What the hell was going on?
12
“They’ll stay together,” Eliot said. “Both of them with the woman.”
“Agreed,” his assistant said. “Together they’d have a better chance to protect themselves.”
“And use her contacts.” For security reasons, Eliot avoided his office as much as possible. Using his greenhouse as a distraction, he studied the hint of blight on an American Beauty rose. “We have to assume she’ll call her embassy. Its scrambler system’s too sophisticated for us to intercept her conversations.”
His assistant glanced toward the square-faced muscular sentry at each entrance to the greenhouse. Eliot could have had his pick of regular agency personnel to guard him. Instead he’d chosen a pair the assistant had never heard of, introducing them only as Castor and Pollux, unfamiliar cryptonyms. The house, the grounds, and the street were also being guarded, but those teams had been chosen by the assistant himself. The sanctum, though—Eliot apparently trusted only these men to guard him here. The assistant was puzzled.
“But we can guess what she says to her embassy.” Eliot’s hand trembled slightly as he treated the rose’s blight with a chemical. “In her place, I’d need money and identification—passports, drivers’ licenses, credit cards, presumably under several different names. The Israelis don’t trust outside help. They do that kind of job in their embassy.”
The assistant handed Eliot a cloth to wipe his hands. “So they’ll have to deliver a package to her.”
Eliot studied him with uncustomary approval. “Good. You see my point. Arrange to have anyone who leaves the embassy followed.”
“We’ll need a lot of people.”
“Use the sanction as your excuse. Tell the KGB and the other networks that the courier might lead them to Remus. Tell them we’re close to finding the violator.”
Now it was the assistant’s turn to say, “Good.”
“Amazing, the way things get out of control. If Romulus had been killed in Atlantic City, none of the other problems would have happened.”
“Remus would still have violated the sanction.”
“He doesn’t matter. Romulus does. The Paradigm Foundation had to be destroyed. The president had to be convinced the Israelis did it.” Eliot winced; the blight had spread to another rose. “But after Colorado, once we assumed which friends they’d ask for help, we shouldn’t have failed at the woman’s apartment. We’re a step behind them, but we shouldn’t be. I chose Saul because he’s past the age of maximum ability, like an athlete on the decline. I never dreamed he’d—”
“—make a comeback?”
Eliot shrugged. “The same with Chris. I was sure he’d use his special knowledge of Saul to find him. But after the monastery, and particularly after what happened in Bangkok, I never dreamed he’d stay alive this long. It’s going bad.” Eliot frowned. “If they learn the truth…”
“How could they?”
“Two weeks ago, I’d have said they couldn’t. But with the luck they’ve been having…” Eliot’s face seemed pinched. “Or maybe it’s more than luck.”
13
“I can have you in Israel by tomorrow,” Pletz told Erika from the scrambler-protected phone in his office. “You’d be secure while we sort this out.”
“I can’t.” Erika’s husky voice was worried. “I have to stay with Chris and Saul.”
“We can’t protect your friends. If the other agencies found out we were helping someone who violated the sanction?”
“That’s not the issue. Yes, they’re friends, but they’re involved in something besides the sanction, something important enough that to kill them it didn’t matter if I got killed as well. I want to find out what. I can tell you this. It’s related to the Mossad.”
Pletz stiffened. “How? You know we didn’t try to kill you.”
“Someone wants to make it look as if you did.”
“But that’s crazy. Why?”
“That’s what I want to find out. I can’t talk longer. I’ve got to assume this call is being traced. Get me the identification papers I asked for—the drivers’ licenses, the credit cards. And something else.”
“I know. The money.”
“Something more important.”
Pletz asked, “What?” He gasped when he heard the reply.
14
As the well-dressed man stepped from the embassy, squinting from the sun, carrying a briefcase, he took for granted he was being watched. All day, the embassy’s security team had been noticing an unusual amount of surveillance. Anyone leaving the premises, no matter if on foot or in a vehicle, was being followed. In turn the security team, cooperating with Pletz, had arranged for an unusual number of couriers to leave the building. Given the intense activity, this particular courier had a good chance of completing his mission.
