by Brad Thor
When the Old Man had resisted Argos and Draco coming to the office, Nicholas had threatened to sue him for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act, claiming they were “service animals.” It was patently ridiculous, and they all got a good laugh out of it. In the end, Carlton relented and made a special exemption for Nicholas. The dogs quickly became unofficial mascots of the company.
That wasn’t to say that Nicholas’s transition into the Group had been without incident. Before Harvath had brought him in, Nicholas had been a full-on criminal. He had dealt in the theft and black market sale of highly sensitive, often classified information. From heads of corporations to heads of state, he had developed an impressive list of both clients and enemies.
The day after he started work at the Carlton Group, the sign identifying his SCIF as Digital Ops had been replaced with one that read THE LOLLIPOP GUILD, an insulting reference to the munchkins from The Wizard of Oz. When Harvath had heard about it, he went ballistic.
It had taken him less than fifteen minutes to track down the man who had done it. Harvath cornered him in the men’s room, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to beat him to a pulp right there.
The man was indignant and made it clear what a mistake he thought it was to bring a criminal like Nicholas into their midst.
Harvath didn’t care and told him that if he ever got near Nicholas again, he would put a bullet in his head and dump his body where his family would never find it.
Immediately after Harvath had left the men’s room, the man had bolted to his superior to register a complaint. A no-bullshit Iraq war vet, the superior director told him that if he didn’t shut up and get back to work, he’d save Harvath the bullet and shoot him himself.
Word quickly got around that anybody who screwed with Nicholas would have to answer to Harvath, and that Harvath had carte blanche to do whatever he wanted.
“Look who’s here,” Nicholas exclaimed as Harvath coaxed the dogs back so he could shut the door.
“About time,” remarked Carlton in his heavy New England accent. “What do we got, Nicky?”
Theirs was another relationship that had come a long way—a really long way. The Old Man had originally been dead set against hiring Nicholas. Now they sounded like bowling buddies.
“Why don’t we start with the drone footage?” Nicholas replied.
“What drone footage?” asked Harvath as he grabbed a seat.
“Clifton Farm. Virginia. Northwest of D.C.”
He looked at Lydia Ryan. “Whose drone? Yours or ours?”
“Yours,” she replied. “The Central Intelligence Agency is forbidden from conducting domestic surveillance operations.”
Harvath smiled and then looked back at Nicholas. “What were we doing with a drone there?”
“Paying a visit to Mr. Pierre Damien.”
After Harvath had learned about the Ngoa lab, he had pressed Hendrik for information about who he was working for and where his Laissez-Passer had come from. It took a lot more water, but he eventually gave up a name—Pierre Damien.
Before leaving Bunia, Harvath filed his report and asked Carlton about Damien. The Old Man ran his name and came back with his dual Canadian/U.S. citizenship, his business background, the companies he was involved with, his current posting as Under-Secretary-General of the United Nations Population Fund, and then all of his anti-America, anti-Israel, save the planet stuff. There was nothing that pointed to an involvement with bioweapons or terrorism of any sort.
When Harvath had said as much, the Old Man had replied, “They don’t normally take out ads in the paper.”
He was right. It normally wasn’t until after, but a man like Damien would never publically take credit for any sort of outbreak or attack.
“Have you seen this footage yet?” Harvath asked Ryan as it began playing on one of the large flat-panel monitors along the wall.
The Deputy CIA Director shook her head. “We were waiting for you.”
From what he could see of it, Clifton was an amazing estate. Not only was there the manor house and the rolling manicured grounds, there appeared to be a fully functioning farm with lots of animals, pastures, and support buildings. The estate even had its own road system.
“Not bad,” Harvath remarked.
Nicholas toggled a small joystick and sped the footage forward. There was a man standing outside the main house near its long infinity pool. Pulling up a file photo of Pierre Damien, he ran that piece of drone footage through their facial recognition system. A blue digital overlay appeared and announced “Match.” Seconds later the words “Match ID” appeared, and columns of data pertaining to Pierre Damien unspooled.
“This is definitely our guy,” stated Nicholas.
Harvath leaned forward and studied his face. “How did you know where to look for him?”
“As soon as you came up with his name, we started searching. He had flown in the day before and cleared passport control and customs via private aviation at Dulles International. We had a time stamp, so all I did was pull the surrounding CCTV footage.”
Nicholas brought the footage up on another monitor as he continued speaking. “That also gave us the vehicles meeting him at the airport and their license plates. Traffic and other CCTV cameras got us as far as Berryville, Virginia, outside Leesburg. Then we lost him.”
“How did you pinpoint him to Clifton Farm then?”
“Architectural Digest,” the little man said with a smile. “Damien is a publicity hound. He posed for a spread six years ago. It came up in a generic web search. There was a satellite scheduled to be overhead about that time, so we requested some pictures and voila.”
