“How is the satellite phone I gave to al Khalil working out?” he asked. “I hope you’re getting some good info.”
“I can’t talk about that,” Mel said.
“Why not?”
“Well, you’re not cleared, not anymore.”
Steve became irritated at Mel’s narrow view of life and her mindless rigidity. He saw no sense in prolonging the discussion.
“I’ll have to talk to my boss. I’ll let you know. I have to go back to my office.”
They walked out together, Steve giving Mel a wide berth.
“I’ll see you back at the office Josh,” she said. “I have to run an errand.”
She was parked on the left while Steve and Josh walked to the right toward their cars. They reached Josh’s car, an Audi convertible.
“How long have you been with the Agency?” Steve asked.
“Three months, sir. I was in classes until last week. This is my first interim assignment. Then I’ll have three more months of classes and another interim with another directorate. Then more training.”
“How do like it so far?”
He felt sorry that Josh’s first job was under the worst manager in the Agency. Josh smiled.
“Not exactly what I expected. But I read the CALIPHATE file. That’s how I thought it would be. What you did in Gao was amazing, just like a movie.”
Josh took his jacket off and swung it over his shoulder.
“What’s your take on CALIPH/4 and this new case officer, then?”
“I haven’t met the new Bamako chief—his name is Gregory. But I heard about him, a short man with a tall ego and ambition to match, I gather. He and CALIPH/4 didn’t get along. I shouldn’t be judging, but it seemed to me he laid some over-the-top requirements on him. When CALIPH/4 couldn’t produce, Gregory terminated him.”
“What about the money we owed him? We were putting his money aside each month.
“I don’t know about that.”
“Good luck to you,” Steve said abruptly. “Don’t let Mel get you down.”
“Thanks sir. I’ll be on this end answering your mail if you go back out. You can count on me, sir.”
Josh opened the door to his car and Steve walked away toward his.
***
Steve went to Van Diemen’s office as soon as he returned to the West Gate tower.
“I just had coffee with the Agency’s West African branch chief,” he said. “They want me to go back to Mali.”
Van Diemen frowned.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. I’m guessing a week or two.”
“The last time, the request for your services came to me from the West Gate CEO. It can’t be that important this time. We’re going to ignore the request unless the CEO calls. I don’t mind helping out but we need you here. Well, actually not here exactly. Sit down.”
Steve sat on a sofa and Van Diemen came from behind his desk to sit on an armchair at right angles to the sofa. Like many of the offices at West Gate, Van Diemen’s office was decorated by plaques and insignias of Air Force units that more or less outlined the office dweller’s career.
“You did well on that Moroccan deal. You’ll get a considerable bonus. People like you. You establish trusting relationships easily. That’s a definite strength. I’d like you to try some of your magic farther east. We’ve got a lot of contracts in the Middle East with our own Department of Defense, but so far only with the American military. Well, with the Moroccan exception, thanks to you.
“I’d like you to focus on the mother lode, on Egypt and Israel. U.S. taxpayers are sending more than two billion dollars to Egypt each year in economic and military aid. And a bit more to Israel. Do you think you could go over there and help them figure out how to spend it? I can set up some meetings at the Pentagon for you to get you started. As you can guess, DOD has been working with the Israeli Defense Forces forever and with the Egyptians since the 1979 Camp David Accords, when our government really opened up the purse strings—the reward for making peace with Israel.
“Anyway, some of my contacts over there can give you the lay of the land, and hopefully some names in Tel Aviv and Cairo. I would start with the Egyptians.”
Steve listened to Van Diemen’s suggestions, all the while thinking about what he had just learned. Not only was Mel incapacitated by a by-the-numbers way of thinking in a profession where wide mental horizons were absolutely necessary, but her field counterpart Gregory also seemed blinded by ego and ambition.
