Assassin's Silence

by Ward Larsen

“Any idea where they might go next?” she asked.

  He considered it. “This jet was on the ground less than an hour. Aside from taking on gas, they had time to kill two people, dump the bodies in a truck, and drive into the desert. I think you should look at the fuel truck logs. Jet fuel isn’t cheap, even in Iraq, and the companies who sell it keep tight, gallon-by-gallon records. I’m guessing they took on less than a full fuel load. If you can prove that, it makes our circle a lot smaller.”

  “Right. That’s good.”

  “No, that’s bad,” said Davis.

  Sorensen heaved a sigh. “Why?”

  “Think about it. A new load of cargo, a partial fuel load. We don’t have much time here, Anna. Whatever these people are going to do … they’re going to do it very soon.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  The United States embassy in Beirut, by virtue of its turbulent past, is operated under a unique staffing model by its attendant services.

  Ambassadors to Lebanon are invariably career State Department employees, this a glaring exception to the custom wherein lead diplomatic posts are reserved as political appointments, presidents finding places for their deep-pocketed campaign donors, close friends, and Ivy League fraternity brothers. France, England, Sweden, and Brazil—these are the verdant gardens, the well-bought consular A-list. An ambassadorship to Lebanon, on the other hand, lies considerably further down the alphabet. With its magnetism for bombings, kidnappings, and religious-inspired mayhem, Beirut postings are invariably filled—on a strictly volunteer basis—by brave and long-tenured employees from Foggy Bottom.

  The position of CIA station chief is filled using an altogether different approach. Langley maintains its usual embedded subsidiary in the U.S. house of Lebanon, and for the employees of the CIA, Beirut is ground zero. It is the place where careers are made and lost, a tinderbox in which young and indestructible case officers put their tradecraft on the line to engage razor-sharp bomb-makers and witless suicidal jihadists. Iran and Pakistan might be as combustive, Iraq a few years earlier. But with the Jews to the south, the Persians to the north, and nearly twenty state-recognized religious sects, there is no more unsettled country on earth than Lebanon.

  And Larry Donnelly wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

  How a man of his checkered past had come to command a vital CIA outpost was a curiosity to his friends, an enigma to his subordinates, and a source of long-running consternation to Lebanon’s internal security service. His third wife had left him five years ago, taking two kids, half his pension, and one thoroughly untrainable black Lab. With the arithmetic of his life in shreds, Donnelly had done what any red-blooded CIA officer would do—he sought out the most knife-edged posting he could find, and to his surprise was given Beirut. Nothing cured a midlife crisis like putting a target on your back, or so his thinking went, and the assignment had so far exceeded his expectations, as had the rooftop bars and hedonistic vacationers of Hamra. Donnelly rose most mornings with an aching head, on occasion next to a woman half his age, but always delighting in what the next day would bring.

  Today, apparently, it was Armenian priests bearing cryptic messages.

  Father Bartakian was shown into his office after a short wait, and the United States chargé d’affaires to Lebanon crossed the polished cedar floor to greet him. “Father Bartakian. How good to see you.”

  The priest smiled a smile of benevolence that could only have been learned in seminary. “Yes, but it has not been so long. I was here only last month for the ceremony to celebrate twenty years of freedom from the Green Line.”

  “Yes, I remember now. I suppose it was worth commemorating, but as you and I both know, lines are drawn on paper. Peace is far more elusive.” Donnelly retreated to the furnished half of the room and said, “Please have a seat.”

  Bartakian did, and Donnelly played the good host, not hiding behind his desk but instead taking an adjoining twin chair. Soft leather crinkled equally under the men, notwithstanding their precipitously different weights in God’s order.

  Bartakian said, “A man came to see me today. He gave me a letter and asked me to deliver it to you personally.” He pulled an envelope from a pocket in his robe and handed it across.

  “Is this man an acquaintance? A parishioner perhaps?” Donnelly thought he might have heard a chuckle.

  “Oh, no. I have never seen him before. Of that, I am certain.”

  “What did he look like?”

  The priest considered it. “He was fair-haired, unusual gray eyes. A pleasant sort, really. I would say he has a background in stonework.”

  “Stonework?”

  “He showed me a section of masonry in the southern nave where the mortar was failing. Something about a bad mix, but simple enough to repair, he assured me.”

  “Did this stonemason give a name?” Donnelly asked, setting the unopened envelope aside for the moment.

  “Come to think of it, no. I don’t believe he did.”

  “Nationality?”

  “He never said…” The priest hesitated.

  “But?”

  “If I were to guess—I’d say he might be Israeli.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Donnelly again saw the patriarchal smile.

  “I have been a priest for nearly forty years, Mr. Donnelly, and have lived my entire life in Lebanon. Do that,” Bartakian said, “and even you could spot a Jew.”

  Donnelly kept his own smile in check. “But I wonder,” he said, “if you’ve never met this man before—why would he ask you to deliver a letter for him?”

  “I rather wondered that myself. But then, consider the obvious. I have long been a leader in the local religious community, and my church is a short walk up the street from the embassy. As you well know, I have been a guest here dozens of times for various functions. It seems a natural extension that I would keep acquaintances at the embassy. A searching mind might even imagine that I’ve been asked to report suspicious activities gathered from my pews or—God forbid—in confessional.”

