They drove straight to Logan Airport. It was a dark, rainy afternoon. As they crossed the Charles River Bridge, she broke the Colt down into its component pieces, rolled down her window, threw the pieces of the revolver and the ball-peen hammer out, and watched them drop into the dark river below.
When they reached the exit for the airport, Mouse said, “If Al-Bari really was in Gloucester last night, we must get down there. He has his weapon now, so whatever he is planning, we do not have much time left. There is the big American fleet in Norfolk, an Air Force base in Hampton, they store nuclear weapons in The Naval Weapons Station, and there is a large nuclear power plant on the James River.”
“A ‘target-rich environment.’ ”
“And those are ones off the top of my head. I am sure there are many more.”
“You are right,” Ullman had to concede as she thought on it. “We will catch the first plane back to Washington. You and I can brief Barnett, and I must inform my people. In the morning, we can…”
“That does not require both of us. When we land in Washington, I will get the first flight I can to Williamsburg and begin looking. Every hour is critical now.”
“All right,” Ullman said halfheartedly. “But do not try to take Al-Bari alone. He would cut you up into little pieces, Egyptian.”
“Do not worry,” Mouse replied. “I have a very healthy respect for my life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, October 18, 6:39 pm
It was early evening before Rachel Ullman was able to walk through the doors of the Israeli Embassy in Washington and its hope of a secure telecommunications link to Tel Aviv. “Late flights and slow American taxis,” she swore angrily as she flashed her ID card and dashed past the surprised guard on the building’s front door, thinking how she was actually beginning to miss the suicidal Russian cab drivers back home. Since landing at Dulles, she had placed several phone calls to Barnett’s office and even tried his cell phone once, all to no avail. They had all gone directly to his voice mail and he had yet to call back. No sense trying any longer, she decided. He must still be on the road or in an airplane, out of range, not that she really cared. It might be preferable to discuss the situation with Gershon and “The Office” before she talked to the Americans or took any action on her own, anyway.
She continued down the long entry hall, entered the Embassy’s “Staff-Only” area, and headed for the basement code room. By now, the entire embassy staff knew who she was, and one look at her face told them to get the hell out of her way. Fortunately, one of the more competent senior codes officers was on duty in the communications center and Ullman immediately demanded the most secure line the man had to Mossad Headquarters in Tel Aviv.
“If you really want secure,” he explained, “that would mean the Telex console — no voice, no internet. It uses our new burst transmission mode with a complex, proprietary, double encryption that even the American NSA cannot break… not yet anyway.”
“But telex?” she questioned, “I have not typed since…”
“They say it is like riding a horse, Colonel.”
“Or like falling off one, you mean?”
“Nah, it comes right back,” the clerk laughed. “There is coffee in the corner. Take a seat and I will get the call set up for you.”
“Fine, tell them this is Colonel Ullman calling and I need General Gershon on the line, eyes only, Priority Red, as quickly as they can get him.”
“You know it is the middle of the night over there.”
“They can wake him up. It is him I need, ASAP.”
Tired, she grabbed a cup of old, bitter coffee from the big office urn, something every soldier everywhere becomes accustomed to, and went into the small Telex room. She closed its door and lit the first of a long series of cigarettes. Coffee and cigarettes, she grimaced. They had pretty much become her regular diet since her husband and ten-year-old daughter had decided to go to the farmer’s market that day to pick out some of her favorite foods for a special dinner they intended to cook for her birthday. Her appetite, like her patience, had pretty much vanished that day with them. The clerk looked over at her and frowned. The Embassy prohibited smoking inside the building, of course; but from the expression on her face, he knew not to try to stop her. Besides, Israelis rarely observed rules, especially ones regarding minor vices such as smoking.
