The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  Omar, a longtime member of Yasser Arafat’s Fatah movement would have to fend off a strong Hamas party, which threatened to run away with the elections and control parliament. To counter the Hamas threat, Omar could either side with the doves who wanted peace with Israel or with the hawks who resisted any solution that allowed Israel to occupy their lands.

  Should Omar side with the militants, he needed to tap some credible force outside of Hamas. The most likely source would be al-Qaeda. He could press for an Islamist state, governed by religion.

  It was hard to see the Palestinians, a modern society with some of the most open attitudes in the Muslim world opting for Sharia law. Wouldn’t Palestinians want to adopt a secular political model based on that of the West? Perhaps surpassing their modernity was their fear and hatred of Israel.

  Dean could see how a well-funded terrorist network could be attractive to Omar.

  Could Dean dissuade him from going that route? Aziz had thought so.

  Dean reached into the refrigerator and pulled out the last of his food: pita bread, hummus and pickled cauliflower. He took it over to the table and switched on an overhead light.

  Omar would be in Egypt next week and he presumed he might be open to a personal bribe.

  Dean was sure he could meet with Omar, but what enticements could he offer? He made a mental list: visas for Omar’s whole family, lucrative contracts, more cold hard cash. He was a big fish, and would require far more than Dean had offered Aziz.

  He was licking his fingers when he heard a knock on the door.

  He opened a curtain and the first rays of sunlight stabbed into the apartment. He unfastened the three locks and looked out into the hallway.

  It was Ari with a look of deep concern. He was carrying a stack of newspapers.

  “Come in. Take a seat.”

  Ari stepped into the apartment, but didn’t sit down.

  Dean gestured at the Arabic newspaper on top of the stack. “Did they print the press release that Aziz gave me?” With Aziz’s brutal murder, the press release from the former Palestinian militant publicly renouncing al-Qaeda would have all the more significance.

  “They printed the press release,” Ari confirmed. “But it didn’t make the front page. You did.”

  Ari held the paper for Dean to see. A screaming headline announced the murder in the mosque. Below that were two large photos, one of the militant lying slain on the floor and one of Dean emerging from the tomb.

  “How did they get that picture? Someone’s trying to frame me.”

  “Are you saying this isn’t you at the Tomb of the Patriarchs?” Ari held the page up to study closer. “It sure looks like you at the Muslim gate.”

  That was strange. “The Muslim gate? I was never there. I entered and left through the Jewish side.”

  Ari produced another piece of paper. It was a slick photograph that still looked wet. Dean’s heart sank. It was a picture of Dean running out the tomb’s northeast gate with terrified, shoeless Muslims all around.

  “I left through the Jewish gate, at the southwest exit,” he insisted. “Someone doctored this picture.”

  Ari looked more tired than Dean had ever seen him. His eyes were harder as well. “This is our picture,” he said. “Israeli security took this photo of you.”

  Dean sat on the edge of the sofa. He couldn’t believe all the evidence that was mounting against what he knew to be true. Or was he losing his mind?

  He glanced at the name of the newspaper. “Al Ayyam?” It was a local rag, not known for checking its facts.

  Ari leaned forward and set the rest of the newspapers in Dean’s lap.

  The Jerusalem Post, a paper known to toe the Israeli government line, also carried a photo of him leaving the mosque. He made the liberal Haaretz Daily from Tel Aviv, and the popular Hebrew dailies Maariv and Yedioth Ahronot. The smear campaign extended to both the Israeli and Palestinian press.

  “I’m sorry, but my government has ordered you deported,” Ari said. “We don’t want any bad press. I will escort you to the airport, and you will go back to America on the first available flight.”

  Ari’s words barely impinged on Dean’s thoughts. All he could think about was Omar al-Farak getting away. The foreign minister would never deal with the man who supposedly stabbed his nephew. He wouldn’t even talk to Dean now.

