A new high-security video conferencing system had been installed in Watson’s dedicated meeting room the previous week, and he still hadn’t found time to go through the full thirty-minute online training module on how to operate it. He pressed the green button to accept the call as his secretary, Helen, had instructed.
The face of a thick-set man with a clipped gray beard appeared on the main part of the screen, while a smaller window showing Watson popped up in the bottom right-hand corner.
“Ah, Robert, shalom,” Peretz said. “It’s been quite a while. Good to speak to you.”
“Yes, quite a while,” Watson replied. “Shalom to you, too.”
“I saw your e-mail,” Peretz said. “So, about our man VANDAL. You think this Joe Johnson guy might threaten the status quo?”
Before Watson could answer, the sound system emitted three beeps and went silent. He could see Peretz speaking on the screen but couldn’t hear him.
Irritated, Watson picked up the remote control and tried to regain the sound. But nothing worked.
Watson threw the remote on the table and sighed. “Useless . . . Moshe, I don’t know if you can hear me, but the sound’s gone at this end. We’ve got a new system here, and I’m still getting used to it. Give me one minute, I’ll just get someone to sort this out.” Then he limped over to the door and called out. “Helen, I’ve lost sound. Can you look at it for me? Sorry, I need to do that training module.”
The limp was a legacy of a gun battle in late 2001 at Tora Bora, in the caves of eastern Afghanistan, when Watson had damaged a knee ligament while working as part of a CIA National Clandestine Service team that unsuccessfully hunted for Osama bin Laden.
His secretary turned around, a half smile on her face, and walked across to the meeting room. “Did you lock it? You need to do that on this new system to confirm you recognize the other party and that the call’s secure. Otherwise it assumes there’s an unrecognized caller at the other end and shuts the mike off after a few seconds.”
Watson shook his head. “Okay, thanks. Things used to be so much simpler. What’s wrong with a phone call?” Watson said. “We waste far too much time fiddling with technology.”
He didn’t add that, in any case, the conversation with Peretz was one he really didn’t want to go through with. Not now, after so long.
Helen quickly adjusted the sound settings with the remote and handed it to Watson. “There you go, boss. Yes, you should do the module. It’s straightforward enough—you won’t need me then. Off you go.” She flicked back her long red hair and walked toward the door.
“Are we okay again?” Peretz asked.
“Yes, sorry about that,” Watson said.
“Okay, Joe Johnson and VANDAL. So you think Johnson might be a threat, and—”
Watson interrupted. “Stop there, Moshe. Just wait.” He watched Helen until the door closed behind her. Now his level of irritation had heightened further—partly because of the technology hiccup but also because the Israeli wasn’t sticking to protocol.
“You can continue now. The room is clear,” Watson said.
“Sorry. Is Johnson a threat to VANDAL?” the Israeli said.
“Yes, he will be if he makes any headway,” Watson said. “It’s early. All we know is, he’s just started on a trail that might not lead him anywhere.”
Peretz paused for a few seconds. “It could be very embarrassing for us if Johnson gets to VANDAL and all the details come out. Personally, for both of us, I mean, as well as organizationally.”
Watson knew exactly what he meant. There was no need to verbalize it.
“Let’s not jump the gun,” Watson said. “If it develops, we can sort it out here, don’t worry, but I’m under orders to let you know. My plan is to monitor the situation. If Johnson’s inquiry fizzles out, as I expect it might well do, we can let things lie. I do have an agent in Buenos Aires, Agustin Torres, whom I will brief and bring into the picture if required, although I think that unlikely. Agustin would be able to take care of VANDAL—and take care of Johnson, too, in a different sense of the word.”
Watson watched Peretz’s reaction carefully on the monitor screen, but his face remained inscrutable.
“So, the big question is, how much more is VANDAL still worth to the Mossad?” Peretz asked.
“I don’t know. There can’t be much left.”