The Telex machine was located in a small, secure room, which would give her even more privacy, and a rare opportunity to relax. Still, she had never been good at waiting. Wasted time was a rich soil from which only painful memories ever sprouted. They grew like weeds and would fill her head, if she let them. In the Army, any army, you spent ninety percent of your time waiting or practicing. That was the reason she accepted Gershon’s offer to come to work for him at Mossad. She still spent too much time waiting, but hating and killing were things she did not need to practice. She was an expert at those now. As for the waiting, that time could be counted in the cigarette butts that began to fill the bottom of the coffee cup in front of her. “You need to stop, or at least cut back,” the doctors kept telling her. “They will kill you, Rachel.” “I should live that long,” was her only answer. In the tense, lonely world of the Mossad, it was better to take the edge off with a few cigarettes than with the barrel of a Jericho 9-millimeter pistol pressed into the roof of your mouth. For many of her old friends, that was where it inevitably led.
The time passed slowly as she watched the Telex machine sitting against the wall, staring back at her in complete silence. Twenty minutes later, the lights finally came on and it chattered out a few test bursts. The communications officer stuck his head in the door and said, “We have his office for you, Colonel, but they are still looking for the General.”
“Fine, you can get off the line.”
She pulled a chair over to the console and began to type with two fingers, “ULLMAN HERE. IS GENERAL G PRESENT? U,” pressed Enter, and sat back and waited.
“NEGATIVE. WHAT IS YOUR MESSAGE?”
“MUST HAVE G ON THE LINE. EYES ONLY. REPEAT. EYES ONLY! U.” Smart-ass, lazy codes clerk, she thought.
“STANDBY. MAY TAKE A WHILE.”
It was almost an hour and four cigarettes later before the machine sprang back to life again. “G HERE. WHAT THE HELL IS SO IMPORTANT, RACHEL?”
That sounded like the old boy, she thought, as she typed. “TRACKED AL-BARI TO BOSTON. HE MET WITH IRA. PURCHASED A US 4.2 INCH MORTAR AND SHELLS. IS NOW BELIEVED IN WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA. TARGET UNKNOWN. A MILITARY BASE? ASSUME ATTACK IMMINENT. THE EGYPTIAN HAS GONE THERE. I’LL FOLLOW. WE’LL TRY TO STOP AL-BARI. CANNOT FIND BARNETT. DO YOU WANT TO INFORM AMERICANS OR SHOULD I? THOUGHTS? U.”
She punched Enter, lit another cigarette, and waited. Long minutes passed, many more than she expected. Finally, the machine clattered, “STANDBY, G.”
“Standby? Standby? Damn, what do you think I am doing, you old bastard!” she swore. True, it was after 2:00 a.m. in Jerusalem and he would need to consult with others, but the clock was running. With all the personalities and politics in the Israeli government these days, the arguments on an issue like this could take all night.
In Tel Aviv, General Yaakov Gershon stood stiffly as he tore the message off the decoding machine and stared at it again. Finally, he picked up a phone and dialed the Defense Minister’s private number.
“Mordechai, this is Gershon,” he said. “I hate to interrupt your sleep, but can you come over?”
“Over? You mean to ‘The Office’? Now, Yaakov? Can’t it wait?”
“No, and you know I wouldn’t be calling if it could. It has to do with that American problem you and I were discussing yesterday. I shall be in our Communications Center. I’ll even get some Danish and coffee. You know, those little cherry-filled ones you like. After all, I would not want you to go hungry, would I?”
“Or lose any weight. All right, thirty minutes.”
Gershon turned to the code clerks and signals staff in the com
munications center room and said, “When the Defense Minister arrives, I want all of you out. Is that clear? And get a tray of Danish, some bagels, and coffee from the commissary. This may take a while.”
It took twenty-five minutes for the food and coffee to arrive. Gershon put the urn and the plate in the middle of the small conference table and sat down. When the Defense Minister finally came in, he went straight for the coffee and Danish before he plopped down in a chair. “All right, so what’s so damned important, Yaakov?”
“Some bad news,” Gershon replied as he handed the teletype message to the Defense Minister. “This came in from Rachel Ullman a little while ago,” he replied with a curious smile. “As you may or may not remember, she is in Washington helping the FBI track down a very nasty Hamas operative who appears to have gone missing.”
“In America? That does not sound good, but why do we care? Can’t the Americans handle their own affairs?”
