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

by Fritz Galt

  “We caught him calling the operative in Sharma Sheikh and Cyprus.”

  That sent Baxter reeling. His expression changed from disbelief to anger. Then he looked sicker than Greg felt. Greg decided to cross him off the suspect list.

  At last Baxter’s face took on a state of imposed serenity. “I have faith in our system,” he said at last.

  “Our system is what I wanted to talk to you about.” It was the perfect lead-in to where Greg wanted to go with the investigation. “I’ve been thinking about beefing up my staff and bringing in some prosecutors from the Bureau’s Criminal Investigative Division.”

  Baxter neatened up the papers on his desk. “You’re the FBI. You have jurisdiction over domestic counterespionage matters.”

  Greg looked him straight in the eye. “Do you really want a full-blown FBI investigation?”

  “Of course not.” Baxter looked curious. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Maybe we could do this the CIA way. Say, overseas.”

  It took the man a long time to respond. His troubled face became even more pinched with pain. “We have interrogation facilities abroad.”

  Greg nodded, but let the man continue.

  “If you presented him with these allegations at one of those sites,” Baxter said, “we could avoid some restrictive Justice Department rules.”

  That settled it. Baxter was onboard.

  “How about Jerusalem?” Greg got to his feet. “Tomorrow. Tell José we captured a high-value target and the agency needs José to interrogate him personally.”

  Greg’s intestines gurgled loudly.

  “Out of this office,” Baxter ordered. “On the double.”

  Chapter 78

  Dean woke up shivering in the Intercontinental Hotel near downtown Amman. The bed was a mess and his fingers felt icy clinging to a single sheet.

  Then he realized why. Carla was sleeping beside him. And she had stolen all the blankets.

  It had been an extraordinary night for Dean. Almost an out-of-body experience. The dark smell of Carla’s chestnut brown hair still mingled with the whisper of black iris in the room. The creak of carts and beep of car horns below their window was punctuated by the occasional elevated voice speaking in the Arabic he had known since childhood when he had spent summers with his family in Jordan. The mixture of scents and sounds created a heady brew of emotions that left him both stimulated and fulfilled.

  Amman was one of his favorite places on Earth. It was a modern city that looked like it had just popped up out of the desert. There were shiny new cars negotiating chaotic streets, pompously large buildings, strip malls, and men and women in Western dress. But Roman columns of the Citadel stood guard over the seven hills of the city. And numerous minarets poked up through the honeycomb layers of whitewashed buildings. The dusty blue sky was forever cloudless, and people were engaging and friendly.

  Half of Jordan’s population lived in Amman, where restaurants and commerce thrived. Dean was already working up a hunger for mansaf, Jordan’s national dish of seasoned lamb soaked in salted goat’s milk. Later, the fruit juices served in bars and souks would be the perfect antidote to a hot day wandering through the spice, carpet and antique markets.

  Dean wanted to take Carla everywhere, to his favorite restaurants and the most impressive mosques and classical ruins. How could one get to know in one day what took millennia to create?

  Jordan was a Hashemite kingdom formed under the British Mandate of Transjordan in 1921. Although the king could trace his ancestry back to the clan that raised Mohammed, the history of Jordan’s people stretched back to the time of the Pharaohs.

  After the Pharaohs, Assyrian kings and Persian monarchs conquered the Fertile Crescent, Nabataeans, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Crusaders and Ottomans left their architectural mark on the Jordanian landscape.

  Dean and Carla were surrounded by classical ruins.

  Carved out of a red rock gorge, the amazing structures of Petra, from the Treasury to the amphitheater to the tombs, remained intact, as if the Nabataean people had just stepped away for a moment.

  The Greeks had built ten cities, later known as the Decapolis, along the eastern edge of their empire. Upon Roman conquest, the cities became centers of Roman culture. Some remained vibrant. Others, with their aqueducts, open-air temples, coliseums and grid-like streets, were buried by the dust of the desert.

