James Grippando - Need You Now

“I’ve been trying to reach you for three hours,” said Barber. “Did they not tell you it was urgent?”

“I was in a meeting with Clark,” he said, meaning the CIA director. “More trouble with Operation BAQ. The collateral damage is much broader than we thought.”

The innocent investors were collateral damage. “I thought all of Cushman’s investors had been accounted for.”

“Different kind of collateral damage. It seems that our intelligence on the terrorist connections of some of our targets was faulty.”

“Meaning what?”

“A number of the ‘suspected’ terrorist funders that were pulled into the Ponzi scheme had nothing to do with terrorism.”

Barber leaned against the marble mantel, not quite believing his ears. “The whole justification for Operation Bankrupt al-Qaeda was that these investors were financing terrorism. Are you telling me that we targeted a bunch of rich Arabs with no terrorist connections?”

“To some extent, yes.”

“Damn it! I should never have listened to you in the first place. I conceived this as a Treasury operation-but, noooo , you had to bring in the CIA. Thanks to your stroke of genius, we have a rogue CIA agent named Mongoose putting the screws to us. And now, to top it all off, you’re telling me that the CIA didn’t even have the intelligence right.”

“I didn’t say none of the investors had links to terrorism. But it now appears that many were, well, like I said: collateral damage.”

“You assured me that the CIA had nailed down the terrorist-financing connection. I would never have given the green light otherwise.”

“That’s bullshit, Joe. Now that we got bin Laden, everybody wants to forget how desperate the administration was to strike a deathblow against al-Qaeda.”

“I wasn’t desperate. I wanted to get this right.”

“You knew this was an ambiguous situation. That’s the reason I recommended that we go to the CIA instead of the Justice Department. Justice couldn’t simply freeze their accounts under the Patriot Act-we suspected they were terrorist financers, but we couldn’t prove it.”

Barber took a seat at the conference table, nearly collapsing into the leather chair. “The fallout from this will be unbelievable.”

“Only if it gets out,” said Woods.

“That’s why my call was so urgent. Mandretti is on his deathbed. He summoned his son because he has something to tell him.”

“He might just want to say good-bye.”

“Or he wants to be at peace before he dies. My guess is that his son will come out of the meeting believing the same BS that his father believes-that the government forced him to confess.”

“Is Mandretti’s son with him now?”

“They’re in the hospital room together, but my sources tell me that Mandretti is not conscious.”

“What are the chances that he will regain consciousness?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to take the risk.”

Woods did not respond, and Barber sensed the need to address his apparent reservations. “Don’t get sanctimonious on me, Brett. We’re talking about a little acceleration for a terminally ill man who has a matter of hours to live. A man who, by the way, is clearly talking out of school about his role in Operation BAQ.”

“What are you proposing?”

“I’ve already sent Mongoose.”

“What do you mean you sent him? You can’t send a rogue agent to do anything.”

“I had no choice. If he thinks we’re taking out Mandretti without his involvement, he’ll smell a rat. I’m living under a standing threat from Mongoose: If I double-cross him, the decrypted version of my memorandum outlining Operation BAQ will go viral over the Internet.”

“You said taking Evan Hunt’s computer would eliminate that threat.”

“I said reduce, not eliminate.”

“A civilian casualty is a high price to pay for threat reduction.”

“Nobody expected a ninety-eight-pound weakling to fight to the death over his computer.”

Woods was silent, but an aura of acquiescence came over the phone. “Where is Mongoose now?”

“In Boston, one block away from the hospital,” said Barber. “Got him there by helicopter but had to put him on hold. I need you to pull a few strings to get him inside the room.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Mandretti is receiving a variety of potent medications intravenously. Mongoose will simply make an adjustment to the IV, and Mandretti won’t be talking.”

Woods considered it. “You said the son is there. Can you trust Mongoose to confine his mission to the old man?”

Barber didn’t respond right away. “That’s impossible for me to answer.”

“I want to know what you think.”

“Here’s what I think,” said Barber. “If Mandretti wakes up and talks to his son, I can guarantee you that Mongoose won’t confine his mission to the old man. Mongoose wants his money.”

Woods seemed to appreciate the conundrum. “All right. Let me make a phone call.”

“Call me right back.”

“Yeah,” said Woods. “Give me five minutes.”

I couldn’t believe I was in the same room with my father.

I’d been standing at his bed rail for several minutes, unable to move, watching him sleep. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Do I lean over and give him a kiss?

Do I touch his hand?

Do I even know him anymore?

The room was quiet and dimly lit. It felt more like a hospice than a hospital, which had made the first thirty seconds even more painful. The last time I’d seen him, my father had been a handsome man in his prime. The image of him sharply dressed, not a hair out of place, ready to take my mother out on a Saturday night was firm in my memory. Even after I’d learned he was sick, my mind had never allowed me to conjure up what my father would look like when he was dead. Now, it wasn’t much of a stretch to picture someone pulling the sheet up over his face.

That initial shock faded sooner than I would have guessed. I began to see little signs that reminded me of how full of life he’d once been. I laid my hand on his head, covering the baldness from his treatment, imagining him with jet black hair. That alone helped. I smiled at the sight of the scar that was still on his forehead. It had happened during our reenactment of the seventh game of the World Series. Connie had been at the plate. I was pitching. Dad was the unlucky catcher who’d learned the hard way that Connie threw her bat.

“Any signs of coming around?” asked Dr. Kern as she entered the room.

“Still sleeping,” I said.

“You can try to wake him, if you like. But as I said, he’s likely to be quite confused if you do.”

“I’ll wait,” I said. “This quiet time is giving me a chance to adjust.”

She went to the IV. “Let me just shut this thing off. I had him down to twenty-five milligrams, but that doesn’t seem to be doing the trick.”

“I don’t want him to wake up in pain,” I said.

“He can’t get more than six hundred milligrams every twenty-four hours anyway. We’re there.” She walked around to the side of the bed and made the adjustment.

“If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

I thanked her, and she left the room. Then I looked at my father, reached through the railing, and touched his hand. His breathing was steady, but quiet.

“If there’s anything you need, let me know,” I said.

T he whirring blades of a Sikorsky S-76B blew puffs of snow across the heliport as the BOS corporate helicopter touched down in Boston. Touchdown was delayed more than thirty minutes due to weather. Mongoose hurried into the terminal and retrieved a detailed voice mail message from Barber. It laid out the plan.