by Fritz Galt
He remained convinced that the only way to stem the flow of blood was through stricter enforcement within the United States. So when he was asked to apply his expertise to the Middle East, he took it as a mandate to drain the swamp of criminals in that region.
Dean’s solution of paying off militants went entirely against his grain. It would create all the wrong incentives for future rebels. But Dean’s visit to the West Bank presented the rare opportunity to eliminate a key militant leader.
As head of operations in the Middle East and North Africa, he had been overjoyed when al-Qaeda directed its suicide bombers to the lawless lands of Iraq and Afghanistan. But the diversion of terrorism away from his region was only temporary. Once again, militancy was rampant in the Middle East and North Africa. A new generation of Islamic militants produced a spike in violence directed toward emerging governments and entrenched dictatorships, as well as Western assets.
Dean’s approach was old school and entirely missed the new mindset on the ground. In José’s view, the only way to stop al-Qaeda’s influence on the Palestinians was to send a strong message to those who sought to deal with al-Qaeda.
He picked up his phone and was about to call a man he had grown to think of as the “ace up his sleeve.” But a familiar figure appeared in the doorway before he could make the call. It was Hart Baxter, the agency’s inspector general.
That brought a grin.
José and Baxter were both registered members of the National Rifle Association. The two hunted together and they shared the same philosophy: the best way to defeat their enemy was to outgun it. Baxter was the chief enforcer in the CIA, and José was proud that the guy thought of him as a friend. Promotions in Washington relied heavily on personal connections. And Baxter was undoubtedly his most valuable ally within the CIA.
Baxter started speaking without preamble. “I want you to be straight with me. Your operative is wanted for gunning down a man in plain sight. Why didn’t you report it to me?”
So that was the issue. The murder in Aleppo.
“Frankly, I saw the death as a casualty of war,” José said. “Not a problem that required disciplinary action.”
Baxter remained rooted to the spot, rare for a man who usually felt comfortable in José’s presence. The big man chose his words carefully. “In this agency, no casualty is too small. Everything gets blown out of proportion by the media, and we already have an image problem to contend with.”
“It took place in Syria, for godssake.”
“Why does that matter?”
“In case you hadn’t heard, we’re not on the closest terms with Syria. We recalled our ambassador and downgraded our relations years ago. Do you want to know why?”
Baxter didn’t bat an eye.
“I’ll tell you why. Because Syria is the bad boy on the block. They seized control of Lebanon. After Lebanon finally won the fight for free elections, Syria orchestrated the assassination of their president. During the Iraq War, Syria became a transit point, no, make that a ‘prep station,’ for terrorists coming in to blow up troops and policemen and markets in Baghdad. Now they’re shipping scud missiles to Hezbollah in southern Lebanon to launch into the heart of Israel. Do you seriously think the world will get upset if one Syrian bookshop owner gets caught in the crossfire? Hell, the Israelis bombed a Syrian nuclear reactor and nobody raised an eyebrow.”
Baxter had been waiting patiently. “Are you finished?”
José was too upset to allow Baxter to defend himself, but nodded anyway.
Baxter took a step forward and leaned over José’s desk. “We’re not talking about Syrians killing Lebanese or Israelis bombing nuclear reactors. We’re talking about a CIA employee, Dean Wells, murdering a foreign national in cold blood. And that, my friend, reflects poorly on this institution.”
As José stared at his friend, the thought struck him that Baxter couldn’t investigate without it being leaked to the press. “Exactly how do you intend to mete out justice against Wells?”
“I’m launching an investigation.”
“I see. That will really sweep the whole affair under the rug.”
“…and if I find wrongdoing, I will prosecute.”
That was harsh. Wouldn’t a simple censure do?
“Who is conducting the investigation?” He eyed Baxter closely.
Baxter didn’t flinch. “Wiseman. Barry Wiseman. He always gets his man.”
With that, Baxter turned and departed, leaving a huge vacuum in the room. José sucked in his breath. Like any hunter, he knew what weapons his friend had in his arsenal. Barry Wiseman meant business.
Stopping Dean Wells would put an end to José’s plans. No agent had as much access in the region as Dean.
He would have to force Baxter to confront what was more important. Was it the agency’s image or peace in the Middle East?
He reached for the phone. He needed his top gun.
Chapter 14
Rachel appraised herself in her bedroom mirror. What kind of garb did a girl throw on to turn off a dinner date?
She could try to embarrass him with jeans and a white t-shirt. Or she could go for the totally dowdy, say a dress from the used clothes store that said, “I’m not worth it.” Or she could slip into black leather and make sure other people’s eyes were on her at all times.
Pick a style, any style. She had them all.
Moving from the outskirts of Chicago to glamorous Washington had thrown her out of her down-home groove. It had set her hunting in all directions for a look to suit her life as a member of the intelligence community. When she stared at her sad collection of clothes, her feeble attempts to fit in, the most she could say was that such was the life of a spy. One had to play all sorts of roles.
