Harry's Rules

by Michael R. Davidson

  “When we talked at the hospital you said that Israel was grateful to me. You used the words ‘incalculable value,’ in fact. I'll work for you, but I need some guarantee of independence. I don’t want to have to ask you every time I need a new pair of socks.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want ten million dollars. That should about do it.”

  Ronan sucked in his breath, not pleased with this turn of conversation.

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yep. But still a modest sum compared with the numbers you’ve been tossing about. Just think of me as a very inexpensive weapons system.”

  “I can’t authorize such an amount on my own.”

  “There are probably only a few in your government who can. I’m not trying to make things difficult for you, but I need at least the illusion of independence. Accepting your proposal is a big step, and I don’t want to feel like I’m stepping out of one box into another. I need some slack in the leash.”

  With a small personal fortune at my disposal I would have the power to say no to the Mossad. And this was precisely what I had decided would be most important in a relationship with them. I would not allow myself to become their creature.

  “If you can’t get this done, then have your people in Washington make some arrangements and put me on the first plane for the US I’d rather face the music there than spend the rest of my life as a Mossad house slave, even a comfortable one. I know what I’m asking, and I know the answer depends on just how valuable you think I can really be to you and how ‘grateful’ this country really is. Until a decision is made, I have nothing but time.”

  Without another word, his face like thunder, Ronan stood and walked out the door.

  Sasha shook her head slowly as the door closed behind her boss.

  “You’re taking a big risk. The Mossad doesn't want the details of the Voskreseniye operation to become public or to become known even to the American authorities, which is almost the same thing. The way Washington leaks, the whole story would leak in no time at all, and we would have even more trouble with the Russians. It is vital that our participation remain concealed. You are the only link the Russians have, and Eitan will do what he has to do to preserve this fiction. The Mossad doesn’t leave loose cannons dangling.”

  “Loose ends.”

  “What?”

  “You said loose cannons. Cannons don’t dangle; ends ‘dangle.’ You meant to say 'loose ends.’”

  She was annoyed. “I’m serious. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Do you take me for an idiot? I know the risks, and I know that there’s no way Ronan will send me to Washington. The other choices are no more palatable than an anonymous burial in the Negev. I will happily work heart and soul with you against the damned Russians. But I need a measure of self-respect in exchange for what this mess has forced me to give up. I’m a man without a country.”

  We had more coffee brought up, but there was little conversation while we waited. I was gratified by Sasha’s evident concern for my well-being.

  Finally, late in the afternoon, Ronan returned.

  “It was not easy. I had to do a lot of talking. In the end the memuneh agreed to your terms, but he insists on a few ‘conditions’ of his own.”

  The Israelis agreed to establish a numbered account for me in the amount of ten million dollars. I alone would have access to the funds and decide how they were used. (I would, of course, immediately transfer the money to another account, just to guard against Mossad bean counters ever changing their minds.) In exchange, I would be available to them at any time and subject to their operational discipline,

  Right now Harry Connolly was a wanted man, the subject of a widespread manhunt by a constellation of Western authorities and an illegal and much more lethal hunt by Voskreseniye and its allies. So Harry Connolly had to disappear.

  And there was still a loose end – something I was determined to take care of, with or without Mossad permission.

  CHAPTER 58 – Entr'acte

  Ronit Lotner stood across the street from the underwhelming façade of the local branch of the Cayman Banking and Trust Co., Ltd. It was a private bank, catering to individuals looking for what the bank coyly advertised as “a full range of private banking services with highly confidential investment management,” in other words, “mum’s the word where your money is concerned.” It was counter-intuitive. Most people conceived of a financial institution that controlled millions, no, billions of dollars, housed in a steel and glass skyscraper. But this was not the way it was in the real world. In the real world, such institutions favored modest, unassuming quarters. Discretion was a concept they took seriously.

