Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
A NOVEL
NEWT
GINGRICH
AND
PETE EARLEY
N E W YOR K B O S TON N A SH V I L L E
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2015 by Newt Gingrich and Pete Earley
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the
scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the
permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the authors
intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than
for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting
the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the
authors rights.
Center Street
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10104
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First edition: October 2015
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Library of Congress CataloginginPublication Data
Gingrich, Newt.
Duplicity : a novel / Newt Gingrich and Pete Earley. First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4555-3042-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-4555-8954-8
(hardcover large print) ISBN 978-1-4555-3846-1 (autographed
hardcover); ISBN 978-1-4555-3847-8 (B&N autographed hardcover); ISBN
97814555-90650 (international trade paperback) ISBN 978-1-4789-0360-4
(audio cd) 1. Political fiction. 2. Suspense fiction. I. Earley, Pete.
II.Title.
PS3557.I4945D87 2015
813'.54dc23
2015023767
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PROLOGUE
Early summer
The city of Dera Ismail Khan
Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa province, Pakistan
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survive and even live well behind bars. Those who didnt faced physical
abuse and starvation. Guards routinely demanded bribeseither money
or s exfrom visitors. Even after someone made it past the guards into
a facility, if they brought food or some creature comfort to a prisoner,
that inmate would have to fight for it. King had seen as many as fifty
men in a group cell surge toward the bars with outstretched hands like a
swarm of flesh-eating piranha whenever a visitor appeared. Weaker pris
oners were immediately stripped of any items handed them while guards
watched amused, sometimes placing bets on who would end up with
goods shoved through the bars. King suspected his tour at Superinten
dent Abbass prison would not be any different from the others, with one
exception: This facility was reputed to be the most secure in the region,
having originally been built by the British during the colonial period.
From the outside, it looked impenetrable.
The prison was surrounded by fifteen-foot-high mud-brick walls
topped with razor wire and shards of broken glass. Its main entrance was
a thick steel door, only large enough for one person to enter at a time.
On either side stood an armed guard. The prisons t wo-story adminis
tration building had been built just inside that doorway. Beyond it were
five buildings that resembled army barracks, each holding three hundred
men in six large group cells. Guards paid more attention to separating
prisoners based on their religious beliefs than on whether they were fi
rst-
timers or hardened criminals.
Because this was the regions most secure prison, it was where cap
tured radical Islamists were kept. King was especially keen on observing
if they were being treated differently from other prisoners. His organiza
tion classified them as political prisoners.
Before he could begin his tour, however, he needed to get by Superin
tendent Abbas.
If you come into a mans house, especially to cast stones, Abbas said,
you should bring him a gift or token of your appreciation.
So this was why Abbas was stalling. He expected a bribe. King couldnt
believe the gall. Part of his task was to identify corrupt superintendents,
and Abbas was so corrupt he didnt seem to understand that his thinly
veiled demand was against the law. Either that or he simply didnt care.
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the only employees who had guns. The prison officials inside the cell
blocks were armed only with clubsa precaution meant to keep prison
ers from obtaining firearms if they rioted and overpowered guards. The
cell-house guards quickly realized they were no match for the intruders.
They tossed down their clubs and dropped to their knees, voluntarily
locking their fingers together behind their heads in hopeful submission.
Within minutes, prisoners were being freed from their cells and escaping
into the prison yard.
By now, Kings hearing was returning, and he spotted a slender black
man with a megaphone in the prison yard calling names. The prisoners
he was summoning were gathering around him in the yard.
King heard voices outside the superintendents office and realized
the intruders were about to enter the room. He thought about crawling
to Abbass corpse to retrieve the pistol strapped to his belt but quickly
rejected that idea.
It would be impossible for him to shoot his way out of the prison,
especially with a compound fracture. If the attackers saw him armed,
they would shoot first. Kings best chance of surviving was to surrender
and seek mercy. After all, he wasnt a prison official. He was a guest, a
foreigner, someone who had come to Pakistan to help its people.
King removed his shirt and formed a tourniquet above the break in
his right leg. A part of him simply wished he could play dead and let
whatever was going to unfold happen.
Someone kicked on the offices door, which was blocked by rubble.
