The Director of National Intelligence decided to bite his tongue. Besides, he didn’t have the freedom to interrupt this president the way he did the last, who was sitting beside him. He let Henry Lamden do what he needed to do: fume. That was Billy Gilmore’s advice to him in the hall.
“I’m this close.” Lamden held his forefinger and thumb almost together. “This close to throwing their ambassador right out on his ass and canceling—what do we give them? Four billion a year in aid?”
“More,” Gilmore added. “Six-point-three billion. About seventeen million a day.”
The number made Lamden, a die-hard supporter of Israel, even more furious. “In my fucking White House! How the hell did this happen? Will someone tell me?”
Evans didn’t volunteer an answer. Neither did National Security Advisor Bird and FBI Chief Mulligan. Only one other man could possibly speak: Morgan Taylor.
The vice president rose out of his chair. The very act made Henry Lamden sit down on the couch.
Morgan Taylor spoke calmly. “As DNI said, we’re still trying to get a handle on this.”
Evans seconded the comment. Mulligan, on the other hand, shifted in his seat. His man was still unconvinced about Roarke’s theory. For now, Bessolo argued that the time shift might be nothing more than a computer glitch, and Meyerson was guilty as sin.
Taylor addressed Jack Evans. “Jack, have you fully briefed the president on our own operations?”
Evans shot him a quizzical look.
“In Israel,” Taylor added.
“What operations?” Lamden demanded.
Evans cleared his throat. “Not yet.”
Lamden became more furious. “Not yet what?”
“Mr. President, it’s fairly standard,” Evans started. “We just don’t talk about it. But we have our own people in the Israeli government. Working within the Knesset.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“For years. We do it. They do it. So I wouldn’t be too hasty with—”
“Excuse me,” Lamden continued. “Hasty? You are not to tell me what to do!” he shouted. “Do you understand, Mr. Director?
Evans noted his mistake. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend it that way. You have every right—”
He didn’t get to finish the thought. The president interrupted again.
“You’re damned straight I have. And for that matter, I want to know exactly where you have placed your agents!”
“Are you certain, sir?” the National Director of Intelligence asked, shifting his eyes uncomfortably toward Morgan Taylor.
The ex-president got the signal. “Henry,” he said quietly, “sometimes it’s better we don’t know everything.”
Lamden was not to be dissuaded. “Don’t give me that goddamned Republican deniability bullshit. I’m in charge!”
Morgan Taylor had never seen this side of Lamden. But then again, Henry Lamden had never faced such pressure before. I have to calm him down, he thought.
“Henry, Jack can pull all the information you want. But reading it exposes you and the entire government. Let’s you and I sidebar this for later. Okay?”
He got a reluctant wave of the hand to move on. That’s when Taylor noticed that Lamden was beginning to perspire profusely.
“Henry, are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I had an Israeli spy right here in my office.” The president realized beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. Lamden reached for a cloth napkin. After patting down, he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table beside him.
The president’s chief of staff took the opening to speak up. “So what you’re recommending is that we should simply forget about this and ignore the fact that we have a spook inside the Mossad?”
“Spooks. And not inside the Mossad. In the government. And I’m not saying we ignore it,” Taylor offered. “I think we should be indignant. Call Jacob Schecter. But the call should come from Jack. Not you or me, or the president.”
“He’s right,” Evans added. “I can get more done. Maybe a tradeoff. Information. An apology.”
“You better get an apology. A big fat public one.”
“We will demand it, just like before.”
Lamden shook his head. “You mean this isn’t the first time?”
“Far from it,” Taylor said, jumping back in. He was actually surprised the president didn’t know about the cases. “And it surely won’t be the last. But Henry, if we make too much of it, it could be the thing that brings down Blanca.”
“I don’t…” He started to say “care” when Taylor held his fingers to his lips.
“Yes, you do, Henry. You have to. And you will.”
“Now you’re telling me what to say and think. I don’t work that way, Morgan.”
“Politics and poker, Henry,” the vice president said with a slight laugh.
Lamden didn’t get the meaning.
“A song out of an old Broadway musical, Fiorello, about New York Mayor LaGuardia in the thirties. There was a lyric that said if politics and poker ran neck and neck, politics might be the better bet because you can usually stack the deck…or something like that,” Taylor explained. “It’s the way things are. Sometimes we stack the deck. Sometimes it’s stacked against us. Over the years we’ve held the most high cards.”
“Go back to your earlier point. This isn’t the first time?”
Taylor deferred to the FBI chief.
“Not by a long shot,” Mulligan said off the top of his head. “I can give you bullet points.”
“Why don’t you do that, Bob,” the new president said angrily.
“Okay. Not going all the way back…”
“Start wherever you want.”
“1974. And for the sake of argument, I’ll preface this with alleged. It’s best we leave it at that,” Mulligan advised. “The Ford White House. We were looking into selling AWACS to the Saudis. The proposal was consummated by Reagan, but in the process we traced possible leaks to the Mossad. You want to know their possible motive?”
“It would be nice to know,” Lamden growled.
“The Israeli Air Force didn’t particularly like the idea that their flights could be tracked by the Saudis, which they could have been.”