“Yes, that’s my thought. Thing is, you do realize how big an exception to the rule this situation has been? Normally the Mossad would have finished it a long, long time ago. For us, it’s been purely about the money—as we both know very well. If there’s no more upside, the bosses upstairs here might want to cut and run. Don’t expect any sentiment from them toward VANDAL,” Peretz said.
Watson felt his chest tighten. That was the difference between Langley and Tel Aviv.
“You can damn well tell them I’ve personally gone to a huge amount of trouble to make sure it’s been a problem-free arrangement,” Watson said. “America’s had no benefit from VANDAL at all since the ’60s; you’ve had it all. But maybe stupidly, there’s still an obligation felt here, at high levels in the Agency, toward the old bastard. He did a lot to help us back then, with all the Russian intelligence material. So we should be allowed to handle him now. You’ve got to respect that. Honor among thieves.”
Peretz gave a thin smile. The Israeli had clearly caught Watson’s ironic humor. They didn’t need to make any direct reference to the benefits both of them had personally received over the years from maintaining the status quo, as Peretz termed it.
But for Watson, it wasn’t solely about the money, and he was certain Peretz knew it.
“All right, calm down. You honor me, I’ll honor you,” Peretz said. “I’m just warning you about the way it might go. You know what senior management are like here with assets who are no longer of use to them. It’s a mercenary approach, unlike with you guys. Okay, let’s speak again soon. Keep in touch.”
“Right, let’s do that. Have a nice day,” Watson said as he ended the call. He threw up his hands and slumped back in his chair.
“Damn kikes,” he said out loud. He sat there for about ten minutes, thinking through his options and tapping the table with his fingers.
I’d better give Miami a call, he thought.
Portland, Maine
It was always difficult to explain to Peter and Carrie why he was going away, even now that they were older. Johnson found it was an automatic cue for excessively puzzled looks and dramatic resigned expressions.
He had already told them, but now with only an hour to go before the taxi arrived, he was bracing himself for a repeat performance over breakfast. He thought momentarily about not bothering, of e-mailing Fiona and telling her it was off.
As soon as he had mentioned the trip, Peter had stared at him for several seconds. “You do realize you’re gonna miss my basketball game on Thursday?”
Johnson mumbled an apology. Peter had become the starting point guard for his school team six months earlier, after a huge improvement in his ball-handling and passing skills.
Peter ignored his father’s attempt to rationalize his absence. “What time’s Aunt Amy going to be here?”
“Soon after I’m gone,” Johnson said. “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s going to happen occasionally with the type of work I do, as you know. Look, I’d rather be here with both of you, but I’ve got to earn some money—and I’ve got to do something I enjoy doing as well. It’s important, as you’ll learn when you’re older.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” Peter said, although his frown indicated otherwise.
Carrie, as always, then launched into a barrage of questions. Who, what, how, where, why? She’ll be a journalist or a lawyer someday, Johnson thought.
Johnson began his well-rehearsed explanation, but then he switched gears.
“Carrie, I’m on a mission. It’s important to me,” Johnson said, correctly anticipating that was language she would understand.
“Okay, I get it,” she said, turning back to her cornflakes.
His phone beeped. The taxi was outside. Johnson picked up his bags and hugged his kids goodbye. “Amy should be here in about twenty minutes,” he said. “Just make sure you treat her well, okay?”
In the cab, he checked his e-mails on his phone. There was one from Fiona.
Hi Joe, sorry, I just remembered I didn’t send you this. See attached. I recorded the short conversation I had with Nathaniel in the bar in Washington. Am sending you the MP3 voice file. Have a listen. Might help. And yes, my boss has agreed upon your daily rate.
Thanks, F
Just as well the rate was agreed, Johnson thought, given that he was already en route. He tried to download the attachment, but the 3G data connection was too slow, and it wouldn’t load.
Johnson shrugged his shoulders and removed his spiral-bound black notebook and a black pen from the small black backpack containing his encrypted laptop and other essential items for the flight.
