Bloodmoney by David Ignatius Read Free Book Online Page A

room with a view, but only of Ventura Boulevard. On the walls were trophies Gertz had collected from various assignments: a rich silk tapestry that the crown prince of Morocco had sent in gratitude after he ascended to the throne; a laughable portrait of Saddam Hussein dressed as a tribal sheikh that he had brought out of Baghdad; a miniature marquee that said, in looping neon script, “The Hit Parade,” which he had ordered from a signage company in West Hollywood when his crazy experiment was approved; and behind his desk a picture of the Twin Towers with a long Chinese quotation whose meaning Gertz shared with his intimate colleagues. This was his kingdom, but it was about to be turned upside down.
    Gertz sat down in his big black leather chair, and then bounded up again and stared out the window at the traffic heading north on Ventura toward the studios. Part of his problem was that he didn’t trust most of his colleagues. He thought they were soft, sapped by an intelligence culture that tolerated weakness and poor performance. They had small hearts. They lived in the visible world. Gertz wouldn’t have said it out loud, but he regarded Howard Egan as a weak man; now the strong ones would have to bail him out.
    “This is a shit storm,” muttered Gertz. “What have we got nearby?”
    “In Karachi, nothing of our own,” said Rossetti. “There’s a consulate, and I think Headquarters still has a base there.”
    Rossetti spoke slowly and precisely. He was a company man, a slow roller, and he was scared that he would get blamed if things went wrong. But Gertz wanted action.
    “Could we send in a traveler, in a hurry? I want to keep this close.”
    “Sure, but it would be insecure, moving that fast. It’s easier to use the guy in the consulate.”
    “Goddamn it,” said Gertz. He hated having to depend on Headquarters for anything. It only confirmed the old boys’ wisdom that his new outfit was fine until the chips were down. Then it needed help from the old structure.
    “I’ll call Langley in a minute,” he said. “Let me think. Where’s the nearest extraction team?”
    “Bagram,” said Rossetti. “They’re saddled and ready, twenty-four/seven.”
    “Well, call them. Tell them we may need them in a hurry, but don’t tell them why yet.”
    “Sorry, Jeff, but we need an okay from Headquarters to call Bagram. Those are military assets. We don’t have the authority to task them.”
    “That ask-permission crap was supposed to be over.”
    “That’s not what Headquarters says. You want me to call CTC and find out what they’ve got cooking?” Rossetti, among other things, was the liaison to the Counterterrorism Center, where Gertz had worked in a previous assignment.
    “Ask them what’s going on in the Tribal Areas. From what I hear it’s the same crazy shit out there. Tell CTC that if they have any Preds up today, maybe this one time they could hold off blowing people away, until we get our guy back.”
    “Roger. But they won’t listen. We do our thing, they do theirs.”
    “Precisely. Net result, zero.” Gertz shooed his hand for Rossetti to leave.
    “I need to make some calls. Tell me when you hear from Egan. He’s a burnout, that guy, I’m telling you. Too long in the job. He’ll show up, and then I’m going to fire his ass.”

    Gertz closed the office door. He sat back in his big black chair for a moment, trying to think it through, but he couldn’t focus. There were too many knots. He had no option but to ask for help.
    He picked up the secure phone and called the associate deputy director in Langley, Cyril Hoffman, who was The Hit Parade’s official point of contact.
    Gertz didn’t trust Hoffman; the man was odd: He liked to wear ascots and Panama hats and vests with gold chains. He was from a famous CIA family, which had sent cousins and uncles into the agency for generations. He had started in the Near East Division, like most of his notorious relatives, but a decade ago he