  The occasional ogee arched window in an old town attested to four centuries of Ottoman rule.

  Between world wars, the French ruled Syria and the British ruled Transjordan. At the end of the Second World War, the British sought to end their mandate and the Transjordan parliament proclaimed their new country a kingdom.

  The early history of Jordan as a country was as rocky as one could imagine, with Israel forming that same year. Eventually, when the smoke cleared, the royal family moved the constitutional monarchy into the modern era, with all the advancements and commerce that that entailed.

  But the dark, unsettled period when Jordan butted heads with Israel still haunted the region.

  No sooner had Britain announced its intention to leave Palestine in 1947, than civil war broke out between the Jews and Arabs living there. When David Ben-Gurion declared Israel a sovereign state, neighboring Arab states rolled in their armies. Israel, fearing a second holocaust in the same decade, had built up an army and used the opportunity to expand its borders past those proposed under the UN plan. They pushed forward to protect Jewish outposts and swept the land clear of hostile Arabs.

  The King of Jordan, with his British-trained troops, sought to defend Arab areas of Jerusalem and take back areas of the West Bank invaded by Israeli forces. One bloody year later, Israel had expanded its territory only slightly, Egypt occupied Gaza, Israelis were kicked out of Jerusalem’s Old City, and the West Bank remained firmly under the control of Jordan behind a Green Line that encompassed the whole of East Jerusalem, including the Old City. Three quarters of a million Arabs were forced to leave Israel and in the ensuing three years, three quarters of a million Jews displaced in the Second World War moved in to replace them. Up to a million Jewish refugees from Muslim countries also flooded Israel.

  By 1956, the Hashemite Kingdoms of Iraq and Jordan had established close economic, diplomatic and military ties with Britain. Egypt, fearing its loss of prestige in the Arab world, nationalized the Suez Canal. In response, Britain, France and Israel assembled a massive military force that drove the Egyptians out of the Sinai. Fearing Jordan would enter the war on Egypt’s behalf, Israeli army and police militarized the Green Line in the West Bank and massacred forty-eight Arabs, resulting in military trials and a substantial review of Israel’s treatment of Arabs living in Israel.

  In 1967 when Egypt closed off the Gulf of Aqaba to Israeli ships in defense of a perceived threat to their allies Syria and Jordan, Israel launched a devastating six-day campaign that redrew all previous boundaries. Israel’s air force demolished all neighboring air forces and their army kicked Egypt out of Sinai and the Gaza Strip, Syria out of the Golan Heights, and Jordan out of East Jerusalem and the West Bank. Before Jordan knew it, Israeli troops were on the outskirts of Amman. Israel tripled in size virtually overnight and an additional quarter of a million Palestinians were compelled to leave their land and cross the River Jordan.

  Three years later, a restive Palestinian population produced guerilla organizations that attacked Israel to protest the additional removal of Palestinians from the West Bank during and after the Six-Day War. When Jordan gave tacit support to Israel for countering these attacks, Palestinians turned against the Jordanian state. In 1970, Palestinian guerillas were in high gear, fighting Jordanian troops in the streets of Amman, seizing roads throughout the country, hijacking airplanes across the Middle East and repeatedly attempting to assassinate the king.

  King Hussein moved aggressively to take control of the situation. He declared martial law, and then moved his entire army into the cities to oust Palestinian militants. A
mman came under Palestinian shelling, and it took two weeks of house-to-house combat for troops to retake the city. Thousands across the country were killed, and the Palestinian groups were crushed. The events would long be remembered by Palestinians as Black September.

  Dean still felt a chill when he recalled the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine attacking the 1972 Munich Olympics. Wearing black ski masks, the terrorists killed Israeli athletes, paralyzed the Olympics and took the whole world hostage.

  The streets of Amman had remained peaceful since the uprising of 1970-71. He listened to a fountain splashing in the courtyard. The water was probably trucked in.

