by Mark Henshaw
Maybe diplomats are the smart ones after all.
She looked down at her watch. Thirty-five minutes until the planned break. They hadn’t managed to keep to the schedule thus far, and she wondered why diplomats spent so much time negotiating agendas only to abandon them first thing. She had no hope they would improve on that habit today—
The senior event manager touched Cooke on the shoulder from the doorway, a sudden distraction from the tedious repetition of the Iranian lead’s trivial demands about the seating. “Forgive me, ma’am,” she said, her voice low, her words framed by a tight Midlands accent. “Sir Ewan is asking to speak with you in one of the drawing rooms. He says that it’s quite important.”
Kathy frowned, then stood to follow. Given her mood, any reason to leave was a sound one, but the British hostess surely knew which messages could wait until the breaks, which couldn’t, and which never needed to be delivered at all. The woman had hosted more than a few diplomatic meetings without an embarrassment in her career in order to earn her current position, a level never reached by those lacking an exquisite sense of discernment between the important and the trivial.
Kathy followed her out into the hall and past a pair of security guards, unmistakable in any country, to another doorway where a man stood waiting. The director of the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service, Sir Ewan Lambert, offered Cooke a slight bow and his hand. “Kathryn! Wonderful to see you again.” The event manager stepped away, leaving them to talk in private. Lambert waited until the door closed before speaking again. “I am very sorry to draw you out of the room,” he said.
“I’m not,” Kathy told her former counterpart, known informally as C, the head of MI6. “You know how these meetings go.”
“Indeed,” Sir Ewan agreed. “I managed to talk my way out of this one. I’m sorry you had less success at it.”
“I tried, but it required more diplomatic skill than I could muster.”
“It is ironic that diplomatic skill is ever needed to escape diplomatic affairs. It means the ones left in the room to save the peace are always those possessed of lesser skill,” Lambert replied, hiding a small laugh where an American would have set one loose. “You may need some now.” He nodded his head toward the door.
“Why?” Kathy asked.
“Two bits of interest. First, I was advised by MI-5 in the last hour that a certain gentleman who might prove troublesome has arrived in London,” Lambert said. “Gavi Ronen passed through Customs at Heathrow earlier this morning.”
Cooke stared at the British officer as she tried to process that bit of news. She’d met the director of Mossad on several occasions when she’d been the CIA director. “Gavi’s here?”
“Indeed. He landed in a government plane a few hours ago. It shared no passenger list in advance, but MI-5 got the alert when his passport was scanned. The CCTV footage shows the local Mossad chief met him outside Customs and drove him to the embassy. No sign that he’s come out since,” Lambert said. “I’ve asked our people to keep a watch for him and other known Mossad officers in the city. We don’t plan on telling the Iranians, but you might wish to let the head of your own delegation know ever so quietly.”
“Thank you, Ewan,” Kathy said. “I can’t believe it’s a coincidence he’s here on the first day of the talks.”
“My conclusion as well. The head of Mossad doesn’t tend to travel abroad on short notice unless there’s an operation under way . . . the Israeli tradition that a leader should share in the dangers of the front line with his men. But I could hardly imagine they would try anything unusual on our soil. We are allies after all,” Lambert offered.
“They may not have to do anything than let it be known he’s in town.”
“True enough,” Lambert agreed. “Every Iranian in the building must know him on sight. Seeing the ramsad of Israel on the street would probably have the entire Iranian delegation wondering whether a Mossad kill team wasn’t waiting for them in the Hyde Park barracks. They’re hardly comfortable with a female spy nearby, much less an Israeli.”
“I do my best to hide it.”
“If you can manage that, you are a far better spy than I,” Sir Ewan said.
“I’m retired.”
“You may not be in the service, Kathryn, but you know very well that once in, never out,” he said. “The secret world always seems to pull us back despite our best efforts.”
“And here we are,” she admitted. “What was the other bit of interest?”
“A member of the Iranian delegation asked for a side meeting with you. Majid Salehi.”
