Andrew Kaplan: Carrie's run

Except before she called, she needed to think this through. What had just happened didn’t add up. The contact with Nightingale had been arranged by Dima. The party girl wasn’t one of the pigeons, the agents Carrie had recruited since she’d been in Beirut. She’d inherited her from Davis Fielding, the CIA Beirut Station chief. She was one of his. There’d be hell to pay, she thought angrily. Except she couldn’t be sure if Dima was playing both sides or if she’d been duped by Nightingale too. In fact, she might be in danger or even dead already.

Except Carrie had no way of reaching her. She couldn’t just call. The two safe house phones were off-limits. The normal one was for taking calls only. The scrambled one was strictly for communicating with the highly secure exchange at the U.S. embassy in Aoukar in the northernmost part of the city. And using a cell phone could give away her position if they were GPS-tracking her. Figure it out, she told herself. Assume either GSD or Hezbollah is behind this. How did they get onto her? Dima. It had to be Dima, and that could mean there was something Fielding didn’t know. He’d encouraged her to make the contact.

“We’d kill for someone inside GSD,” he’d told her. And he’d also told her she didn’t need any backup. “Dima’s solid. She hasn’t given us a lot, but what she has is strictly twenty-four-karat stuff.” Son of a bitch, she thought. Was he doing her? Was sex the twenty-four karats she was giving him? She’d wanted to take Virgil Maravich, the station’s resident black-bag genius, the best technical guy for surveillance, bugs and break-ins she’d ever met, but Fielding said he needed Virgil for something else. “Besides,” Fielding had told her, “you’re a big girl. You can handle it,” implying that if she couldn’t, she didn’t belong in Beirut, the big leagues.

“Beirut Rules,” Fielding had told her that first day in his office on the top floor of the U.S. embassy, slouched in a leather chair, behind him a window overlooking the Municipality building with its arched windows and entryway. He was big, fair haired, starting to go to fat. Touch of rosacea on his nose; someone who liked his food and booze. “No second chances. And no one cares that you’re a girl in the Middle East. You screw up, you make a mistake, a hundred to one you die. Even if you don’t, you’re out of here. This looks like a civilized city-plenty of clubs, beautiful women in designer clothes, great food, the most sophisticated people on the planet-but don’t be fooled. It’s still the Middle East. Put one foot the wrong way and they’ll kill you-and a minute later go on to the next party.”

What the hell is going on? she thought. It was Fielding’s Joe who set it up, Fielding who encouraged her to make the pitch and Fielding who’d made sure she went into it without backup. But Fielding was a longtime station chief in Beirut. It was a standard first contact. He hadn’t expected anything to go wrong. She’d almost been kidnapped or killed. Clearly, he didn’t want that. She took a deep breath. This was crazy. Did she feel a little buzzy? Could it be that the clozapine, the medication for her bipolar, wasn’t working?

She stood up. She felt she had to do something, anything, but she wasn’t sure what. Her skin was tingling. Oh God, not that. She wasn’t starting on one of her “flights”-what she called the manic phase of her bipolar-was she? She started to walk around the room, then went over to the window, feeling an irresistible urge to throw the curtains open and look out. Go ahead, take a look at me, you bastards! Don’t be stupid, Carrie, she told herself. You’re fine, just give the clozapine and the vodka a second to kick in. Although maybe it was crazy to mix the two. She reached for the curtain. Careful, careful, she told herself. She pulled the corner of the curtain and peeked out at the street.

The Mercedes sedan that had been chasing her was double-parked in front of the safe house building. Three men were walking to the front entrance. Fear shot through her like electricity. She felt a terrible urge to urinate and had to squeeze her thighs together to control it.

It was impossible. This was a safe house. How had they found her? She hadn’t been followed. She was sure of it. She’d lost them in the red Renault and made doubly sure going around the city streets in Hamra. No one on foot; no one in a car. And what was she to do? They were coming into the building. She only had seconds to get away. She picked up the secure phone to the embassy and dialed. The phone was picked up on the second ring.

“Good evening. U.S. Cultural Services Offices,” a voice said. Despite a faint distortion from the line encryption, Carrie recognized Linda Benitez’s voice. She didn’t know her well, just enough to say hello.

“Amarillo,” Carrie said, using this week’s code word. “Nightingale was a setup.”

“Confirm opposition?”

“I don’t have time. Achilles security has been breached. Do you copy, dammit?” Carrie almost shouted. Achilles was the safe house.

“Confirm Achilles. What is your location and status?” Linda said, and Carrie knew she was not only recording but following a memorized text and writing down every word, asking whether she was still mobile and operative, or whether she was calling under duress or capture.

“I’m on the move. Tell you-know-who I’ll see him tomorrow,” Carrie snapped, and hung up. For an instant, she stood poised on her toes like a dancer, trying to decide which way to go. She had to get out fast, but how? There were three of them. Plus at least one outside in the Mercedes sedan. They would be coming up both the stairs and the elevator.

How was she supposed to get out? There was no contingency for something like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen in a safe house.

She couldn’t stay where she was. They would find a way in. If not through a door, then through a window, a balcony or even a wall from an apartment next door. If they did come in, they would be shooting. She might be able to shoot one, maybe even two, but not three. There weren’t going to be any shootouts at the OK Corral. Nor could she go out into the corridor, try for the stairs or the elevator. They would be waiting. In fact, they would likely be outside the door any second, she thought, crossing to the apartment door and throwing the dead bolt.

That left the window and the balcony. As she headed toward the bedroom, a shock went through her at sounds in the corridor. She went over to the laptop. The three Arab men were in the corridor, going methodically and listening at each apartment door with some kind of hearing device. They’d be at her door in seconds.

She ran back to the bedroom closet, where they kept the gear. She opened it and began tearing through it, looking for rope or anything she could use to let herself down with. No rope. Just changes of men’s clothes. Some suits, shoes and leather belts. Belts! She grabbed three belts and hooked them together to make a single long belt, then ran back to the laptop.

The screen showed the three men right outside the safe house apartment door. They were affixing something to the door. Explosives! she thought. She raced to the bedroom and opened the door to the balcony, looping the belt to the wrought-iron railing. She peeked over the edge. The Mercedes was still there, but no one had gotten out or was looking up this way. She looked down at the balcony below, unable to tell if anyone was in that apartment or not. What does it matter? she screamed inside. They were going to blow the door and maybe the whole apartment. She could be dead any second.

She tightened the belt on the railing and pulled at it hard. It felt like it would hold. It would have to. Climbing over the edge, she let herself down hand over hand on the belt. The glass door to the balcony of the apartment on the floor below was dark. No one home. Arms straining, she reached with her toes for the lower balcony’s railing. Don’t look down, she told herself as her toes touched the railing. She pushed forward, letting go as she fell forward onto the balcony. A deafening explosion above shook the building.