Falcone’s principal mission was to plead with Mishra not to start a war with Pakistan. Falcone knew, from U.S. intelligence analyses, that the terrorist attack at the airport had resurrected India’s plan, known as Cold Strike, for a surprise attack on Pakistan from several border points. Cold Strike called for moving Indian forces against Pakistan so fast that Pakistan’s army would be defeated before the United States or China could try to stop India’s assault. Falcone hoped to learn whether Cold Strike was imminent by getting an honest assessment from Mishra.
“Atal, we need to know if you’re planning anything…”
“You want me to disclose what my country’s response will be to this latest savagery by the Pakistanis? Surely, Sean, you can’t be serious.”
“Deadly serious. Your prime minister promised that any further attacks by LET would not go without retribution.”
“True. There will be retribution at a time and place of our choosing.… All I can assure is that…”
“But you know how fragile things are in Pakistan. And as conflicted as the Paks are, they’re still helping us in Afghanistan.…”
“Sean, we both know what a duplicitous game they play with you. They help you one day, and the next night they’re sleeping with the Taleban. They take your billions and use the money to prepare for war with us.”
For the next twenty minutes, Falcone and Mishra bantered back and forth over Pakistan’s double game and how the United States failed to appreciate its true friends in the region. They had had this conversation many times before. It was old turf.
Finally, Mishra said, “Tell President Oxley that for the moment at least, the only war that is underway is a propaganda war.”
“And the threat of Cold Strike is a part of that propaganda?”
“As I said, for the moment. I cannot say more.”
Falcone felt confident that Mishra had sent him the message he was looking for. Unless there were further attacks against India, there would be no military retaliation. The rhetoric would be hot, but there were no imminent plans for an Indian-Pakistan war.
“Atal, I need another favor.…”
“Favor? I’m not in that business.”
“Sorry. Poor choice of words … As you know, Oxley is under political pressure at home over the attack on the Elkton. Do you have any information…”
“About Iran being involved?”
Falcone nodded. “Senator Stanfield says he has evidence that…”
“According to our … sources, that story is without merit. Bogus, as you might say.”
Falcone owed Mishra. Added to the information from Pakistan’s Mohammad Bashir Ispahani, he had absolute assurance of Iran’s non-involvement.
The complexity of Falcone’s relationship with Mishra—and with Ispahani—was the heart of Falcone’s job: getting knowledge on the workings of the world and giving other nations insights into what the United States wanted. The job was international, not domestic. But frequently the world intruded on U.S. politics.
But, as happened with the intelligence from Ispahani, Falcone decided that Mishra’s information should not be revealed, except for a few carefully worded lines in the PDB. And so the President had to remain silent in the face of Stanfield’s repeated claims of Iranian responsibility. Quinlan wanted a leak, but Falcone worked around him and talked with the President, who told Quinlan that a leak would cost him his job.
Flying home, Falcone felt a great sense of satisfaction that what he was doing mattered, was important, as Philip Dake had reminded him.
Falcone had scheduled a stopover in Afghanistan on the way home. He, Anna Dabrowski, and representatives of Kane, Bloom, and Wilkinson had hammered out an itinerary that would get him to India and Afghanistan in time to be back in Washington for the President’s meeting with Israeli Prime Minister Avi Weisman. But there was no way for Falcone to join in the official party at Weisman’s arrival, which was to be followed that night by a state dinner, a major Washington social event.
Falcone knew that Anna could certainly handle the dinner and the Israelis. “It will be a grand experience for you,” he told her. “Like going to the world’s best prom. I’m being a perk dispenser. I’m also going to see to it that Hawk gets invited. He’ll be your date.”
Now, thinking back about that moment as he sipped some weak Air Force coffee, he smiled, remembering that Anna had blushed.
19
PRIME MINISTER Avi Weisman’s motorcade took him directly from Andrews to Blair House, the President’s guesthouse for heads of state and other dignitaries, across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. Blair House, a yellow masonry building in late federal style, was actually four interconnected townhouses that formed a complex of 110 rooms, an exclusive hotel as well staffed and as well protected as the White House.