“With me? Not our head of delegation?” she asked. Kathy searched her mental picture of the room and found the man . . . younger than the rest of his countrymen, quiet; the man held a doctorate in physics from a German university. She couldn’t remember which. He’d hardly said a word that she could recall. He’d kept his place along the back wall, nearly opposite herself, sitting next to Iran’s Minister of Intelligence and Security, Eshaq Ebtekar, who she had never met.
“No, with you. He asked for you specifically,” Sir Ewan assured her. “He’s in the next room.”
“Does his delegation know about this?”
“I honestly have no idea, though I would assume so. Unless he’s a defector, which I would doubt, but stranger things have happened in our business.”
“I’ve seen some of it myself,” Kathy agreed. “Let’s go see him.”
• • •
Majid Salehi was a very short man by Western standards and Kathy was a tall woman, so she supposed it was a blow to his ego that he barely came up to her chin. She hadn’t planned on offering her hand to shake his, but he had done so after shaking Sir Ewan’s first, though not with a smile. “Ms. Cooke,” he said.
“Dr. Salehi,” Kathy said. “I was very surprised to hear you wanted to meet.”
“Yes, I understand.” His accent was heavy, suggesting he’d learned English in Tehran, with no native speakers to imitate or with whom to practice. “You must forgive me. I am not accustomed to meeting with women in such a manner,” he said, confirming Sir Ewan’s speculation. “But in this instance, my personal comforts are not important.”
“I appreciate your dedication, sir,” Kathy said.
He nodded. “Ms. Cooke, I am talking to you at my own behest and that of certain elements within my government. You were the leader of your country’s CIA, so you understand that this is a risk for me. I must ask for your discretion.”
“You have it, sir,” Kathy said.
“Very good. I asked for this meeting to tell you that Iran played no part in the bombing of Haifa one month ago,” Salehi said.
Kathy rocked back slightly, her mind racing. Back-channel. “You realize, sir, that I’m not an official representative of the United States government at these meetings. I’m only here to advise our delegates—”
“Yes, and it is for that reason I have asked to see you,” the Iranian replied. “The hostility between our countries makes it impossible for anyone in my government officially to speak to anyone in yours. We could pass the message to you through another country . . . Switzerland, or the British.” He looked toward Sir Ewan and nodded. “But I think you would not believe us if we did so. There is no trust between us. I hoped that by telling you directly, here, that such a step might convince you that it is the truth.”
“And because you need us to tell Israel,” Kathy said.
Salehi pursed his lips and tightened his fists. Kathy could see that such an admission was very nearly a step too far for the man to make. “The Zionists certainly believe that we were responsible,” he said, skipping past her observation. “They will send Mossad after our scientists, perhaps our leaders, but we do not deserve it. We did not do this and we did not help anyone else do this.”
They’re afraid, Kathy realized. Mossad had a long history of assassinating Iranian nuclear scientists and that had been before someone used a radiological device on Israeli soil. “Dr. Salehi, I can
pass your assurances to President Rostow, but unless you have some evidence—”
“I am sure that your NSA has detected no communications between my country and Hezbollah or any of our allies in the region regarding the bombing,” Salehi said, cutting her off.
“An absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, sir. Your silence might be nothing more than a demonstration of good communications security,” Kathy countered.
“Then there is no evidence I can give you,” Salehi concluded. “There is a saying among scientists that you cannot prove a negative. We cannot prove that we are not responsible, and even if we tried to tell Mossad, the Zionists would not believe us. We have no credibility with them—”
“Or they with you,” Sir Ewan pointed out.
Salehi nodded. “It is true. We would not believe them if our positions were reversed. But it is the truth.” He turned back to Kathy. “Perhaps there is one secret I can offer you that will persuade you that I am sincere.”
“And what is that, sir?” Kathy asked.
