by Stuart Woods
“The Pavarotti sounds perfect,” Holly said. As she waited for the sale to be rung up she started to ask about anyone resembling Teddy, then thought better of it. She’d come back in a day or two and ask then. The woman might be more open if she recognized her as a previous customer.
“There you are,” the woman said, handing her a bag and her change. “Please come back.”
“I’d like to,” Holly said. “I went to see La Bohème last night at the Met. It was my first time at the opera, and I loved it.”
“We’ll always be happy to help you find recordings,” the woman said. “We have synopses and scores, too.”
“Thanks very much,” Holly said, smiling. She left the shop and walked toward Sixth Avenue.
TEN MINUTES LATER, the woman came out of the shop, and Teddy watched her back as she walked toward Sixth Avenue. Should he follow her or find out what she had done inside? Both, he decided. He ran across the street and walked into the shop. “Hi, Esmerelda,” he said to the clerk who was always behind the counter.
“Hi, there,” she replied, smiling at him.
“I thought I just saw someone I know just leave the shop. Was there a woman in here?”
“Yes, just a moment ago,” Esmerelda replied. “She bought a copy of the Pavarotti La Bohème. Said she’d seen the performance at the Met last night and loved it. Everybody loves La Bohème.”
“Did she ask about me?” Teddy asked.
“No.”
“Esmerelda, I have to ask you a favor. I knew her a couple of years ago. We had a relationship that ended badly, and since then she’s stalked me, done everything she can to make my life miserable. If she comes back and asks about me, I’d really appreciate it if you could deny all knowledge of me.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“She might even send private detectives, and those guys use false IDs, say they’re cops.”
“Now that you mention it, a guy came in and flashed an FBI ID, said he wanted to ask me some questions. I threw him out; I hate those guys.”
“You did the right thing,” Teddy said. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Oh, my, I’m late for an appointment. I’ll have to come back.”
He left the shop and hurried toward Sixth Avenue. As he turned the corner, he saw the woman getting into a cab. He hailed another and got in. “Not to sound too dramatic,” he said to the driver, “but would you follow that cab, please?” He pointed to the taxi ahead.
“Sure, brother,” the cab driver said, sounding bored. “Whatever you want.”
“Not too closely,” Teddy said, “just keep it in sight.”
The cab made its way to an address in the East Forties, an apartment building. As Teddy waited in traffic, he saw her get out of the taxi and go into the building. The doorman touched his cap bill and opened the door for her. She was known there.
“Okay, now what?” the driver asked.
“Take me to Sixty-fourth and Madison, please.” He took out a notebook and jotted down the address of the building. What was the woman’s name? Holly something. He couldn’t remember the last name, though he tried all the way home.
Back in his apartment he went to the computer and logged onto the CIA server. What was her last name, dammit? He could check the Agency and FBI records for a file. He couldn’t think of the name.
Instead, he did a search for the address of the building she had gone into. The computer found three references to the address. He clicked on the first and found himself in a long, boring budget file. He checked the second reference. It was a memo: purchase of the building at that address was recommended, through a front real estate company.
He clicked on the third reference to the address and found a copy of a memo to the director from the head of purchasing, reporting on the appraisal of a building under construction and suggesting that it could be bought, approximately half-finished, for fifteen million dollars and finished to Agency specifications for another twenty million.
The building that the woman had entered was, at the very least, a CIA safe house, and, given the costs involved, more likely a center of some sort.
He slapped his forehead: he had sat through a performance of La Bohème next to a CIA officer.
“Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath. How had this happened? Were they that close to him? Impossible, he thought. If she’d realized who she was sitting with, she would have called in support, and yet she had let him walk. A coincidence? He hated coincidences.
TWENTY-EIGHT
HOLLY WAS CALLED into a meeting with Lance and Kerry Smith in the twelfth-floor conference room. Ty was there, and several other people who looked like FBI.
“Sit down, Holly,” Kerry said. “We’ve run a thorough check on your Hyman Baum character. There are several in the New York phone book, but none matching your description, and there is nobody recently in the garment industry by that name.”
“We think you’ve scored, Holly,” Lance said, “and I want to compliment you on your observation of this man. If he’s not Teddy Fay, then he’s someone else of the same description who goes around impersonating elderly dress manufacturers.”
Holly didn’t warm to the praise. “I didn’t score; I just stood there outside the opera and let him walk away. Or rather, run.”
“Don’t beat up on yourself,” Kerry said. “What’s important is that we now have a location and a target date for Teddy. We know he may be at the Metropolitan Opera next Friday night in seats H two or four. If he shows, then, for the first time since Maine, we’ve got a real shot at taking this guy off the street, and it’s all because of your good work.”
“Thank you,” Holly said.
“What we’ve got to do now is to formulate a plan for taking him in a crowded concert hall without anybody getting hurt,” Kerry said. “What I think we should do is put our people in seats all around him, and take him before the opera starts, the moment he sits down.”
