Read Online The Second Saladin by Stephen Hunter - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Hunter
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officials. He escaped the Lebanese pretty easily, and nobody ever touched him again until Saladin Two.”
The face glared at them.
Trewitt tried to read it. It did not look particularly Middle Eastern. It was just a passionate young man’s face, caught in the harsh light of a police strobe. He was probably scared when they got this; he didn’t know what was going on, what would happen. He looked a little spooked; but he also looked mad. The cheekbones were so high—they gave his face an almost Oriental look. And the nose was a blade, even photographed straight on, a huge, bony hunk.
“The key document,” said Yost, “from this point onward is ‘AFTACT Report Number two-four-three-three-five-two-B-slash Saladin Two.’ I urge any of you unfamiliar with it to check it out of the Operations Archive. You can also call on your computer terminals if you’re Blue Level cleared.”
“It sounds familiar,” said a well-modulated, cheerful voice, to a small whisper of laughter.
Trewitt recognized the voice of Sam Melman, who, in the dismal aftermath of Saladin II, had compiled “AFTACT 243352-B,” when he was Director of the Missions and Programs Staff in the Operations Directorate and had therefore committed his name to the document, for it was known in the vernacular (by the few that knew
of it)
as “The Melman Report.”
The men who laughed with Sam would be his current staff, an Agency elect themselves, for Sam was now Deputy Director of Operations.
Trewitt had seen the report himself. It was a sketchy thing, a few dismal sheets of typewritten red paper (to prevent photocopying), such a tiny artifact for what must have been an extraordinary occurrence.
“You’re not going to read us the whole thing?” somebody in the dark wanted to know. “I agree we’ve got a crisis, but nothing is worth
that.”
Sam’s laughter was loudest.
“No,” said Yost. “But we thought you should have the context at least available.”
But Trewitt couldn’t let it pass from consciousness so easily. It haunted him, just as Chardy, the fallen hero, in his way haunted him. Chardy’s performance before Melman, for one thing, was so strange. Trewitt had read it over and over, trying to master its secrets, the secret weight of the messages between the words. But there were none. Poor Chardy: Melman just barbecued him. Chardy had so little to offer in his defense, and on the stand, under oath, was vague and apologetic, either deeply disturbed or quite stupid or … playing a deeper game than anybody could imagine.
He confessed so easily to all the operational sins, allthe mistakes, the failures in judgment, the follies in action. Trewitt could almost remember verbatim:
M: And you actually crossed into Kurdistan and led combat operations? Against all orders, against all policies, against every written or unwritten rule of the Agency. You actually led combat operations, disguised as a Kurd?
C: Uh. Yeah. I guess I did.
M: Mr. Chardy, one source even places you at an ambush site deep in Iraq, near Rawāndūz.
C: Yeah. I got a tank that day. Really waxed that—
M: Mr. Chardy. Did it ever occur to you, while you were playing cowboy, how humiliating it would have been to this country, how embarrassing, how degrading, to have one of its intelligence operatives captured deep within a Soviet-sponsored state with armed insurgents?
C: Yeah. I just didn’t think they’d get me. (Laughs)
“Trewitt. Trewitt!”
“Ah. Yessir.” Caught dreaming again. “The next slide.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He punched the button and the Kurd disappeared.
Somebody whistled.
“Yes, she’s a fine-looking woman, isn’t she?” Yost said.
“Chardy wouldn’t talk about her at the hearings,” Melman said. “He said it was private; it wasn’t our business.”
The picture of Johanna was recent. Her face was strong, fair, and somehow bold. The nose a trifle large, the chin a trifle strong, the mouth a trifle straight. Her blondhair was a mess,
The face glared at them.
Trewitt tried to read it. It did not look particularly Middle Eastern. It was just a passionate young man’s face, caught in the harsh light of a police strobe. He was probably scared when they got this; he didn’t know what was going on, what would happen. He looked a little spooked; but he also looked mad. The cheekbones were so high—they gave his face an almost Oriental look. And the nose was a blade, even photographed straight on, a huge, bony hunk.
“The key document,” said Yost, “from this point onward is ‘AFTACT Report Number two-four-three-three-five-two-B-slash Saladin Two.’ I urge any of you unfamiliar with it to check it out of the Operations Archive. You can also call on your computer terminals if you’re Blue Level cleared.”
“It sounds familiar,” said a well-modulated, cheerful voice, to a small whisper of laughter.
Trewitt recognized the voice of Sam Melman, who, in the dismal aftermath of Saladin II, had compiled “AFTACT 243352-B,” when he was Director of the Missions and Programs Staff in the Operations Directorate and had therefore committed his name to the document, for it was known in the vernacular (by the few that knew
of it)
as “The Melman Report.”
The men who laughed with Sam would be his current staff, an Agency elect themselves, for Sam was now Deputy Director of Operations.
Trewitt had seen the report himself. It was a sketchy thing, a few dismal sheets of typewritten red paper (to prevent photocopying), such a tiny artifact for what must have been an extraordinary occurrence.
“You’re not going to read us the whole thing?” somebody in the dark wanted to know. “I agree we’ve got a crisis, but nothing is worth
that.”
Sam’s laughter was loudest.
“No,” said Yost. “But we thought you should have the context at least available.”
But Trewitt couldn’t let it pass from consciousness so easily. It haunted him, just as Chardy, the fallen hero, in his way haunted him. Chardy’s performance before Melman, for one thing, was so strange. Trewitt had read it over and over, trying to master its secrets, the secret weight of the messages between the words. But there were none. Poor Chardy: Melman just barbecued him. Chardy had so little to offer in his defense, and on the stand, under oath, was vague and apologetic, either deeply disturbed or quite stupid or … playing a deeper game than anybody could imagine.
He confessed so easily to all the operational sins, allthe mistakes, the failures in judgment, the follies in action. Trewitt could almost remember verbatim:
M: And you actually crossed into Kurdistan and led combat operations? Against all orders, against all policies, against every written or unwritten rule of the Agency. You actually led combat operations, disguised as a Kurd?
C: Uh. Yeah. I guess I did.
M: Mr. Chardy, one source even places you at an ambush site deep in Iraq, near Rawāndūz.
C: Yeah. I got a tank that day. Really waxed that—
M: Mr. Chardy. Did it ever occur to you, while you were playing cowboy, how humiliating it would have been to this country, how embarrassing, how degrading, to have one of its intelligence operatives captured deep within a Soviet-sponsored state with armed insurgents?
C: Yeah. I just didn’t think they’d get me. (Laughs)
“Trewitt. Trewitt!”
“Ah. Yessir.” Caught dreaming again. “The next slide.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He punched the button and the Kurd disappeared.
Somebody whistled.
“Yes, she’s a fine-looking woman, isn’t she?” Yost said.
“Chardy wouldn’t talk about her at the hearings,” Melman said. “He said it was private; it wasn’t our business.”
The picture of Johanna was recent. Her face was strong, fair, and somehow bold. The nose a trifle large, the chin a trifle strong, the mouth a trifle straight. Her blondhair was a mess,
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