The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  And the headgear, that gave it all away.

  He fingered the three tickets in his pocket. He had options for a reason. There were several ways to access the West Bank.

  First there was Beirut. He could use his diplomatic credentials and attempt to breeze past the checkpoints of southern Lebanon to enter the West Bank. But, from there, it was a long road trip south out of Nablus past numerous Israeli checkpoints, Jewish settlements and Palestinian enclaves.

  Alternatively, he could fly to Amman and avoid Israeli airport security. But that approach would arouse Israeli suspicion. At each checkpoint, he would have to explain why he had taken such an indirect approach to Hebron.

  Lastly, he could fly straight into Israel. But would he lose all credibility with the Palestinians?

  Each option had its merits and limitations.

  After studying the airport crowd, he decided to be counterintuitive.

  Businessmen and smart young couples were headed to Doha and Dubai. Expatriate families were returning to Cairo and Riyadh after spring break in America. He would be neither.

  Traveling light, he looked like a tourist. One group of young people was headed to Egypt, and an older group for Tel Aviv.

  With a simple phone call, he could get a free ride into Hebron courtesy of the Israel Defense Forces. His old friend Ari Ben-Yosef could be waiting in Tel Aviv and have a convoy ready to take him, no questions asked.

  The Israel Defense Forces made routine excursions into Bethlehem and Hebron. Sometimes they were after terrorists and sometimes it was a fully armed show of force. Most often, it was a supply run to support marooned soldiers and settlers.

  He studied a Protestant pastor and his flock standing in line for Tel Aviv. They seemed like this was the pilgrimage of a lifetime. Dean put on an excited smile, picked up his things and joined the group.

  Chapter 16

  Rachel awoke in a hospital bed. Two thoughts crossed her mind immediately. Who had been tampering with her car? Only a fleeting glimpse remained in her memory. And second, if Barry wanted her dead, why hadn’t he killed her already? He had the means and opportunity.

  She felt numb. She was unable to flex her toes. There was no movement beneath the sheets. Was she paralyzed?

  She tried her fingers, with the same lack of success. Had she become a prisoner in her own body?

  She glanced around the room. Nobody was there. An IV was hooked to her arm. Maybe she should be grateful that she felt nothing. The IV could be giving her drugs that blocked serious pain.

  She took another look at her sheets. Were there any limbs left?

  The car bombing came back to her in wrenching detail. Oh God, she had lost her limbs. She struggled to sit up and throw off the sheet, but couldn’t move. She tipped her head forward and grabbed the sheet in her teeth. With slow, methodical movements, she was able to inch the sheet off the end of the bed. She had pulled several inches of fabric loose when her feet appeared.

  She was not a paraplegic. She could continue pursuing her life’s ambitions.

  Then dark memories of her encounter with Barry and the two men at the restaurant clouded that picture. She might never work for the CIA again. She had blown Dean’s cover and discussed classified information in public.

  The IV bag looked nearly empty. It was only a matter of time before a nurse would walk in. She lay her head back and waited.

  Maybe, she thought, someone might come in and smother her with a pillow. Did the hospital staff know she was the target of a deliberately placed bomb? She might still be in danger.

  The wall clock said 7:00. From the sunlight, she couldn’t tell if it was early morning or early evening.

  The IV bag stopped dripping, and her brain began to clear. Should she call for help?

  Who were those two creeps sitting in the booth behind her? How did they know to duck? And who, in God’s name, was the man who planted the bomb in her car?

  Her feet were beginning to move. Was it a delayed response to her earlier attempt to move them? Or perhaps it was her desire to run.

  Movement was a good sign. She tried to flex her fingers. Nothing there.

  Then the door opened.

  It was the last person she wanted to see. It was Barry Wiseman.

  She squirmed to free herself from her paralysis.

  He looked down at her calmly and reached for her pillow.

  His large hands pulled the pillow out from under her head and punched it several times.

  Why couldn’t she turn away, roll off the bed? Then she realized why. Her wrists were tied to the bedrails. She glanced at her exposed feet. They were taped to the end of the bed.

  “Help!” she finally yelled.

  The pillow lowered. But not over her face.

  Barry leaned in close with a finger to his lips. “I’m only fluffing it up.”

  Sure he was.

  Before she could scream again, he placed a hand over her mouth.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. The police have posted a 24-hour guard outside your door. Nobody’s going to come in here.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about, you putz,” she said when he finally removed his hand.

  “Hey. That’s no way to treat your dinner date.” He lifted her head with a gentle touch and placed the pillow under her.

  It felt good. “Thanks.”

  He reached for the other end of the bed and pulled the sheet over her feet.

  “Why in the world am I tied down?” she asked.

  “The nurse didn’t want you to roll around and disconnect your IV.”

  “Why do I have an IV?”

  “It’s morphine. You have severe cuts, bruises and internal injuries and you need time for your body to repair itself.”

  She remembered the hot sting of metal flying into her skin. Clearly she couldn’t blame Barry for that.

  “Who did this to me?”

  “Terrorists. Al-Qaeda. We don’t know.”

  “Right here at Tyson’s Corner?”