  Donnelly crooked his head in amusement. “Well, it goes without saying, we live in a dangerous part of the world. There is some degree of obligation for the church to do what it can to keep the peace. As for your Israeli stonemason, if he worked things out as you say, then it strikes me that he might also be trained in … diplomatic work.”

  Bartakian shrugged noncommittally. “Friends and liars, Mr. Donnelly. It is not my duty to distinguish among them, but rather to serve all God’s children equally.”

  Donnelly grinned and gave the envelope a pat. “Anyway, Father, thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

  He rose and escorted the priest to the door. There Bartakian paused and put his hands together near his chest—had they been six inches higher the CIA man might have mistaken it for a prayer. “You know,” Bartakian said, “this gentleman donated three hundred euros to our repair fund—the old domes in the chapel have been leaking for a year now. I thought it was quite generous given the small favor he asked in return. He also suggested that you … or should I say the United States of America … would very possibly make a matching contribution.”

  The spy frowned.

  The priest smiled, adding, “We are approaching the rainy season.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Bartakian turned to leave.

  “You know, Father—”

  The robe twirled to face him.

  “Our skill sets are not as dissimilar as one might think. If you ever leave the church and need a job—give me a call.”

  “Oh, I will never leave the church, my son.” The priest spread his arms wide, almost a benediction. “But I will pray for America tonight. On that you have my solemn word.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Less than thirty minutes later, Donnelly was quick-timing down the steps of Notre Dame University—the Louaize, Lebanon edition whose red-tiled roofs and sun-bleached dormitories would never be confused with those of its cousin institut
ion in South Bend, Indiana. At the foot of the hill he referenced the map on his phone, and turned left on Zouk Mikael. The school was less than two miles north of the embassy, but in spite of the proximity it was not a neighborhood Donnelly frequented. After a twisting drive through hills that overlooked the Dog River Valley and the sea beyond, he had found himself on sidewalks teeming with students on the bright afternoon, and crossing streets overrun by scooters and bicycles. A very public place, and presumably why it had been chosen.

  He found the café, Les Palmiers, at the first corner. Donnelly referenced his watch to see that he was nearly on time. He’d read the letter twice before leaving the embassy, then forwarded it to Langley, along with a message to say he was going to the meeting. There hadn’t been time to wait for a reply. The whole affair might be a waste of time—he’d certainly been sent on his share of fool’s errands since arriving in Beirut—yet something in that list of details, so meticulously arranged on Morgan Stanley stationery, had convinced him otherwise.

  Donnelly paused at the entrance, and his eyes stepped through the tables, beginning with those on the outer patio. There was no need for red carnations or folded newspapers. Practiced spies had no trouble spotting one another—at least, not when that was what they had in mind. His gaze settled on a light-haired man under a big Perrier umbrella whose eyes—unusual gray, according to Father Bartakian, although Donnelly couldn’t say from this distance—momentarily made contact. The man was alone, or so it seemed, and well situated in the most tranquil corner of the place, an orphan table between the main traffic aisle and a waiter’s stand.

  Donnelly squared his shoulders and crossed the room. The man did not rise to greet him, and of the three remaining chairs Donnelly naturally picked the one opposite. Only after sitting did he realize that all the angles worth watching were at his back.

  “I’m not alone,” Donnelly said.

  The man across the table showed no reaction.

  “But I only brought two, as you requested. I ordered them to stay across the street. Four is the usual minimum for a man in my position.”

  “You should have brought them all. I would have.”

  “Maybe next time,” Donnelly said. He looked around the busy café. “You know, this isn’t a very good place for a private conversation.”

  “An even worse one for an abduction.”

  A waitress appeared, and Donnelly ordered a beer, his tablemate black coffee. He lit up a cigarette—half the patrons were smoking as it was, another reason he liked Lebanon. “You don’t drink?”

  “Not when I work.”

  “Is that what this is—work?”

  No response. Donnelly felt an urge to lighten the mood. “It’s always been my opinion that a little booze could solve most of the world’s problems. I mean, consider the most screwed-up countries. What do they have in common? They’re the ones that ban alcohol, dancing, and prostitution. If you ask me, the United States shouldn’t waste so much money on jet fighters and aircraft carriers. Do you know how many strip clubs we could open on the Pentagon’s budget?” He waited, but again got no reply. “All right,” he said, “so who the hell are you?”

  “I’m not going to give you a name. Not yet. Let’s just say I’m former Mossad.”

  Donnelly smiled inwardly, remembering what Father Bartakian had said. I’d say he might be Israeli. The sandy hair and light eyes would throw most people off—and so it made that much more sense. “Former?” he queried. “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”

  “I didn’t retire. I quit.”

  “Why would—”

  “Are you wearing a wire?” the Israeli broke in.

  This put Donnelly off stride. “Of course not.”

  “Then you should go get one. I have a lot of information, and I want you to remember it precisely.”

  Donnelly broke eye contact and heaved a sigh. He looked around the room, and in a less than natural movement he loosened a button at the collar of his shirt and pulled a white wire free. It was no thicker than a fabric thread.