He stopped at a bookstore first and bought Stephen King’s new novel. He walked another block and stepped in Silverstein’s Kosher Market, buying matzos and chicken-liver pâté. Next he went to a liquor store and chose white wine. In another block he arrived at his apartment building, soon to be greeted by his girlfriend.
He’d substituted his briefcase for an identical one in the kosher market. Already the grocer had hidden the original after removing a package from it. Wrapped in butcher’s paper, labeled “smoked salmon,” the package lay now at the bottom of a large cardboard box, covered by kosher meats and gourmet canned goods. While the grocer’s wife watched the store, Silverstein carried the box to his delivery truck in the alley. He loaded several other boxes in front of the first one and drove across town to the Marren Gold Catering Service.
The following morning, Gold’s Catering delivered the boxes to the Georgetown home of Dr. Benjamin Schatner, where guests soon arrived from the synagogue to congratulate Schatner’s son on a brilliantly performed Bar Mitzvah. After the reception, one of the guests, Bernie Keltz, decided to drive his family down to George Washington’s estate at Mount Vernon. The mansion was only twenty miles away, Keltz’s children had never seen it, and the flowers would be in bloom.
Keltz parked the car in the visitors’ lot. He walked with his wife and two young daughters along a path till they stopped at a gate. Smiling in the pleasant breeze, they gazed along a sweeping lawn toward the mansion at the far end of the grounds. As they strolled beneath soaring trees past glorious gardens, Keltz explained to his daughters about the smaller buildings: the spinning house, the smokehouse, the washhouse. “The estate was like a village. Completely self-sufficient.” His daughters played a jumping game on the weathered brick path.
At half-past three, Keltz’s wife set her large burlap purse on the floor in front of a display case in the Washington’s Home Is Your Home gift shop. Next to her, Erika studied a rack of colorful slides. While Keltz bought a cast-metal replica of the Washington Monument, insisting it be gift-wrapped, Erika picked up the purse and left the estate.
15
Beside the drivers’ licenses and credit cards, the computer printout stretched across the dining table in the cottage near the Potomac. As the river whispered beyond the sunset-tinted screen of an open window, Saul, Chris, and Erika stared down at the paper. It showed a list of names—all Americans who, though not affiliated with the Mossad, had nonetheless received killer-instinct training at Andre Rothberg’s school in Israel. Though Erika’s request had puzzled him, Misha Pletz had gathered the information from the embassy’s computers.
1965 Sgt. First Class Kevin McElroy, U.S.A., S.F.
Sgt. First Class Thomas Conlin, U.S.A., S.F.
1966 Lt. Saul Grisman, U.S.A., S.F.
Lt. Christopher Kilmoonie, U.S.A., S.F.
1967 Staff Sgt. Neil Pratt, U.S.A., Rangers
Staff Sgt. Bernard Halliday, U.S.A., Rangers
1968 Lt. Timothy Drew, U.S.A., S.F.
Lt. Andrew Hicks, U.S.A., S.F.
1969 Gunnery Sgt. James Thomas, U.S.M.C., Recon
Gunnery Sgt. William Fletcher, U.S.M.C., Recon
Petty Officer David Pews, U.S.N., Seals
The list continued—nine years, eighteen names.
Chris said, “I don’t believe it.”
Erika glanced at him. “You thought you were unique?”
“Eliot told us we were. He said he wanted to make us special. The only operatives in the world with our particular combination of skills.”
She shrugged. “Maybe he thought you turned out so well he decided to repeat the idea.”
Saul shook his head. “But we went to Israel in ’66. This list shows two other men went there before us. Eliot lied when he said we were the only ones.”
“Even later,” Chris said. “In the seventies. After the rest of those men had killer-instinct training, he still kept telling us we were the only two of our kind.”
