“Yes, Mr. President. Completely. We all do.”
“I mean a full range.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’m not going to fuck around with this anymore.”
“Ed —” The First Lady slid a hand up her husband’s arm.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. But this ends here. Now. Whatever it takes.”
The president sat back. Out the window, he could see one of four other identical choppers flying alongside, a standard protocol to reduce the risks from a possible ground attack. Anything seemed possible right now. Their departure from the White House had gone smoothly enough. Now the convoy headed southeast, toward Andrews, eleven miles away.
After that, Edward O. Coyle, the most powerful man in the world, had no idea what to expect. Hell, he could be dead in the next few minutes. The unthinkable was no longer unthinkable.
CIA HEADQUARTERS WAS lit up like a fluorescent box when I got there late that night. The powers that be had decided to share what they knew with our de facto advisory board. What they told us was a mindblower. An unnamed informant was claiming the entire line of succession to the presidency as Al Ayla’s new target list.
Secretary of State Cho’s murder was a testimony to how seriously we needed to take this new threat.
The symbolism of the day’s attack was devastating to all of us. Not only did Cho represent the United States to the world, but Al Ayla was clearly using this incident as their foray onto the international stage. Statements claiming responsibility had come in through Al Jazeera, indicating the organization by name for the first time. Every news outlet from Jakarta to Madison, Wisconsin, had picked up the story.
Al Ayla, it seemed, was ready for its close-up. What was worse — so far they were winning.
“Today, they got us by surprise,” Evan Stroud told the assembled two dozen people at headquarters. “That’s not going to happen again. Not to anyone on that wish list of theirs.”
“Is there any thought about leaking back that we’ve got this informant?” one of the Bureau ADs asked. “Maybe to put a wedge inside the organization? Do a little dividing and conquering?”
“I’m afraid they’re already dividing.” Andrew Fatany, the analyst based in Saudi Arabia, stood up to speak. It was Fatany who had done most of the talking so far that night, breaking down what they knew about Al Ayla from the Riyadh office.
“These newer organizations are more adaptable and flexible than anything we’ve seen before,” he told us. “It’s entirely possible — I’d say probable — that Al Ayla’s already handed off some measure of control to their Washington operatives. The faster they can create these self-directed cells, the harder it is to penetrate the larger organization. In fact, it may already be too late.”
“Too late for what?” I asked Fatany.
“To ever know who Al Ayla really is. Our best recommendation is to focus on finding the local leadership, and of course whoever they’re talking to. But we have to move carefully. If we take out an individual cell, it’s like tearing the limb off a starfish. The organization simply moves on and grows another limb.”
“Hang on a second,” Peter Lindley interjected. “Are you saying we shouldn’t bring down these people — because if they stay on the loose they might lead us up the ladder? I don’t think I can live with that. And I don’t think the president can, either.”
Fatany blinked back his frustration. He was sick and tired, just like everyone else. “I’m saying, and excuse me for stating the obvious, that you need to be aware of what you’re losing when you do bring them down.”
One of the flat-topped NSA guys grunted out his own annoyance. “I say we find the sons of bitches and interrogate the shit out of them,” he said. “Use the Patriot Act, send their asses to Egypt if we have to. Our priority should be saving American lives. It’s that simple. At least it should be.”
Fatany put his hands up. He’d made Riyadh’s opinion clear on the matter. The decision about what to do with it wasn’t up to him.
“We’ll take all of this under advisement with the president,” Stroud said, trying to cut through the tension. Not that anyone could right now. This crisis was a fire that had to be put out. Period. Anything short of that was no option at all.
Meanwhile, the fire raged on, and it almost seemed out of control.
NED MAHONEY AND I trudged out of CIA headquarters around two o’clock that morning. I felt like we were leaving a cocoon, which we kind of were, but not a warm and cozy one. The president had come on the line at midnight, ten hours after the bombing of Cho’s motorcade. In the morning, he’d make an emotional national address, condemning the attack and calling on America to remember the victims for everything they’d stood for against murderers exactly like these.
“I think I liked it better when I was out of the loop,” I said. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed. My intention was to be back at Branaff as soon as possible, but there were a lot of other places I felt like I could and probably should be.
Surveillance was about to make a quantum leap in DC. Government affidavits were being written through the night, and several new Title III warrants were expected to go through as early as the following afternoon. That meant listening teams in all kinds of places they hadn’t been before — more mosques, more online networks, more phone lines, all of it. The personnel demands alone were going to be unprecedented.
“Where are you going to be?” I asked Ned.
“Quantico. Unless Hostage and Rescue has to move,” he said. “But I’ll be putting in some surveillance time, too. Your phone going to be on?”
“Only at lunch and study hall,” I deadpanned.