Her most recent image had been one of fitness. With bi-weekly weightlifting, she had achieved a firm physique without an ounce of fat to spare. To offset the industrial approach to fitness at her local gym in Bethesda, she met with a running club each weekend.
And where had that gotten her?
She had the body of a prim schoolteacher, with nothing to grab onto, just hard muscle. Feeling super fit helped her mental health and gave her a life outside of work, but it had turned her into a sinewy cat.
A smile crossed her lips. She dove into the closet and pulled out a leopard print spandex top that she had never dared to wear in public. Combined with a pair of short shorts in the unseasonably mild weather, the ensemble would raise eyebrows and embarrass any date.
She pushed her head and arms through the leopard print top. The fabric was micro thin to the touch. She grabbed her long hair and held it over her head. There was no cleavage showing, but there were plenty of sleek lines for the eye to explore.
The pink leather shorts clashed. The blue jean cutoffs went a totally different direction from the top. She pulled out her black suede miniskirt. Too girlish. But black worked with the leopard spots, and she settled on a pair of shiny black shorts with a wide, loose belt.
Okay. That was her.
She looked in the mirror again and held her hair up. She had the long, thin neck to highlight if she wanted. It looked far too elegant.
She let her hair slip through her fingers and fall on her shoulders. Dusky with red highlights, it framed her face like a lion’s mane.
She was ready to be the predator.
Half an hour later, she found a parking space and stepped out of her Toyota hybrid into the night. The leather soles of new stilettos ground into the grit of the pavement. The heels punctuated the hum of nearby traffic. The evening glowed from the lights of Tyson’s Corner, Washington’s high-end shopping mecca.
One restaurant stood out because of its cheesy glitz. The Silver Diner paid homage to the chrome, rock-and-roll and blue-plate specials of the 1950s.
It seemed to draw fat cats. She noted with approval that a black Mercedes was parked to one side. It came complete with a couple of beefy bodyguards. Maybe a political figure or head of state was dining there
.
She caught her reflection in the metal exterior of the building. Were her legs that long or was the reflection distorted?
Barry was waiting inside with a young maître d’, who nearly dropped a stack of menus.
Barry hadn’t changed since she saw him that morning. He wore the same black suit, his tie and respectability firmly in place. The only flaw in his getup was the curly black hair that refused to be tamed by hair gel.
“Aren’t we looking pretty tonight?” he said as she approached.
“I hope I didn’t hold you up.”
“Who’s holding what up?” His eyes trailed down her torso. “I mean, I’d like to hold you up any day.”
He turned red quickly.
She let him off the hook. “I think you’re trying to put me at my ease. That’s okay. I’m easy.”
The maître d’ gulped. “I’ll do something.”
She smiled at him. “You might find us a table.”
“Right. And that’s what I’ll do. Right this way, please.” He turned and ran straight into a departing group.
Barry offered Rachel his arm while the two parties disengaged.
“Everything’s under control,” the maître d’ told his charges.
The departing group stood aside and watched Rachel walk by.
She was getting all the right reactions.
She felt Barry’s eyes on her as she settled into her side of the booth. He asked her to order first. She went for a hamburger plate preceded by a dry martini. He ordered the same.
She perused the play list on the small jukebox that sat on their table. Any music she chose would play on the restaurant’s sound system. “Do you have a quarter?” she asked.
“Sure.” He dug one out. “What kind of mood are you in?”
“You’ll see.”
A moment later, the seductive beat of “Earth Angel” filled the restaurant.
“So,” she said after the drinks arrived. “You told me you had some questions.”
“Yes. That.” He seemed off stride. “I wanted to ask you about Dean Wells. We’re investigating his latest…shall we say ‘business trip.’ Some unusual things happened. Are you aware of them?”
“Unusual? Did he file for more than his per diem?”
“No. More like his associate died.”
She took a long, slow sip of her martini. “I didn’t know. I don’t ask questions like where he was or what he was doing. I merely…”
He waited for her to complete her thought. How much did he know about the Aleppo Codex?
She approached the subject from another angle. “Earlier today you wondered what ‘The Crown’ refers to.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It could be anything.”
“Does ‘The Keter’ ring any bells?”
She saw it in his eyes. He couldn’t disguise the clarity that emerged.
“Yes, from Hebrew class,” he admitted.
She looked around the booths and stared down a man who was trying to catch her eye. “Well, Dean found a large part of The Keter.”
Barry sat back. “The lost pages?”
She nodded. “Five entire pages. Don’t ask me how he obtained them.”
“Do you know how hard the Israeli government has looked for missing pages? We should hand it over at once.”
She lifted a finger. “I have to authenticate it first. It could be a fake.”
“How long will that take?”
“Another day or so.”
There. She had divulged all she knew. It wasn’t so difficult.
“And what’s Dean’s next move?” he asked.
She froze. Of course there was more that she could say. “Why do you want to know?”
He looked around to be sure nobody was listening. “He’s the subject of an investigation. I need to know what he plans to do next.”
She studied him from behind the martini. “I don’t know what he plans to do.”
