Homeland: Saul’s Game. Andrew Kaplan

where?”

      “Could be anywhere, could be south, even north.”

      “Why? The Kurds’d have him for breakfast.”

      “Hard to say. The one thing we’ve learned is not to underestimate him.”

      “But you’ll find him?”

      “Eventually. Right now that’s not my priority,” Saul said, moving his chair closer to the general’s desk. “Or yours either. You’re leaving very shortly, aren’t you?”

      General Demetrius nodded, looking at him sharply.

      “How did you know that?”

      Saul pointed to himself. “CIA, remember? Listen, I came to you because it’s vital.”

      Demetrius put down the ballpoint pen and leaned forward, his chin resting on hands clasped together as if he were praying.

      “I’m listening.”

      “I’ve been suspicious of something for a long time. Our ops officer in Otaibah and Damascus came through with intel that confirms beyond the shadow of a doubt that we have a mole. The likelihood is that it’s a very high placed mole somewhere within the Coalition Forces or top echelons of the Iraqi government. But I need to be absolutely honest and clear. It could also be inside the CIA’s Baghdad Station or even at Langley. It could even be inside your own command, General. It is one hundred percent actionable intelligence.”

      “Inside my command?”

      “Or mine, General. I don’t think it’s likely that a CIA agent or an American soldier would do such a thing, and none of us likes to think it’s possible, but you and I both know, sir, it’s been known to happen.”

      General Demetrius stood up. He began pacing up and back in his office, then turned to Saul.

      “What the hell am I supposed to do? We’re on the verge of making critical decisions to finish this war. I have to trust the ­people I work with, that I give orders to.”

      “It’s worse than that. The same actionable intel also indicates that Abu Nazir is planning a major ‘action,’ something that may finally trigger the civil war you have been doing everything in your power to prevent, General,” Saul said, rubbing his beard.

      “Do you know what it is?”

      “Not yet. But I will. Very soon.”

      General Demetrius glanced at his watch.

      “We have three and a half minutes, Saul. Then I have to go.” He leaned against his desk. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

      Saul smiled. “They said you were good, General. I have to get going too,” he added, standing up and lifting the handle on his carry-­on. “I need a favor.”

      “And that is?”

      “A counteroperation to block Abu Nazir’s action is being set up. I may—­repeat may—­have to come to you at some point for some Special Forces–type resources. Not sure if and not sure how much. Anyway, just in case, the name for this counteroperation is ‘Operation Iron Thunder,’ ” Saul said.

      “And flushing the mole is part of this operation?” Demetrius asked, heading for the door.

      “You could say so,” Saul said, following him to the outer office, where a half-­dozen officers stood ready for the general. “You could definitely say so.”

      General Demetrius stopped.

      “And do you know where I’m going now?”

      Saul smiled. “You’re flying, along with some additional resources, on your specially fitted C-­17 to CENTCOM HQ in Doha, Qatar. Actually, I’m headed to the Middle East myself. Only not to Qatar.”

      “Would you like a lift? I think we need to continue this conversation,” General Demetrius said.

      “I was hoping you’d ask,” Saul said as a master sergeant grabbed the handle of his suitcase and pulled it after them outside the office toward the general’s waiting staff car.

      The C-­17 was bigger than any aircraft Saul had ever flown in. Both sides of its cabin aisle were fitted with rows of screens and electronics, which enabled the dozens of officers and men working at their stations to track the latest data from land, sea, and air operations from all parts of General Demetrius’s widespread command across the entire Middle East and South Asia. For several hours out of MacDill, an F-­16 fighter jet flew escort, then peeled off when they were well out over the Atlantic.

      Saul sat toward the rear, in an area of seats that were set in rows like business-­class seats in a normal passenger jet. He worked on his laptop, doing tradecraft, setting up basic drops, codes, locations, for Operation Iron Thunder. He used special CIA encryption software that was unique to CIA Top Secret Special Access files; it could not be decoded by standard NSA, DIA, or other agency decryption software, not even by other CIA decryption software.

      Two hours out, Lieutenant Colonel Larson, looking much more in his element in a Class-­A uniform, came and asked if Saul would like to join the general for coffee. Saul followed him forward past the men and women working at their screens, talking through headsets to their counterparts in various commands, to the general’s office. It was completely closed off. Inside was an office with a desk, conference table, armchairs, and a lounge area with a stocked bar, all of it modernistic and made of stainless steel; it had the odd feel of a men’s club for robots.

      General Demetrius was sitting in a swivel armchair, sipping coffee and reading a copy of the Economist, which he put down when Saul came in. He poured Saul a cup of coffee.

      “How do you take it?”

      “Milk and sugar; you take yours black, thanks.”

      General Demetrius swiveled toward him, hands on his knees like a sumo wrestler about to pounce.

      “You’re setting up a separate operation outside Langley, aren’t you? That’s what this little trip is all about, isn’t it?”

      Saul sipped his coffee.

      “Good coffee. I’m here so you could ask me that.” He looked around the partitioned office. “No bugs I hope.”

      General Demetrius shook his head.

      “You are worried. Who else knows about this?”

      “The director of the CIA; the vice president, Bill Walden. Took him by surprise, but he finally agreed. Facts are facts. The national security advisor, Mike Higgins. The president. Now you.”

      “Where are you going to run it from?”

      “I’ll be moving around. But I’ll have something in Bahrain,” he said. “The capital, Manama. For obvious reasons.”

      “Middle of the Persian Gulf. Not that far from Iraq. Or CENTCOM. Or Iran, for that matter. Like the real estate ­people say: location, location, location. Or do you have some thing or some one particular in mind, Saul?”

      “Both maybe. Manama’s a crossroads. A place where ­people come to do business, clean and dirty. And close enough to your headquarters in Doha, General, although I suspect you won’t be there that often.” He put down his coffee.

      “You know damn well I won’t be sitting on my ass there,” General Demetrius growled. “There’s a battle shaping up in Basra right this minute—­and we don’t have shit there.”

      “It’s not just IPLA. The Kurds, the Shiites, the Mahdi Army, the Iranians …” Saul ticked them off. “Abu Nazir is trying to light a match. There’s plenty of tinder lying around.”

      “How soon and where?”

      “I’ll let you know very soon,” Saul said, looking at the map of Iraq on the general’s laptop screen. “There are some things I have to do first.”

      General