me if you have any further questions.”

  Opening the memo, he scanned the text, his eyes darting, his curiosity curdling to anger. He could not believe Jacobs would stab him in the back in such a systematic fashion. The memo was a classic CIA maneuver by one of the wiliest officials in the government. It read in part:

  TOP SECRET: EYES ONLY

  MEMORANDUM OF CONVERSATION

  FROM: WILLIAM JACOBS

  TO: TRUMAN GREENGLASS

  CC: CHARLES HECTOR

  This is to reduce to writing our conversation on Tuesday regarding the FBI’s ongoing investigation into the death of Senator Perry Miller and its potential impact on national security. Specifically, you asked whether the investigation could compromise CIA covert operations in Iran designed to destabilize the current regime. Further, you asked whether or not the CIA could communicate our concerns through appropriate channels to the FBI.

  The previous administration issued a presidential finding authorizing Operation Code Green, a multiagency effort that included monetary aid to democratic organizations, technology transfers, military supplies, paramilitary operations, and the targeted elimination of certain elements within the country.

  There is no evidence at this time that the FBI’s investigation will lead to public disclosure of the operational details of Operation Code Green. We conclude the FBI is seeking to ascertain whether Rassem el Zafarshan or some other terror network, perhaps funded by elements within the Iranian government, was involved in Senator Miller’s death in retaliation for his role in supporting regime change. To our knowledge this investigation in no way threatens to compromise covert activities in Iran.

  As you know, 24 USC 2008 prohibits direct operational involvement with domestic law enforcement investigations by foreign intelligence agencies. This statutory delineation of lines of responsibility has been essential to the prosecution of the war on terror. However, the Patriot Act authorizes the sharing of intelligence between the FBI and the CIA, and we will certainly ensure that that is the case with the Miller investigation.

  GREENGLASS MUTTERED AN EPLETIVE UNDER his breath. He always considered Jacobs a patriot, but it now turned out he was just another spy with a briefcase and a pension, a bureaucrat, and a gutless wonder. This kind of careerism by high-ranking government officials allowed Iran to get the nuke in the first place. Forget him and the Agency, Greenglass decided. They were worthless. And when it came to dealing with the FBI, there was more than one way to skin that cat.

  PAT MAHONEY STOOD IN FRONT of a bank of video screens in the SCIF, talking to the SWAT team captain at Hassan Qatani’s rental house on his headset. “Please tell me you’ve got something. We still can’t find him. He shook the tail, and we can’t locate his vehicle.”

  “We found a laptop, several prepaid cellphones, and an iPod,” said the SWAT team captain. “We also found some fake passports, forged immigration papers, and fake driver’s licenses. This guy’s on the move and someone’s supplying him.”

  “Get the laptop and the cell phones back to headquarters right away so our technicians can do a full data dump off the hard drive and the SIM cards,” ordered Mahoney. “Maybe we can see if he’s been visiting any travel Web sites to research airline flights. If he’s got fake passports, he’s planning to travel under an assumed name and probably a disguise.”

  “I’d say sooner rather than later.”

  “Okay, good work. Keep a surveillance team on site in case he comes back.” Mahoney hung up the phone, walking over to Kris Howard.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “The SWAT team captain over at Hassan’s house. They found a laptop, prepaid cell phones, and some fake passports,” replied Mahoney. “Looks like he’s planning a long vacation.”

  “Yeah, but to where? And from where?”

  “My guess is Dulles, BWI, or Philly. It’s too far to New York.”

  “He’ll likely be on a direct flight to the Middle East,” said Howard. “Make sur
e we have air marshals on all those flights.”

  “Already done. The problem is, we can’t rely on his name popping up on the terrorist watch list if he’s traveling with a false passport. We’ll have to rely on facial recognition software.”

  “What about biometrics?”

  “That’s when they come into the country.”

  “We should search the database of incoming passengers,” suggested Howard.

  “Also, we’re targeting anyone traveling alone on a one-way ticket.”