“Mordechai, you know that answer every bit as well as I do,” Gershon replied as he grabbed a bagel. “They asked for our input, so I sent her over. I figured at least we would know what they were up to.”
“And probably get blamed.”
“Of course. Regardless of what happens, we will be blamed.” The Defense Minister agreed with a resigned shrug as he read the message again, more slowly this time. “More to the point,” Gershon went on, “I read the transcript of the Prime Minister’s meeting with Wagner.”
The Defense Minister looked up, surprised and frustrated. “Why do we even bother to label things Top Secret?”
“Would you want your intelligence service left in the dark?”
“No, I guess not… thank God.”
“Wagner said he will be giving a speech soon in Virginia, in Yorktown. I believe that is just down the road from Williamsburg.”
The Defense Minister frowned. “Hence the summons — I take it you do not believe in coincidences?”
“No. The President of the United States and a Hamas terrorist with a very large weapon at the same location? No, I do not.”
“Neither do I.”
Gershon took the last bite of his bagel. “Al-Bari is going after Wagner.”
“I thought you said you had bad news?” The Defense Minister laughed.
“I am serious, Mordechai.”
“Of course you are, Yaakov,” he answered as he as finished a second Danish and sat silently for a moment with his coffee, thinking. “This Hamas fellow Al-Bari — what do we know of him?”
“He was a key commander for Hamas in Afghanistan for the past five to six years — weapons, tactics, leadership, the whole package.”
The Defense Minister frowned again. “No simple suicide bomber, then.”
“No. He is a highly skilled infantry commander.”
“And a very capable one, I assume.”
“You may so assume. We also believe he was behind the attack on the bus near Haifa. He may have even led it.”
“And the Americans know nothing about this — about Yorktown and the mortar?”
“Only who he is and that he is in the country.”
“Even still, why would Hamas try a stunt like this? They are Shi’a and their ties are to Iran. Why would they go after an American President? That would be a very aggressive, high-stakes move even for the Mullahs in Teheran.”
“Like little children, they do not abide being ignored; but Al-Bari’s motives may well be personal. The story is that he may be out to settle a family score with the Americans.”
“Still, they will be blamed, as we will. The repercussions will be huge for everyone.”
“What they know and whether or not they are in control of him is too early to tell, but he seems to have dropped off the radar — Iran’s, Hamas’s, ours — everyone’s.”
“A mission like this would be very secret, very compartmentalized, regardless who is running it, but if he is their agent, does that really matter?”
“To us?” Gershon shrugged. “No, but it could be useful. If it were laid at Iran’s’ feet, Wagner’s new ‘peace’ initiative would be dead on arrival.”
“Perhaps with its author.” The Defense Minister’s eyes grew hard and cold. “Whether Al-Bari succeeds or fails, he will completely undercut the Arab position. Their credibility would be in shreds, and we will have that dumb bastard Al-Bari to thank.”
“Agreed, but we have a senior operative on the ground. What should we do?”
“Us? I am beginning to think we should do nothing and let events take their course.”
“Doing nothing is doing something.”
“Yaakov, if I want a sermon about moral equivalency, I’ll phone my Rabbi.”
“True, but this is a dangerous game to play. Wagner is no friend of ours, but making him a martyr will inflame the Americans like nothing else. They will hunt down whoever is responsible, and if it ever got out that we knew…”
“Then, they must never find out.”
Gershon leaned back in the chair with a growing look of concern on his face. “Should we ask the Prime Minister? What do you think he would say?”
“The Prime Minister? He is a politician, not a military man like us. I have no intention of asking, do you?”
“No, never, but I wanted to make sure we were in agreement.”
The Defense Minister picked up the message and quietly read it again. “You know Rachel Ullman better than anyone,” he said. “Can we trust her?”
“Trust Rachel Ullman? With my life, Mordechai.”
“Yes, but after what happened to her husband and her child, how stable is she?”
“Stable enough to do what I tell her, and she will understand.”
“Good. We must be very certain we make no mistakes here, Yaakov. We must remain completely out of the picture. Get her back on the line.”