  A week earlier she had been in London opening a business account for a fictitious company. Of British origin, Ronit was perfect for the role Tel-Aviv had assigned to her. In her late thirties, dressed in a dark blue linen Dior suit with Cesare Paciotte stilettos she was the epitome of the successful European businesswoman. Armed with an authentic British accent and impressive corporate documents supplied by Mossad technicians, she had opened the account in London and pre-arranged a large transfer of investment funds that her “firm” anticipated receiving shortly from a numbered private account.

  Unlike the way it is depicted in movies, transferring large amounts of money is more complicated than simply punching the keys of a computer from a remote, anonymous location. Bank rules prohibit the acceptance of large funds transfers from anonymous accounts without prior authorization in writing from their own client. Ronit had performed the same act three times now, each time in a different country. Twice before she had engineered the transfer of funds from a secret Russian account to one she had set up for the Mossad. Sometimes she had only set up the receiving account, actually the more complicated of the two activities, and then when the funds had arrived had split them and immediately transferred them to other accounts set up by other Mossad agents for the purpose. It was labor intensive activity. Some banks permitted wire transfers to be initiated via the Internet, but this procedure was still relatively new in the early nineties, and in any event such “remote” transfers normally were limited by bank regulations to only a few million dollars and never more than ten million.

  She was staggered by the amounts involved. This operation had been underway for two months and was by far the most extensive operation of its kind ever undertaken by Mossad with more than forty agents involved worldwide. Only three times had they been politely but firmly turned away by smiling bankers when they encountered several non- transparent strings of successive ownership, designed to conceal the true beneficiaries, and they were untouchable by the Israelis, at least for now. The Russians would not lose everything.

  Ronit looked to her right down the block and made certain that Avram was there, sitting in the car with the engine idling. They worked in teams of two – one to deal with the banks and the other for security. Avram, she knew, would be prepared to extricate her from any potentially dangerous situation. Deadly force was permitted.

  She took a deep breath to calm her nerves before crossing the narrow street and pushing the buzzer at the entrance. Once inside she encountered a well-dressed man seated behind a desk. The tiny lobby was devoid of any other furniture or decoration.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Cynthia Morris. I called yesterday for an appointment.”

  After consulting his computer screen, the man asked to see her identity documents. She handed them over and waited while he matched their contents to the information on the computer. Finally he rose and indicated she should follow.

  Beyond the reception area, the bank’s quarters were small, but well appointed, with thick carpets, oak paneling and vintage oil paintings. Her escort showed her into an anteroom where she was greeted by another man, equally well-dressed, who exuded an air of quiet discretion.

  He greeted her in French-accented English. “Ms. Morris, I’m very happy to meet you. We understand you wish to m
ake a withdrawal?”

  “I'll be transferring funds to our account in London. Our firm is planning a major investment in a telecommunications company.”

  “Of course. Would you care for some tea, or coffee? We're at your disposal.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather get to business. We’re on a tight schedule.”

  “Very well.”

  There was a lot of paper, but in reality the transaction at this end uncomplicated. She possessed the account number and the pass code. A half-hour later, the transaction completed, Ronit bade the banker good-bye and walked back out into the street.

  Avram gave the all clear signal, and she walked to the car. They drove directly to the airport where they boarded a flight for Paris.

  By the end of April, the Israelis had recovered nearly fifteen billion dollars in illicit Russian funds. Eitan Ronan then called it quits. The operation had cost many hundreds of man hours in travel all across the globe, from Montevideo to Vaduz, and with each attempted transaction the job became more dangerous.

  *****

  It was six months since the meeting in Tel-Aviv. A portion of that time had been spent in a secret Mossad medical facility dedicated to making certain that your mother wouldn’t know you if she looked you in the face in the noon day sun. They also had a method of altering fingerprints, or at least erasing them. They told me they could make me look ten years younger, but I turned down the idea of changing my face. I'd grown used to it, and I didn't want not to be me. The fingerprint thing, however, was not a bad idea.