“You started in ‘74. Why do I feel there’s more coming?”
“Because there is,” Mulligan continued. “During Carter’s administration an alleged operation by a Mossad burglary unit—the Keshet, or ‘Arrow’—against National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski. There were rumors that he was anti-Israel, and the Mossad wanted to know what was our possible intent.”
“More?”
“More, sir. Reagan. Second term, through George the First. This time it was believed that James Baker was the surveillance target. Same reason as with Brzezinski: fear that he was anti-Israel. And then the Jonathan Jay Pollard case. Pollard, a former U.S. Navy analyst, was convicted in 1986 of selling sensitive U.S. military intelligence to Israel. He was given a life sentence. It was rumored that Pollard reported to someone higher in America’s intelligence community, but no ‘Mr. X’ has ever been unmasked, if one even existed. Still, Pollard’s conviction cooled contact between the CIA and the Mossad.
“Now, let’s go to 1997. The CIA, the National Security Agency, and the FBI searched for an Israeli spy, thought to be operating within the Clinton administration. The story broke in The Washington Post, but the hunt for the mole abruptly ended with no clear conclusion. There’s more, but believe me, I’d rather not get into it.”
Lamden looked more and more upset, but he urged Mulligan to continue.
“Okay, flash forward to the Clinton impeachment hearings. There were reports that the Israelis might have eavesdropped on conversations between Clinton and Monica.”
“Oh, great,” Lamden said.
Jack Evans went on. He recited the history from memory. “The next major flurry occurred in June 2001. This time,
the buzz was over some one hundred Israeli students and employees of high-tech companies. According to reports, all of the subjects were questioned; some were said to have been imprisoned. The Justice Department acted on information that the Israelis may have been tasked to track al-Qaeda terrorists on American territory. Although unconfirmed, this wouldn’t be inconsistent with the Mossad’s activities in other parts of the world.”
“Meaning?” President Lamden demanded.
“That Mossad agents ran successful operations in Belgium, Norway, Jordan, and Egypt. And sometimes more publicly than privately. Over the years, Israel’s prime ministers consistently declared their willingness to hunt down terrorists and the enemies of Israel anywhere.
“And since 9/11, we’ve arrested or detained about sixty Israelis under the Patriot Act, or for immigration violations. Some of them failed polygraph questions when asked about alleged surveillance activities against and in the United States.”
“Mossad?”
“Maybe, Mr. President,” Evans replied.
The president had spent the last half-minute shaking his head. When Evans finished, the room fell silent. Finally, Taylor spoke.
“As I said, Henry, it’s the way things are. Just the best of friends spying on each other.”
“So what do we do?” the new president asked.
“We quietly negotiate a way out of this so that neither you nor Blanca are harmed,” Evans volunteered. “Maybe it’s a cover story. Maybe we explain how we’ve been testing each other’s security against possible terrorist infiltration. The girl comes out as a hero.”
The president still wasn’t onboard.
“We develop a plausible legend,” Evans added. “And we leave it at that. It goes away.”
Billy Gilmore disagreed. “This isn’t going to go away. She’s becoming the new Vince Foster: a lightning rod for anti-administration hate.”
The president had a pained look on his face. “She seemed so good. So nice.”
At first, no one offered a rebuttal, but Taylor shot Evans a look. It was time.
Morgan Taylor casually worked his way to the center of the room, a place where he was extremely comfortable. The very act drew everyone’s attention.
“We don’t know she wasn’t,” Morgan Taylor said, hardly above a whisper.
“What?” Lamden asked.
“We don’t know she wasn’t loyal,” he said, clarifying the point. “You all know Scott Roarke?” The comment was really intended for Billy Gilmore, who had only a cursory understanding of what the man did. “He believes the woman was intentionally killed.” The proposition had the effect of sucking all the air out of the room. The president’s men gasped audibly.
“Why? For what goddamned reason?” Gilmore asked.
“To discredit the president. To discredit us. Maybe even America.”
Evans piped up. “And Israel?”
“Perhaps Israel, too,” the vice president added.
“I don’t follow,” Gilmore said.
“She had to be killed in order for the story to break and for everything else to unravel.” Taylor explained his logic and concluded that Evans needed to have a no-bullshit conversation with the Mossad chief. “Jack, you have to hit this straight on.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, as if he was still addressing Taylor as the president. Lamden caught the tone.
“Tell them that if they had nothing to do with her death, they still better take heed. As Mr. Roarke reminded me, we have enemies with unfinished business. Israel may be the ultimate target.”
Tel Aviv
Mossad Headquarters
Jacob Schecter expected the call. In fact, he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner.
His aide, Ira Wurlin, listened on a separate headphone. He correctly concluded that Evans would not be alone, either.
“Hello, my friend.” They had only met once, briefly, unofficially and secretly in the Netherlands. Schecter had not yet assumed control of Mossad. But even so, it had not been a pleasant meeting, and they were not friends.
“Hello Jacob,” Evans said. “You must know why I am calling?”
“Yes, I do. The investigation of the Meyerson woman.”