  “I hope you still have the surveil team looking for him.”

  “Absolutely. Nothing so far. But one way or the other he’s going to hit the grid.”

  “I hope you’re right. If he does, we can’t lose him again.”

  “We won’t. We’ve got thirty-two flights to European or Middle East destinations out of those three airports we’re monitoring. We’ve pulled the passenger lists, and we’re running all those names through the various databases. We’ve also got real-time feeds of video from airport security cameras.”

  Howard nodded and walked away, deep in thought.

  A BEARDED MAN OF ARAB descent wearing a Boston Red Sox hat approached the SpanAir ticket counter at Dulles International Airport at 4:40 p.m. and bought a one-way ticket to Madrid on Flight 106, departing at 7:00 p.m. He paid in cash. His passport said he was Diego Garcia and had entered the U.S. on a student visa nine months earlier. The walk-up fare for the ticket was $752. He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and counted out seven $100 bills, a fifty, and two ones. The woman working behind the counter printed out the ticket and handed him his boarding pass.

  As the man left the counter and headed for security, she noticed he looked a little old for a student and assumed he must be in graduate school.

  AT A COMPUTER TERMINAL AT FBI headquarters, an agent scanned video from several cameras stationed at the main security checkpoint at Dulles airport. He looked for anyone remotely matching the description of Qatani or, alternatively, a male wearing a lot of clothing, sunglasses, and a hat who might be trying to disguise his appearance.

  As his eyes scanned the screen, he saw a man going through a metal detector who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, which he removed at the direction of the TSA agent as he stepped through the magnetometer.

  “Gotcha,” said the agent. He froze the footage, zoomed in on image, and clicked an icon in the corner activating the FBI’s proprietary facial recognition software, the most sophisticated such technology in the world. It instantly matched the photograph against databases containing hundreds of thousands of pictures of known and suspected terrorists, as well as Islamic extremists with ties to terrorist organizations. The software flashed a symbol showing it identified a match. The agent clicked on the symbol with his mouse, pulling up the matching photograph. It was a picture of Hassan Qatani taken just days earlier by an FBI surveillance camera.

  “It’s him!” exclaimed the agent. He excitedly picked up the phone and dialed Patrick Mahoney’s cell phone.

  “Mahoney here,” came the voice on the other line.

  “I just did a facial recognition match on a guy going through security at Dulles,” said the agent. “It’s him.”

  “Qatani?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Thirty minutes ago.”

  “We have to figure out what flight he’s on,” said Mahoney.

  “Hold on,” said the agent. He tapped on the keyboard, pulling up a list of all the international flights leaving Dulles. “I got a British Airways flight to London, United flights to Munich, Paris, Dubai, and Cairo, and a SpanAir flight to Madrid. That’s all in the next ninety minutes.”

  “Can we check cash purchases on those flights?”

  “You bet.”

  “Do it. All hands on deck. Call me back immediately. We’ll call airport security from here and alert them that we have a major situation.” Mahoney hung up. Making eye contact with Howard, he said in a raised voice: “Alright, everybody, listen up: Hassan Qatani went through security at Dulles thirty minutes ago. He’s probably boarding right now, so let’s pull the passenger manifests for every international flight departing in the next ten to ninety minutes. Keep in mind he’s using a false passport. We’re looking for males between the ages of twenty and forty years old, traveling alone on a foreign passport, probably paying cash.”

  “What about the air marshals?” asked an agent.

  “Alert every air marshal on an international flight via e-mail. Tell them we’ve positively ID’d Qatani, and we have reason to believe he’s boarding a flight shortly. Given the situation, they may need to apprehend him themselves.”

  “I’m on it,” said one of the agents.

  ATTORNEY GENERAL KEITH GOLDEN WAS at his home in Alexandria having dinner with his family when the phone rang. His wife answered it. “It’s for you,” she said. When he picked up the receiver, he heard the voice of Kris Howard.