“He’s a real globetrotter. Where is he going next?”
At last her glass was dry. “He’s off to Hebron.”
“Where in Hebron?”
“The Tomb of the Patriarchs.”
He finally seemed to relax. He had extracted all that he wanted from her. Now he could enjoy his meal.
Two plates of thick, juicy burgers and string fries arrived. They dug in.
“You don’t suspect Dean of wrongdoing, do you?”
Barry shrugged. “I have his security file. Haven’t studied it yet.”
“He seems like a harmless guy.”
“Weird things do happen to him.”
It was small talk, casual conversation about a colleague’s career. It would seem innocuous if she weren’t across from the man who could end that career.
She looked at her hands, covered with juice from her burger. They might just as well be dripping with blood.
“I’m such a pig,” she said, and abruptly slid out of the booth. She needed to clean up and get herself under control.
Most men turned her way as she pivoted out of the booth. But not the two men in the booth behind her. Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard them utter a word all evening. The man with his back to her pocketed a device. Neither one looked up when she passed.
From their dark suits and gray hair, they looked like businessmen on an expense account. They seemed ill at ease in the frivolous restaurant.
In the women’s room, she gave her hands a thorough cleaning. The reflection in the mirror told her all else was in place. She merely had to get her head together.
What wasn’t to like about her? Why hadn’t she attracted the two men’s attention? Were they prudes?
Then it occurred to her. They were eavesdropping on her conversation. Were they trailing Barry?
Or had Barry set the whole thing up?
Suddenly the leopard print and shiny pants seemed childish. She wasn’t dealing with an unwanted suitor. Nor was she in control of the situation. She had walked right into a counterintelligence operation. And she was the target.
Who was Barry working for?
It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to be anybody’s informant.
She burst out of the restroom, car keys in hand. She spread the keys between her fingers to use as auxiliary claws if necessary.
There was an aisle leading straight to the entrance, and she took it. Neither Barry nor the men could block her way.
“The gentleman will pay for the dinner,” she told the maître d’ and stormed out into the night.
“You idiot,” she said between clenched teeth. “You walked right into that.”
She had revealed classified information. And they had all the evidence on tape. She would lose her security clearance and her career was over.
Unless.
Unless they used the evidence against her in a subtler way. They could use the evidence to blackmail her.
She would sooner quit the CIA than be blackmailed.
Her little game was over. She had ended up endangering Dean and herself. She wanted only to drive as far away as possible.
And then she tried the keyless remote for her hybrid.
Later, she would have trouble recalling all that happened next. Too many things were compressed into a single instant.
She was walking across the parking lot and pressed the remote to unlock the car. Rather than a subtle flash of the parking lights, the car alarm went off.
The passenger door flew open and a man shot out of the car. His face looked vaguely familiar, but it was dark.
“What are you doing in my hybrid?” she shouted.
The man turned and ran. His feet pounded down the dark street.
She stopped short. How could she stop the car alarm? She checked the buttons on the remote.
Barry came running out of the restaurant. He shouted something that she couldn’t hear over the alarm.
The two men sitting behind their booth stood up and looked out the window, then suddenly ducked.
The car’s
wailing came to a stop.
She heard a loud click, like an alarm clock just about to go off.
Then the night lit up in a burst of yellow. She felt a heavy blow, like a glass door swinging into her face. She staggered and fell on her back.
The sound came next. The low, deadening blast seemed strong enough to unseat the restaurant from its foundation. The ground lurched under her.
Her car burst into thousands of fragments.
The last thing she remembered was being enveloped in a sheet of shrapnel and a blanket of blistering heat.
Chapter 15
Dean arrived at Dulles two hours before evening flights left for the Middle East.
He checked the departure board. Flights were on time and leaving for diverse destinations. He had seats on three of them.
He stepped to one side of the terminal to review his options.
His main goal was to avoid detection. He had to get to Hebron without arousing suspicion of a hostile intelligence service. Actually, he didn’t consider any intelligence service friendly. Occasionally they cooperated with the CIA if it was to their advantage. Most treated American diplomats as potential spies.
He studied the silhouettes rushing around at curbside. Which group of travelers was safest to join?
Families struggled to haul suitcases out of cars and enter the building in an organized manner. He didn’t dress or behave like a family man.
Then there were the businessmen accustomed to international travel. Foreign agents lurked in their midst and would spot him quickly.
Should he hang with a certain nationality?
Some travelers were Western, but most bore a hint of foreignness. The type of cologne, the way a suit was cut, the style of hair—many features could betray someone’s background. When it came to the Middle East, he had the details down pat.
He could recognize an Egyptian mustache, a Lebanese eyebrow, and an Israeli posture from a distance. He could distinguish a Saudi woman from her Syrian sister. The cut of a man’s coat from Dubai was infinitely different from that of a Tunisian.
And then there were the voices. Spoken Arabic varied in vocabulary and accent from country to country, and frequently within countries. The professor from northern Egypt was straining to understand the student from Sudan. And neither understood the nanny from Morocco.