Erika glanced back toward the list. “Maybe he wanted you to feel unique.”
“My ego isn’t tender,” Chris said. “I wouldn’t have cared how many other men were trained the same as I was. All I wanted was to do my job well.”
“And please Eliot,” Saul said.
Chris nodded. “That’s why we wanted to do our jobs well. Why the hell would he lie about these other men?”
“We’re not sure Eliot’s the one who arranged for these other men to study with Rothberg,” Erika said.
“We have to assume he did.”
“Not yet we don’t,” she answered. “We can’t afford assumptions. Maybe somebody else had the same idea Eliot did. For now, we know just what’s on this list. So what does it tell us?”
“Patterns,” Saul said. “The men were sent in pairs.”
“Like us,” Chris said.
“Each member of a pair had the same rank. In ’65, McElroy and Conlin were sergeants. In ’66, Saul and I were lieutenants. In ’67, Pratt and Halliday were staff sergeants.” Saul drew a finger down the list, noting other paired ranks: gunnery sergeants and petty officers.
“Each member of a pair came from the same military branch,” Chris said. “McElroy and Conlin belonged to Special Forces.”
“Like us,” Saul said, echoing Chris’s remark.
“Pratt and Halliday were in the Rangers. Thomas and Fletcher were from Marine Reconnaissance. Hackett and Pews were Navy Seals.”
“But the pattern isn’t consistent,” Erika said. “In that respect, the pairs are different from each other. Four different military units—Special Forces, Rangers, Recon, Seals.”
“They’re different, but they’re the same,” Chris said.
Erika frowned in confusion.
Saul explained, “They’re elite. Those units are the best-trained cadres we’ve got.”
“Of course,” she said.
Saul didn’t need to elaborate. She knew as well as he did that the U.S. military was structured like a pyramid. The better the training, the fewer soldiers received it. Near the top were the army’s Rangers and the Marine Corps’ Recon unit—small, extremely well prepared. But the army’s Special Forces stood above them, even smaller and better prepared. At the summit, the smallest, best-prepared group was the navy’s Seals. This hierarchy was part of a system of checks and balances that the U.S. government imposed on the military. If the Rangers or Recon attempted a coup, Special Forces would be called in to stop them. In turn, if Special Forces attempted a coup, the Seals would be brought in to stop them. The question remained—who would stop the Seals if they tried a coup?
“It doesn’t matter if those units are different from one another,” Chris said. “Compared to conventional military forces, they’re in a class by themselves. The best.”
“Okay, it makes sense,” Erika said. “Take soldiers from exclusive American cadres. Give them even more sophisticated training in Israel. But why?”
“And why those particular men?” Saul asked. “And why so few of them? What’s the principle of selection?”
Erika frowned. “I know I said we shouldn’t make assumptions, but I’m going to make one anyhow. Those men were sent to Israel from 1965 to 1973. Do you suppose—?” She studied their faces. “Maybe they distinguished themselves in combat.”
“Where? In Nam?” Chris said. “Like us?”
“The years fit. By ’65, America was deeply involved in the fighting. By ’73, America had left. Maybe those men were war heroes. The best of the best. Once they proved their ability under fire, how much better could they get? Only killer-instinct training would be higher.”
“You’re describing men who’d eventually be better prepared than the Seals.”
“I’m describing yourselves,” she said.
Chris and Saul stared at each other.
“Something’s missing,” Chris said. “I can feel it. Something important. We’ve got to find out more about these men.”
16
Sam Parker left the glass and chrome structure, enjoying the sweet smogless Sunday breeze. As senior computer programmer for the National Defense Agency, he spent most of his days in windowless, temperature-controlled, antiseptic rooms. Not that he minded. After all, the computer had to be protected. But despite the intellectual stimulation of his work, he did mind coming here on Sunday. The trouble with being an expert was that underlings kept passing their mistakes to him.
