by Fritz Galt
Greg was sleepy and hadn’t yet left the office, but his brain was still alert. Maybe he could locate Dean Wells by tracing all phone calls between the CIA and Sharm el-Sheikh. If Wells called the agency or if someone in the agency called Wells, Greg could figure out Wells’ phone number. Armed with that information, he could have the Egyptians track Wells down. But how could he make such a phone call take place?
After some thought, he came up with a plan. He would force Langley to contact Wells. Greg could spread the rumor that Dean Wells was on the verge of being captured by police. Then he would monitor how people reacted. Security would trace all calls to and from Sharm el-Sheikh.
Tracing calls didn’t work all the time, but sometimes one got lucky.
How would he start the rumor? He was aware that Hart Baxter was trying to keep the investigation under wraps. Maybe they could limit the number of people informed.
He would have to start near the top. Once the troops woke up and filtered in to work, he would inform the inspector general of his plan.
He turned off his desk lamp and rested his head in his arms.
He awoke with someone shaking him by his shoulders. He blinked several times and sat up. It was Matt Nelson, head of Personnel Security, in whose section he had fallen asleep.
“Hey, buster,” Matt said. “We try to set a good example around here. Don’t want to be accused of sleeping on the job.”
Groggy, Greg uttered an apology and rubbed his eyes. How long had he been asleep? Office lights were on full blast and people walked by, chatting in an early morning sort of way. His computer had gone to sleep, but a sheet of paper faced him.
It had the words, “Set bait.”
Matt was looking at the paper. “Interesting plan. Bait for whom?”
Greg was finally awake enough to respond coherently. “It was the last thought I had before falling asleep.”
“If it’s for Dean Wells, it didn’t work,” Matt said. “The Egyptian police broke down his door, but he slipped through their fingers.”
That was interesting. Greg hadn’t expected Dean to be on the lookout.
“Thanks for the info,” he said. “But last night, I figured out a way to find him, as long as someone in the agency is aware of his whereabouts. And if that is the case, we find not only Dean, but an informant within the agency.”
Matt pulled a chair up to Greg. “You know, this really sucks. I have a problem with you FBI agents coming in here and poking your noses in our business, making a few assumptions, one of which is that we’re dumber than we look, and go issuing arrest warrants for our people.”
“I could see that.”
“So you can see why I would take issue with your ‘setting the bait.’”
“If you’d allow me to explain…”
“Why don’t you do that? Because we’re not into entrapment around here.”
Matt was just a foot away from Greg’s face, his eyes boring into him.
Greg explained the plan to him.
“Doesn’t exactly sound like entrapment,” Matt admitted.
“Can it work?”
Matt started a computer program. Within seconds, a steadily changing list of phone numbers and locations appeared on the screen. “We screen all calls to and from the building.”
“I’d like Security to trace all calls, but to narrow down our suspects, let’s put out the bait.”
“Meaning what?”
Greg explained that they could start a rumor that the Egyptian police were closing in on Dean Wells.
“We don’t start rumors. But in this case, I guess it’s justified.”
Greg felt the Earth move. He was not only on track to finding Dean Wells, but finding his first CIA mole as well. “Do I have your permission to continue my investigation?”
Matt laughed. “It’s not my permission you need. Talk to the inspector general.”
Greg spent the next hour bracing for the new day. He began by showering in the locker room next to the gym. Then he ate a hearty breakfast of gravy-covered biscuits just the way he liked them.
He was feeling on top of his game by the time he arrived at the inspector general’s office. Hart Baxter was just emerging from a staff meeting.
“Come into my lair,” Baxter said, and led Greg into his plush office.
Baxter eased his bulk behind his desk, but didn’t offer a seat. “Okay. State your business. I’m a busy man.”
Despite the request for brevity, Greg had to start from the beginning. “Dean Wells may have a co-conspirator within the agency.”
Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “Did we know that?”
“No. But in the off chance that he does…”
Greg’s stomach was grinding away on the biscuits and gravy. “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Help yourself.”
“For the moment, we can’t find Wells,” Greg said. “Assuming he’s in Sharm el-Sheikh, we can start a rumor that the Egyptians are about to nab him. If anybody calls Sharm el-Sheikh, we have not only found Wells, but we have an informant.”
“Shoot. What makes you think we have an informant?”
Greg shifted positions in his seat. “I don’t know. It’s our way of flushing out Wells. But if someone at the CIA knows about Wells’ activities and is feeding him information, we should know about that.” He eased a burp out of the side of his mouth.
“Son, I don’t want to start a mole hunt where there’s no mole.”
“If nobody calls Sharm el-Sheikh, there will be no mole to hunt.”
Baxter squinted at him. “Do you suspect anybody in particular?”
“No. There’s no telling who it might turn up and where it will lead.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Baxter said. “We don’t need another fishing expedition around here.”
“Okay, then work it out with my superiors,” Greg said. “If they tell you to pull the plug on the investigation, I’ll pack my bags and leave. That is, if you don’t mind taking the heat if Wells gets away.”
