by David Rose
All four men stood, but as Dore and Pearlstein advanced through the lobby and pushed the doors open onto the street, Turner, who had said almost nothing after they first sat down, hung back. As the others beckoned to the taxi rank outside, he turned abruptly, once again facing Adam.
“Erm, there is something else. It won’t take a moment. Could we just go back to the—”
“No, Mr. Turner, we couldn’t. It’s been nice meeting you.”
“I didn’t want to say this in front of the others. It’s about a DVD. A rather, erm, personal DVD, if you get my drift. A DVD of Mrs. Cooper.”
Adam was aware he had failed to keep the shock out of his eyes. “What makes you think I’d want to discuss anything personal with you? Why don’t you just fuck off?”
“Because, Adam, mate, I’ve got some pictures of you, taken today by an excellent Israeli photographer with a very long lens. They’ve captured you on the beach and in the azure Mediterranean, in the company of a lovely-looking girl with long dark hair in a white designer swimsuit. She seems to have a rather stunning figure, and she looks, erm, like she might be extremely close to you. Pardon me, but I did think that looked like a funny way to be showing how much you were missing your wife. So let’s go back to the lounge and sit down to discuss it, shall we?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sunday, June 24, 2007
To judge by the News of the World website, Derek Turner’s article had not made the front page, but it was both prominent and humiliating. “Belle Aviv!” the headline read, “Gaza Kidnap Husband’s Romp With Law Firm Stunner.” Illustrating the piece was a large picture of Adam and Ronnie in the sea. He was grinning manically, trying to splash her, and she had twisted herself into a strange but revealing position in her effort to get away. But while her body was trying to escape, her eyes remained locked on his, and her expression could only be described as one of adoration. In a second photo, he and Ronnie were depicted standing as he kissed her goodbye—thankfully, on her cheek. She had put on a gauzy, see-through shirt over her swimming costume, which served only to accentuate her impressive physical condition. She was also pulling him firmly toward her with a hand behind his neck.
Adam had stayed up until after two to wait for the article to go online. As he read it, he could see that Turner had at least stuck to the text of the vile agreement they had made a few hours earlier. Believing he had no alternative other than to speak to the man again, Adam had pleaded with him that to publish anything about the state of his marriage could only deepen Morgan’s peril—after all, whoever her kidnappers really were, one thing seemed certain: she was a prisoner of fundamentalist Muslims, a category of men not known for their generous view of adultery.
“The thing is, Adam, mate, I can’t un-know what I know,” Turner had told him wheedlingly. “Believe me, we’re on the same side. But I’ve been sent a long way, I’ve spent a lot of the paper’s money, and I’ve got to have something publishable to show for it. I’ll do what I can to lessen the impact, and so far as her safety is concerned, it’s not as if I’m going to write that she’s a CIA agent, now is it? She’s a human rights officer with the State Department, and I wouldn’t want to create even the tiniest suspicion that that might not actually be true.”
That too was a threat; Adam was sure that Turner’s source must have been an intelligence officer, and it was only too likely that he had told him that Morgan was one too. It was also apparent that while Turner had been briefed selectively—he seemed to know nothing about the DVD of Morgan’s confession to being a CIA officer, the Janbiya al-Islam, or Adam’s previous trip to Gaza—his information, where it mattered, was painfully accurate. It even included the detail that Adam had seen what Turner delicately termed “a Morgan Cooper sex tape” for himself inside the US embassy. Thankfully, he seemed to know very little about Ronnie. “So, erm, have you been shagging her?” Turner had asked. “Excuse my directness, but in all the circumstances, and given the aforementioned photographs, I would be derelict in my duty if I failed to ask.”
Finally, they had agreed their sordid compromise. Turner promised he would not describe the DVD directly, nor imply that what he had been told about it was true. Instead, he would refer only to “cruel rumors in Middle East diplomatic circles” that she had been filmed having sex with a mysterious lover by her abductors before they kidnapped her. Turner promised he would write that these rumors were “unconfirmed,” that investigators believed they were “hampering inquiries into her disappearance,” and that “sources close to her family” denied them.