He was arriving at the point where he still wanted to stop al Khalil but didn’t think he could do it through the CIA. And, he was angry the commitments made to Karim apparently were not being carried out. He wondered if, somehow, he could help Karim as well as do something to slow al Khalil. But he knew he couldn’t do anything from his West Gate office.
“You know me,” he told Van Diemen, “anything to get out of the office.”
Later, he also wondered if he could manipulate this trip into a visit with Kella.
34. Paris
Kella now had dinner at least once a week at the Joulets on Rue de Longchamp. The general’s wife had excused herself knowing that Kella and her husband were about to talk shop. General Joulet had Courvoisier in a large brandy glass.
“I’ve been through the training,” Kella said. “Now I’m on the Maghreb desk, except that we pretty much also run the CIMETERRE case even though it’s in Mali—it’s so close to the AQIM group, El Maghrebi and his thugs. I’ve gone on an orientation trip to Algiers. I’m providing operational support to DGSE officers in the field. Yet I don’t feel that I’m accomplishing much.”
She took her earrings off and held them in one hand.
“To be frank, I’m somewhat disappointed in the people I work with. Most of them are military and they can’t wait to get back with the troops. They’re not happy in an office environment, that’s obvious.”
Noticing her grandfather’s frown, she added, “Commandant Jocelin is different. He’s okay.”
She chose not to reveal the growing tension between her and Roger. In spite of their age difference, the captain was showing a strong personal interest in her.
“Keep in mind that you’re a junior officer fresh out of training,” he said.
As well as a woman and a civilian in a military culture, she thought.
“When I was in Timbuktu,” she said, “I learned that al Khalil has UAVs. In fact, I must have told you, one of them shot at our plane. I haven’t seen anything like that in our files. I wonder why.”
The general blinked in surprise, but she didn’t know quite how to interpret his reaction.
Joulet swirled the brandy around in his glass and took a sip of his Courvoisier.
“There have been rumors of UAVs in North Africa, but, as far as I know, no hard information. Did your raise with your supervisor?”
“I did, but he didn’t seem surprised.”
She didn’t want to speak out of school about Roger, but she didn’t feel her question had been welcomed. On the contrary, Roger had acted defensively, as if threatened.
When she drove home that evening, she still felt unsatisfied that the DGSE was the warhorse she needed in the fight against the Salafists. She wanted to speak to Steve.
35. Gaza
Najib Salah fell into step with his brother Mahmoud as they walked toward the city’s Oriental market along with two Hamas guards. They had run into each other leaving one of the Hamas government buildings and were making their way to Najib’s apartment on the other side of the market.
They were both in their late forties, although Mahmoud was a year older. His black hair was graying on the sides and he was stockier than Najib. While Najib, a former teacher, looked every inch the intellectual, Mahmoud had always been more physical. They were both senior members of Hamas. The Muslim Brotherhood’s military wing had operated in Gaza since the late sixties and become Hamas in 1987. Since then, it had grown into a hydra with political, social, and m
ilitary heads.
Najib was with Hamas’s social services; Mahmoud was with the military wing, the Izz al-Din al-Qassam and a member of the al Qassam council as well as a respected operational chief. Like many of his colleagues, he had spent time in an Israeli prison. He was picked up after having planned an operation that had killed five Israelis and seven Arabs on a Tel Aviv bus by using a suicide bomber. Hamas had determined that Shin Beth, the Israeli internal security service, had learned of Mahmoud’s role through a low-level Hamas militant. He was quickly executed by Mahmoud’s men.
Mahmoud had been freed in an Israeli-Palestinian exchange of prisoners. He often joked that his suicide martyrs were smarter bombs than the high tech so-called “smart bombs” of the Jews.
Since the withdrawal of Israeli troops from Gaza, and the January 2005 elections giving the prime minister’s post to Hamas, political disagreement between the religious Hamas and the secular Fatah forces had grown into a civil war that had become an all-out war in which Hamas overwhelmed Fatah forces and literally took over Gaza. Mahmoud had been one of the three military leaders, each one in charge of the fight for each of the three Fatah security compounds.
