Harry's Rules

by Michael R. Davidson

  The Russian was handsome with a thin moustache and blond hair worn stylishly long, and he cut a fine figure in his Carven suit. He easily established rapport with Maurice, the restaurant’s proprietor, complimenting him on the quality of the food. Tsarov’s French was impeccable with no trace of an accent. He had been assigned to France for many years as the Novosti correspondent, in reality a cover for his former KGB and now SVR job.

  “This is quite a charming place you have,” he commented as Maurice was clearing his table. He glanced around and confirmed that he was the only customer left in the dining room. “I know it’s late, but would it be possible to have just a small dessert?” He placed a hundred franc note on the table.

  Maurice was tired after a long day, but ever the good host, he replied, “Of course, Monsieur. But do you mind if I close up while you finish? You’re our last customer.”

  “Of course not. Very gracious of you. I'll finish quickly.”

  Hélène brought the dessert to Tsarov as Maurice flipped the sign on the door from “open” to “closed” and began stacking the chairs on the tables.

  “Do you and your husband manage this place all on your own?”

  “Oui, Monsieur. We leased the space soon after the hotel opened upstairs, and we have run it all by ourselves for many years.”

  “Would you please call your husband over here?”

  Tsarov’s voice was casual, polite.

  “Of course, Monsieur, but …”

  Her words were cut short when she saw that a small pistol had appeared as if by magic in the customer’s hand and he was pointing it directly at her.

  A short shriek escaped her.

  Maurice rushed his wife’s side, saw the pistol and immediately placed himself between his wife and the gun.

  “Do you intend to rob us, Monsieur?”

  Tsarov stood, holding the pistol steady on Maurice’s mid-section and gestured with his free had toward the back of the restaurant.

  “Just remain calm, and all will be well. I'll be gone in a few minutes. Let’s go back to the kitchen.”

  He herded the frightened pair into a corner of the kitchen, out of sight of the front window. The Russian took careful aim now, his intention clear, and Maurice leapt toward him, intent on protecting his wife.

  Tsarov pulled the trigger. There was no sound other than a click, but Maurice fell to the floor at the Russian’s feet. Hélène did not understand what was happening. The gun had not been fired, but Maurice lay on the floor. She stared at him, mesmerized, as a pool of blood spread around her husband’s head. She was still staring uncomprehendingly at his body when the second sub-sonic round penetrated her skull.

  Tsarov replaced the PSS pistol in his pocket. The weapon was a special KGB covert operations weapon that used a unique cartridge with an internal piston to remain silent. When he fired, the gun's piston launched the bullet from the barrel and then sealed the neck before noise, smoke or blast could escape. The Russian calmly surveyed the carnage then stepped to the stove and turned on the gas on all the burners. He lit a cigarette and laid it on the counter before exiting the restaurant into a deserted Rue Roquepine and hurrying away in the direction of Boulevard Malsherbes.

  The chocolate mousse had, indeed, been superb.

  *****

  The Vienna affair continued to reverberate, although at a lower volume, as the investigations progressed. Occasionally a piece would appear on the Post’s “Federal Page” describing the growing demoralization at CIA. Congress was again happily nipping at the Agency’s heels.

  Jake worked hard to overcome the malaise within the ranks. He held frequent meetings with staff and visited all the Section offices daily, reassuring “his” people that they were getting back on track, that the Section would regain its former luster.

  People began to believe in him.

  With his current access to a vast array of highly classified information and his position secure thanks to the deflection of suspicion onto Connolly, the SVR’s risky investment in Jake Liebowitz was more than justified. If he could remain above suspicion he could look forward to a long and prosperous future at the CIA. He had the potential to rival even Philby as a Russian intelligence triumph over the West.

  But as summer stretched towards autumn, Jake’s concerns about Connolly did not recede. The official investigations into the disappearance all crashed and burned at the hotel in Vienna. The Russians’ luck was no better. Simply hoping that the wounds Connolly had suffered in Marbella had been fatal was not enough for Liebowitz. Ever the perfectionist, he needed closure.

  CHAPTER 61 – Bad News

  Sasha remained at my side throughout my recuperation and long stay in Israel, something I found myself enjoying more with each passing day. Though the circumstances of exhausting training left no room for romance, there was time to talk, and I gradually drew out of her the story of her childhood, her father, and the key to her relationship with Eitan Ronan.

  The hot Israeli summer was waning by the time we returned to the Caesarea safehouse. The heat was still with us, but it was not so oppressive near the sea, and together we ran our daily five miles along the beach each morning before the sun rose too high.

  The weeks and months had demolished personal barriers. Harry Connolly had ceased to exist, and this exotic Russian-Israeli creature was the only friend the ghost that remained now had. Her laugh, once so rare, came more easily now.

  One morning we sat together on the villa’s veranda after our run. We were still in our sweats and rested side by side on chaises longues sipping cool water from plastic bottles and watching the sea birds circle high in the lightening sky. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her skin still glowed with a thin sheen of perspiration.