Four Israeli security officers sprang out of the lead security van and took up positions around the black awning leading to the Blair House steps. One man pointed to a plaque on the fence near the doorway and said to another officer in Hebrew, “Keep your eyes open.” The plaque commemorated the White House policeman who was mortally wounded in 1950 during a gunfight with men attempting to assassinate President Harry Truman, who was living in Blair House while the White House was being renovated.
Weeks of planning usually preceded the visit of a head of state. But there had been little time for planning. Weisman had requested the meeting with Oxley, but there was no diplomatic way to slip him in and out of America. Secretary of State Bloom had asked Oxley to officially designate the trip as a visit of a head of state. Weisman, famously dour and stubborn, had insisted that arrangements be made for him to obtain a maximum number of hours in conference with President Oxley and a minimum number of hours in festivities.
The traditional arrival ceremony for a head of state—the U.S. Marine Band and a parade on the South Lawn—had been eliminated to accommodate Weisman’s travel plans. This gave the Israeli and U.S. media an opportunity to claim that Weisman was being snubbed. But a formal state dinner had been accepted by Israeli planners, and this gave the media of the two countries an opportunity to assert that Weisman was being honored. Protocol officials of both countries agreed that the menu and guest list would not be released in advance so that the media would not have a chance to critique the food or the invitees.
The Israeli ambassador to the United States met Weisman in the entrance hall and led him to a stand holding the guestbook, which Weisman signed. Weisman mumbled a few words and the State Department Chief of Protocol led the two men to the room that had been President Truman’s office. Weisman eased his bulk into an armchair near the fireplace and said, “Where’s Rachel?”
“She’s arrived, but—,” said a man who had just entered the room.
“Get her,” Weisman said.
The man, a bodyguard who had committed the floor plan of Blair House to memory, headed to the Rear Drawing Room, which had been chosen for routine meetings during the prime minister’s visit. Serious meetings of Weisman’s entourage would be held in a secure chamber at the Israeli Embassy.
In the Rear Drawing Room, a portrait of a stern Daniel Webster hung over the fireplace. Two Israeli women and three Israeli men bustled about, moving chairs and placing a green baize cover on a round table. A State Department Protocol representative hovered over the Israelis, near a seventeenth-century Chinese ornamental screen.
Rachel Yeager had entered the room quietly, almost unseen. She immediately noticed the American woman near the screen. Switches clicked in Rachel’s mind: Protocol could be her CIA cover, although the CIA was barred by U.S. law from engaging in domestic intelligence-gathering. So, not CIA. But that do-not-touch screen could be bugged. The whole house was undoubtedly bugged. The Israeli-U.S. agreement on not spying on each other is a fairy tale. Especially in Washington. And very especially in a federal bed-and-breakfast. Must be polite, not openly suspicious.
“Worried about bulls in your china shop?” Rachel asked.
�
�China? Oh, good one,” the young woman said, smiling and looking at the screen. She was not quite sure how to handle Rachel Yeager, Israeli’s ambassador to the United Nations, possibly Weisman’s mistress, and, according to the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, soon to become Israel’s foreign minister.
The American woman reached out her right hand. “Jessica Baldwin, Protocol, Ambassador Yeager. Welcome to Blair House. The screen is one of Blair House’s treasures. It was created for a wealthy Chinese family as a gift for Grandma’s ninetieth birthday. The front design depicts scenes from Grandma’s life.”
“I can’t blame you for worrying,” Rachel said, warmly closing her left hand over the handshake. “Some of these geeks hardly ever look up from their keyboards. We don’t let them near anything valuable.” She spoke in Hebrew to one of the men.
“I told him to be careful. And no Coke or pizza.”
“Thank you, Ambassador,” Jessica Baldwin said. “I have a brother like that. He can break something just by looking at it.”