“Well, thank you for sparing me your legendary wile.”
“We are both busy men, Jack.”
“That we are, Jacob. Then to the point: What can you tell me about her?”
“Only what I read in your newspapers.”
“As you said, Jacob, we’re both busy men. So cut the bullshit.”
They were on a secure, scrambled line, but Schecter never liked discussing such business over the phone.
“I would prefer that this conversation continue in person.”
It was a punt. Evans and Schecter wouldn’t meet. Since becoming head of Mossad, Schecter hardly ever stepped out of his headquarters, let alone traveled. It would be far too dangerous.
“What do you propose?”
“Twenty-four hours. Italy.” He knew the principal locations around the world where the Mossad could surreptitiously guarantee the safety of a meeting. “Positano.”
“Not possible,” was Evan’s reply. “Far too quick.”
“Now it’s your turn to cut the bullshit, Jack. Your planes fly as quickly as ours. Twenty-four hours is ample. Even generous.”
“The Sabbath, Jacob.” Evans reminded Schecter that they were coming up on Saturday, the Jewish day of prayer.
“We’ll all have more to pray for after our men talk.”
“Twenty-four hours it is,” Evans conceded.
“Send someone we will know,” the Mossad chief continued without any pretense of fellowship. “If it’s an unfamiliar face, there will be no meeting.”
“Your people will recognize my man.”
“And you?”
“The same.”
“So our people will meet and clear this matter up.”
“We will discuss what we can discuss. I will notify you as to the exact time and place in two hours. You have my word that we will work together to make it a safe meeting.”
“And productive,” Evans sharply stated.
“It is in our best interest, as you will soon see.”
“Yes, it is.”
Next, Jacob Schecter adroitly sent a shot across the bow. “And it is in your best interest to find out who leaked this story. There will be further embarrassment until you are able to do so.” Evans let out a breath. “We are working on that.”
“Good. We shall make this the basis for renewed dialogue.”
“I look forward to that, Jacob. But first things first.”
Chapter 22
Staritsa, Russia
Aleksandr Dubroff was becoming more proficient. One website would lead him to another. Now he was onto what the Americans called blogs. He discovered a number of them dedicated to Soviet spies. Somehow, more information was showing up about him.
Unspeakable acts? I was loyal to the Party. I was doing my job.
But now he wondered what it all meant. The Soviet Union was gone. The government that had deceived its people for seventy years was relegated to history books…and the Internet. He had served a financially and morally bankrupt government…a government that had murdered its own citizens on a scale that rivaled Adolf Hitler. And Dubroff had been part of it.
For most of his life he felt it was an important part. Yet now, with only mushrooms and computer extracts to measure his remaining time, and his beloved Mishka becoming a distant memory, Dubroff questioned the value of his life.
Dubroff remembered how Mishka would comfort him. She would place his head on her lap, rub his forehead, and stroke his hair when he came home, pained by the work he could never explain. “You are upset, my love. Ask them to transfer you,” she urged him. Finally, he followed her advice. He requested a job in administration. The KGB complied and for sixteen years, from the mid-1960s until the late ‘70s, Aleksandr Dubroff taught a
t the agency’s spy school. Within five years he was named supervisor of a special curriculum, one that gained prominence in the twilight years of the Soviet Union.
Aleksandr Dubroff was the Chief Intelligence Officer of The Andropov Institute’s Red Banner Curriculum, the man who oversaw the secret Soviet cities known as Zakrytye administrativno-territori-al’nye obrazovaniia.
Washington, D.C.
later
“Can you run through those again a little slower?” Bessolo asked. As a courtesy, the bank allowed him to review the ATM still frames. It saved him getting a warrant. Bessolo managed a hard-pressed “Please.” He was not used to being so polite, but the FBI investigator needed to put on a good face for the video editor. Besides, the twerp on the computer seemed clueless. He might as well be nice.
The disk contained a series of pictures, not continuous moving images. However, played in sequence, there was a degree of movement. The date/time stamp burned into the images helped narrow the search. He looked for daytime activity at Meyerson’s building. Sometimes the view was blocked by a customer who stood at the ATM machine. Other pictures showed a little more. Bessolo scanned for activity across the street that outwardly might seem normal: a delivery truck, a courier, a plumber. The chances of seeing anyone were slim. The ATM camera only snapped an image when a customer inserted a card.
On Roarke’s insistence, Bessolo looked for frames starting from three days before the last e-mail went out. It was tedious work. But an hour into the job he shouted, “There! Behind that woman. Can you make out the van?”
The technician stared at the screen. “Not on this still. Let’s see if it’s in another frame.” He stepped through the next few frames, noting the time code burned into the upper left corner. “It’s lunchtime, so maybe we’ll get lucky.” Bessolo grunted. “Here we go.” He stopped at a frame with a customer turned to the side. For one shot, the camera had an unobstructed view of a white van. “Bingo.” A Time Warner logo was clearly visible.
Bessolo typed an e-mail into his Blackberry and simultaneously asked the young tech for a printout of the frame. When he was finished, he said, “More. Let’s see how long that van stayed there, and who gets in it.”
Executive Treason Page 17