Nicholas punched a few keys on his keyboard and satellite images of the same SUVs that had picked up Damien and his party at the airport were shown parked at the manor house. Close-ups of the license plates confirmed it.
“Wait. Back up a second,” said Ryan. “The woman travelling with Damien. Can you isolate her from the CCTV footage and run it against Passport Control and Customs?”
The little man nodded and got to work.
Moments later he popped several images up on the screen and replied, “Helena Pestova. Thirty-seven years old. Czech national.”
Ryan studied the images and smiled. “She may be a Czech national, but she’s technically an Israeli intelligence asset.”
“You know her?” Harvath asked.
“We crossed paths multiple times in the sandbox. Amman, Beirut. The last time was in Doha. The Mossad uses her for their honey traps.”
Nicholas brought up the drone footage of her and ran all the images through his facial recognition system. The blue overlay popped up instantly declaring “Match ID.” Unlike Damien, there was no publically available information about her. As far as they could tell, she didn’t even have a social media account.
“So the Mossad are looking at Damien as well,” said Harvath. “Same reason? Or something else?”
“There’s one way to find out,” Ryan replied as she opened a new window on her laptop and hopped on the secure network back to Langley. After a few seconds, she had what she was searching for and turned her screen so the others could see it.
“Who’s that?”
“Ben Zion Mordechai. Bentzi for short. He’s part of the Metsada—the Mossad’s Special Operations Division. According to our people, he’s also Helena’s handler.”
“Do we know where he is?” said Harvath.
“Probably in Israel. Most likely Tel Aviv. Unless he’s on assignment somewhere.”
“Can you send his picture to my screen?” Nicholas asked.
Ryan nodded and sent it over.
“Do you have anything else? Date of birth? Military service? Aliases and known associates?”
Ryan scanned the file, copied what she felt comfortable sharing, and sent it to Nicholas wh
o had received Mordechai’s picture and now put it up on the screen.
Harvath looked at Ryan and asked, “Who do you have in Israel who can reach out to Mordechai to find out what’s going on?”
“Knowing the Mossad,” she replied, “they may not want to tell us.”
“If they want to be that way,” Carlton interjected, “tell them we’re going to bounce her. And make sure they know that we’re going to be very loud about it. If they don’t want their op blown, they’re going to have to share. We don’t care if they like it or not.”
“Okay. I’ll have to make some phone calls. The first thing we need to do is find out if Mordechai is in Israel.”
“He isn’t,” stated Nicholas who had been working furiously at his keyboard.
All eyes in the room turned and focused on him.
“What do you think?” he asked, popping up an image from a European airport’s CCTV camera. “Is that him?”
Before anyone could answer, the blue overlay appeared with the words “Match.”
“It looks like you’ll get to ask Bentzi Mordechai your questions in person,” Nicholas stated as he read the information on his screen. “He’s inbound from Switzerland. His flight arrives at Dulles in two hours.”
CHAPTER 30
* * *
In the world of intelligence, biometric technology was a blessing and a curse. Facial recognition made it easier to identify and locate terrorists, but it also made it very difficult for spies to slip in and out of different countries while using an assumed identity.
After the 9/11 attacks, the United States cracked down particularly hard, requiring biometric scanning of visitors at its ports of entry. Only U.S. citizens were allowed to bypass these requirements, which was exactly why Bentzi Mordechai had acquired an authentic American passport under the name Vincent Geller.
The real Geller was an American Jew from Miami who had wanted to do his part for Israel and had been recruited by the Mossad. In exchange for surrendering his legitimate identity, he was set up in a new life with a monthly stipend. The U.S. Government had never been the wiser.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a pair of ICE agents at Dulles as they approached Mordechai. He was standing in the U.S. citizen lane, waiting for his passport to be inspected.
Mordechai acted as if they were addressing someone else, but it was obvious that they were speaking to him. “Me?”
“Yes, sir. Please step out of the line.”
Mordechai showed them his passport. “I’m in the right spot.”
Both agents put their hands on their weapons. “Right now, sir,” the lead agent ordered.
The people standing near Mordechai nervously backed away from him.
“No problem,” Bentzi said, making sure the officers could see his hands.
Once Mordechai had stepped out of the line, they closed on him. One agent covered him while the other put him in handcuffs.
Flying often exacerbated his arthritis. Despite having taken two pills, plus downing a handful of Scotches en route, his hands were still killing him. The force with which he had been cuffed, in addition to how tightly the cuffs had been applied, sent ripples of red-hot pain shooting through his entire body.
The agents walked him out of passport control and down a small corridor to a series of interrogation rooms. Unlocking one of the doors, the agents showed him inside. It wasn’t very large, just fifteen by fifteen. It was all white, with bright fluorescent overhead lighting. There was no two-way glass. Just a boring Formica table and four plastic chairs. Mordechai was instructed to sit.
As he knew any innocent person would, he had protested the entire way, getting more indignant as he went. He railed about being a taxpayer and raised his Constitutional rights.