  “They operate everywhere in the world. You can never be too careful.”

  She was confused. The man who planted the bomb was clearly Caucasian, like someone she would see at the mall, or even at work. “Why would someone want to kill me?”

  Barry shrugged. He looked strong and handsome. “I think they tried to kill you because you were with me and…”

  “If they don’t like you, why didn’t they just bomb your car? Why pick on me?”

  “You were an easier target.”

  “My car isn’t any easier to bomb than yours. A car is a car.”

  He closed his eyes for patience until she was finished with her rant. “I have bodyguards,” he said.

  Only then did she remember the Mercedes with the two toughs.

  “Since when do you get protection? The CIA doesn’t assign bodyguards to just any employee.”

  “It’s not CIA security.”

  “Okay. That really scares me.”

  The IV bag was dry and she was beginning to feel pain.

  “How badly am I hurt?”

  “You were lucky. You didn’t reach your car before it blew up, and the force of the blast knocked you flat. You got some metal embedded in your legs and torso and you have other lacerations, but nothing struck a major artery or organ. The surgeons were able to extract it all.”

  She closed her eyes with gratitude. She had walked into a minefield, been hit, and faceless responders had delivered her to safety.

  Everyone was faceless except for one person. The man who set off the explosion. Her head was perfectly clear in spite of a splitting headache.

  She could see the man who had planted the bomb. He had blond hair, a medium build, a large head and broad features. And his blue eyes stared straight at her.

  It was Dean Wells.

  “You’re looking frazzled,” Barry said. He gave her pillow another punch. “You’ll be back on your feet tomorrow and you can return to normal life.”

  Normal life? With p
eople trying to kill her?

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to make the nightmare go away.

  Chapter 17

  Landing at Ben Gurion International Airport was always an inspiring experience for Dean.

  The brightly lit arrival hall at Terminal 3 was a pleasant introduction to the country of Israel. The slender, elegant columns and immeasurably high ceiling gave the country a regal air.

  As expected, Ari Ben-Yosef was standing just outside customs. Robust, fit and wearing aviator sunglasses, he was easy to spot. Dean was refreshed from the flight and ready to go. His body thought it was morning, Eastern Standard Time.

  Conversely, Ari had a doleful expression, nearly concealed by his sunglasses. His normal bear-hug greeting was a mere pat on the back that afternoon.

  “What’s wrong?” Dean said, pocketing his diplomatic passport.

  “There was an incident in Washington,” Ari said in a grave, baritone voice. “I’m afraid your mission has been compromised.”

  Dean thought back to his flight. With no access to news reports or SMS alerts, he had been blissfully unaware of events on the ground. “What happened?”

  “An employee at the CIA was severely injured in a car bomb last night.”

  “Who?”

  Ari took off his sunglasses. “A woman named Rachel Levy.” His pale gray eyes studied Dean’s reaction.

  Dean was stunned. Wasn’t that the gorgeous linguist who had helped him translate the codex? The one who knew he was going to the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron?

  “Is she going to pull through?”

  “She’s in stable condition.”

  Stable condition. Rachel, the shy, athletic-looking beauty, the CIA’s expert in ancient languages, was merely described as stable? Was that supposed to make him happy? The shock had barely registered. He could feel nothing resembling relief. Instead, he felt numb.

  “Who did it?”

  Ari shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Perhaps not. Except if he traveled into Hebron, he wanted to know if anyone was out to get him.

  “I’m going anyway,” he said.

  Ari gave him a look that showed he understood Dean’s anger and the guilt he must feel. “I can’t authorize your trip to Hebron.”

  “What do you mean ‘authorize’? I’ll be riding in an armored personnel carrier, for godssake.”

  “I can’t ensure your safety. I don’t want you killed out there. You’re a marked man.”

  Dean made sure they weren’t within earshot of others, but the spacious interior of the airport suddenly felt claustrophobic. “Let’s step outside.”

  The airport was designed to give the visitor the impression of calm and control. It had an orderly system of trains, taxis and shared taxi vans taking people to any city in the area, from the northern cities of Haifa and Tel Aviv to Beer-Sheva south in the Negev Desert.

  “Listen, Ari,” he drew his friend aside. “You just get me to Hebron. I’ll take it from there.”

  His longtime friend from the Mossad was a strong man. In fact, he had taught agents for years to stand up to the most intense pressure, the most painful conditions, and the most nerve-wracking circumstances. He could stare down the muzzle of an AK-47 without blinking. He understood the danger inherent in Dean’s mission, and he understood Dean.

  Beneath the diplomatic demeanor, Dean was also strong.

  “I will get you there,” he said at last.

  The drive from the outskirts of Tel Aviv to Jerusalem could have been anywhere in America. Enterprises looked prosperous throughout the sunny, tree-filled countryside. Traffic moved swiftly along the highway, with a solid concrete barrier in the median, modern overpasses and green highway signs. Their black sedan cruised ahead of buses, trucks and small boxy cars with radios blaring dance music.

  The route was gradually uphill and the terrain became rugged. Soon, steep ravines forced the road to curve around sharp turns.

