85

ADEN, YEMEN

The roads started smoothing out, and soon Wyatt could hear the sound of a city. Vehicles passing by, horns blaring aggressively, hawkers in the street. The Land Rover stopped and moved again, zigging and zagging around the traffic.

Finally the vehicle came to rest, and one of the men in the backseat removed Wyatt’s blindfold. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. They were parked outside a light-brown oblong brick building with steel grates protecting the windows. There was a sign shaped like a dove on the roof and lettering on the side of the building in both English and Arabic. National Bank of Yemen.

“What city are we in?” Wyatt asked.

“Aden,” Saleet said. “I’ll be right back.”

Saleet hurried into the bank, leaving Wyatt in the vehicle with the three guards. Wyatt knew Aden was a port city, located at the eastern approach to the Red Sea. Mountains towered behind the city, located on a peninsula formed by a dormant volcano, like a miniature replica of the boot of Italy. Wyatt also knew that President Hadi had fled here from the Houthis after they attempted to take over the government. The city was battle-scarred and partly in ruins. The Saudis, backed by American dollars and technology, had concentrated many of their air strikes here, targeting Houthi fighters.

Still, the downtown area was active, with people motoring around in small European cars, riding bicycles, and selling their wares from makeshift kiosks. The architecture Wyatt could see was an odd mix of splendid Arabian palaces built into the hills above the city, a few towering mosques, and thousands of concrete pre-fab apartments that dominated the area nearest the bank. Yemen was the poorest country in the Mideast, and Aden reflected that.

Saleet was gone for about ten minutes and came out carrying a computer. He settled into the front passenger seat and pulled a battery out of the glove compartment. He put the battery in the computer and handed it to Wyatt along with a flash drive.

“This is Cameron Holloman’s computer,” Saleet said. “I’ve stored it here in a safe-deposit box. Do not turn on Internet access or wireless capabilities. Just download everything onto this flash drive.”

Wyatt turned on the computer and inserted the flash drive.

“What’s the password?”

“Mohammed,” Saleet said.

Wyatt shot him a surprised look. “That was Cameron’s password?”

“I changed it. Something easy to remember.”

“How did you end up with this?”

“He told me where it was after his arrest. I was able to see him once during the negotiations.”

Wyatt downloaded everything he could—Word documents, Cameron’s e-mail folders, photos, videos, Internet search results. Saleet told him to hurry up. They needed to get to the site of the drone strike before dusk or they would be interrupted by evening prayers.

Wyatt finished quickly and handed the computer back to Saleet.

“Give me ten more minutes,” Saleet said.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Director John Marcano was in the middle of a 10:30 a.m. briefing when he was interrupted by his chief of staff. “A word with you, sir?”

Marcano looked up at the young man, perturbed. “Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

The man wasn’t normally given to panic, so Marcano excused himself and stepped into the hallway.

“There’s a secure call from the head of the bureau in Saudi Arabia, sir.”

A few minutes later Marcano was in his office and on the phone with one of his top men on the Arabian Peninsula. The computer that had belonged to Cameron Holloman had been removed from the vault at the National Bank of Yemen.

Marcano knew that a CIA operative had placed a GPS chip on Holloman’s computer when he first went through customs. They had followed him into Yemen and located the compound for the Houthi leaders that way. After Holloman’s arrest, they knew that the computer had been placed in the vault. It had never been accessed—until now.

“Do we know who took it?” Marcano asked.

“We’re working on that. Checking through satellite imagery. Drones are on their way.”

“Where’s the computer now?”

“Back in the vault. It was only out for about ten minutes. The signal stayed right next to the bank. We think they might have copied the hard drive.”

“We’ve got to find the people who accessed it,” Marcano said. “There’s classified information on that computer, and we’ve got to quarantine it.”

“We’re working on it.”

Marcano had worked with this associate for a long time. The man would know that the order to “quarantine” meant to find anyone who had seen Holloman’s computer and take them out.

Fifteen minutes later, Marcano got the best piece of news he had received in a very long time. An analyst came to his office and put the grainy satellite photos on his desk.

“We ran these through facial recognition software.” The man pointed to a bearded figure leaving the bank. “That’s Saleet Zafar.”

Marcano maintained a poker face. Even with news like this, he would never let anyone see a reaction. “Were we able to follow him?”

“No. But we know he got into this vehicle, and we’re searching for it through satellite images. Drones will be there soon to provide additional imagery.”

“Thank you; that will be all,” Marcano said. When the analyst left, Marcano called his man in Saudi Arabia. He told him about Saleet Zafar and reminded him that there was a standing order to take the imam out.

“We’ll have drones in place within an hour,” the man said. “He won’t escape this time.”