As they walked down the street, while Mahmoud smoked a Camel cigarette, his bodyguard stayed within five yards of the brothers. Najib’s bodyguard either followed or led in a looser formation but never farther than 20 yards away. Both had their semiautomatic rifles at the ready, not an unusual sight for a population in constant conflict with Israel and with one another other. All four of them wore wraparound sunglasses.
The street was flanked on each side by six-storey, whitewashed apartment buildings. Colors were provided by the tenants’ drying laundry hanging from windows. A multitude of wires and cables, many jerry-rigged by utility customers who preferred not to pay for telephone and electricity, seemed to tether the buildings together.
Mahmoud’s eyes constantly shifted, alert to possible threats. From scanning apartment windows, his eyes went skyward looking for an Israeli UAV he knew had to be above them, monitoring Gaza City.
“I am telling you,” Najib said, “It’s not a desert agriculture experimental station. If it is, it’s also a cover for something else. I’ve driven by that installation for the last two years many times on my way to Ashdod and I’ve seen vehicles and people coming in and out. Those people don’t look like farmers to me. They could be professors. Some look military. I saw men dressed in civilian clothes but I could also see they were wearing military boots.”
“Any guards? Any uniformed military?” asked Mahmoud.
“No,” answered Najib. “But remember the hitch-hiker from Nablus I told you about? He had worked as a laborer in this installation. He was telling me about the size of the watermelons. He thought that the place was a front for some sort of Rafael project.”
“Rafael? You mean Rafael Arms Development Authority? You didn’t tell me that before. Rafael does all of the Jews’ secret weapons work. It could be important after all. We definitely would have the world’s attention if we destroyed a Rafael site. They built the Jews’ nuclear bomb. We could easily get funding for an attack against the Jews’ nuclear programs—in fact, against any research site. What led him to think this place is connected to Rafael?”
Najib took off his sunglasses and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Well, he’s not one-hundred-percent certain. He is sure that it’s more than an agricultural station. For example, he’s been in some of the buildings and he was surprised how few people were there, compared to the cars parked outside. He saw a lot of people go in, but he saw very few people inside.
“One more thing: It’s very close to the Palmachim Air Base, in Yavne, where the Jews have their rockets, and Nahal al Soreq, the nuclear center. So it’s logical for them to have this secret base close to these other secret projects.”
“The Jews often build their secret laboratories, their essential military offices, underground. That would explain where they all went. We do the same thing; if it wasn’t for our tunnels, we couldn’t smuggle weapons or people to or from Egypt,” Mahmoud said with a chuckle.
“When the Jews started their nuclear center at Dimona, their cover was that it was an observatory, because of the dome shape of the first building. They also floated the story that the other buildings were part of a textile center. So this so-called ‘agricultural station’ could very well be something else. If we can collect more information, I’ll propose a specific operation to our leadership. This could be big. I wouldn’t be surprised if the decision is made at Hamas Headquarters in Damascus. The Syrians or the Iranians would help. But I’d rather work with our Ikhwan brothers in Cairo—I’m thinking specifically of Walid Fahmy. He’s a doer; he’s aggressive and he’s in touch with Tariq al Khalil. He won’t hesitate to help us. The Brotherhood was there at our creation; it will want to take part in what will be a major blow against the Zionists.”
Mahmoud dropped his Camel butt and lit a fresh one.
“Isn’t the irony delicious? The Jews helped the creation of Hamas, or facilitated our initial existence in Gaza, in the belief that Hamas would weaken the PLO. Now we have actual control of the movement and the PLO is nothing. We own Gaza; we will own the occupied territories of the West Bank; the Jews have outwitted themselves.”
Several boys were playing soccer in the street. By accident, the ball was kicked toward the Salah brothers and one boy came running after it. Mahmoud’s bodyguard quickly blocked the ball and kicked it back, shouting, “Stupid boy. My trigger finger is very nervous. Don’t ever kick a ball toward someone with a gun!”