In return, Adam was forced to give Turner Ronnie’s name, adding that she was a friend of the family from America, and that she and her children were spending the summer in Israel for reasons unconnected with Morgan’s disappearance. “Don’t worry,” Turner had said, “I’m not going to imply that you two are having an affair.” Adam had to admit that in words, at least, he hadn’t. The article described her as a “widowed former hotshot lawyer from Adam Cooper’s top Washington firm,” adding that she was a “long-standing girl pal” who had “helped Morgan’s husband by cooking his children meals and baby-sitting while he defended a terrorist in the US Supreme Court.” The pictures and headline were a different matter, leaving little to the imagination.
Adam knew he should have called Ronnie to warn her after Turner had finally departed, but he hadn’t, hoping against hope that maybe the article would not turn out as badly as he feared. Of course, once it went online, it was far too late. Instead, he searched the Web for examples of Turner’s previous oeuvre.
It didn’t take long. Turner, it appeared, had spent several years based in Washington, alternating perfunctory coverage of American politics with trips the length of the Eastern seaboard to confront misbehaving celebrities. But while his bigger scoops tended to involve reality television stars, he appeared to have had at least one source at the Agency, who had briefed him about aspects of counterterrorism. Turner had obediently published what this source had told him.
The most egregious example dated from March 2004, when three British citizens detained at Guantanamo Bay returned to England. The previous weekend, as Adam vividly remembered, they had given an extensive interview to one of the London papers. They had made shocking allegations about the methods used to interrogate them, and conditions at the prison. Their story was picked up widely by media outlets around the world.
Turner, however, went against the general tide. His page one “splash” cited anonymous “US security sources” who complained that by releasing the men and sending them back to England, America had exposed its ally to a “grave terrorist threat.” One of the three, he added, had taken part in the fierce hand-to-hand combat attending Osama bin Laden’s flight from the Tora Bora caves in Afghanistan, and the News of the World published a photo that purported to depict this individual, lying wounded on the ground after the battle, still clutching a Kalashnikov. Days later, it became clear that the man in the photograph was someone else entirely, who was, in fact, dead. But it was also apparent Turner hadn’t simply made the story up. There were just enough telling, checkable details—such as what Turner described as exclusive new information about the men’s arrest in Pakistan—for it to be evident that he had a genuine CIA contact.
By the time Adam stumbled to bed, exhausted, at almost four, his suspicions were close to certain. Derek Turner must have been briefed either by Gary Thurmond, or possibly by Amos or one of his colleagues. Either way, they were doing all they could both to thwart his mission and to make his life unbearable.
Tired as he was, it took a long time before he sank into sleep. Much later than he had intended, he was woken by the hotel phone at his bedside. A quick peek behind his bedroom curtain confirmed that the sun was already high.
“Hello,” said Adam blearily.
“It’s Belle,” said Ronnie. “Belle fucking Aviv. Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
“Ronnie, I—”
“Have you seen
it? Do you know what I’m talking about? Have you seen the fucking London News of the World?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it. And I’m really, really sorry. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do about it. The guy cornered me here last night. Obviously he already had the photographs.”
“And you didn’t think it might have been an idea to warn me?”
“I know I should have. I’m really sorry about that too. But I just didn’t know what to tell you until I saw the article, and by the time I did see it was the middle of the night. I was going to call you first thing this morning.”
“Yeah, well, now it’s ten-fucking-thirty, and I’ve already had my old college roommate on the line from London. She could barely stop herself laughing. I’ve managed to keep my kids away from it so far, but that’s not going to work for long now, is it? And what about yours? Don’t you think they read the News of the World at that school you’ve been sending them to in Oxford?”
“Well, er, actually not all that many people do read the News of the World in North Oxford. It’s not that sort of place.”