Baxter seemed to consider the proposition seriously. His trigger finger tapped repeatedly against the palm of his hand. “All right, young man. You’ve got my permission to monitor calls. But if you find a traitor in our midst, I’ll eat my hat.”
Greg closed his eyes in thanks. “Oh, I forgot to mention. I need you to start the rumor.”
Baxter looked offended. “I don’t do that sort of thing.”
“You will call someone with the news that Wells is close to capture in Egypt, then alert Security to start tracing phone calls.”
“Do I have to?”
“Just think of it this way. It won’t be a lie. If you make the call, it will be true. We will catch Wells.”
When Greg got to his feet, he seemed to leave his stomach in the chair. “One more request.”
Baxter frowned. “What is it?”
“Do you happen to have a bathroom around here?”
He barely made it to the john before the diarrhea hit and that morning’s breakfast was expelled. It was not pleasant.
Was someone trying to poison him before his investigation got underway?
He’d have to watch his step. And bring his own breakfast next time.
Chapter 61
Dean saw Ari Ben-Yosef standing at the entrance to the Wadi Restaurant at the Hilton hotel. The senior Mossad official was there out of trust and friendship, and Dean had a big favor to ask.
Ari removed his aviator sunglasses and cast a wary glance around the restaurant. The scattered tables with muted pink linens would appeal to the Western guests eating there. For the Israeli intelligence officer, the room was a minefield of potential agents of hostile services.
By instinct, a Mossad agent abroad was a cautious man.
Dean watched Ari make a beeline for his table. He rose to shake Ari’s hand and introduce him to Bruce Johnson. Ari and Bruce had not previously met, but felt instantly at ease as fellow professionals often feel in each other’s company.
; Ari declined Dean’s offer of breakfast and asked, “What has happened so far?”
Dean filled him in on the state of play in Sharm el-Sheikh.
The Arab League was on its second day of deliberations, to which the rest of the world was not privy. All the horde of reporters could say to their viewers and readers was that a boycott plan floated by Sudan was still under consideration as a counter to the imminent Palestinian-Israeli peace talks.
Ari looked furious. “If Arabs boycott Israeli products, they’ll suffer a massive retaliation from the West. They are playing with fire.”
“What products would the West ban in retaliation?” Dean said. “We can hardly ban oil.”
Ari only grew more furious. “We’ll have to shut down plants that hire Palestinians.”
“Maybe Palestinians are willing to make that sacrifice.”
Ari could hardly contain his emotions. “Do you know that it’s illegal for a store or distributor in the West Bank to carry products made in Jewish settlements in the West Bank? Even selling a watermelon can cost you $14,000.”
Bruce whistled. “That’s a pretty expensive watermelon.”
Dean stared at his plate. “Maybe that’s because most of the West Bank doesn’t have enough water to grow their own watermelons.”
The tension among the three men had risen to an intolerable level, and Dean hadn’t even gotten around to asking Ari for the favor.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “That was out of line.”
“Out of line,” Ari agreed. “But true.”
Bruce chuckled and Dean let out his breath. That was close.
“So what’s happening today?” Ari asked.
Bruce took over. “This is a day off to let matters settle and polish the final wording of an agreement, or disagreement. I’m not sure if anyone knows how it will turn out.”
Ari sat back and looked around the restaurant. “What are we going to do? Sit on our hands and hope for the best?”
“It’s not the boycott that we’re concerned about,” Dean said. “We’re not here to influence the meeting.” The conversation was turning to operational matters. Dean suggested they take their discussion outdoors for more privacy.
They strolled to a richly planted courtyard with a nearby pool. The sun hadn’t hit the lounge chairs yet, so nobody else was there.
“Bruce and I are here for one very specific reason,” Dean began. “We’re here to convince Omar al-Farak not to turn to al-Qaeda.”
“Convince Omar al-Farak?” Ari said skeptically. “I’m not sure he’s capable of reason.”
“I’m being euphemistic,” Dean said.
Ari gave him a knowing smile, and Dean proceeded to tell him the plan.
When he was finished, Dean sat back and watched Ari’s reaction. The Mossad agent looked shocked, and his thick lips had a dubious twist.
“Thai dancers?” Ari said.
Dean nodded.
“A burqa?”
He nodded again.
“And me?”
“Sure. If we’re going to do this right, we have to go all the way.”
Ari flatly refused. “I don’t want to be caught anywhere near the Palestinian foreign minister, especially not with dancers from Bangkok and people taking pictures. What kind of a schnook do you think I am?”
“Ari, you’re the only Israeli I know who has the chutzpah to do this.”
“Even I have my limits, and my dignity.”
Dean had anticipated this reaction long before he began the operation. He had seen it coming before he left Washington. That was why he had asked Rachel to bring the codex pages to Sharm el-Sheikh.
“I’m offering you five missing pages of the Aleppo Codex as incentive for going along with this.”
Ari stared at him with hard gray eyes that reflected no light. “The codex pages first. Then I will agree.”
“I expect to get them to you this morning.” Dean checked his cell phone. After Rachel’s initial text message from the airplane that she was en route to Sharm el-Sheikh, there were no new messages.