The good thing was that Jayne had confirmed her willingness to help him out—and was looking forward to seeing him again after so long. Indeed, he had just that morning sent a small package to her in London by secure courier.
Johnson had a novel to read on the flight: Daniel Silva’s spy thriller, The Rembrandt Affair, which he’d been meaning to start for two months. And what about a film? He picked up his iPad and started flicking through his movies.
He settled on Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. “In the bleak days of the Cold War, espionage veteran George Smiley is forced from semi-retirement to uncover a Soviet agent within MI6.” Yes, that was the one—summed it all up. And he had loved the John le Carré spy novels when he read them years ago.
He put the iPad back into his bag as the taxi driver pulled up outside departures.
This was it. Back in action again. Back in from the cold, as Smiley would say.
Chapter Fourteen
Monday, November 21, 2011
Buenos Aires
“Sorry, baby, I can’t take you on an aircraft,” Ignacio said quietly, “as much as I’d like to. Might not go down too well with security.”
“What’s that?” called the woman from his bedroom, where he had left her lying naked on his futon, smoking a joint. “Come back in here. I’m feeling so horny. Who are you talking to?”
“No one, Lucia, just talking to myself.”
He put the Glock 9 mm semiautomatic pistol carefully back on the rough plywood shelf in his living room, next to a photograph of his two children and another of his mother.
Ignacio, wearing the only smart shirt he owned, walked back into the bedroom and took the joint from his girlfriend, who was trying to do some stretching exercises as she smoked it.
He took a drag and then extinguished it, placing it in an ashtray on a plastic crate that served as a bedside table. She squealed as he rolled on top of her and grabbed her wrists, pinning her to the futon.
“Sorry, I’d like to, but I’d better go. I’ve got dinner with the pig, sorry, my father, in half an hour. That’ll be a first. Don’t think he’s ever bought me dinner before,” Ignacio said. He stood up. “I’ll see you later.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Ignacio arrived at the Hotel Panamericano, on 9 de Julio Avenue. It was one of the city’s landmark buildings. Ignacio could remember the huge cranes dominating the skyline as it was being built in the early 1980s, when he was in his late teens and went out drinking in the bars and clubs nearby.
Ignacio sat on a sofa in the lobby and stared through the window, which was splattered with raindrops from a summer storm outside.
It would be his second face-to-face encounter with his father in two weeks. What did the old bastard want? Clearly he was up to something. Well, he wasn’t the only one. Would he apologize? Unlikely. Ignacio laughed to himself.
His feelings for his father were almost always very negative, but somewhere, deep inside . . . well, the guy was still his father. No matter how hard Ignacio tried to wipe away the deep-rooted desire for reconciliation, it occasionally bubbled uncontrollably to the surface, like trapped gases through hot spa waters, leaving him a little confused.
There was emotional difficulty involved in sitting and actually conversing with his father. But the food? That was something altogether less complicated.
Ignacio asked for a copy of the menu, and by the time his father arrived, he had already decided. If his father was paying, he was going to take full advantage.
When the old man did show up a few minutes later, raindrops were splattered over his thin summer coat.
He limped across the white and black patterned marble floor in the lobby and nodded at Ignacio. “You made it. That’s a start.”
In the hotel’s Tomo restaurant, with its luxurious padded walls, drapes, and discreet lighting, a waitress took them to a quiet table for two in a corner.
José ordered a bottle of 2005 Bodega Catena Zapata, a malbec, and then proceeded to make small talk, almost without pausing, about the issues at each of his stores scattered across the city: poor stock records, shoplifting, alcoholic managers, the new IT system.
He therefore made painfully slow progress with his main course and was only halfway through his trout in lemon cream by the time Ignacio finished his Patagonian lamb gigo medallions.