  Beyond the failure of his mission to turn Aziz, Dean had been compromised. His status as a diplomat would be forever questioned.

  Why even bother to deport him? Let him rot in an Israeli prison, given all he was good for. Never mind that he was trying to help Israel. Now he was a pariah.

  He should appreciate Ari giving him protection to the airport, but was unable to get over the ubiquitous and devastating attack on him.

  He pulled the Jerusalem Post up to the sunlight and stared at it. The blue eyes looked like his. The hairline was identical. Every aspect of the features was a true likeness of him. He was sure there was something different about the face than the one he saw in the mirror each morning.

  He closed his eyes. It sure looked like him.

  It was better if they sent him home. There he could finally address the nagging question:

  Who was undercutting his every move and framing him in the process?

  Chapter 27

  Rachel hung up the office phone in the red glow of her office. Chester Creech, head of preservation and restoration at the National Archives, would send a team of experts to Langley the next day to retrieve the document and take it back to their labs to verify its age.

  Dr. Saul Friedman rocked back and forth mechanically, his voice rising and falling as he reproduced the words of Genesis in the original chant.

  A knock at the door snapped Rachel out of the spiritual state the professor had created. “Yes?” she called.

  “It’s Sidney.” It was her boss. “You have another visitor,” he said through the closed door.

  After tucking the codex away in the safe and thanking the professor for his expert opinion, she turned on the lights and opened the door.

  Sidney led the professor away, his chant filling the corridor as he departed.

  A young woman with a briefcase and a green, form-fitting dress was standing there. Her chestnut hair was fluffed out in all directions, and her large, olive-shaped eyes blinked several times.

  Only then did Rachel remember the uniform she was wearing.

  “It’s not what you think,” Rachel said. “I’m not on the security staff. I’m Rachel Levy, and you are…?”

  Finally, the woman found her voice. “I heard about the car bomb. I’m Carla Martino, staff psychologist.”

  “You don’t have to…”

  “No. I’m not here in that capacity. I’m here to ask you some security questions.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. She had been hoping to avoid the subject, but she might as well lay out what happened.

  She let Carla in and showed her a chair.

  “I must admit,” Carla started, “this seems kind of backward, me interviewing someone in a guard’s uniform about security.”

  “I’m already self-conscious about my appearance,” Rachel said.

  “Of course. But didn’t they let you go home and change?”

  “I was afraid to go home. I didn’t know who might be waiting for me.”

  “I sense some apprehension. What’s that all about?”

  Rachel was happy to talk with the woman, but she wasn’t about to be probed for paranoia. The car bomb had gone off, hadn’t it? “Listen, spare me the psychoanalysis. Just tell me why you’re here.”

  “Look,” Carla said. “I know Dean. And I know you know Dean. And I don’t care what’s going on between the two of you. Honestly. That’s your own business. But my job requires that I ask.”

  Rachel was speechless. What was she intimating? Dean had brought her the codex, not a box of chocolate. And she certainly felt no romantic attraction to him. It had been an entirely professional relationship. Un
til, of course, the car bomb.

  “I’m sorry,” Carla said. “Someone’s trying to harm Dean Wells, and it’s my job to find out who.”

  “Harm Dean?” If anything, she thought, Dean had tried to kill her.

  Carla dropped her notebook into her briefcase. “First I thought it was Barry Wiseman who was compromising Dean.”

  Rachel could see the connection.

  “Then I thought it was Dean’s boss, José Gomez.”

  “Why his boss?”

  But Carla didn’t explain her thinking. “Then I began to suspect you of undermining him…”

  Rachel looked down at her bandaged limbs.

  “Until I learned that you were attacked, too.”

  How in the world had this shrink come to suspect her? Clearly, Carla Martino was unsuited for her role as interrogator.

  Rachel’s heart went out to the woman. But she was also puzzled. “Why did you say someone was trying to harm Dean?”