  “General, sorry to bother you at home, but we’re closing in on Qatani, the Miller murder suspect,” she said.

  “Good. I thought the FBI lost him.”

  “They did. But half an hour ago he went through security at Dulles. The FBI and TSA have been monitoring those video feeds. They ID’d him using facial recognition software.”

  “Where’s he heading?” asked Golden.

  “We don’t know,” said Howard. “He’s using a fake passport. We’re doing a search of the passenger manifests to find any male passenger who fits the profile.”

  “Do we have time to do that before those international flights take off?”

  “Not all of them, but most of them.”

  “Let’s hope we find him before the plane takes off,” said Golden.

  “Just wanted to let you know what’s going on. If it looks like we’re going to get him in custody, you probably want to be here when it goes down.”

  “Absolutely. Keep me posted.”

  Golden hung up the phone. If they nabbed Qatani, it would blow the Miller investigation wide open, and Golden would be the one making the announcement at a news conference from the DOJ press briefing room. How sweet would that be?

  AT SCIF AN AGENT RAISED his hand and snapped his fingers, signaling he had something. Mahoney strode over.

  “What is it?”

  “I got a male passenger by the name of Diego Garcia on a student visa from Spain flying back to Madrid on a one-way ticket,” he said. “Paid cash at the airport, two hours before departure.”

  “Can you pull up the scan of his passport.”

  “Hold on, I’ve got to access the ICE database,” he said, referring to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement. He pulled up a Web site, clicked an icon, and typed in a password, then quickly did a search on the name. Four matches came up. The first one was an eighteen-year-old student at UCLA. The second came up with a photo that was clearly Qatani. “There’s your man,” he said, tapping the screen with his finger. “He’s going to Madrid. I’m sure that’s just a stop-off point.”

  “What time does that flight take off?”

  “Seven p.m.”

  “We’re too late,” said Mahoney, glancing anxiously at one of the clocks on the wall that tracked the time in different time zones. It read 7:17 p.m. “I’m sure they’ve left the gate by now, but they’re probably still taxiing on the runway. Can we notify the pilot to go back to the gate?”

  The agent quickly dialed a number to the Homeland Security Control Center the Federal Aviation Administration. “I’m calling for Agent Mahoney at the FBI,” he said. “There’s a high-level terrorist suspect traveling on a fake passport on SpanAir flight 106 to Madrid. Can you tell me the status of that plane. Is it still on the ground?”

  “Checking,” said the FAA. There was a brief pause. “No, afraid not. Flight 106 has been in the air for eleven minutes.”

  The agent let out an expletive and banged his fist on his desk. He turned to Mahoney. “We
lost him. They’re airborne.”

  “Divert the aircraft,” ordered Mahoney.

  “You don’t want to pick him up in Madrid?” asked the agent.

  “No way,” said Mahoney. “I’m not going to deal with the politics of getting him back here from Spain. That could take days. Divert the aircraft.”

  The agent returned to the FAA, which was still on the phone. “Please order the pilot to turn around and return to the airport.”

  “Negative,” said Mahoney. “Tell him to go to JFK in New York.”

  “JFK?”

  “Darn right. At least initially I want him in custody in the Southern District of New York. They’ll know how to handle him. Best prosecutors and judges for a terrorist case in the country.”

  “Can you tell the pilot to land at JFK?” asked the agent.

  “Roger that,” said the FAA. “We’ll make direct contact with the pilot and get you an ETA pronto.”

  Mahoney allowed himself a smile and slapped the agent on the back. He turned to Kris Howard and gave her a thumbs-up. “Tell the AG he can schedule his press conference,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “He’s on a flight to Madrid we just diverted to JFK. We’ll have him in FBI custody within the hour.”

  “Good job,” said Howard. “I want you standing up there when we announce we got him. You guys deserve all the credit.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m out of here,” said Mahoney. He pointed with his index finger at two fellow agents and motioned for them to follow him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “New York.” With that he was gone.