CHAPTER 9
Washington, D.C., December 29
“I don’t have much that I can tell you, my friend. You are chasing a ghost.”
The man sitting across from Dan Morgan was Kadir Fastia, a former lieutenant colonel in the Libyan Air Force, former asset and old friend. He looked at Morgan with perfectly serene dark brown eyes, stroking his close-cropped white beard. They were in his study, where every piece of furniture was made of dark, heavy wood, with bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling and were lined with beautifully bound books in both Arabic and English.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Morgan.
“I think that in fact you knew that I would say that. There is not much that gets past you, Cobra, not if you want to find out. If you are coming to me, it is because you have exhausted your own resources.”
They had first met on a mission together years before. Fastia had been a CIA asset in Libya who had been lying in wait for a very long time. Morgan and Conley had run the mission that Fastia had been preparing for the past many years.
“You are one of my resources,” said Morgan.
“Certainly not the first you have come to,” said Fastia. “Not even close, I believe. As always, Cobra plays his cards close to the chest.”
Kadir Fastia was a powerful man. While he had no official title, Fastia had a finger in every pie. He acted as a consultant on Middle Eastern and North African affairs for various government agencies, think tanks and other private and nonprofit entities, and this alone gave him an in with a lot of movers and shakers. Morgan knew, however, there was more to it than that, that the money that paid for his house and car came from elsewhere. Government agencies frequently needed to act under plausible deniability in delicate situations. To do so, they needed intermediaries to act on their behalf and do things the government couldn’t. And the Libyan fulfilled that precise role.
“How can there be nothing, Kadir? Zeta Division’s headquarters alone must have cost millions on millions, and that’s without even considering the secrecy aspect. Then we have the equipment, human assets, bribes. That’s not even touching on our compensation, which, let me tell you, is not exactly a tiny sum.”
“Money can buy silence as well,” said Fastia.
“Not half as well as a bullet can,” said Morgan.
“That it does. And still you dig for answers, Cobra.”
“I guess not knowing just rubs me the wrong way.”
“So you simply follow the trail?” asked Fastia. “Wherever it leads?”
“That’s the basic idea of it, yeah,” said Morgan. He frowned. “What are you not telling me, Fastia?”
“Some are better than others at hiding their existence,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I have heard of your Zeta Division. Your activities have been hard to miss.”
“What do you know?”
“The fact that it exists,” Fastia said. “That it is a serious player in intelligence and security. Not the government, as far as I know. And not much else. Specifically, I do not know who is financing the operation.”
“There has to be some kind of paper trail,” said Morgan.
“None that has come to my attention yet,” said Fastia.
“There has to be a weak link. No conspiracy is perfect.”
“We don’t know of a perfect conspiracy,” said Fastia.
“But then again, you would not expect to ever find out about one, now would you?” The Libyan grinned an easy grin.
Morgan snorted. “I guess you’re right.”
“But I would not bet on this one being so,” he said. “This organization involves too many people to be perfectly concealed. You simply must do what you always do when you wish to find the force behind the act.”
“Follow the money,” said Morgan.
“Precisely,” said Fastia, his hands together, touching by the fingertips. “You have said it yourself. Division Zeta has a headquarters that cost millions upon millions. Who paid for it, Morgan? There is your link.”
“Sure,” said Morgan. “Now it’s just a matter of finding the right people and asking the right questions.”
“And isn’t it always the way?” Fastia smiled. “There is one more thing. A far-fetched possibility.”
“What?”
“A name. Tell me, Cobra. Do the words ‘Aegis Initiative’ mean anything to you?”
Buck Chapman looked at the delicate face of baby Ella, wrinkly, looking like a little monkey cradled in his arms. It had been barely five months since this baby had changed his life. So young, and born into such a dangerous world. The fact that she coexisted in the world with the terrorists, with so much death and suffering and evil, didn’t fit into Chapman’s mind. It kept him up at night, prompting him to get up to look at her in her crib as his wife snored quietly in their bed, and just watch her, despairing for her innocence and fragility.