by Fritz Galt
“So where are you headed?” Gomez inquired.
“I’m flying to Amman to help engineer the handover. I expect to travel with the Palestinians into Ramallah, then on to Jerusalem and the Shrine of the Book to kick-start the peace talks.”
“So Omar will go along with this?”
“You would, too, if you saw the pictures I took last night.”
“If he’s willing to deal with you, who knows who else he’ll deal with.”
Dean stared at the limitless blue sky. He had heard that refrain from Gomez before. “We’ve got him on the hook. He’s ours.”
He hung up the phone and looked at Carla, who had been listening to every word. She eyed him suspiciously.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to kill him.”
She showed mild relief, but didn’t look completely convinced. She surveyed the landscape defined only by hard shadows from the sun.
“I guess I’ve reached the end of my trip,” she said.
“Carla.” He reached out for her. Her fingers were warm, and she did not withdraw. It felt like he had made an involuntary, yet fateful decision. But life was too short and he regretted nothing he had ever decided with his heart. “How would you like to accompany me to Amman?”
She seemed reluctant to take her gaze off the horizon. “Sure,” she mouthed, and turned to him at last. Her eyes searched his. It seemed as if they had looked into each other’s eyes many times before and read each other’s thoughts. “Would you permit me one tiny call to Washington?”
If that was all it took for her to come with him. He placed the cell phone in her outstretched hand.
She gave one of her ambiguous smiles and wandered some distance away to make her call.
Dean stared down at the portfolio. He had to make sure it got to Omar, and together they would get that precious document to Jerusalem.
Where along the way, did the killer intend to strike?
Chapter 75
Greg’s knees were feeling weak. It was a sensation he had experienced before when he was close to cracking a case. He just needed evidence to convict the bastard. He needed to catch José committing a crime. “I don’t want to interrogate him, or it might tip him off. We can’t alert him in any way. In fact, I don’t even want to use his name.”
Matt discreetly shut his office door. “What’ll we call him?”
Greg had a talent for choosing anonymous, but oddly relevant code names. “How about the Sheik?”
“As in the condom?”
“Why not?”
“Personally, I prefer the Ramses.”
“How about the Trojan? Don’t you love the ribbing technology?”
“Not really. But we digress.”
“Right,” Greg said.
“Look here.” Matt had switched back to the screen showing all calls to and from Cyprus. “The Sheik just tried Greece.”
“What? Huh?”
“José just tried calling Cyprus.”
“Oh yeah. My mind was elsewhere.” Greg pulled himself together.
“He’s using the same phone in the secretarial pool.”
“Duration?”
“It’s a long one. Been over a minute so far.”
“God, I wish I could eavesdrop.”
Matt glared at the screen. Finally, the conversation ended. It had lasted for just over two minutes.
“Okay. I’m angry now,” Matt said. “How are we going to take him down?”
Greg had no idea how to get José to incriminate himself. All evidence they had gathered was circumstantial. He had never met José Gomez, and as a counterespionage agent for the FBI, he might arouse suspicion by introducing himself now.
What he could do was alert the Cypriot police and close in on the caller from Cyprus. He got on the phone to the Bureau and reached his contact at once. He explained that they had uncovered an assassin, and he read off the phone number in Cyprus.
“We’ll have the police question the individual at that number.”
“We need more than that. We need him held in order to prevent another assassination attempt.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
Greg was just trying to visualize police descending on some decrepit safe house in Cyprus when the phone rang.
Matt answered, and whispered to Greg, “It’s that young psychologist calling from Egypt.”
Greg took the phone. “Carla Martino?”
The young woman laughed. “Good. You remembered my name.”
“What on Earth are you doing in Egypt? I thought you were off the case.”
“Well, I’ve got a nose like a bloodhound. And I found more hard evidence for you. Dean Wells is a good man. He’s working for Mideast peace.”
“I thought you said you had hard evidence.”
“Okay. Here it is. It’s hard psychological evidence.”
That sounded like a self-contradiction.
“I have reason to believe, although I haven’t performed the necessary tests yet, that Dean Wells has a split personality. And not only that, he is leading a double life.”
This was going to be amusing. “How so?”
“He lives in Virginia, but claims to own a villa in Cyprus. He is a trained killer, yet prefers peaceful means. His disorder even manifests itself in physical ways. For instance, one of his sides is colorblind. The other is not. One is a real Casanova, and the other is a perfect gentleman. I know it sounds far-fetched, but I have witnessed these things personally.”
“Carla, I hate to break this to you because I’m enjoying your analysis so much. But we have new information. Dean Wells may be schizophrenic, but there is a second operative running around behind his back.”
“What?”
“There are two people. One is Dean Wells and we don’t know who the other one is, but that one appears to have murdered Dean’s contacts.”
There was a frosty silence on the other end of the line. Then, “I wish you people would tell me these things.”
“I’m sorry. We only learned of his existence this morning.”
“Well, I can tell you, I know Dean and he’s a good man.”
“What kind of test do you use to prove that?”