Rachel Ullman sat on the edge of her chair watching her feet dangle in circles — bored, impatient, and going slowly out of her mind. Suddenly, the Telex machine sprang to life and her head shot up as it typed her long-awaited response.
“ARE YOU ALONE? G.”
“YES. U.”
“DO AMERICANS KNOW ABOUT AL-BARI’S MISSION OR LOCATION? G.”
“NO. ONLY THAT HE IS MISSING. U.”
“DO THEY KNOW ABOUT THE MORTAR OR VIRGINIA? G.”
“NO. ONLY EGYPTIAN KNOWS. U.”
With that reply, the machine fell silent again, as if it were thinking.
Finally, it chattered out another question. “CAN AL-BARI BE TRACED AGAIN THROUGH THE IRA? G.”
“NO. THAT CONTACT WAS TERMINATED. U.”
There was another long pause before the machine clattered, ”STANDBY. G.”
Ullman sat back in the chair and waited, wondering what they could be debating for so long. Soon enough, she got her answer. “IMPORTANT THAT NOTHING INTERFERE WITH AL-BARI. RETURN HOME ASAP. G.”
Ullman read the paper in disbelief and began to type, “SAY AGAIN ??? U.”
“DO NOT INTERFERE. REPEAT. LET EVENTS TAKE THEIR COURSE. ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED LATER. G.”
As she stared at the message, she began to smile. She understood exactly what they were doing, but not why, not that it made any difference. She would eventually figure it out. All nice and neat, she thought, except for that one small complication. “WHAT ABOUT THE EGYPTIAN?” she typed. “HE KNOWS AND IS ALREADY IN HOT PURSUIT. U.”
There was another long pause after she put the ball back in their court.
“USE YOUR BEST JUDGMENT. COLLATERAL DAMAGE IS NEVER PLEASANT. IMPERATIVE THAT EVENTS TAKE THEIR COURSE. AGREED? G.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she mumbled to the machine, knowing what the order meant. It was that last word, “AGREED?” that surprised her most. They were taking her into their confidence, asking for her concurrence, and that had never happened before.
“UNDERSTOOD AND AGREED. WHAT ABOUT BARNETT? U.”
“AVOID FURTHER CONTACT WITH AMERICANS. AFTER YOU DEAL WITH EGYPTIAN PROBLEM, CLEAR THE AREA. RETURN
HOME IMMEDIATELY. WE DO NOT WANT YOU ANYWHERE NEAR THERE ON 19TH. G. OUT.”
She stared at the machine for a few moments, tore the conversation off the machine, and put it in her purse before she left the room.
“You do realize what we have just done, Mordechai?” Gershon turned nervously toward the Defense Minister.
“We have done nothing. We had a request from the Americans to help them find a Hamas terrorist. We sent someone over and gave them what information we had. However, we are not the FBI. How could we have any idea what the fellow was up to? Even if we did, we have no resources in America or the authority to track him down,” the Defense Minister stated very matter-of-factly. “Just because that crazy Arab happens to do the only thing that could save the State of Israel — well, that could not be helped, could it?”
“Still, it scares the hell out of me.”
“Why? There are only three people who know about this — four at the moment, and it will be our job to see that it goes no further.”
“I shall have every piece of paper on Al-Bari destroyed tonight. Rachel is my best officer and I trust her completely.”
“Yes, but if anything should start to unravel later, like her or this FBI agent Barnett, we shall have to snip off a few more loose ends, won’t we?” the Defense Minister’s eyes narrowed to two dark slits. “However, this is not the time for such thoughts. Everything must appear normal right up to the afternoon of the nineteenth. You see my point, don’t you?”
Gershon’s face grew pale as he turned away. “Of course you are right; but if it leaks, they will hang us all.”
“And if it works, the three of us will have the silent satisfaction of knowing that we did more for the future of our people than a whole armored corps could do. Until then, we must go about our business as if nothing happened, and we must not lose our nerve,” he said pointedly.
“I hope you are right,” Gershon said, looking vacantly in the direction of the teletype machine. “I hope you’re right.”
Aim True, My Brothers Page 20