Ignacio put down his knife and fork, folded his arms, and watched his father. He would slowly lift his fork to his mouth, take a bite, and chew. Then he would talk for a couple of minutes before repeating the whole process again and again. Ignacio pressed his lips tightly together.
The restaurant was filling up. Two middle-aged women, one in a black dress, the other in red, both wearing gold necklaces, sat at the table nearest to them. A pair of younger couples, all sophisticated jokes and designer labels, worked their way through French champagne at another table.
Eventually Ignacio said, “So, padre, what are we here for? What do you want to talk about? Is it more of the same?” He picked up a piece of bread and began chewing it.
The old man put his fork down. “Are you going to stick it out—working in the business, I mean?”
Ignacio shrugged. “I’ve got to do something, though I’m not here for the money, exactly.”
“Look, I need to be up front with you. I’ve got a problem,” José said.
Ignacio swallowed the bread and sat back, staring at his father.
The old man flagged down a passing waiter and ordered another bottle of malbec. Then he peered over his glasses across the table. “The thing is, it might put the business at risk. I was told this morning that someone’s investigating one of our gold suppliers, Oro Centro. They sell us gold for our factories and have done so for a long time. And Oro Centro gets its gold from a sort of sister company in London.”
He took his glasses off. “What I don’t want is for this particular investigator to probe too much into the supply company, into what they sell us, and then into our business.”
Ignacio thought quickly. Should he continue pretending he didn’t know much about the inner workings of his father’s business? He couldn’t admit to secretly trawling through the accounts and reports, so he didn’t have much of an option.
“Right, but you’re going to have to explain. How does it affect us? And who’s behind the London company?” Ignacio asked.
The older Guzmann tapped the table with his fingers and pressed his lips, hesitating. “It’s because I don’t want this investigator, name of Joe Johnson, finding out about my involvement. It could screw us up. It’s about stuff in the past. If it were fifteen or twenty years ago, I would have sorted it out myself, you know what I mean? Now I obviously can’t do that.”
Ignacio struggled to contain himself. “Stuff from the past?” His father obviously didn’t mean the dark cupboards and the beatings.
His father ignored the question and looked down. “I don’t exactly know who the people are behind the gold supplier. I’ve been trying for years, off and on, to find out
but never have. But they know things, somehow. If they tell this Johnson guy and he goes public, it would finish me off, destroy my reputation. Our customers would vanish, and that would be the end of the business. That’s not in your interests, is it?”
So, it was just about the money. He wasn’t going to apologize.
“I’m not always sure your interests are the same as mine,” Ignacio said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He reclined in his chair. “Just tell me, what are you suggesting I do, then?”
“I need you to sort out this investigator before he does any damage.”
Ignacio raised his eyebrows. “You what?”
His father bent toward him. “Take him out,” he hissed. “Is that clear enough? Someone’s got to.”
Ignacio could see the dark-haired woman in the black dress looking at them out of the corner of her eye.
José lowered his voice to a whisper. “Johnson used to work for the CIA and also investigated former Nazis in the U.S. I’ve got a photo my contacts e-mailed to me. He apparently lives in Maine, but he’s going to London soon as part of his investigation. I’ve been told he’s going to focus on our gold supplier. You need to get over there. I’ll give you the details of the London supply business. Johnson’s also working with a political journalist in the U.S. named Fiona Heppenstall. I’ve also got a photo of her, which I’ll send to you.”
Ignacio sipped his wine. He wasn’t going to tell his father he already had his own trip to London planned or that two of his guys were already there. And he definitely wasn’t going to tell him about the other damage-limitation measures he had already taken.
“I don’t know,” Ignacio said. “Don’t you think taking someone out, as you put it, especially in London, might carry the odd risk or two? Just saying.”
His father’s face was taking on a red hue. “That all depends on whether you think seeing this business disappear into the sewer is more of a risk to you.”
A waiter arrived with their desserts.
The Last Nazi (A Joe Johnson Thriller, Book 1) Page 10