  “There’s a mole in this organization who put Dean in harm’s way in Syria. Everybody suspects Dean of being the killer. But I insist Dean is not a killer.”

  Rachel had only one image in mind. “The car bomber.”

  “What?”

  “Dean Wells is perfectly capable of killing. He planted the car bomb that nearly killed me.”

  “That can’t be.” Carla pulled her hair back tightly. “He didn’t do it. He’s no killer.”

  Rachel looked at her sternly. “This is the CIA.”

  Carla referred to her notebook, but her eyes seemed to swim over the words.

  “Listen, Carla. Let’s talk this over a little more rationally.”

  What was rational any longer? If anything, the past few days made absolutely no sense.

  “If you can give me a ride home and help me pick up groceries,” Rachel suggested, “we can do some heavy talking.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Chapter 28

  Carla took Rachel to the Mental Health Unit intending to pick up her things.

  Her receptionist shifted her eyes toward Ron’s door. “Don’t interrupt him right now.”

  “What’s going on?”

  The woman leaned forward and whispered. “It’s the FBI.”

  Suddenly it became crystal clear to Carla. After the car bomb, the counterintelligence operation had become a criminal case. It was out of Barry and her hands. The FBI had swooped in and would connect the dots, putting Dean under suspicion.

  She shot a look at Rachel. Was the prim, young woman going to squeal on Dean? But Rachel remained rooted in place, a dubious look on her face.

  “I’ll get my things,” Carla whispered, and trotted to her desk.

  Seconds later, she took Rachel by the arm and whisked her out of the unit.

  “I’m glad you didn’t rat on Dean,” she said under her breath. “He’s in enough trouble already.”

  In the lobby, serious young men in black suits were installing new explosives detectors at the turnstiles. Outside, black SUVs were pulled up to the curb.

  “Looks like the FBI is taking over.” She glanced at Rachel.

  “I’ve already talked to them,” Rachel said. “I gave them a verbal description of Dean.”

  “But you didn’t give them his name.”

  “That’s right.”

  Despite Rachel’s assurances that she only had a professional relationship with Dean, why was she protecting him? Was there some emotional bond after all? By not revealing his name, Rachel gave him considerable cover. It might take days for the FBI to add it all up and arrive at Dean.

  Once in the parking lot, Carla looked around at the remaining vehicles.

  “What are you looking for?” Rachel asked.

  “Dean’s car.”

  “He’s not here. He’s in Hebron.”

  “I just wanted to make sure.” If Dean was at Langley, Carla wanted to warn him that the FBI was on his trail. They had already zeroed in on her boss, Ron McAdam.

  Suddenly, the heavily fortified CIA no longer felt so secure. Langley felt more threatening than the streets of McLean. She couldn’t wait to leave the parking lot.

  “Oh how cute,” Rachel said.

  “What?”

  “Look at that little car. I wonder who owns it.”

  Carla clicked her keyless entry. The Smart Car’s taillights blinked on and off. “Where do you live?”

  “Bethesda.”

  Tree pollen blew off the hood as they passed large houses and a state-of-the-art playground.

  Finally, Rachel stopped casting wary glances in all directions. “I appreciate the ride. But I don’t want to go home.”

  Carla slowed down in case they decided against the Beltway.

  “Someone tried to kill me,” Rachel explained. “And he might know where I live.”

  The more she looked at the danger from Rachel’s point of view, the more sympathy Carla felt for her. But what could she do for her? Cook her dinner? Put her up for the unforeseeable future?

  “All right,” Carla said. If she intended to help Rachel any further, she had to get a major concern off her chest. “Come clean with me. You think Dean planted the bomb. Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

  “I said I ‘think’ I saw him. It was a very confusing night. I was knocked out and time was collapsed. I won’t condemn a man to prison based on a fleeting memory.”

  “How much did you tell the cops at the hospital?”

  Rachel laughed. “I told them everything but what they wanted to know. I gave them a physical description. They brought in a sketch artist. In the end, they came up with a sketch that showed Dean with a snarl on his face and an evil glint in his eyes.”

