The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,133
even over the satellite link. I called her ‘darling’ and she told me to fuck off. That’s how upset she was.”
“What did you say? When she asked why the operation was blown?”
“Nothing. I didn’t know. I don’t know.”
Harry looked at him, not sure whether he believed Adrian or not. He let it sit.
“What else did she say? Come on. Goddammit! There has to be more.”
Adrian’s eyes filled with tears again. There was a plaintive look to his face now, not just penitent but frightened. He leaned in toward Harry and spoke in the smallest whisper.
“She asked me, ‘Who is Al-Majnoun?’ Right after she asked what was going on, she wanted to know who this Al-Majnoun was.”
Harry held him steady in his arms, their foreheads touching.
“What’s the answer?”
Adrian shook his head. His eyes were red, from weeping and exhaustion.
“I don’t know,” whispered Adrian. “I had no idea what she was talking about. That’s why I was so scared.”
Harry let Adrian’s head fall back limp. He thought that his shattered friend was telling the truth.
When they landed in London, Harry debated whether to confront Kamal Atwan immediately. Adrian was a spent force. He would get no help there. He decided against seeing Atwan now. The Lebanese businessman would expect it; he would be waiting in his elegant London mansion, with every detail arranged as neatly as the paintings on the walls. All the pieces of this puzzle that Harry could see had passed through the Lebanese businessman’s hands, but unless Harry could distinguish their shapes and edges better, he would never be able to fit them together. Or worse, he would assemble them into the shape Atwan intended, without being able to see an alternative combination. So Harry would wait until he understood better. By then, perhaps, he would be a private citizen.
Harry paid a visit to Sir David Plumb during his London stopover. He didn’t tell Adrian and called the chief’s office directly to set up the appointment. But when he arrived at Vauxhall Cross, Adrian was waiting with Sir David in his office. They didn’t break ranks, the Brits. It didn’t matter much in terms of what Harry wanted to say.
The meeting didn’t last long. What Harry wanted to know was what London would do now. Sir David explained the situation; he was quite cheery, all things considered. The Iran mission, despite its rough edges, had given the prime minister what he needed. The Iranian nuclear program was well under control. The British had understood that all along, they had it by the head and the tail, but the Americans hadn’t listened.
“But we don’t know what happened in Mashad,” said Harry. “There’s quite a lot we don’t know.”
“Psah!” said Sir David, waving his hand. “The details will emerge. We know enough to brief the P.M. And the P.M. knows enough to take sensible action. We won’t go down with the ship again. You must realize that. No more Iraqs! The special relationship isn’t a suicide pact. Before the White House does anything crazy, the prime minister will take his own actions.”
“What will the prime minister do?”
“Sorry, old boy, but you’re not on that bicker list. In fact, the only real problem that No. 10 has with this plan is you, Harry. I’m afraid they don’t trust you. But I told them not to worry.”
“And why did you tell No. 10 that, Sir David?”
“Because we own you, Harry Pappas. You’re our man now, and you’ll do what we like.”
WASHINGTON
The taxi driver at Dulles wanted to talk. He was Iranian, of course. They all were at Dulles. He wanted to rant about how terrible the mullahs were, and how America should go to war now that the regime was in trouble. Harry said he didn’t know anything about Iran; he was just a businessman and wanted everybody to be friends.
Andrea was still at work when he got to the townhouse in Reston. He left his wife a note that he was back. He thought of taking a nap, but he was restless. He wanted to go into the office and read back into the cable traffic—and troll through the overhead imagery and the SIGINT, to see how much he could piece together from that record about what had happened in Iran.
Harry was about to leave for Langley when the bus dropped off his daughter Louise. She bounded into the house and leapt into his arms.
“You’re home, you’re home!” she said.
Louise wasn’t usually so demonstrative. Harry was pleased. He wanted to be hugged.