“I’m not sure that would work,” Holly said.
“Why not?”
“Because Teddy has these same seats every week, and so do all the people who’re sitting around him. If he walks in and sees a lot of strange faces around his seat, he’s going to bolt. I think it would be better to take him either as he enters the building or as he leaves.”
“You have a point,” Kerry admitted.
“Holly,” Lance said, “you met him outside the hall, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, then, let’s have you meet him at the same place again.”
“He invited me for next Friday night, but I told him I would be in London by then.”
“So, your plans changed, and you went back to the opera in the hope of being able to accept his invitation after all. At the very least, if he sees you, he’ll come over to ask why you aren’t in London.”
“It could work,” Holly said.
“We’ll arrange a visual signal: you’ll change your handbag from one shoulder to the other when you see him, and as soon as you start to talk, we’ll be all over him.”
“I’m game,” Holly said.
TEDDY CALLED IRENE at home and had her walk out into her garden.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m well. I got in with the new codes, but I had to log in as Hugh English the first time.”
“I thought that might happen,” she replied.
“If anybody notices, can you tell them that you logged on using his codes, just to be sure they were working?”
“Yes, I can do that; it might work.”
“Let’s hope nobody notices. Do you know a CIA officer based in New York with the first name of Holly?”
“No, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“I sat next to this woman at the opera, and later, when I saw her on the street, I followed her to an address on the East Side.” He gave her the address. “Does that ring a bell?”
“Yes, it’s a new, joint CIA-FBI counterintelligence operations center. If she got past the doorman,
it’s because she’s authorized to enter. Do you have a last name for the woman? I can check her out.”
“No, I can’t remember it, and even if I could, she was probably using a cover name.”
“Well, if she was that close to you, why didn’t she call in the cavalry?”
“Because she didn’t know who I was. She may have figured it out later, though.”
“Mike, if you’re in New York, maybe it’s time to go somewhere else.”
Teddy was not going to confirm this to her, so he ignored the question. “I need a new target,” he said. “What do you have?”
“Well, if you want one in New York, the UN embassies make for a target-rich environment.”
“Who’s running intelligence operations out of UN embassies besides the Iranians?”
“Who isn’t? How about the Syrians or the Israelis?”
“I’m not interested in the Israelis, but the Syrians sound good. What’s going on in their embassy?”
“They’re spying on the Israelis, of course. They’ve rented an apartment across the street from the Israeli embassy, and they’re doing everything they can to listen to their conversations or read their mail. So far, the Israelis’ counterintelligence has kept them at bay. But if you attack the Syrians, they’re going to blame the Israelis. Do you want that?”
“I don’t much care,” Teddy said. “Since they blame everything on the Israelis, nobody will pay any attention to what they say. I might take a look at their rented apartment.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mike,” Irene said.
“Why not?”
“Because if you start showing an interest in that particular street, the Israelis are going to notice you, and that would not be good. They might think you were casing them instead of the Syrians.”
“You have a point. Who is the head of Syrian intelligence in New York?”
“A very nasty character named Omar Said, or that’s the name he uses. We’ve been keeping an eye on him for at least a year.”
“Maybe he’s my target,” Teddy said.
“Same problem as with the Israelis: you start following him around, and our people are going to notice you.”
“Well, then,” Teddy said, “I’m just going to have to be unnoticeable. Where is the Syrian UN embassy?” He wrote down the address: three blocks from the Iranian house he had destroyed. “I’ve got to run, Irene; we’ll talk later.” He hung up.
Teddy went back into the Agency’s computers and did a search for Omar Said. Soon he had a photograph of a tall, balding Arab in a London bespoke suit and shirt getting out of a black Cadillac. A couple of more clicks, and he got a license plate number: a New York City diplomatic plate, SY 4.
At least the guy didn’t ride in a Lincoln Town Car, like half the other people in New York. He went carefully over the available pictures of the car. Nothing that he could see indicated that it was armored. Said’s only protection in the rear seat was blackened windows. He didn’t even appear to travel with a guard, other than his driver.
Teddy began to formulate the rough outlines of a plan for taking the Syrian. He wasn’t quite sure where, just yet, but he had a very good idea about when.
TWENTY-NINE
WILL LEE WAS WORKING in his private study off the Oval Office when his secretary buzzed him.
“The director of Central Intelligence for you, Mr. President.”
Will picked up the phone. “Good morning, Madame Director.”
“Mr. President. You asked for any news on the Teddy Fay hunt.”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Fay apparently went to the Metropolitan Opera last Friday night and picked up a lady. Unbeknownst to him, she was a CIA officer.”
“Did they take him? Why wasn’t I told sooner?”
“They did not take him, because she didn’t realize who he was, even though she was looking for him. He’s that good at disguise. The good news is, he told her he has the same seats for every Friday night performance, so they’re planning an operation for that night.”