“Well, Adam, I’ve got news for you, it’s only going to take one. And how do you think this is going to play with your parents—and, oh my God, what about Morgan’s?”
“Look, Ronnie, I can see very well why you’re upset. And you’re right, I should have called you as soon as I knew anything. But you’re acting as if it’s all my fault. I didn’t leak the fact I was in Israel to the media. I didn’t know there was some fucking paparazzo photographer ogling us both at the beach.”
“So, my name, Adam. How did they get my name? You think this slimeball reporter’s ‘diplomatic sources’ somehow knew that, too?”
Adam knew that any attempt to lie would be futile. He took a deep breath. “I told him. I told him because I made a deal with him. In return for giving him your name, he promised not to write that you and I were having an affair, and he also agreed to say that this DVD of Morgan was just a cruel rumor. As you can see, at least he stuck by his word.”
For long seconds, Ronnie was silent. When she spoke again, the anger had gone. Her voice was much quieter, less animated, and she sounded wounded. “So there is a DVD. Of Morgan having sex with someone, presumably not you.”
“Yes. There is.”
“And when did you first hear of it?”
“It was during my last trip to Israel. In fact, I’ve seen it. I was with an official inside the US embassy when it first arrived. It was labeled with Morgan’s name and I guess he thought I had a right to see it immediately.”
The pause, this time, was longer. “Suddenly it’s all falling into place,” Ronnie said. “That last night, when we had dinner and went back to your hotel. You'd promised you were going to call me but you didn’t until after five. I can’t remember your pathetic excuse, but it was because you’d seen this fucking tape that day, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Now she was quietly sobbing. “My God, I’m such a damn stupid fool. I really thought I meant something to you. And when you did call, although it was late, I was just so happy, you know, that we were going to get another chance to be together, and maybe, finally, something would happen between us that night. But now I get it. All I ever was to you was a very handy babysitter and then, when your fucking male ego was punctured, a revenge fuck. A fucking revenge fuck for your fucking wife getting nasty with some fucking local on one of her business trips. It’s okay Adam. I’m an adult. I will deal with this. But I will do so on my own. Just do me one favor. Please, don’t ever call me again.”
After Ronnie got off the line, Adam’s immediate impulse to deal with the reservoir of shame and fury curdling inside his stomach was to march straight to the embassy, demand the duty clerk summon Gary, and then confront him. But first, he wanted to see Yitzhak Ben-Meir, who seemed to be the only intelligence or security man he could even begin to trust. When he called, Ben-Meir said he was free that evening, and they fixed a rendezvous at a restaurant amid the glitzy splendor of Rothschild Boulevard. Having spent part of the afternoon listlessly dozing, Adam used the walk to get some much-needed fresh air.
Ben-Meir was already waiting at an outside table with a glass of white wine, watching the Israeli version of the passeggiata—a nightly parade of effortless, summery style; of glossy, well-groomed women aged sixteen to ninety. Most wore short but elegant dresses, carefully accessorized jewelry and elaborate high-heeled sandals. As they wove their course between the boulevard’s cafes and the shady, spreading trees, some of them towed obedient-looking men or little dogs. There was a slight but welcome breeze. Ben-Meir stood and clasped Adam’s hand with what felt like unfeigned affection. “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look like you’ve slept much.”
“I’ve slept, though not enough, and too late. Before we say anything, if you don’t mind, I need a drink.” He beckoned to a waitress. “I’d like a gin and tonic, please. A large one.”
“If you want to eat pork, this is the best place in Israel,” Ben-Meir said. “They even do a Shabbat brunch special: a smoky bacon open sandwich made with traditional Ashkenazi challa bread. The true meaning of the secular Zionist tradition.”
Adam’s drink arrived and he gulped it thirstily. Both men ordered filet steak and agreed on a bottle of cabernet.
“So what’s happening, my friend?” said Ben-Meir when the food and wine arrived. “What’s wrong—I mean, apart from the obvious?”