“My government has not announced this and will not do so, in order to protect my personal security, but six weeks ago, the supreme leader appointed me to lead my country’s nuclear program,” Salehi said. “In the conference room with your ambassador, I am the most important man on our side of the table. Only Minister Ebtekar is my equal in rank, but like you, he is a minder.” Kathy did not doubt that was true. Iran’s minister of Intelligence and Security was Hojjat ol-Eslam, an “authority on Islam,” a learned scholar of the faith and close to the Supreme Leader himself. Ebtekar almost certainly was the Ayatollah’s man in the room, and Salehi likely was kidding himself if he thought the other man was just his equal.
“I do not act the role so my position will remain unknown,” Salehi continued. “Our chief delegates answer to me when we are behind closed doors. If you tell Israel, Mossad will target me after what has happened. So I offer you my life so you might believe that we played no part in the attack on Haifa.”
“Does Minister Ebtekar know you’re meeting with me?” Kathy asked.
“I cannot share our internal deliberations with you.”
Kathy exhaled and looked at Sir Ewan. The man’s eyes had widened, but he otherwise showed no emotion at the revelations. “And you know nothing about the bombing?”
Salehi shook his head. “I do not know who carried it out. Perhaps others in my government do, but if so, they have not told me.” He took his own deep breath and let it out, then continued. “Ms. Cooke, only the United States can restrain the Israelis . . . and you must restrain them or many innocents will be killed.”
He was probably right, Kathy thought. The question was whether Israel could be restrained at all. “Sir, I will convey your message to the president of the United States. But I cannot commit him to any course of action. He will proceed as he deems best.”
Salehi nodded. “I can ask no more than that. But if he does not hold the Zionists back . . . if they refuse to be held back, many Iranians will die, and I cannot promise that Iran will not respond in kind. And that would be a terror for us all.”
The British Museum
London, England
Jonathan Burke stared at the massive slab of dark granite, not moving for ten minutes and ignoring the rude looks of tourists wishing the man would leave his prime spot in front of the rock so they could take their selfies. The American studied the hieroglyphs and demotic and Greek script, each character chiseled into its surface with some tool long rusted away into red dust. Two centuries before Christ, an Egyptian stonecutter had spent days carving each small symbol onto the Rosetta Stone to record Ptolemy V’s decree in three languages, no doubt aware that a single mistake, one wrong tap of the hammer on the chisel, would force him to start over, assuming the king didn’t have him killed first. It was, Jon supposed, one of the original pieces of bureaucratic art and he was amazed that such things existed. The twenty years he’d worked for his own government before his retirement had never shown him any sign that bureaucracies were capable of producing anything beautiful. Like almost everything else these days, the CIA outsourced its artwork.
Jon shifted his weight and put more of it on the cane to relieve some of the stress on his knee. The metal joint was the result of having spent several weeks enjoying the tender mercies of the Russian GRU the year before, and he was still adjusting to the artificial bone. He found the occasional popping noises to be particularly unnerving, but these were subsiding with time. He did wonder whether he would ever be able to walk normally again. The doctors had assured him that he would, for the most part, but as with most things in life, he was skeptical.
The museum was more empty than he’d imagined, given the impressive collections inside, but he supposed most of the locals rarely visited. It was the same for the residents of Washington. Once they’d been to the Smithsonian and the monuments a time or two, fighting the traffic and tourists, there was little incentive to go back. None of the voices around him were speaking English with a British accent, obviously branding them as visitors to the city and the building.
Then one spoke with an accent he could not place. “You are Mr. Jonathan Burke, no?”
Jon turned his head slightly toward the voice, hiding his surprise. The man standing next to him was at least six inches shorter than himself, but far stockier across the chest and shoulders. He wore glasses with thick lenses and he seemed fit, no stomach hanging over his belt despite having passed middle age. He was balding and clean-shaven, and wore a light brown dress shirt under a longer brown jacket that reached down halfway to his knees. Jon tried to process the man’s accent, but could not identify it.