  I broke into her reveries. “You’ve become my best friend, you know, maybe my only friend. You must know that I’d like us to become more than that.”

  Her brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

  *****

  She had anticipated and feared this moment. She wasn’t certain that she could call what she felt for this man ‘love,’ but it was close, perhaps as close as she could ever come to it. But her instincts were in the way. How could their professional relationship survive a love affair, or vice versa? She wanted the physical relationship. She yearned for it - this much she could admit to herself. But it would have a deeper dimension than the merely physical, and this was the problem. Would she be able to make the hard decisions? Would she be able to choose between her lover and the mission?

  *****

  “This time it’s for all the right reasons, Sasha.”

  She stood and walked to veranda railing, her back to me.

  “We were thrown together by circumstance, Harry.”

  I could almost hear the logic circuitry clicking in her brain as she spoke.

  “In fact, we’ve been together constantly for many months, and we shared those horrible experiences. It’s only natural that you should develop," she paused for breath, searching for the right words, still not daring to look at me, “certain feelings. This is what happens. It’s human nature.”

  I stood crossed to her, and she took my hand, her eyes, like searchlights beamed into my core, belying her words.

  “What you’re feeling is natural.” Her breath came now in short gasps. “You’ll leave us soon, and things will look different when you regain your perspective.”

  “I think I know human nature as well as you. Don’t you think I’ve considered all this myself? Can you truly say that you don’t feel the same?”

  She let go my hands and hugged herself against the still cool sea breeze.

  “You’re right. But I don’t think you fully understand what you’re asking. There would be consequences, and I’m not sure I’m ready to accept them.”

  “You mean Mossad consequences.”

  “Mossad is a small closed universe that depends on a very delicate balance. There are no personal secrets. If an officer takes a lover or wishes to marr
y, the service must decide whether it’s acceptable. Otherwise the internal equilibrium and the trust that guarantees it would be lost. Everything must be cleared, and the service’s decision is final. As for you and me, they are unlikely to agree. I would have to leave Mossad.”

  “Then come with me. I'll have the means to do anything we like.”

  I grasped her shoulder gently and turned her to face me before taking her in my arms.

  She leaned into me, and her arms slid around my neck. She raised her face to mine, and we kissed gently, tentatively, and she trembled and wept softly as the final barrier fell and she buried her face in my neck. With unaccustomed tears in her eyes she raised her lips again, and our embrace became more passionate. I could feel the heat generated by her body and knew that she wanted me, needed me – badly -- now.

  After a few moments, silent in mutual consent, we climbed the stairs to my room. Our clothing flung to the far corners of the room, our bodies came together almost violently as long repressed passion drove us to frantic, panting lovemaking.

  We spent the rest of the morning in the room, the time divided between the bed and the Jacuzzi, the pure animal excitement of our first coupling giving way to tenderness as we explored one another’s bodies. We spoke little, everything already having been said, but where I had hope for the future, I knew that she hoped she would not regret the irredeemable step she had taken.

  *****

  The next morning we returned to Tel Aviv for a final briefing before I left the country.

  Sasha, her eyes straight ahead on the road, said, “There’s something I must tell you. Ronan does not want you to know this, but I think you deserve to hear it.”

  There was a reticence in her voice that alerted me that she was about to say something she would rather not.

  “There was an explosion in Paris last March.”

  My reaction was instantaneous. “Not Volodya!”

  “No, he's safe. It was the restaurant you described to us on Rue Roquepine. It was destroyed, and the proprietors were killed.”

  “Maurice and Hélène?” My stomach knotted. “What happened?”

  “There was a gas explosion, and the two bodies were found in what was left of the kitchen.”

  “An accident?” But I knew worse was to come.

  “That’s the official story. The explosion destroyed the restaurant and several other people were killed and injured in the small hotel in the same building. Autopsies on the bodies of your friends determined that they were dead before the explosion. Each had a bullet in the head. The French police investigated but could find no clues. They concluded it was a robbery gone bad.”

  *****

  She had not intended to tell him about the Paris killings because Ronan wanted to keep the information from him as long as possible. He believed that with the passage of time the news would not wound him so deeply. But she knew better, and she found it impossible any longer to practice deception on this man, her friend and now her lover. She did not want to increase the burden of guilt she knew he carried, but he deserved to know the truth. She recognized in that moment that she had crossed a line, broken discipline, and she also knew that Harry Connolly would not allow these wanton murders to pass unanswered. Was she “changing sides,” she wondered? Was her loyalty to Mossad and Ronan somehow diminished by this act of disobedience?

  *****

  An icy hollowness invaded my gut. Two more lives, innocent lives - sweet people with a caring family - had been snuffed out because I had involved them in something they did not understand and should never have been a part of. Death followed wherever I passed.

  "They were linked to me, and the Russians found out.”

  “I’m telling you this against orders because they were your friends and because you need to know that someone is still out there looking for you. I don’t want you taking chances, especially now, so soon after Vienna and Marbella.”

  I closed my eyes, and there were Maurice and Hélène staring accusingly at me.