Another strong kick opened the door wide enough for the barrel of an
AK47 to poke through it. A mans voice yelled in Urdu, Pakistans most
common language.
Foreigner! King hollered back in English. No guns!
The owner of the AK47 peeked through the crack. King raised both
hands.
The gunman yelled again.
I dont understand, King replied. Canadian.
With a final shove, the door opened wide enough for the gun
man to enter. Two more fighters followed him. All were dressed in
police uniformsthe same khaki pants with dark green shirts that
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sewn from the same material. Even so, King suspected the figure now
towering above him was not a Pakistani. He looked as if he was from
Africa, and the cadence of his voice didnt match what King had become
accustomed to hearing since his arrival.
Canadian, King said. NGO. International Equal Justice Project.
Prison inspection. Not military. Not fighter. Observer. Pacifist. Not a
soldier. An attorney. A lawyer. Not a soldier.
A lawyer? the man repeated in English and then chuckled loudly.
He began addressing those around him in Farsi. He spoke slowly, as if
Farsi was not his first language, and because he was speaking slowly,
King was able to understand several key words. Injured, prisoner, ransom.
King was going from someone who inspected prisons to being a pris
oner himself. The two men who had brought him down into the court
yard stepped forward and lifted him onto his left leg while the leader
started to walk away.
Youre not a Pakistani! King blurted out. And youre not an Arab.
His words seemed to come from his mouth on their own, surprising
even him.
The leader spun around and stared at Kings face.
For reasons that he could not explain, King said, My God, youre an
American.
The man handed his knife to a subordinate and returned to where
King was now standing, stopping inches from the terrified captives face.
What makes you think Im American? he demanded.
Something about your voice. The way you carry yourself.
The man drew a pistol from his belt and pressed it under Kings chin.
You are very insightful, the leader said. Too much so for your own
good.
He squeezed the trigger, sending a round through Kings brain and
out his skull into the evening sky.
The two men holding King released their grips and the Canadian aid
worker fell lifeless onto the ground.
You were wrong, the man said, looking down at Kings corpse. I
was an American.
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PART ONE
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CHAPTER ONE
Counterterrorism Center
Central Intelligence Agency
Langley, Virginia
unter Conner was not used to seeing fresh fruit, doughnuts, silver
ware, and plates when he arrived at the regular M
onday-morning
briefing inside the CIAs Counterterrorism Center. Employees
usually sauntered in carrying their own snacks. Today was different
because Payton Grainger, the CIAs director, was expected. As a rule, the
director never attended mundane meetings, especially at this low step
on the bureaucratic ladder, but Grainger had recently launched an effort
to revitalize poor morale inside the agency by mingling with the rank
and file. Conner correctly assumed that Charles Casterline, who ran
the Monday briefings, had ordered the refreshments. Casterline was the
ultimate schmoozer. In a bureaucracy that loved acronyms, Casterline
was the chief of the OA (Office of Operations and Analysis) at the CTC
(Counterterrorism Center) inside the NCS (National Clandestine Ser
vice), the covert branch of the CIA.
Conner went directly for the coffee, taking it black. His head was split
ting. Reaching into his pocket, he palmed a Xanax, discreetly raising
it to his lips. It was his substitute treatment for anxiety when m
ind-
numbing alcohol wasnt available. He slumped into a seat along the con
ference room wall.
Id like to start by welcoming Director Grainger, Casterline said,
rising from a conference table in the center of the room where all of his
managers and other brass were seated.
Conner tuned him out. His eyes wandered and he noticed several
of his younger colleagues along the wall were fidgeting in their chairs,
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12
trying to juggle a fruit plate and plastic fork on their knees while holding
a hot cup of coffee. A few were licking white powdered sugar from their
fingers. It was only when Casterline was nearing the end of his briefing
that Conner reconnected.
Oh, weve had a report of a prison in Dera Ismail Khan being over
run by Taliban fighters, Casterline explained as if this news was an
afterthought. Some eight hundred prisoners escaped, including a few
dozen militant jihadists.
When no one at the conference table reacted, Conner interrupted.
Excuse me.
Washington bureaucracies follow certain protocols, some written and
others not, and one of them inside the CIA was that employees who were
sitting along the conference room wall had the status of children in the
early 1800s. They could be seen but not heard unless called upon.