  The summer under the hot Israeli sun burnt my skin brown and daily jogs along the beach that became increasingly longer and more pleasurable dropped my weight back to 175 and hardened muscles I had been neglecting. All in all, the physical transformation was pleasing.

  Mossad trainers put me through the mill, as well, mostly unarmed combat and weapons training. They had little to teach me about tradecraft, but new proficiencies with Israeli clandestine communications protocols were required.

  I learned that the Mossad is a very informal service and highly compartmentalized, especially the Kidon unit. Lines of command were sometimes difficult to discern. Less than a handful of Mossad personnel were aware of my true identity, and they would keep it that way. Ronan would be my control, and Sasha was to provide operational support when required.

  CHAPTER 59 – Jake Triumphant

  Jake Liebowitz sauntered into CIA Headquarters via the main entrance, the one with the statue of Nathan Hale outside and the statue of General “Wild” Bill Donovan inside - the lobby they always show in the movies. His Volvo occupied a coveted space in the small VIP parking lot just a few feet from the wide steps leading to the bank of heavy glass doors.

  There was a spring in his stride this morning, and he wore one of his better suits, one that actually flattered his corpulent frame. His wife had insisted, and she also had splurged on the Hermes tie he wore. This was a special day.

  He nodded a greeting to the uniformed guard as he passed through the security checkpoint and walked past the windows that gave out onto the well-manicured interior courtyard. He stood patiently at the elevators with other Agency employees until the doors opened. He exited on his floor and walked the short distance to the front offices of the Russia Section. It was early enough that only the faithful secretaries were in place at their desks.

  Sadie Cochran, a Section stalwart who had served as secretary for a string of Chiefs for over eleven years, had known Jake Liebowitz for a long time. She had followed the famously fidgety officer’s progress and was proud that he had at last achieved such success. He was a gifted officer, one of many that had been eclipsed in recent years by clever bureaucrats like Barney Morley who didn’t even speak Russian. This was a good day. Jake, she was certain, would return the Section to its former glory.

  “Good morning,” she beamed at her new boss. “My, but don’t you look dapper! I'll bet Sophie picked out that tie for you.”

  Sadie knew Jake’s wife, Sophie, and his daughter, Rebecca, now a sophomore at Georgetown, very well. She knew the Liebowitzes as a strong, closely knit family.

  He smiled benignly. “Right as usual, Maggie. Have you picked up the morning traffic?” He referred to the daily collection of cables and reports from around the world.

  “Of course,” she replied with mock severity. “It’s waiting for you on your desk. I'll fix a cup of coffee for you.”

  “Aww, Sadie, I don’t expect you to do that for me. I’m still the same old Jake. I'll just grab a cup off the rack and fix it myself, as usual.”

  She stood and rushed past him to the coffee urn. “Jake Liebowitz, You’re a big cheese now. Enjoy it. It'll be my pleasure.”

  Jake spread his arms wide, palms up, in a gesture of surrender.

  “If you insist, Maggie, only if you insist. And only if you’ll let me take you to lunch today.”

  Sadie’s cheeks glowed pinkly. “Jake, you’re too nice, you know.”

  “Sadie, it’s only the cafeteria. You’ll be able to catch me up on all the gossip.”

  Jake entered his new office, recently vacated by Morley, while a pleased as punch Sadie started a fresh urn of coffee.

  Pausing at the door he surveyed the corner office, now devoid of Morley’s fatuous mementos, and began slowly to circle the oversized executive desk, running his fingers across its gleaming surface. Maggie had left the morning correspondence in a neat pile in the center. The stack of papers would include the PDB, the President’s Daily Brief, State Department diplomatic correspondence, a précis of the morning news, as well as CIA operational “traffic” from around the world.

  He removed his jacket and flung it carelessly into one of the chairs before taking his seat. He remained quiet for a moment, waiting for Maggie to bring the coffee, and reflected on recent events.