  He was always surprised by how many new developments contributed to the sprawl of Jerusalem. The city, built upon hills, sat overlooking a monotonous desert that extended eastward and comprised the Palestinian West Bank. It was frustrating how Israel and Jordan took most of the water from the River Jordan before it passed alongside the West Bank. Tensions such as those seemed a world apart from Langley, Virginia, yet he was reminded how intractable the positions were and how they affected global politics.

  He turned to his friend. “How did they target Rachel? I can’t imagine that much infiltration into the CIA.”

  Ari looked uncomfortable. “They are smart, but their methods are crude.”

  No kidding. A car bomb was hardly subtle. “But al-Qaeda’s acts are designed to terrorize. This was different, a deliberate assassination attempt.”

  “I’m not saying it was al-Qaeda,” Ari said.

  Dean thought about it. Was it Palestinian extremists? It did nothing to advance their cause. The perpetrators either felt threatened by Rachel or wanted to send a warning.

  Still, how did they know her connection to Dean?

  If Palestinians were following him, how did they trace him to Rachel? Dean had spoken with her only twice, and that was in her office. Nobody saw them meet except her boss, the receptionist and perhaps that man who was entering her office just as he was leaving.

  He thought about that last encounter. What had the employee overheard? Perhaps something about the Aleppo Codex and maybe even his decision to go to Hebron.

  Was the man a mole?

  Dean tried to conjure up the young man’s name and appearance. He hadn’t heard the man speak. He hadn’t caught the man’s department. But he had taken a good look at the guy. He didn’t look much different from the Mossad driver who chauffeured him now. There was a distinctive straight-backed, no nonsense look that Israeli intelligence officers had.

  The man in Rachel’s office had that look.

  Dean closed his eyes and felt the wheels skimming over the road. On paper, the mission looked simple and destined to succeed. But José Gomez had been against it, and Ari only grudgingly consented to help. This was Dean’s mission alone. Had he pushed the envelope too far? Was he venturing into territory where even his friends became enemies?

  He took a sideways glance at Ari. The expression had turned opaque behind his aviator sunglasses.

  Were people trying to tell him something?

  Chapter 18

  Carla was listening to classical music that morning.

  The radio station was celebrating that month’s composer, and piano music followed her all the way to work.

  She got her first indication that something was wrong when she approached the agency. Cars were lined up on the street waiting for security. Police cars sat diagonally across oncoming lanes to block all traffic.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked the guard when she finally pulled up.

  “We’re in lockdown,” he said, kneeling to check under her car.

  “What for?” she asked when he reappeared.

  He was sweating from the exertion.

  “Car bomb last night, ma’am. You’re clean.”

  That was disturbing.

  When she stepped out of the elevator several minutes later, she heard a honking noise coming from the Mental Health Unit. Ron was blowing his nose. His gaunt face was clouded with concern. “Did you hear the news?”

  “The car bomb? Who was the target?”

  “Rachel Levy.” Ron stared at her significantly.

  A woman. What was the world coming to? “Did she survive?”

  “Barely. She’s in the hospital with multiple lacerations. You just missed an internal briefing.”

  She huffed and dropped her bag onto the floor beside her desk. Several folders had appeared in her in-box already. It would be a busy day dissecting employees’ problems. Did she want to worry about yet another issue?

  “Wait,” she said. “Did you say ‘Rachel’ Something?”

  “Rachel Levy. She’s a linguist with the a
gency.”

  She sat down hard. When she last saw Dean Wells, he was heading off to see someone named Rachel in the Language Department. A queasy feeling took hold of her.

  “Are we talking about Dean’s Rachel?”

  Ron nodded. “She was working on his mission. She was privy to some of his operational details.”

  Carla was also privy to some of his operational details, but her car wasn’t blown up. “How much did Rachel know?”

  “The fact that he’s on his way to Hebron.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The West Bank.”

  Palestine.

  She thought back to Dean’s most recent trip. “It’s possible that Syrians planted the bomb to retaliate for the murder in Aleppo.”

  “I just talked with Dean’s supervisor, José Gomez. Dean wasn’t dealing with Syrians. He was dealing with al-Qaeda terrorist cells.”

  “Oh.”

  Dean had come across as such a normal guy. It was hard to picture him dealing with any type of cell, much less terrorists.

  “I’m afraid Dean’s cover has been compromised,” Ron said, “and the leak came from within the agency.”

  He looked long and hard at her.

  “Why are you looking at me?”

  “At this point, nobody is above suspicion. Inspector General Hart Baxter called me up last night. As you know, he was already looking into Dean’s activities. We have to stay one step ahead of the mole.”

  She closed her eyes. What started as a routine psychological investigation was moving fast. “Excuse me. Did you say mole?”

  “Yes. You’re familiar with Dean’s case. You interviewed him. You read his security file. I want you to interview all employees who have anything to do with his current mission.”

  “I don’t know anyone associated with him.”

  Ron headed for her door. “I’m putting you back on his case. I put his personnel file on your desk.”

  Sure enough. She saw the folder.

  But she was confused. “I thought the inspector general and his creepy henchmen were looking into this. Just give them the file.”