After more discussion, Ari agreed. But before the operation could proceed, Ari had to receive the codex pages.
The three returned to Bruce’s room, opposite the room that had been invaded by police the night before.
“What happened here?” Ari said, and pointed to the cracks around the door handle of Dean’s original room.
“The Egyptian police came looking for Dean,” Bruce said. “That’s why he’s staying with me.”
But Dean had stopped paying attention to the conversation. He bent down to examine a note stuck under his door. He slid it out with the toe of his shoe. It was an unmarked envelope.
Once inside Bruce’s room with the door closed, he inspected the envelope. It had been sealed once, but torn open discreetly, only to have its flap shut as if nothing had happened. Tucked in the envelope was a note in a woman’s handwriting. “I’m in room 235. –R.”
Rachel had come through. She was in Sharm el-Sheikh, not contacting him directly but playing it safe like a natural spy.
“A woman making herself available?” Ari inquired.
Dean fingered the torn envelope. Someone had intercepted her note, and they knew her room number. His eyes flashed up to Ari. “Rachel’s in trouble. Follow me.”
The three hurried out of Bruce’s room to the lobby and into the opposite wing of the complex. Dean raced to the second floor. Signs indicated her room was to the right.
He motioned for the others to wait in the stairwell and proceeded alone.
The hallway was quiet except for the sound of someone sniffling. Sunlight flooded into the hallway from an open door.
He edged up to the room and listened.
It sounded like one person. It sounded like a woman.
He didn’t want the crying to raise alarm, so he eased past her battered door and clamped a hand over her mouth.
She struggled, but he had to restrain her. After a while, she began to relent.
“Rachel!” he whispered. “It’s me. Dean.”
The struggling began anew. Her legs were stronger than he had anticipated, and he was hurled backward. He held onto her mouth as she landed on top of him, face up. With her arms and legs thrashing about, he could see several wounds that were barely healed. They must have been from the car bomb.
“It’s just me,” he said, gasping. “I don’t want to attract attention.”
Slowly, she grew limp and he eased his grip.
She twisted away from him and her eyes burned with rage. “I told you I was coming. I gave you my room number. Did you have to steal the codex?”
He was perplexed. “What makes you think I stole it?”
“I saw those two goons getting away with it in a taxi. They were at Tyson’s Corner when you bombed my car.”
It was all too confusing. There were too many forces at work. All he wanted was to blackmail Omar. Now he couldn’t even pay off Ari with the codex pages.
“Trouble in paradise?” a baritone voice came from the doorway.
Dean turned to look. Ari stood with Bruce self-consciously in the hall. Ari turned to study the splintered wood around the doorknob and hinges.
“Who are these fakes?” Rachel spat out, her primary criticism directed at Bruce.
“Who? Me?” Bruce said.
“Yeah. You’re no Australian,” she said.
“Maybe we should keep our voices down,” Dean suggested. Then he tried to summarize for Rachel. “Look, I’m grateful you came here to Egypt, but I didn’t steal the codex pages. In fact, I was hoping to give them to my friend Ari to take back to Israel in payment for a mission he will perform tonight. As far as the fake Australian accent goes, you’re right. Bruce is from South Carolina and is posing as an Aussie to give me cover. Now as for your accusation that I was responsible for the car bomb at Tyson’s, all I can say is I was not. You couldn’t have seen me there because I was at the airport catching a flight to Tel Aviv.”
&nbs
p; Ari circled Dean until he was right in Dean’s face.
“If you didn’t plant the bomb,” Ari said, “then who did?”
Dean squinted in the sunlight that blazed through the window. Out among the waving palms, people were gathering at poolside bars or ordering lunch at one of the restaurants. He could see beachcombers, divers and water sports enthusiasts at the water’s edge.
Somewhere among all that humanity, there was a killer prepared to strike again.
Then a thought hit him. Where was Omar?
Chapter 62
Hart Baxter picked up the phone to spread the rumor that Dean Wells was about to be nabbed in Egypt.
The logical place to start was with his friend José Gomez at the Near East and North Africa area office.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he began.
“Hardly,” José replied. “I was putting the finishing touches on an acceptance speech.”
“For?”
“Word has it that this afternoon I’m going to receive a special citation from the director.”
“For?”
“Most likely for managing a team of operatives and military advisors in Yemen.”
It made Hart sick to his stomach to suspect everybody he talked to, especially the real heroes of the agency, of doing something bad.
“Okay, something has me feeling optimistic,” Hart said. “That FBI fellow tells me that the Egyptians are about to capture Dean Wells. That will make my week.”
“Yeah. I feel bad that he came out of my bureau.”
“It could have happened to anybody. You’ll still get your citation.”
“How did the Egyptians find him?”
“Don’t know. But the end is in sight.”
“Finally,” was all José said.
It was with great reluctance that Hart Baxter hung up the phone and dialed Matt Nelson over in Security.
“I called José Gomez. You can start tracing calls.”
“We’re on the case.”
Chapter 63
Rachel had been pinned to the carpet long enough. She had had enough of Dean groping her from behind. She had had enough tears.