It was quite a convincing performance, but the ICE agents had been told to ignore everything he said, not to offer him anything, and not to speak to him.
Soon after he sat down, there was a knock on the door. He looked up as an attractive woman with dark hair and green eyes entered. She was accompanied by a well-dressed man who crossed to the other side of the room and leaned casually against the wall.
The woman instructed the agents to remove Mordechai’s cuffs and then asked them to wait outside. Once they were gone, she sat down at the table and set a closed file folder in front of her.
“Mr. Mordechai,” she said, “do you know who I am?”
“My name’s not Mordechai,” he replied. “It’s Geller. Vincent Geller. I’m from Miami. I am an American citizen. You have no right to detain me like this. Those officers have my passport.”
“Mr. Mordechai,” she continued, “my name is Lydia Ryan. I’m Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Now, you and I can play games, or we can work together. What’s it going to be?”
“I wish I could help you, but I can’t. My name’s Geller, not Mordechai.”
Harvath shifted his weight and moved a little closer.
“Who’s he?” Mordechai asked.
“Never mind,” Ryan replied, removing a photograph and sliding it over to him. “Let’s talk about Helena.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who she is. You have the wrong guy.”
Harvath moved so quickly, Mordechai didn’t even see him coming. He was just about to strike him when Ryan held up her hand and stopped him.
“Mr. Mordechai, I’m treating you with respect out of professional courtesy,” she stated. “But there’s a limit to just how far that courtesy goes. I highly recommend you don’t push it. Am I making myself clear?”
Mordechai remained silent.
“We know Helena is here. We know she is with Damien. We want to know why.”
Mordechai opened his mouth to speak, but Ryan held up her hand to cut him off.
“If I hear the name Vincent Geller one more time, I’ll have you rendered to a black site, and we can continue our conversation there. Is that clear?”
The Israeli sat perfectly still and said nothing, his face unreadable.
“At some point Mr. Mordechai, you are going to tell me what I want to know. The only question is when. And how difficult you want to make this for Helena.
“If you work with me, maybe I allow your operation to continue. If not, maybe we put a bag over Helena’s head and render her to a black site as well. Maybe I’ll give Pierre Damien everything I have in this file and let him decide what he wants to do with her.
“Part of me thinks it would be fun to get my matches out and watch all of you burn. And unless you give me a good reason not to, that’s exactly what I might do.”
Ryan then leaned back in her chair and said nothing further. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harvath ready to strike if Mordechai made one false move.
Slowly, he reached his gnarled hand out for the file. Ryan came forward and put her hand down on top of it.
“That belongs to me,” she said. “Not you. You don’t get to see what we have until you start cooperating.”
“She’s small time. If I cooperate, will you let her go?” Mordechai asked.
“I know exactly what she is, Mr. Mordechai. What I want to know is why you have put her next to Damien.”
The Israeli smiled and shook his head. “Do you know what a pain in the ass Pierre Damien has been for Israel?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“My government takes his efforts to undermine our nation very seriously.”
“So seriously in fact,” Ryan mocked, “that shortly after he and Helena arrived here you rushed to the airport, bought a plane ticket, and hightailed it to the United States.” Standing, she picked up her file and said, “I hope you enjoy our rendition program Mr. Mordechai.” She then looked at Harvath. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”
Mordechai was in an impossible situation. He didn
’t want to work with the Americans. As soon as they knew what he knew, it would stop being about Israel and would be all about the United States. His mission would be subordinate to theirs.
He didn’t have a choice, though. If he didn’t cooperate, they’d throw him in a hole somewhere. By the time he got out, if he ever got out, the damage could already be done. It could be over for Israel. He was going to have to roll the dice. He was going to have to trust them.
Looking up at Ryan, he said, “What do you know about a United Nations body called the Secretary-General’s Senior Management Group?”
CHAPTER 31
* * *
The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal National Historical Park stretched a hundred eighty-five miles from Georgetown to Cumberland, Maryland. Many of its thirteen hundred historical structures were open to the public. Six “lockhouses,” or “canal quarters” as they were known, could be rented for overnight stays in order to experience what life was like along the once thriving canal that ran parallel to the Potomac.
Lockhouses 6, 10, 22, 25, 28, and 49 all came complete with kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms, and showers. The “blue” lockhouse, so named for the color of its shutters and front door, was also historic, and equipped for overnight stays, but had never been opened to the public—and with good reason.
A short drive from D.C., the blue lockhouse was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency and had hosted debriefings of some of the most valuable Soviet defectors during the Cold War. The term “behind the blue door” became synonymous with interrogations at the highest level. Most agents who had used the phrase had no idea where the blue door was, much less that it was attached to a tiny C&O canal house. Many assumed the door simply existed somewhere deep within the bowels of the Central Intelligence Agency where only the Director and a handful of privileged others were ever allowed to go.