  “I saw the sketch on TV. It only resembles Dean if you already made the connection.”

  “That was my intention.”

  Carla came to a red light and looked at her companion. “You don’t think he’s evil?”

  “On the contrary. I think he’s harmless.”

  She shot Rachel a quizzical look. “Harmless?”

  Rachel saw her reaction and covered up quickly. “I mean not a serial killer. He’s a nice guy.”

  “So you’d categorize him as a nice guy?” she pressed.

  “By that, I mean, he comes across as pleasant, er, you know, engaging.”

  What was with this woman and adjectives? Why was Rachel risking her life to protect someone who was merely harmless and nice?

  They needed more time to get to know each other.

  “Listen. Here’s the deal,” Carla said. She pulled forward as the light changed. “I live nearby. Why not come home with me and I’ll cook you a big pasta dinner. It looks like they starved you at the hospital.”

  Rachel searched her eyes. “Do you mind?” she said in a small voice.

  “I have a big, empty house in Falls Church. You’ll get your own bedroom and bathroom.”

  “Falls Church,” Rachel considered. “It sounds harmless enough.”

  Carla leaned on the steering wheel and her tires squealed as she turned the corner and headed toward home. She checked the rearview mirror. All cars continued straight, but one turned with her.

  “Harmless.” She patted Rachel, whose knuckles were turning white holding onto the dashboard.

  Chapter 29

  Dean watched the patchwork of houses and barren forests as the commercial jet descended over Maryland into Virginia. It was his last moment of peace before what he anticipated would be a welcoming party of law enforcement personnel.

  He took the opportunity to review what had happened after Ari confronted him with his incriminating picture in the Jerusalem Post.

  The military had made a big show of escorting him in tight formation from the armored personnel carrier into Ben Gurion International Airport. The press, including CNN and al-Jazeera, had been invited to cover the event.

  Kicking him out seemed to be the Israeli government’s way of demonstrating sovereignty and self-determination to their people
and the world. They wanted to show the world that they would not tolerate foreigners killing Israeli citizens, Jewish or Muslim.

  The prime minister, who was waiting with the press at the airport, gave a speech standing up for human rights around the world. He wasn’t taking questions about civil rights or the unwritten policy that permitted discrimination against Palestinians. He was there to assert the moral authority of his government.

  The prime minister’s most regrettable line came just as soldiers hustled Dean onto the El Al flight. The statement was worthy of the late Chicago Mayor Richard J. Daley. “It is not for foreigners to kill our fellow citizens.”

  Making sure that Dean was secure in his economy class seat, Ari was the last to see him off, saying, “I’m sorry for this. I know your intentions were good. Aziz was a bad apple.”

  It still bothered Dean. Even Ari hadn’t believed his version of events.

  During the flight, Dean couldn’t help thinking about what had happened, what should have happened, what didn’t happen, and what to do next. The food was plain. The flight was long. He was sure he hadn’t slept much when the plane’s wheels touched the ground at Dulles International Airport.

  What kind of reception could he expect to receive? The CIA wouldn’t be happy, considering he botched the simple task of paying off Aziz. But he didn’t break any federal law. If Congress ever bothered to investigate, the most it would do was put the CIA in a bad light.

  The plane pulled up to a gate at one of Dulles’ far-flung terminals. A quick scan of the apron told him that no squad cars or unmarked government vehicles awaited him.

  He took a deep breath to relieve the tension in his neck and shoulders. In spite of Israel’s accusations, he was innocent. What did he have to worry about?

  “Welcome to Washington Dulles where the time is 3:40 p.m.,” the flight attendant said over the intercom. “We hope you enjoy your stay here or wherever your final destination may be. Shalom.”

  Peace. That was a nice touch and brought a cheer from the passengers. For the tourists on the flight, the charm offensive had been a success.