They reached the market and turned in between stalls loaded on one side with dates in wooden boxes and, on the other, with raisins in flat cardboard containers. The crossed the market and continued their conversation amidst the smells and sights of the temporary stalls. The strong and earthy smells of cumin competed with the lighter but equally fragrant sage and the smoky aroma of paprika. Rusty saffron sat next to vats of green and black olives.
Najib and Mahmoud both believed that, in their own way, they were working so that the people behind these smells and colors could one day have the opportunity to support their families in dignity and under the laws of Islam. To reach that objective, the non-believers in and out of Gaza would have to submit and, with Allah’s help, would submit.
They were still a block away from Najib’s apartment building when they emerged from the market, one bodyguard now twenty feet ahead and the other in back but much closer. There was only light traffic as they started to cross the street. Suddenly a burst of gunfire erupted and the front bodyguard went down. Another burst quickly followed as both Najib and Mahmoud dove to the ground. People on the near side of the market were all on the ground. Guns appeared in multiple hands. Several single rounds were fired, coming from the market toward invisible targets. The Gaza population had much experience with random acts of violence and weapons were plentiful; the attempted hit soon led to indiscriminate firing.
This assassin had mistimed his hit. If he had waited for the Salah brothers to reach the middle of the street, they would have had no cover. Instead, they had only just emerged from the market and were now crawling quickly back toward the stalls. Najib was bloodied but moving. The rear bodyguard had come from behind and was down on knee looking for his target. He spotted the gunman lining up his own weapon to fire again, steadying his aim and using a metal light pole for cover. Both fired almost at the same time: the hit man at the retreating brothers in a scattered spray that belied his professional preparation, and the bodyguard at the would-be assassin, hitting him in the shoulder, causing him to spin and lose even the slim protection of the pole. The bodyguard then fired again at the now-easy target and cut him down.
Mahmoud leaned down to look at Najib’s wound and muttered, “The al Aqsa Brigade. I thought we had killed all those Fatah dogs.”
***
The next day, Mahmoud went to visit Najib at the Shifa Hospital. From outs
ide, he could see that most of the windows were shattered. Inside, the walls were dirty and too many people waited for medical care by doctors often forced first to take care of those most likely to live. But Najib’s and Mahmoud’s status as senior Hamas officials guaranteed priority attention.
Najib was sitting in a green plastic chair in a room with ten beds, all of them occupied by patients with more serious problems. His upper body was encased in a cast to keep his shoulder and arm immobile.
“Al Hamdu‘llah,” Mahmoud said. “You’re looking fine brother. If the doctors are done, you’re better off coming home. I’ll ask for some pain killers and we can go.”
He disappeared and came back ten minutes later.
“The doctor said that the hospital is virtually out of supplies. He had four of these pills. He said that each should last about two hours but to make them last as long as possible. He has no more.”
As they walked out, Mahmoud said, “Are you okay? Listen to me. This cowardly al Aqsa attack has convinced me to act against that Rafael installation near Ashqelon. By winning the elections, we used the democratic weapon. We won international credibility. But we’re not going to get the Jews out through elections. The armed struggle continues to be the key. Look at the increased status of Hezbollah after their month-long fighting with the Zionist army in Lebanon. We can complete our capture of the Palestinian heart and mind with a major victory over the Jews. Your discovery of a Rafael installation is the ticket. I need first to get the political support and then I’ll collect the operational information for a plan. I’ll get Walid Fahmy or Talal Kawar, or both, the Ikhwan chiefs in Egypt and Jordan, to put me in touch with their boss, Tariq al Khalil. My guess is that he wouldn’t mind making headlines about now.”
Najib walked firmly with Mahmoud out of the front door of the hospital but winced in pain as someone in a great hurry came in and pushed past him. Mahmoud put his hand on his holstered gun but Najib restrained him with his a stern look and a firm, “No.”
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