  The River Jordan ran from the hills of Lebanon into Jordanian territory. The flow was considerably reduced because of an Israeli dam at the Sea of Galilee, as well as Syria and Jordan diverting water from its main tributary. Water service was intermittent at best in Amman, for the city and its surrounding agricultural area relied solely on rainwater and wells.

  Flowing south, what remained of the river trickled into the Dead Sea, an environment so salty from evaporation and irrigation that no plant or animal could survive.

  The sounds from the street were calm and peaceful. It was the dawn of a religious day, and fewer trucks were on the road.

  One could understand why Jordan didn’t want to interfere with the peace talks between Israel and Palestine. Jordan stood for peace, but offered little to help it along. It had enough trouble trying to keep bread in the stores for people to eat and money in their pockets to buy it. If Jordanians were lucky, from time to time the region would experience a period of prosperity, like an unexpected rainfall, and Jordan’s little economy would reach a new level of affluence. With vast amounts of aid money flowing in from the West, Jordan remained an unlikely oasis of stability.

  Dean leaned on one elbow and looked at Carla. She was a remarkable woman, but a complete mystery to him. Why in the world had she put her reputation on the line to protect and defend him?

  Just then her eyes opened, large and beautiful. “Why are you frowning?”

  “I was just wondering what made you believe in me.”

  “It was logical,” she said. “You wouldn’t kill your own contacts. Besides, who in the agency was going to stick up for you?”

  That was admirable. “But how did you see through the Washington Post article?”

  She seemed to be searching her memory, as if she hadn’t considered the question before. “I think it’s because you promised.”

  He was confused. “When was that?”

  “That morning at Langley, just as you were going through security, you promised that I had nothing to worry about.”

  He recalled the moment only now that she mentioned it. Despite all that he had been accused of, from murder to accepting money from Yemen to tax fraud, she clung to that one offhand remark.

  “Well, here’s something I do want you to worry about,” he said. “Listen carefully. If anything goes wrong tomorrow, I want you to go to Gihon Spring.”

  “What could go wrong?”

  “Lots. What do you do if something goes wrong?”

  “I go to Gihon Spring.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  “But nothing will go wrong. Right?”

  He sat up and poked her in the ribs. “I have to go now. I have a meeting at the embassy.”

  “Don’t take forever.”

  Chapter 79

  The U.S. Embassy in Amman was a suitably fortified place, far different from the original structure Dean remembered from his first tour there. In fact, he was a little turned around by the fences, metal detectors and cordons that directed him to the chancery.

  A security escort took him to the top floor. There, he could see the sun glinting off the Dead Sea on the southwestern horizon.

  The young Station Chief, Naomi Williams, entered the conference room, followed by a dapper, but haggard looking Omar al-Farak.

  Dean wanted their meeting to be brief and to the point.

  “You will deliver the missing pages of the Aleppo Codex to the President of Hebrew University at the Shrine of the Book in Jerusalem tomorrow morning,” he told Omar.

  “Please, Mr. Wells.” Omar fell to his knees. “I can’t live with those pictures hanging over my head. I’ll quit politics, anything.”

  “You’re not going to fall apart on me now, are you?” Dean jerked him to his feet.

  Naomi watched the interplay with alarm.

  Dean shoved the portfolio toward the kneeling Palestinian. “Here are the codex pages. You will deliver them.”

  Omar grudgingly took the portfolio. “I don’t even know what a codex is.”

  “If anybody asks you, it’s the original Hebrew Bible.”

  “Why are you relying on me to bring the Hebrew Bible to Israel?”

  Naomi was looking mystified, too.

  “Don’t you get it?” Perspiration was forming under Dean’s hairline. “This is a peace gesture toward Israel. You will buy good will and some breathing space for the peace talks, and may even throw the Israelis on the defensive.”

  Omar jabbed at the portfolio. “You’re just trying to undermine me in this summer’s election.”

  On that subject, Dean had made up his mind. Omar posed too great a risk for Palestine.