The shorter man looked down at the Rosetta Stone and smiled. “Quite a treasure. A cryptographer’s dream. So many secrets coming from the sand,” he said. Then he looked at Jon’s cane. “How is your rehabilitation? I am told the Russians were very hard on your knee.”
“Actually, they were very fond of it. They kept pieces of it as souvenirs of our time together,” Jon said. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but if this is a pitch to work for your country, whichever one it is, my answer is no. You know who I am, so I’m sure you know I’m retired anyway.”
“No, this is not a pitch, Mr. Burke. But I have been rude, and I apologize for it. My name is Gavi Ronen. Perhaps your new wife has mentioned me?”
Jon turned his head slowly toward his visitor. “No, but I know who you are.”
“That is good. It will save me the trouble of trying to explain myself in vague terms in this setting. One never knows who is milling about. If you would not mind, perhaps we could walk a bit, somewhere we can speak more freely?” Ronen asked.
Jon considered turning the man down, but decided the request didn’t qualify as a pitch and so started to hobble down the hall after the Israeli. The other tourists filled the new hole behind him like water in a sinkhole and smartphones began to flash as the pent-up demand for self-portraits was finally released. Ronen waited until they had put several meters between themselves and the oblivious crowd behind them. “I met your wife on occasion when she was the director of your CIA. I visited your Langley several times, but I regret that Kathryn never found the time to visit Tel Aviv. I would like to have talked with her earlier today, but I doubted that her British hosts would admit me to the building.”
“A wise decision on their part, given who else was there,” Jon said.
Ronen let out a quiet laugh. “Probably so,” he said. “It is a shame you are not Jewish. I like your manner. You would do well in my government. When one is surrounded by enemies, one tends to value blunt talk and dark humor more than courtesies,” he explained.
“I thought you said this wasn’t a pitch.”
“That has not changed,” Ronen assured him. “You want to talk about something more serious, as do I.”
“Actually, I don’t really want to talk about anything,” Jon corrected him. “You started this conversation.”
“Yes.” In a few mom
ents, they passed into the gallery of Assyrian sculpture, which was almost empty. The other tourists didn’t seem to have much interest in the Balawat Gates today. Ronen sighed and stopped walking. “Your president’s decision to call for talks in the face of Iran’s attack on my country presents me with certain problems that I must resolve. We were not even invited to attend as observers, much less as equals.”
“Mr. Ronen, my wife doesn’t speak for the president and I certainly don’t. But I think you know perfectly well that Iran wouldn’t come if Israel was at the table. As for the rest of it, I’d guess he’s concerned about Israel doing something rash that would start another intifada,” Jon advised.
“We would count ourselves fortunate if an intifada was all we faced now. Someone set off a radiological device inside my country. I think that your wife and others have spent the last week negotiating nuclear proliferation with the country that has been most vocal about calling for Israel’s extermination, and which likely provided the nuclear material for the bomb. I also think that your country has decided to withhold information from us at the time when we need it the most. So please forgive my desire to help your president keep these matters in perspective. The United States is making a mistake and my country will bear the consequences. That is not the way to treat one’s allies.” Jon noted that the man had not used the word friends. Ronen sighed. “You do not understand us, I think.”
“I’m not sure anyone understands you,” Jon assured him.
The ramsad looked up at the American. “That is likely true. What other people have been so persecuted for two thousand years? Who could understand what that does to a nation? But I assure you that we are a very rational people. Israel is two hundred sixty miles long. At our most narrow point, we are nine miles wide. A single dirty bomb explodes and we have to relocate tens of thousands of people for months at a time. A nuclear explosion in Tel Aviv would kill five percent of our people outright, perhaps more,” the man said, his voice emphatic. “We have been warning the world for decades of this and now we have seen the smallest bit of that prophecy come to pass. So you will understand when I say that my leaders are motivated to address this problem. There is finally hard proof of the Iranians’ intentions and your country has chosen to play a game of defense with men determined to cheat. That is a poor decision. Defense is merely the art of losing slowly.”