“I have to wait until Friday?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient, as will we, Mr. President.”
“I’m getting worse at being patient as I get older,” Will said.
“I’ve noticed.”
“How did Fay get the tickets? Were they mailed to him, maybe?”
“An excellent question, Mr. President. He went to the box office and bought season tickets with cash, then he hung around until somebody showed up to collect tickets for better seats than his, and negotiated a swap. The ticket seller remembers him, but, of course, his description was different from last Friday’s.”
“A slippery fellow,” Will said.
“We trained him well,” Kate replied. “Unfortunately, we’re sometimes not as good at catching our own people when they go bad as we are at finding outsiders.”
“Is this the only lead you have?”
“There’s a record shop specializing in opera that we think he might go to now and then, so we’re keeping that under surveillance, but we have no hard evidence of that.”
“Did you question the staff?”
“An FBI agent blundered in there and alienated the only person who seems to work there. We’re trying to tread more lightly now.”
“Good idea. How is it working out, your people and the FBI?”
“The team has made a good start,” she said. “They’re trying very hard to work together, and it’s my hope that gradually their institutional attachments will be superseded by their loyalty to the team. It’s not an easy transition for any of them.”
“Bob Kinney starts his confirmation hearings this week, and I expect he’ll be asked for his views on that subject.”
“I’ll be watching, Mr. President. I’ll be interested in hearing his views.”
“Is Bob being helpful?”
“Yes, when he’s not finding things to complain about in the way the Agency works.”
Will laughed. “You left yourself wide open on the question of FBI ID cards,” he said.
“Don’t rub it in. Please.”
“I’ll do my rubbing when you get home.”
“I’m shocked, Mr. President, that you would indulge in sexual harassment. On a White House telephone line, anyway.”
“See you later.”
“You betcha, Mr. President.”
TEDDY CONTINUED to pore over the CIA’s file on Omar Said. The most interesting item he found was that, while Said had a wife ensconced in an apartment in the UN Towers, he also had two girlfriends kept in apartments located on the East Side. He spent his weekdays with the wife, and the weekends with the girlfriends.
One of the girls, in particular, interested him. She was a belly dancer in a Middle Eastern restaurant a few blocks south of the UN, and Said frequently began his weekends with her, dining at the restaurant and watching her performance, then taking her to her apartment later to express his appreciation for her work. The transcripts of their recorded conversations were disgustingly vivid, involving imagery that included references to various desert animals. Said was usually with her until the wee hours. Then, the following night, he would be with the other girlfriend. A busy man, Omar.
Teddy began to formulate a plan.
THIRTY
ROBERT KINNEY ARRIVED at the office of the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee promptly on time, then was required to wait for half an hour while the chairman tended to whatever chores he considered to be more important than seeing the director of the FBI.
Finally, the senator emerged from his office and heartily shook Kinney’s hand. “Good morning, Bob,” he said cheerfully. “Good to see you. Looking forward to your hearing.”
“Good to see you, Senator.”
“Come, let’s walk over to the hearing room together,” the senator said, striding out the door, leading the way.
Kinney, with his long legs, had no trouble keeping up with the shorter man.
“My commit
tee staff tells me you were unhelpful during the staff interview period, Bob. Why was that?”
“I’m sorry, Senator, but as you can imagine, we’re going through a very busy time at the Bureau, and I didn’t really have time to answer questions twice, when once ought to do.” Kinney had infuriated the committee staff by refusing to schedule meetings with them. He was aware that the members of their committee used their report to formulate their questions, and he was happier answering original questions from members without being crawled over by an army of staff ants.
“It’s how we do things, Bob.”
“Senator, this isn’t a talk show, where guests get pre-interviewed by staff before being questioned by the host, is it?”
“Some might say it is, Bob.”
“I’m sorry, I never looked at a Senate hearing as a talk show.”
“Welcome to showbiz, Bob.”
The senator led Kinney into the huge hearing room, which was packed with spectators and press, shook his hand for the cameras and deposited him at the witness table, where he endured a barrage of strobe flashes from the photographers. Kinney had chosen to be seated at the table alone, against the advice of a Bureau lawyer, who was sitting in the first row of seats, looking nervous.
After five minutes of idle chatter and backslapping among the committee members the chairman called them to order, and Kinney was sworn.
“Good morning,” the chairman said. “We sit today for hearings on the president’s appointment of Robert Kinney as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mr. Kinney, welcome.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”
“Let’s begin with your education and experience in law enforcement, Mr. Kinney.”
“I grew up in the Greenwich Village neighborhood of New York City and attended New York University and the NYU law school,” Kinney said. “After that I joined the New York City Police Department as a patrolman, was promoted to detective three years later and spent, in all, twenty-one years in the department, rising to the rank of lieutenant. Then…”
“Excuse me, Mr. Kinney, did you say that you rose only to the rank of lieutenant during your twenty-one years’ service?”