“The obvious? You mean the ever-present background obvious, that my wife has been kidnapped, or the what’s obvious today to several million Britons, thanks to an article in the country’s biggest-selling tabloid newspaper?”
From his expression, it was evident that Ben-Meir did not know what he was talking about. “A tabloid? What has that to do with you?”
Adam covered his face with his hands. Flushing deeply, he began to explain, telling Ben-Meir about his meeting with Turner and the other journalists, the News of the World article, and his belief that the very same senior CIA officer who was supposed to be leading the hunt for Morgan was probably behind the leak.
Ben-Meir listened without interrupting him, looking pensive. “I can see why this is unpleasant,” he said. “For your children, and the rest of your family, it may be a little difficult. And it may not be helpful that the fact of Morgan’s kidnapping has made the news, though to be honest, I don’t think it will make much difference. But set against everything else, is it really so terrible? For a day or two, some uneducated people in England will be talking badly about you. Why is that a big deal?”
“You’re forgetting the part about Morgan. This so-called sex tape.”
“You said the article refers to a rumor. Why take it seriously?”
“I’m worried about the impact it could have in Gaza. On the kidnappers, and for that matter, Hamas.”
Ben-Meir laughed incredulously. “The state of your marriage is no more their business than mine. In any case, I do not think that the News of the World is widely read by Gazan Islamists. You’re worrying about the wrong thing here, believe me.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that. So what should I be worrying about?”
“I would have thought it is obvious. You have made some powerful enemies. They are trying to upset you, and if you are to outwit them, you need to move fast.”
“Meaning?”
“You have no time to waste. They know you’re in Israel, and if you’re hoping to go back to Gaza, you need to leave as soon as possible, or they will ensure the border will be closed to you.”
“The CIA asked me to give them to the end of the week. I said I’d think about it. They said they’re in the middle of some delicate negotiation with the kidnappers, and if I went to Gaza, I’m likely to screw it up.”
“And you believe this?”
“Not really.”
“Look, if they try hard enough, eventually the CIA will be able to deal with Hamas, though they’ll have to start from a very low base. But last
time we met, we agreed that it didn’t seem likely that Hamas had anything to do with the kidnapping, and I do not think it likely that anyone at the Agency is talking to the Janbiya al-Islam.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“You must go there yourself. As soon as possible. And there is another reason. I can understand why you have spent your day thinking about the article in the News of the World. But you are forgetting something. I didn’t even know about the News of the World. But I did know that the story of Morgan’s kidnapping has also been reported by Israeli Army Radio, by Maariv, and most important of all, the New York Times. It’s on the wires, which means it’s everywhere. Other reporters will be after you. The President of the United States has already authorized his spokesman to say he is taking this business very seriously. Thankfully he is spending the weekend at Camp David or somewhere, but tomorrow he will be back in Washington. You have no time to waste. You’re ready?”
“I guess so.”
“You need to be at Erez by seven forty-five tomorrow morning. Earlier if you can make it. Then—and only then—I think I can get you through. Don’t tell anyone about this before you leave, especially not on the phone, and don’t call your guy in Gaza until you’re on the far side of the security fence. I have taken certain steps to ensure that you don’t need any special paperwork, and someone is expecting you. But don’t be late, not even by ten minutes. If you are, I am doubtful you’ll succeed.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there. But why are you doing this, Yitzhak?”
Ben-Meir cut a morsel from his steak, popped it into his mouth and chewed it ruminatively. He took a sip of wine, and avoided Adam’s eye. Finally he was ready to speak.
“Because I don’t like this business,” he said. “They can’t do anything to me; I’m retired. But I feel used, by a man I’d thought was a friend, and I do not think he was acting with honorable motives. I have no proof of this, Adam. But I’ve been asking questions, and I’ve reached a conclusion I find distasteful. I think there is a very specific reason why certain people—Israelis and Americans—may have been acting in the way that they have. I think it is possible that when Morgan went to Gaza two months ago, they knew she was going to be kidnapped.”