“Did it ever occur to you that someone over there at the agency is screwing around with him?”
“Yes. I’m looking into that right now,” Greg said, his eyes on the computer screen. “I wanted to know who’s running the other operative, and it appears to be the same man who’s running Dean.”
“Dean’s boss? José Gomez?”
“The one and only.”
“What’s your evidence?” she threw the word back at him.
“I don’t have much,” he admitted. “It’s all circumstantial.”
“I’d love to confront Gomez with the two men at the same time,” she said. “I’d do anything to see the look on his face.”
“That’s it!” Greg said. “When cornered with the lie, how would José react? Where are you now?”
“Right now I’m in the middle of the Sinai Desert. But Dean and I are flying to Amman. Then we’re going on to Jerusalem.”
“Great. Hang tight.” Greg stood up. “I’ll see you there.” He hung up the phone and grabbed his suit coat.
“Where are you headed?” Matt asked.
“To the inspector general. I’m going to arrange a meeting in the Middle East.”
Matt fixed him with his gaze. “Hart Baxter and José Gomez are close friends. Are you sure Baxter isn’t in on this?”
Greg stared back at the chief of Personnel Security. “That’s what I’m going to find out. At this point, nobody is beyond suspicion.”
Chapter 76
Dean was picking up strong signals from Carla that either she was extremely happy to be invited to Jordan, or she was extremely happy to be with him.
The seats on the small jet forced them to face each other, but it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. Carla had an intimate, knowing look in which her eyes literally smiled at him.<
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They were taking the codex to Jordan, but could not fly direct. Israeli air travel restrictions compelled them to route around Israel’s airspace. So the plane flew east over the Gulf of Aqaba to circle the southern tip of Israel.
From that vantage point, Dean could see four countries at once: Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Saudi Arabia.
He dwelled on that perspective for a moment. Some astronauts reported seeing the world as a harmonious whole after coming back from space. It took no more than an airplane flight over the northern end of the Gulf of Aqaba to see that troubled part of the world the same way.
“Look down the coast,” he told Carla.
The long, straight coastal strip of western Saudi Arabia was flat and easily accessible. However, there was a steep escarpment several miles inland that led to a very different landscape. The high desert of the Arabian Peninsula was flat and desolate and tilted like a giant tabletop eastward where the desert eventually sank into the Persian Gulf. Dry and remote, the capital city Riyadh sat over the horizon in the very center of the peninsula. But they were looking at the verdant and prosperous western edge of the land, an ancient trading center with cities like Medina and, further south, the twin cities of Mecca and Jeddah.
The jet headed over the three resorts of Taba, Eilat and Aqaba in rapid succession. Each was administered by a different country: Egypt, Israel and Jordan respectively. From the number of pleasure craft and swank hotels, it looked like the Riviera of the Middle East.
Dean watched Carla’s expression change from delight to wonder as they entered Jordanian airspace and the sparkling azure was replaced by the muted gold tones of the desert.
After a hundred miles, a hazy slate gray broke the monochrome.
“The Dead Sea,” he said.
The water had receded considerably since the last time he had seen it. The Jordanian shore was flat, whereas the West Bank rose sharply and turned immediately into the hills where cities like Hebron, Bethlehem and Jerusalem were built.
Due to high salt and other mineral content, the Dead Sea was like a desert within a desert. The water was good for nothing, save potash production for fertilizer.
“Ever swim down there?” Carla asked.
“If you could call it swimming. It’s nine times saltier than the ocean. You can barely push your hand under the surface. It bobs right back up. It’s better suited for floating on your back and reading the newspaper than swimming.”
“It sounds like fun.”
“It is a novelty. You can fall asleep and float for hours,” he said. “But there are warning signs posted all over the Jordanian side that say, ‘Don’t float too far.’”
“Why’s that? You get sunburned?”
“That, and if you float over to the Israeli side, you might get arrested.”
It was no joke, and she didn’t laugh.
“You’re looking at the lowest point on Earth,” he told her.
“Lower than Death Valley?” she asked.
“By a long shot. This is a quarter of a mile below sea level.”
“A real low point. Let’s hope that’s not an omen.”
Her lips looked full and pretty when she smiled. He was intrigued that a scientist could sound so superstitious. There was a lot more about her to learn.
The jet zoomed over one of Dean’s favorite sites, the church atop Mount Nebo. It marked the spot where Moses had died. The old basilica on a bald, treeless hilltop had a panoramic view of Israel across the River Jordan.
“That’s where God showed Moses the Promised Land,” he said.
“Did Moses ever get there?”
Dean shook his head. “Never made it. He died here and some say that’s where he was buried.”
“That’s so tragic.” She stared below with a tear in her eye.
“It’s also supposedly where the Tabernacle and the Ark of the Covenant are buried.”
“Okay, you’re testing my religious knowledge,” she said.
“Don’t worry. There won’t be an exam.”
Mount Nebo had another name in the Bible: Mount Pisgah.