*
BROTHER. The word immediately became Moshe and summoned instant, indelible memories. Moshe, Israel’s Olympic hero. She had been a child when he was murdered—one of the Israeli athletes slain in Munich during the 1972 Olympics by terrorists of Fatah, Yasser Arafat’s faction of the Palestine Liberation Organization.
Grief had shortened the lives of her father and mother, who had emerged alive from Holocaust death camps but could not survive the death of Moshe. Her own life became a passage through vengeance to assassination.
Growing up, she was determined to avenge her beloved brother’s murder. She hardened her mind and her body, mastered martial arts, and developed her gift for learning languages. By the time she was to begin her two years of obligated service in the Israeli Defense Forces, she was fluent in English, Arabic, French, Spanish, and German.
During her military service she worked as an interpreter for interrogators of Palestinians at border checkpoints manned by Israeli security officials. Her ability to shift easily from one Arabic dialect to another had been noted by Mossad’s counterintelligence operatives.
When she was approached by a Mossad recruiter, she feigned surprise. She knew that intelligence services were suspicious of volunteers. So she had confidently waited, knowing that her skills—particularly her language skills—would attract Mossad recruiters, and she would begin her mission of vengeance.
Before she formally entered the Mossad, a psychiatrist interviewed her. When she mentioned the slaying of her brother, the psychiatrist drew out her passionate desire to avenge her brother’s murder. He told high-ranking Mossad officials that this brilliant, beautiful young woman was likely to be a great intelligence officer. And even more valuable than her obvious attributes was her thirst for vengeance, which mirrored Israel’s own.
Soon after the Olympic murders, Prime Minister Golda Meir and the Israeli Defense Committee secretly approved Operation Wrath of God—the tracking down and killing of the terrorists responsible for the massacre in Munich. Not every Wrath of God mission was successful. One was badly blown in Norway, where the Israelis killed the wrong man. Five Mossad agents were arrested, convicted, and sentenced to prison; all were released within twenty-two months and deported to Israel.
Rachel’s passion for revenge soon put her on the track for the “Killer Angels,” the Mossad’s elite assassination team. As the years passed, she moved from successful assassin to skilled intelligence officer. She served under various covers in Israel and under diplomatic cover in Israeli embassies and consulates in several countries, carrying out espionage and counterespionage missions that involved faultless tradecraft but not assassinations.
Between assignments, she served in a Mossad group whose officers arranged security for tourist groups. The keepers, as the officers called themselves, also gathered odd bits of intelligence, especially from Americans in small, expensive tours.
Rachel’s combined intelligence and diplomatic experience drew her from the ranks of the Mossad to the hierarchy of the Foreign Ministry, where she had been singled out for promotion by Prime Minister Weisman. He said that she was cool in crisis and always answered questions with brutal honesty. But there was speculation that Weisman, a widower with an eye for the ladies, had made her his mistress.
Ranking Foreign Ministry officials convinced Weisman that Rachel was becoming an unnecessary distraction. They successfully urged him to give her a post that would better utilize both her Mossad and diplomatic background work by naming her as the Israeli ambassador to the United Nations.
*
NOW, standing in this beautiful old room in Blair House, she was in counterespionage mode. She would have to look up Jessica Baldwin’s biography in Mossad files at the embassy. And, she thought, somebody in the CIA has certainly looked me up. Thinking at that moment about her identity, she wondered what secrets her CIA dossier might contain. There was, for instance, her involvement with Sean Falcone. At this moment, thinking back to those days, they seem to have been in a previous life.
The aide sent to fetch Rachel entered the room and said in Hebrew, “The Big Man wants you.”
Weisman’s security detail would have the seating plan for the state dinner, she knew. I wonder where Sean will be sitting.…
They had met—what? Twelve years ago?—at a formal dinner, given by the U.S. Secretary of State to honor the Israeli foreign minister. The glittering event, which had drawn the elite of Washington, was in the John Quincy Adams dining room on the eighth floor of the State Department. He was Senator Falcone then, and she was a Mossad officer assigned to meet Falcone and find out about his one-man investigation into the murder of his friend, Senator Joshua Stock. Falcone wrongly suspected that the Mossad had ordered Stock’s assassination.