  It had not taken long for the bureaucracy to deliver the hammer blow to Barney Morley. The misadventures of Harry Connolly in Vienna combined with the persistence of the Washington press corps created a scandal the Russia Section Chief could not escape. Gleeful politicians were standing in line to demand Congressional hearings on the “mole” debacle.

  In typical Agency fashion a “retirement” ceremony in one of the conference rooms was quickly arranged for Barney. All of six people attended. Called upon to speak, Jake related a couple of amusing anecdotes from Barney’s career and spoken warmly of his years of dedicated service. In the end, Barney Morley stumbled out clutching his service medal and a cheap watch but bereft of pride. The ceremony lasted only a half-hour, and the Seventh Floor could not wait for the door to slam on Morley’s sorry ass. Jake had savored the moment.

  Exit Barney Morley, enter Jake Liebowitz. As Barney’s deputy Jake was immediately named Acting Chief of Russia Section. Discovering that he was perfectly willing to bear the burden of investigations and the inevitable internal turmoil engendered by the scandal, it did not take long for the Seventh Floor types to confirm him as Chief.

  Even so, he was not entirely at ease. He mentally revisited the facts known about Harry Connolly, those known to Washington, as well as those known only to the SVR and himself. More than a month had passed and Harry Connolly was still at large, although it was possible he was dead. Every police and intelligence service in Europe had pursued the meager leads available to them, but the trail ended in that miserable hotel in Vienna. The CIA and the Europeans assumed that Connolly had long since made his way to Moscow and would turn up there sometime in the future whenever it suited the SVR. For the time being the Russians insisted they had had nothing to do with the fugitive.

  But Jake knew that Connolly was not in Russia. He also knew that subsequent to the Vienna events he had left three corpses behind him in Spain. The unexpectedly resourceful Connolly had proven to be spectacularly resistant to dying. Liebowitz would never have imagined that the brooding, cynical, angry man he had known for so long could be capable of the actions ascribed to him. Allegedly Connolly had been wounded in the shoo
t-out in Spain, perhaps fatally. Jake hoped so. Russian resources were still casting about for signs of him and would continue to do so for some time.

  He did have the grace to regret, ever so slightly, that his recent actions had been calculated to result in the death of one of his oldest “friends.” But he no longer could afford the luxury of friends. Harry Connolly was expendable – and useful: Connolly was now mole suspect number one. And a dead man could not defend himself.

  CHAPTER 60 – Loose End

  The mystery of Harry Connolly’s whereabouts haunted Jake Liebowitz. Months had elapsed since his disappearance and without official support of any kind, Connolly still eluded capture. If he were not dead, there was no way in hell that he could remain at large without help. What resources could Connolly have called upon? What sort of chits was he calling in? At one point in his career Harry had spent a long time on assignment in Paris. He had worked well with the French and was fluent in their language. Could the damned Frogs be harboring him for some perverse Gallic reason? And if this were so, what did they know about Jake? He had asked the Russians to check their sources in Paris, but it was another dry hole.

  Even so, there was a French link between him and Connolly that could not be permitted to come to light: the cut-out communications link Connolly had established to stay in contact with Liebowitz while he was in Vienna. Although Jake had remained anonymous when he called the Parisian restaurant to provide the pay phone numbers Connolly was to use, nothing could be left to chance. The restaurant proprietors could well go to the authorities with what they knew, given the international notoriety of matter, and it could precipitate further investigation in Washington. This could not be permitted, and Jake insisted that the SVR tie up this loose end.

  *****

  In mid-March 1992, Igor Tsarov, walked through doors of the modest restaurant on Rue Roquepine in Paris’s 8th Arrondissement. He had picked a Thursday evening when restaurant traffic was normally light. Arriving about forty minutes before closing time, Tsarov ordered a light dinner of charcouterie and a salad, finishing it off with a glass of house wine and a small bottle of Perrier.