  There was a solution to that. “You’ll just have to trust me on this. If all goes according to plan, you’ll be able to gracefully end your political life.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  Dean led Omar to a seat where they could face each other over cups of tea.

  “I have an important request,” Dean said. “I understand that you have associations with Rashid al-Qasimi. You were at his party in Sharm el-Sheikh.”

  Omar nodded. “But you asked me to forswear terrorism.”

  “That’s right. However, while you’re still on good terms, I want you to add Rashid to your official delegation to Jerusalem.”

  “Are you mad? The Israel Border Police are paranoid about letting people into the country. They don’t let just anybody in.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve already arranged it with your leadership and the Israelis.” Dean shoved a telephone toward Omar. “Call Rashid right now. Invite him to join the official party at the peace talks. Tell him it’s formal business attire and to bring all the C4 explosives he wants. He’ll bypass Israeli security because he’ll be part of the diplomatic delegation. I’d like him to meet with you later today at your room at the Sheridan.”

  Omar took the phone and walked to the far corner of the room to place the call to Rashid.

  As Omar conferred in a low tone, Naomi moved around the table to Dean. “What’s this all about?” Clearly she was uncomfortable giving terrorists with explosives such access to public officials.

  “By this time tomorrow, all will be clear.”

  She was still wringing her hands.

  “Don’t worry,” Dean said. “The Mossad has cleared this.”

  That was the ultimate assurance. If the much-vaunted Israeli security apparatus approved of an operation within Israel, it was no longer America’s problem.

  The distant call of a muezzin carried through the thick walls of the embassy.

  Omar returned with a smile. He set the phone back on the table. “Al jumaa is upon us. It is time for Friday prayer.”

  Dean and Naomi rose to their feet.

  “Ma as-salaamah,” Naomi said. Go with peace.

  “Ma as-salaamah,” Omar responded. “I will pray especially for peace,” he said. “It appears that my life depends on it.”

  Naomi led him out of the room. That left Dean alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter 80

  It was Saturday, a holy day in Jerusalem.

  The Fourth Commandment bid all people to remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Families would have gathered on Shabbat eve for a festive meal, then would dine together in the morning and late afternoon on Saturday. All work would cease and
mechanical devices would be put away for the day.

  From the back seat of their limousine, Dean and Omar slipped on white robes. Dean adjusted a black-and-white Palestinian keffiyeh over his hair and face.

  When it came to putting on the headgear, Omar hesitated.

  “Wear it,” Dean said. “It will save your life.”

  Omar complied.

  The motorcade was just approaching the River Jordan at the King Hussein Bridge. It was a high, paved bridge between green fields. The river flowed steadily, full from the winter rains.

  Palestinian flags fluttering from their front fenders, the official convoy passed unchecked through Israeli security. It was an unusual sight, and inspiring.

  Dean had never entered Israel so easily, even when he was accredited as a diplomat there. In those days, he had to go by foot across the creaky wooden Allenby Bridge, usually carrying his suitcase and dragging a diplomatic pouch behind him. He remembered how the riverbanks were overgrown and neglected. The air had reeked and black flies were so thick, they clung to the inside of his nose.

  He rode in the last of five Mercedes and reviewed who was ahead of him.

  The lead limousine had security guards and aides for the peace talks.

  The second held the nobly featured President of the Palestinian Authority, along with his personal secretary, bodyguards and Carla Martino.

  Then came the dummy car, bearing a look-alike of the president, complete with aides and bodyguards.

  The fourth limousine, just ahead, carried Rashid and a handsomely dressed security detail supplied by his Dubai-based firm. Rashid had been eager to enter Israel unchecked, a rare opportunity for any foreign Arab, and pure luck for a terrorist.

  The limousine bearing Dean and Omar al-Farak, the foreign minister, brought up the rear.

  Dean turned to Omar. “Did Rashid bring explosives?”

  Omar nodded. “He is most eager to blow something up.”

  “What does he have in mind?”

  “The Shrine of the Book.”