An irritated look washed across Casterlines face, while Director
Grainger gazed over his reading half-glasses much like a proctor moni
toring a final exam.
That prison break is the eleventh escape during the past two months
in the region, Conner volunteered.
And your point is what? Casterline asked curtly.
Its part of a pattern.
Weve been through this before, Casterline replied in a clearly exas
perated voice. This prison break and other escapes in the region are
happening because they are allowed to happen. Either guards are bribed
or they dont know squat about security.
I disagree, Conner replied.
Well, youre wrong, Casterline retorted, his irritation turning to an
only slightly veiled anger. The last time you brought this up, Caster
line continued, I told you to write down your theory in a paper for peer
review, or to be more precise, the last time you announced that all of us
have been dealing with terrorists in a profoundly wrong manner, I had
you explain why in writing.
Removing his reading glasses, Director Grainger said, This is the
first time Ive heard any of this.
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14
Conner replied. Identify the t hreathow many new cases are appear
ing and how rapidly they are spreading. Then move into an analyti
cal phase. Are there discernible patterns in why and how this disease
spreads? Finally, we need to develop intervention strategies to isolate and
eradicate the disease, not try to manage it. We need to recognize that
we will never win an ongoing campaign against terrorism by fighting a
war against each separate group. We should be fighting a radical Islamic
epidemic.
There are currently more than a hundred identifiable terrorist
groups in the world, Casterline said, challenging him. Each has its
own agenda. Each has its own leader. These prison breaks, for example.
We have been told the Taliban was responsible for the Pakistan attack.
In Yemen, the jailbreak was led by AlQaeda. In Nigeria, it was Boko
Haram. In Afghanistan, it was the Followers of Allah. There is abso
lutely no evidence that these divergent groups communicated between
themselves or that these breaks were coordinated. The only thing that
unites these factions is their hatred of our country. If they didnt hate us,
they would be killing each other. So looking at the whole, rather than
the parts, accomplishes nothing useful.
Conner shook his head in disagreement. I believe these prison
attacks are being coordinated, but even if they arent, you are missing my
points, and your inability to understand and accept them is why our cur
rent approach is failing. First, we must recognize that radical Islamism
is our enemy; it is the virus that gives birth to these divergent groups. If
we want to eradicate it, we must first understand why radical Islamism is
flourishing. Islam is hardly a new religion. Why are the numbers of radi
cal Islamists rising, even in our own country? My second point is directly
related to the first. Since radical Islamism is the common ideology of all
these terrorist groups, that means they can be united. Just because we
refuse to look at the bigger picture, doesnt mean our enemies are blind.
Which brings me to my third point. I believe there is a new Osama bin
Ladenlike figure currently consolidating power among radical jihad
ists and yes, we need to identify and stop him before he unifies Islamic
terrorists.
So theres a Super-Osama lurking in the shadows, Casterline said
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suit. He often forgot to shower. A diet of fast food had pushed his weight
to 250 pounds and given him a watermelon-shaped belly that hung un
attractively over his belt on his six-foot frame.
Conner plucked his copy of W. Somerset Maughams Of Human
Bondage from the shelf. It didnt take him long to find the passage that he
was seeking.
Suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now that he had
it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till you are
shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have
escaped you. The answer was obvious.
The answer was obvious, so why didnt anyone else see it?
Conner continued reading. It was as if the book were an old friend
offering him solace. Like the novels protagonist, Conner had been try
ing to decide if there was a meaning to life when he first came across
Maughams classic as a teen in his fathers library. By the time hed read
it, hed reached the same conclusion as the central character. There was
no meaning, no master plan, no choreographed destiny designed by an
omnipotent being who rewarded those who worshipped him and con
demned those who didnt. There was no god. The good and bad in life
were caused by great and evil men, not a supernatural being.
Conner replaced the volume on its shelf and wheeled back to his desk.
Being an atheist had been easier when hed not lost what he treasured
most in life.
He stared at a framed photograph on his desk. The snapshot showed
him with his wife, Sara, and their two children, Benjamin and Jennifer.
They were standing outside Dulles Airport with packed bags ready to
begin what Sara had called their great Cairo adventure.
He leaned forward, reaching for the photograph, but his hand began
trembling so he pulled it back.
He needed proof and he owed it to himself to find it.
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