Read Online Bloodmoney by David Ignatius - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Ignatius
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Revenge, Deception, Pakistan, spy stories, Violence against, Women intelligence officers, retribution, Intelligence Officers - Violence Against
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her head.
“No. The cover job was insecure. They were on my phone. I have new documentation now. I’m solid.”
“That’s good enough for me. We can play with your passport some more. But you don’t work for the CIA now. You’re a private citizen. So fuck it, right?”
She was smiling as she headed back to her cubbyhole. Gertz was a manipulator, but he also knew how to get things done in a hurry.
STUDIO CITY, CALIFORNIA
Sophie Marx worked through most of the night, sleeping a few hours in the women’s locker room of The Hit Parade’s fitness club. She took a walk early the next morning. Her windowless office was claustrophobic, and she needed to breathe. More than that, she needed to think. She had showered and washed her hair, but she still felt groggy. It was as if she were staring into a fogged-up window and couldn’t see the face inside. She wanted to do a good job for Gertz, but she needed a starting point.
Out on Ventura Boulevard it was already hot. The Mystic Eye Bookshop had a few early morning customers, and so did the tattoo parlor next door. Sophie wanted breakfast. She passed a Starbucks and a McDonald’s until she came to a diner called Hank’s. She ordered the “Hank Special”—scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast. Her father used to make her breakfasts like that when she was a girl back in Florida, when he wasn’t too hung over to cook.
Her parents were living in Tortola last she heard, running a restaurant. They had taught her how to keep secrets; maybe that was the only virtue of the crazy, stoned-out life they led: Their daughter learned how to cover the family’s tracks as they moved, until the art of concealment became second nature. Oddly, the CIA was the one place she didn’t have to pretend. She had confessed it all, her whole crazy childhood, during the first interview. She felt safe. This was a family of weirdos and liars and manipulators, whose only rule was that they weren’t supposed to lie to each other.
As she ate her breakfast, Marx thought about Howard Egan, trying to imagine what could have happened to him in those last hours before the meeting in north Karachi. She ordered a second cup of coffee and drew herself a timeline on the back of a napkin. Egan had come to Karachi, checked into his hotel, called the access agent, done a first surveillance detection run, seen the access agent, done a second SDR, and then, disaster. There were many ways this story could have gone wrong, but there was only one place to start. She paid her check and walked back east on Ventura to the big, boxy building with the THE HIT PARADE sign out front.
Marx went first to see Steve Rossetti, hoping to clear a potential obstacle. The operations chief regarded Marx as an interloper. He had wanted to run the investigation of the Egan case himself.
“I need to talk to Hamid Akbar,” she said.
“Good luck, kid. Akbar is terrified. He thinks he’s next.”
“Have you debriefed him?”
“We tried to. I called him, but he didn’t want to talk. I told you, he’s frightened. He says that if he we try to contact him again, he’ll walk.”
Marx studied the operations chief. His face was smooth, well shaven. He smelled of Old Spice. He was a man who would rather do too little, tidily, than too much and risk making a mistake.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Akbar works for us. Who’s he to say he doesn’t want to be debriefed?”
“Take it to Gertz,” said Rossetti, shrugging his shoulders.
“I will,” she said, turning back toward her cubicle. “And Akbar is dirty. Wait and see.”
Marx called the Office of Security and requested the polygraph record for Hamid Akbar. She had been puzzling over his role since the previous day, when she was digging into the operational files. The Pakistani businessman was the last person known to have seen Howard Egan alive. Why had he moved up the time of the meeting with his uncle? Why had he proposed an insecure location? Where
“No. The cover job was insecure. They were on my phone. I have new documentation now. I’m solid.”
“That’s good enough for me. We can play with your passport some more. But you don’t work for the CIA now. You’re a private citizen. So fuck it, right?”
She was smiling as she headed back to her cubbyhole. Gertz was a manipulator, but he also knew how to get things done in a hurry.
STUDIO CITY, CALIFORNIA
Sophie Marx worked through most of the night, sleeping a few hours in the women’s locker room of The Hit Parade’s fitness club. She took a walk early the next morning. Her windowless office was claustrophobic, and she needed to breathe. More than that, she needed to think. She had showered and washed her hair, but she still felt groggy. It was as if she were staring into a fogged-up window and couldn’t see the face inside. She wanted to do a good job for Gertz, but she needed a starting point.
Out on Ventura Boulevard it was already hot. The Mystic Eye Bookshop had a few early morning customers, and so did the tattoo parlor next door. Sophie wanted breakfast. She passed a Starbucks and a McDonald’s until she came to a diner called Hank’s. She ordered the “Hank Special”—scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast. Her father used to make her breakfasts like that when she was a girl back in Florida, when he wasn’t too hung over to cook.
Her parents were living in Tortola last she heard, running a restaurant. They had taught her how to keep secrets; maybe that was the only virtue of the crazy, stoned-out life they led: Their daughter learned how to cover the family’s tracks as they moved, until the art of concealment became second nature. Oddly, the CIA was the one place she didn’t have to pretend. She had confessed it all, her whole crazy childhood, during the first interview. She felt safe. This was a family of weirdos and liars and manipulators, whose only rule was that they weren’t supposed to lie to each other.
As she ate her breakfast, Marx thought about Howard Egan, trying to imagine what could have happened to him in those last hours before the meeting in north Karachi. She ordered a second cup of coffee and drew herself a timeline on the back of a napkin. Egan had come to Karachi, checked into his hotel, called the access agent, done a first surveillance detection run, seen the access agent, done a second SDR, and then, disaster. There were many ways this story could have gone wrong, but there was only one place to start. She paid her check and walked back east on Ventura to the big, boxy building with the THE HIT PARADE sign out front.
Marx went first to see Steve Rossetti, hoping to clear a potential obstacle. The operations chief regarded Marx as an interloper. He had wanted to run the investigation of the Egan case himself.
“I need to talk to Hamid Akbar,” she said.
“Good luck, kid. Akbar is terrified. He thinks he’s next.”
“Have you debriefed him?”
“We tried to. I called him, but he didn’t want to talk. I told you, he’s frightened. He says that if he we try to contact him again, he’ll walk.”
Marx studied the operations chief. His face was smooth, well shaven. He smelled of Old Spice. He was a man who would rather do too little, tidily, than too much and risk making a mistake.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Akbar works for us. Who’s he to say he doesn’t want to be debriefed?”
“Take it to Gertz,” said Rossetti, shrugging his shoulders.
“I will,” she said, turning back toward her cubicle. “And Akbar is dirty. Wait and see.”
Marx called the Office of Security and requested the polygraph record for Hamid Akbar. She had been puzzling over his role since the previous day, when she was digging into the operational files. The Pakistani businessman was the last person known to have seen Howard Egan alive. Why had he moved up the time of the meeting with his uncle? Why had he proposed an insecure location? Where
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