In his travels around the United States, Dean had encountered many places named after locations in the Bible. Few looked like their namesake. America had a number of mountains named Mount Pisgah. They looked somewhat like the original and were so named to inspire religiosity and to promote the region as a land of milk and honey. None, however, was as inspiring as this.
Sometimes, one just had to be there.
Closing in on Amman helped Dean focus on his mission.
He would soon contact Omar al-Farak and give him the precious pages of the Aleppo Codex. His hope was that by giving the pages to the Israelis, Omar would set the right tone for successful peace talks. Was Dean making a mistake by having Omar present the missing pages too soon?
Dean could wait until after the summer elections, when Omar would become president. That would make presenting the gift even more meaningful.
Furthermore, by giving the codex to Israel while he was still foreign minister, Omar risked losing the backing of his people, and the presidency, thus denying Dean the ability to influence the Palestinian leadership.
But Dean had reason to wonder if Omar al-Farak would be a good president. Dean didn’t want to play kingmaker, but the more he saw of him, the less convinced he was that Omar was the right man for Palestine. For one thing, Omar was willing to entertain overtures by al-Qaeda. That showed a lack of good judgment. Also, he was susceptible to the excesses of the high life. That made him ripe for blackmail and manipulation by others. And what if the Egyptians published the photos?
Once Omar handed the codex pages over to Israel, he needed to be removed from national politics altogether.
Dean looked at Carla. “We’ll be landing in Philadelphia in a few minutes.”
“What?” She swiveled to look out the window. “I thought this was Amman.”
“The city was named after Ptolemy II Philadelphia, ruler of Egypt at the time the city was rebuilt. So, we’re landing in the city of brotherly love.”
She looked as if he had burst her bubble.
“As far as I can tell,” he backpedaled, “there’s no historical connection with the city in Pennsylvania.”
That didn’t seem to reduce her disappointment.
“How about this,” he said. “We’ll be landing at Queen Alia International Airport.”
“Ooh, a royal airport,” she whispered. Then her lovely eyes turned to him. “And named after a queen. I like it already.”
He was picking up strong vibes from her again. The only question that remained was, one hotel room or two?
Chapter 77
Greg strode into Hart Baxter’s plush office with its antler theme. The place felt homey. It brought out the huntsman in him.
He eyed the inspector general carefully. Was Baxter behind the murders?
“Find the bathroom?” Baxter growled.
“Hey.” Greg gave him a disarming grin. “That was yesterday.”
“Then why are you still hanging around?”
Was Baxter always in such a foul mood? “Don’t you remember? You put me in charge of the investigation. We’re on the same team here.”
“Well, I don’t like treating everybody like a suspect,” Baxter said. Clearly he was still smarting from having to place José and others under suspicion.
“We aren’t judges,” Greg said. “We’re here to enforce the law.”
“You’ve got us doing more than that,” Baxter said. “You’ve got us spying on each other.”
That was funny. Did Baxter really mean to denigrate the work of his own agency?
But Baxter had a point. As inspector general, he was no more than an auditor who pursued evidence after the fact. As such, he was above spying. Responsible for detecting and preventing fraud, waste, abuse and mismanagement, he wasn’t there to conduct surveillance on his own agency. It not only undermined his credibility as an impartial observer, but it would give him the powe
r to coerce employees. The inspector general was there precisely to prevent such abuse of power.
Entrapment was the FBI’s job.
Greg set his jaw and explained why he was there. “According to our call records, your first call about Dean Wells went to José Gomez. Why was that?”
“José runs the office where Dean works.”
“So you don’t suspect José Gomez?”
“Of course not. He and I go way back. I’m just tossing out bait. It’s up to you to see who bites.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that José Gomez took the bait?”
Baxter’s eyes narrowed, then he shot a look at the open office door. He leaned out of his chair and got up to close it.
“Sorry, boss,” a voice said. It was Barry Wiseman. “I was just walking by.”
Baxter slammed the door in Barry’s face and turned toward Greg. “I’m warning you. Don’t start implicating people without incontrovertible evidence. I’ve been in this business long enough to know what harm innuendo can do. It can ruin a career. Beyond that, it can ruin an employee’s friendships, his family, his life. Rumors can kill.”
It seemed odd that an institution that valued truth so highly could be such a rumor mill. Maybe rather than truth, all people wanted was information.
“I won’t utter his name again,” Greg sought to appease him. “From now on, his code name is the Sheik.”
Baxter shook his head emphatically. “Start using code names, and everybody becomes a suspect. It would undermine our cohesion faster than an Ebola virus. It would consume all our time. It would stop the food chain of information. It would devour our ability to generate product.”
“Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Yes. Why?”
Greg eased into a chair. “Because all these food metaphors are making me more nauseous than I already am.”
Baxter’s buggy eyes looked with alarm at the fine fabric upon which Greg was sitting. “Would you prefer to hold this conversation at a later date?”
Greg analyzed his health for a moment. “No. I can go on.”
Baxter returned to the leather chair behind his desk. “So what makes you suspect José?”