  “Very nice,” Slaton said. “Am I on live feed?”

  A nod.

  Their drinks came, and Donnelly took a heavy draw on his beer that put foam across the width of his upper lip.

  The Israeli said, “Let’s not fence. I know who you work for. When I finish, you’ll know enough about me to understand that we have mutual interests.”

  “All right. Convince me.”

  The Israeli began talking.

  Donnelly listened closely to a man who had, by his own admission in the letter, killed three people this week. He knew a great deal about violent men, and in his experience the more tranquil the façade, the more dangerous they were. The man across from him was leaning back casually, his body languid throughout the presentation. Anyone watching might have thought he was strategizing an upcoming polo match. Over twenty minutes his manner neither quickened nor slowed, not when he explained how he’d killed three men, and not when he asserted that over a billion dollars was in play. Yet in spite of his easy manner, Donnelly heard precision in every word, an exactitude of thought that impressed, although did not please him. If this Israeli—if that’s what he was—undertook such care in what he was saying, he would take equal care in what he was holding back. And by the end he was convinced—the man was holding something back.

  Of this Larry Donnelly was sure.

  * * *

  “I once found an old golf club in the garage,” Christine said, “with a mirror attached to the clubface.”

  Stein was sitting on the other side of the dining room table. He was cleaning his gun—she would have been astounded if he hadn’t been armed—and listening politely.

  “Isn’t that something you would use to look under a car? To look for a bomb?”

  Stein only shrugged.

  “Whenever a new neighbor moved in David was always the first to greet them. Only it wasn’t just a greeting. I could tell he was vetting them. Interrogating. Not like they were a threat, necessarily. He wanted to know who spent time on the road, who hunted, who worked odd shifts.” She paused, and then said, “What was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Working for Mossad,” she clarified. “The things you did for them.”

  “You mean the things David did for them?”

  “I suppose so. He never talked about it. I asked a few times, but he always changed the subject, or shrugged it off by saying something like, ‘We were at war.’”

  “First of all, you should understand that David and I weren’t the same—not in Mossad’s eyes. He was unique, both in what he was capable of and what he was asked to do. I worked with him a few times, yes, but most of my time was spent in the IDF. In the military we had rules of engagement, boundaries.”

  Her eyes were riveted.

  “It was war—has been for as long as you and I have been on this earth. But you want specifics?”

  “I want to understand. I’ve seen David stare for an hour at a painting in the National Gallery. I’ve seen him do stonework that’s nearly a work of art. But I’ve glimpsed his other side too. When he’s on a mission … there’s something different about him. He’s so focused and relentless, almost like a machine.”

  “That’s how you have to be, at least if you want to survive.”

  “I’ve had that briefing. But I’d like you to go through one mission for me. Tell me what he did.”

  He drew a deep breath. “All right. I won’t try to convince you how deserving our target was. If a mission reached David, any moral or ethical questions had been finalized. A kidon has to trust that, which in itself is no easy thing. There was one time David and I were assigned to go after a man who—”

  “Did he have a name?”

  Stein hesitated. “Jameel. If there was a first name I don’t remember it.”

  She nodded.

  “He was a guy who had good reason to think Mossad might be after him. Because of it, he was careful, and they h
ad a hard time locating him. So Mossad came up with a scheme. They arranged a bit of legal mischief and Jameel’s cousin, who was imprisoned and awaiting trial, was released, ostensibly by error, from Shikma Prison in Ashkelon. Mossad tracked him for weeks, and eventually he led them to a safe house in Mughazi, near Gaza. An advance team got a glimpse of Jameel, confirmed it with a photograph. He apparently had been staying there for some time, so David was given his orders.”

  Stein paused, but Christine did not ask what those orders were.

  “He and I went in, along with a woman named Sonya. We set up shop, a one-room flat in a nearby building, three floors above the apartment we were watching. Remember—we’re talking the Gaza Strip, which is strictly enemy territory. None of us left the room, and for six days we watched Jameel’s apartment. There was one main window, and we saw him once or twice, but only for a moment—the blinds were almost always drawn. The only other thing we had was a marginal audio feed from a directional microphone. There was never a clear opportunity for David to shoot, but we did notice one thing—this safe house had a single bathroom. We had a good angle on that window, although there was a thin curtain that never moved. When anyone used the toilet, David could use a particular scope and site in clearly on the head of the person using it. We kept careful logs, because that’s what you do in a surveillance op—track when everyone wakes up, eats, has intimate relations.”

  “And when they go to the bathroom.”

  “Exactly. Your target will be there sooner or later—unmoving and unworried. For six mornings in a row, between eight forty and nine fifteen, someone sat on that toilet, and stayed there for between six and eight minutes. Of course, all David saw through his scope was a silhouette—no way to be sure it was Jameel, but we were reasonably sure he was the only inhabitant who never left the apartment. There were between three and five other people inside at any given time, some rotating in and out as guards, others arriving occasionally for tea-and-strategy sessions. Some of them used the toilet sporadically, of course, but that one constant remained. Every morning. Same time. Same place.”