random subsonic signals to scramble any listening devices. The military called the application the Susser, meaning subsonic signals scrambler,but like so much other military hardware, such as the GBU-43/B massive ordnance air blast—more widely known as the Mother of all Bombs—this one, too, had its own nickname: the Cone of Silence. Everyone knew the national carriers allowed their nations’ spy services to bug the first-class seats for industrial espionage.
Hort set the phone down on the armrest between them and put a Bluetooth earpiece next to it. “These are for you,” he said. “There’s more information on the phone, but we’ll get to that.”
“Okay.”
“Two days ago, someone contacted the new director of central intelligence,” Hort said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible over the background roar of the engines. “This someone has gotten hold of some extremely sensitive materials and wants to be paid for their safe return.”
Ben pinched his nostrils and cleared his ears. “How sensitive are we talking about?”
“A hundred million dollars sensitive. That’s what our blackmailer is asking for. Payment in uncut diamonds, none larger than three carats. Small, anonymous, easy to move.”
“What do they have, photos of the president in flagrante?”
“I wish that’s what this were about. No, what they have is interrogation videos.”
Ben thought for a moment. “I read somewhere the CIA had destroyed a bunch of waterboarding videos. First there were just a couple, then they admitted closer to a hundred, something like that?”
Hort nodded. “That’s the story they told the papers. Truth is, they never destroyed anything. The destruction story was just disinformation they put out when they discovered the tapes were missing.”
“Yeah, but this story broke … I forget, but it’s been years.”
“December 2007. That’s when they discovered the tapes were missing, that’s when they started trying to cover it up.”
“And then …”
“And then in March 2009, they changed the story. Ninety-two tapes, not just a few.”
“Why?”
“A throw-down to the new administration. The word was, the newbies were going to investigate the tapes’ destruction more seriously than the previous one was inclined to. So the message was, ‘This is much worse than you think. Investigate and you’ll never get anything done on the economy, or health care, or global warming, or jack shit. An investigation will go in a hundred directions you don’t want. It’ll eat you alive.’”
“I don’t get it. In the end, what did they think was going to happen? Were they hoping the tapes really were destroyed?”
“That’s exactly what they were hoping. And it wasn’t a bad working theory, if you think about it. Someone should have destroyed those tapes—can you imagine what would happen if they got out?”
“Why the hell make tapes in the first place? Are they crazy over there?”
Hort shrugged. “The signal-to-noise ratio wasn’t great on the information they were getting from the program. Truth is, most of the people we were picking up, we weren’t even sure who they were. Informants were accusing people we’d never heard of, dirt-poor Pakistani farmers turning in some Arab just because they didn’t like him or didn’t want to pay him the money they owed. Settle a grudge by accusing your enemy of terrorism and collect a bounty at the same time—who could resist that? And with the methods the CIA was using, fabrication was a problem. So they tried to develop a mosaic, cross-referencing everything they extracted in the interrogations. Fabrication is random; the overlaps have more credibility, that was the theory. So every new bit of intel extracted meant they could look at previous intel in a new light. For that, they needed records, something they could go back to.”
“Yeah, records. Transcripts. Not video. Not if you don’t want to get crucified on CNN.”
“Transcripts miss
Hort set the phone down on the armrest between them and put a Bluetooth earpiece next to it. “These are for you,” he said. “There’s more information on the phone, but we’ll get to that.”
“Okay.”
“Two days ago, someone contacted the new director of central intelligence,” Hort said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible over the background roar of the engines. “This someone has gotten hold of some extremely sensitive materials and wants to be paid for their safe return.”
Ben pinched his nostrils and cleared his ears. “How sensitive are we talking about?”
“A hundred million dollars sensitive. That’s what our blackmailer is asking for. Payment in uncut diamonds, none larger than three carats. Small, anonymous, easy to move.”
“What do they have, photos of the president in flagrante?”
“I wish that’s what this were about. No, what they have is interrogation videos.”
Ben thought for a moment. “I read somewhere the CIA had destroyed a bunch of waterboarding videos. First there were just a couple, then they admitted closer to a hundred, something like that?”
Hort nodded. “That’s the story they told the papers. Truth is, they never destroyed anything. The destruction story was just disinformation they put out when they discovered the tapes were missing.”
“Yeah, but this story broke … I forget, but it’s been years.”
“December 2007. That’s when they discovered the tapes were missing, that’s when they started trying to cover it up.”
“And then …”
“And then in March 2009, they changed the story. Ninety-two tapes, not just a few.”
“Why?”
“A throw-down to the new administration. The word was, the newbies were going to investigate the tapes’ destruction more seriously than the previous one was inclined to. So the message was, ‘This is much worse than you think. Investigate and you’ll never get anything done on the economy, or health care, or global warming, or jack shit. An investigation will go in a hundred directions you don’t want. It’ll eat you alive.’”
“I don’t get it. In the end, what did they think was going to happen? Were they hoping the tapes really were destroyed?”
“That’s exactly what they were hoping. And it wasn’t a bad working theory, if you think about it. Someone should have destroyed those tapes—can you imagine what would happen if they got out?”
“Why the hell make tapes in the first place? Are they crazy over there?”
Hort shrugged. “The signal-to-noise ratio wasn’t great on the information they were getting from the program. Truth is, most of the people we were picking up, we weren’t even sure who they were. Informants were accusing people we’d never heard of, dirt-poor Pakistani farmers turning in some Arab just because they didn’t like him or didn’t want to pay him the money they owed. Settle a grudge by accusing your enemy of terrorism and collect a bounty at the same time—who could resist that? And with the methods the CIA was using, fabrication was a problem. So they tried to develop a mosaic, cross-referencing everything they extracted in the interrogations. Fabrication is random; the overlaps have more credibility, that was the theory. So every new bit of intel extracted meant they could look at previous intel in a new light. For that, they needed records, something they could go back to.”
“Yeah, records. Transcripts. Not video. Not if you don’t want to get crucified on CNN.”
“Transcripts miss
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