Falcone had requested an invitation to the dinner, making himself a substitute for Stock, who had been scheduled to attend. He suspected that placing a beautiful woman next to a senator was the work of the Mossad, but he had no idea that he was sitting next to a Killer Angel. She introduced herself as a cultural attaché in the Israeli Embassy.
Even the Mossad could not have known that Rachel had an uncanny resemblance to Falcone’s late wife, Karen. She had died, with their only child, in an automobile accident while he was a prisoner in North Vietnam. “I saw her in the shape of your face, your sea-green eyes,” he had later told Rachel. “I felt that my mind—or my heart—was playing a cruel trick on me.”
Falcone, with the aid of Philip Dake, had learned more about Rachel and her other names—Rachmella Rafiah, Aviva Kamakovich, Esterly Daniloff.
Long afterward, reconstructing what Falcone had learned and not learned, she discovered what Dake had said of the Killer Angels: “They have to be able to kill,” Dake had told Falcone. “Not from a distance but up close, with a garrote, a knife, or a gun inches from their victims’ faces. They had to be able to hear them plead for mercy, scream for life, weep for their families, and then put a bullet in their brain or slice a razor across their jugular.”
Dake had a motto he was fond of repeating—“Nothing is what it appears to be”—and, during those hectic weeks while Falcone, Dake, and Rachel solved Senator Stock’s murder, Falcone had taken that motto as his own. But he had fallen in love with Rachel, whatever her past, whatever her lethal deeds.
Their affair had been short, and their time together had mirrored their separate worlds. It was not exactly a bed of roses from the beginning. During their first private dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant, they had argued about American policy in the Middle East. She thought his “even-handed” approach to creating a Palestinian state was naïve at best and contrary to his professed support for Israel. He had questioned whether Israel could continue to be a democracy if it denied the Palestinians a vote equal to their numbers. Sparks flew at that dinner. Later that night, Russian hit men had attacked Falcone in his garage. She had followed his car home and used her martial skills to save his life that n
ight and once again when they were together in Israel. They had made love on an island in Maine, in a Mossad safe house in Tel Aviv, in the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. They had stopped a Russian agent from blowing up Jerusalem’s Temple Mount and turning the Middle East into a funeral pyre.
Peril had drawn them together, and mutual trust had evolved into an irresistible attraction. Now those well-remembered weeks were still with her, and she was surprised at how much she was looking forward to seeing Sean again. She had never met—or made love to—anyone like him.
If she had ever let herself think of marriage, he would have been the one. But that could never be.…
20
PRESIDENT OXLEY and his wife, Priscilla Longden Oxley, met Weisman at the North Portico entrance of the White House. Weisman, looking uncomfortable in a tuxedo, was accompanied by Rachel. She towered over him, stunning in an off-the-shoulder gown whose blue was the blue of the Israeli flag.
They had walked across Pennsylvania Avenue, flanked by Israeli and U.S. bodyguards and under a hovering Black Hawk helicopter. Blair House guests usually arrived in a car instead of walking across Pennsylvania Avenue. Weisman had scoffed at the idea, and officials had tightened the security cordon that stretched for blocks in all directions. Weisman, stopping at the entrance to chat with a female Secret Service agent, was nudged by Rachel, who acted instinctively, knowing he was a stationary target.
Media coverage had been limited to one pool still photographer and one pool television crew. They had only one photo opportunity: inside, at the staircase. As the President and Mrs. Oxley escorted Weisman and Rachel to a small reception, Priscilla Oxley turned to Rachel and said, “I understand that you have been in Washington before. But in our lovely month of October?”
“I have been here many times in many different months,” Rachel replied. “But never have I been here on a more beautiful evening. Or during a presidential election campaign.”
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