He glanced from D.C. across the river toward Virginia and the Pentagon. Its parking lot, like the defense agency’s, was almost deserted. Sure, they’re at home drinking martinis, grilling steaks the same as I should be, he thought as he walked toward his drab brown, fuel-efficient, made-in-America car. Martinis? In truth, Parker didn’t drink, though he didn’t object if others did, in moderation. Even on Sunday, he wore a jacket and tie to go to work. He admired propriety and was constantly embarrassed by the way his freckles and red hair made him stand out in a crowd. At fifty-five, he hoped the red would soon turn diplomatic gray.
Driving from the parking lot, he didn’t notice the Pinto that began to follow him. Nor five minutes later did he notice the other car, a Toyota, till it weaved from the passing lane, scraping his left front fender, cutting him off. Sunday drivers, he raged. Probably a tourist. He pulled to the side of the road. His fury cooled as he shut off his engine and saw the Toyota’s driver get out. An absolutely gorgeous woman, tall and lithe, with long dark hair, wearing jeans and boots. She approached him, smiling. Well, he thought, if he had to have an accident, he might as well enjoy it.
He stepped out, trying his best to look stern. “Young lady, I hope you’ve got insurance.”
She touched his shoulder. “I’m so scared. I don’t know how it happened.” She embraced him. As he felt her breasts against his chest, he heard a car stop. Two men suddenly flanked him, a muscular Jew and, Jesus, the other guy looked like an Irishman.
“Anybody hurt?” the Irishman said.
The Jew leaned close. Parker flinched, feeling something sting his arm.
His vision blurred.
17
They did it quickly. Saul leaned Parker’s limp body back in his car, then slid beside him and drove toward the break in traffic before any curious motorists had a chance to stop. Erika followed in the Toyota, Chris in the Pinto. They soon split up, each taking a different exit. Making sure no one followed them, they headed south and rendezvoused at the cottage.
Parker was alert by then. He struggled as Saul tied him to a chair in the living room.
“I’ve seen your faces,” Parker said foolishly. “I saw some of the roads you used to get here. Kidnapping’s a federal offense. You’ll go to jail for this.”
Saul squinted at him.
“Oh,” Parker said, his eyes bleak with understanding. “Please, don’t kill me. I promise I won’t say a word.”
Chris approached him.
“My wife’s expecting me home at four,” Parker warned. “When I’m late, she’ll call Security.”
“She already has. It’s after four. But how can they find you?”
“Oh,” Parker moaned again.
He strained at the ropes around him. “What do you want?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Information.”
“Promise you won’t hurt me. I’ll tell you anything.”
“You’ll tell us lies.”
“No, I’ll cooperate.”
“We know you will.” Chris rolled up Parker’s sleeve. Parker gaped as Chris rubbed his arm with alcohol, then filled a hypodermic from a vial. “It feels like Valium,” Chris said. “Since you’ve got no choice, you might as well stop fighting and enjoy it.” He slid the needle in Parker’s arm.
The interrogation lasted thirty minutes. The Israeli embassy had supplied all the information it could. Chris needed another source. Because the men he was interested in had all been in the U.S. military, he knew he’d find the background he wanted in the National Defense Agency’s computers. The trick was to gain access to the computers, and the first step was to learn the codes that would make the computers responsive to questions. The wrong codes would trigger an alarm, alerting the NDA’s security force that someone without clearance was trying to infiltrate the databank.
Torture was an obsolete method of interrogation. It took too long, and even when a subject seemed to have been broken, he sometimes lied convincingly or told only part of the truth. But sodium amytal—the same drug Eliot had used on Chris in the dentist’s office in Panama—was quick and reliable.
Voice slurred, Parker told Chris everything he wanted to know. The codes were changed weekly. There were three of them: a numerical sequence, an alphabetical sequence, and a password. The numerical sequence was a joke of sorts, a variation on Parker’s Social Security number. Satisfied they could communicate with the computers, Chris drove Parker back to Washington.
The Brotherhood of the Rose Page 15