  “Thanks for telling me, but I don’t think those nice people were killed because someone was looking for me. I think they were killed to protect someone else.”

  Stankov still haunted me, as well. The sight of his face disintegrating that wet night in Vienna was an indelible memory. The hapless little Russian I had recruited those long years ago in Berlin had been murdered not only silence him, but also to protect the mole.

  Someone had to pay for the destruction of my life and the consequent deaths of so many others. Only one other person had known of the involvement of Maurice and Hélène – Jake Liebowitz. Their deaths closed the circle.

  His Russian masters might be out of reach, but Jake Liebowitz was not.

  The Mossad had their rules, and they had their priorities and their secrets to protect. Going after Jake wouldn't fit into their plans and risked blowing the seals off of one of their more successful operations. No amount of cajoling would convince Ronan that it was wise to move against Jake Liebowitz.

  When I had previously raised the Liebowitz problem, Ronan had been adamant.

  “What would you have us do? Should we advise the Agency that we suspect he’s working for the Russians? What proof could we present? Even if we revealed the fact that you are still alive, and we WON'T do that, we would still have nothing concrete. Even if you are correct, Liebowitz would be warned, and then what would happen? The CIA doesn’t like us very much anyway, and this would be like throwing a stink bomb into their living room.

  “Why would Liebowitz have had to send you to Vienna in the first place if he already knew Stankov’s communications plan and the meeting sites? All the Russians had to do was to wait there for Stankov to show up, kill him, grab the second disk, and go home.”

  “I think you already know the answer. The mole hunt in Washington was ratcheting up, and Jake was feeling the heat. The Russians needed a scapegoat to relieve the pressure on him. That’s why they wanted me in Vienna and why they needed me dead. It was the perfect set-up, and they weren’t expecting complications.”

  Ronan had merely shrugged. “As you would say, we don’t have a dog in the fight.” He smacked his fist in his palm for emphasis. “That’s the way it is in our world. You know this as well as anyone. No one gets everything they want. It’s not perfect, but our operation was a success. We can’t risk blowing it.”

  The months in Israel had not diminished my determination to settle accounts with Jake Liebowitz, and the deaths of Maurice and Hélène now made the matter more pressing. How this might be accomplished I hadn’t yet figured out.

  The CIA was not perfect, but it was an organization populated for the most part with good people. It was not their fault that they were poorly led and poorly served by an inside-the-Beltway Washington class that valued scoring political points over having a viable intelligence service. In the end, everyone would get the intelligence service they deserved, one way or another. In the meantime, if I did nothing and a mole was permitted to gnaw away undetected and unchallenged, the Russians would have won yet another round. More lives would be at risk. And besides all that, I was sick to death of playing the unwilling pawn, sick to death of being used.

  CHAPTER 62 – Back to Paris

  The Hotel Bristol near the shore of Lake Geneva boasts a fine bar that smells of well-polished wood. It was dimly lit and the music from the hidden speakers was Chopin. My contact, a well-dressed man in his mid-30’s, was seated at the end of the ornate bar, that day’s pink copy of the ubiquitous “Financial Times” peeking out of his jacket pocket. I reflected that I should think of a different recognition signal.

  I ordered a drink and surveyed the room before moving down the bar, drink in hand, to sit on the stool next to my contact.

  “Would you mind sharing the ‘Times’ with me?”

  The man twisted his head toward me. “Is there a particular article that interests you?”

  “Yeah, I think someone called Ronan wrote it.”

  The man g
rinned. “Greetings, friend. Do you have your travel documents all together?”

  I tapped the thick envelope in my inside jacket pocket.

  “Excellent,” the Mossad man continued, “Shall we exchange envelopes?”

  Mine held the false documentation I had used for the flight from Tel Aviv. The one I received contained a new life. Today, Harry Connolly would become Ewan Ramsay, citizen of Ireland.

  The Mossad had provided the complete package. They also had kept their word and established a numbered account at a Geneva bank with an initial deposit of ten million dollars. The first thing I did the next day was to move the funds to a new account at a different bank.

  Another day, another flight, this time to Dublin where I culled a list of attorneys from the hotel phone book and started making calls. It proved astoundingly easy to set up a shell company in the economically supercharged Ireland of 1992. The Irish were intent on economic development, and the new, liberal tax laws attracted a lot of foreign business. I opened a bank account, set up credit cards, and engaged a real estate agent to find properties for sale in the west of the country.

  These tasks accomplished, I was free to concentrate on a pressing objective – dealing with Jake Liebowitz. The plan was simple, but I would need help.

  *****

  The first cool gusts of October swept across the Boulevard St. Germain as I climbed the Metro stairs across the street from the familiar Deux Magots café. I had driven a rental car from London to Paris in order to avoid recording the cross-border travel in traceable airline records. I had left the car in an all-night lot in the 18th Arrondissement. A brisk ten minute walk from the Metro brought me to the familiar façade at13, Rue de Tournon. Volodya’s voice sounded delighted when I rang his apartment from the street and he heard the familiar voice.