Slingshot s-3

by Matthew Dunn

  And one of the biggest customers of all would have been the CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station.

  Mikhail watched Will check in at the El Al desk. He frowned, having no idea why the MI6 officer was travelling to Israel, as it was highly unlikely that Schreiber was in the Middle East. In any case, this presented him with a problem. If the MI6 officer obtained information in Israel that could pinpoint Schreiber, he’d relay that information to his men in the Auguststrasse safe house, who’d then immediately deploy. Stuck in Israel, Mikhail would have no chance to follow them. But he would also be taking a huge gamble if he let the officer out of his sight.

  He made a decision.

  Twenty-Nine

  Kronos sat in a cafe in the arrivals section of the Frankfurt airport, studying the people who were exiting passport control as well as those who were moving across the concourse. He ignored most individuals, instead focusing only on those who were dressed in the uniforms of pilots. He’d discounted all of the thirty-two pilots he’d seen during the last five hours, as only four of them had been wearing the insignia of the Dutch carrier KLM, and they’d been no good to him as it was clear they were about to fly out of the airport. He needed a Dutch pilot who’d landed and was about to go off duty.

  He took a sip of his coffee, checked his watch, and casually flicked through the pages of Die Welt while occasionally glancing over the top of the newspaper. Wearing an expensive suit and overcoat, and with an attache case by his feet, he looked like every other businessman who was traveling through the place. If challenged by airport security, he would explain that he was waiting for a colleague whose flight had been delayed. Every thirty minutes, he’d checked the arrivals board to update his knowledge of flight arrival times. Currently, there were seven flights that weren’t running on schedule. He also knew exactly what time every KLM carrier was due to arrive.

  One of them had landed thirty minutes ago from Amsterdam Schiphol. Its pilots would soon be walking into view.

  He’d thought through every possibility. The pilots could use private vehicles to exit the airport before he had a chance to follow them, could use taxis but not declare their destination until out of earshot within the vehicle, could be met by loved ones or KLM limousine drivers who’d whisk them away without declaring where they were going, or could get changed into civilian clothes in a secure part of the airport and then use a hidden exit. That didn’t matter, because he was prepared to wait here all day and night until a Dutch pilot walked up to the external taxi rank and announced his destination to the driver. When that happened, Kronos would be standing right behind the man and would hail the next available taxi to take him to the same location.

  Most likely it would be a hotel. He hoped so, because hotel rooms were easy to break in to.

  But it didn’t matter if it was somewhere else.

  Among many talents, Kronos was adept at burgling the most secure complexes.

  Four men walked into view.

  Kronos kept his paper motionless as he fixed his gaze on them.

  All were wearing KLM pilot uniforms.

  They walked across the concourse, past a group of teenage girls who gave them admiring glances while giggling and nudging each other, then stopped and shook hands. Three of them walked off but not in the direction of the main exit.

  They were no good to him.

  The fourth pulled his trolley suitcase behind him as he moved toward the exit. The blond man looked to be in his early thirties, and the slight smile on his face suggested he was happy to be in Germany.

  The assassin folded up his newspaper, placed cash on the table to pay for his coffee, grabbed his attache case, and followed the pilot toward the taxi rank.

  Thirty

  Will drove his hired Jeep south, away from Israel’s Ben Gurion airport. Soon he was on Highway 6, heading toward the Negev Desert. Around him were lush fields of grass, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies; it was nothing like the harsh winter he was used to in Europe.

  Ninety minutes later he was circumventing the functional-looking city of Beersheba. Ahead of him was the stunning desert. He stopped the car in a small Bedouin village, directly outside a cafe that contained a couple of men smoking hookahs. Sitting at one of the outside tables, he ordered tea from a waiter and looked around. On the opposite side of the dusty street, two young girls who’d been playing were now watching him, fiddling with their long black hair. The men in the cafe were also staring at him while they smoked. Even though Will was dressed in jeans, boots, and an open-neck shirt, he knew he looked out of place.

  That didn’t matter.

  What did was the location of the village.

  The Arab waiter brought his drink and placed it on the table, next to Will’s car keys. In Hebrew, he asked, “You lost?”

  Will smiled, pretended to look embarrassed. “English.”

  The waiter repeated the question in English.

  Will shook his head and replied, “Tourist.” He nodded toward the desert. “Desert trekking. Thirsty work.”

  A woman came out of a house and ushered the two girls inside. The waiter said, “They think you’re an Israeli cop. They’re frightened.”

  As the waiter returned to the inside of the cafe, Will took a sip of the sweet tea and tried to relax. The aromatic smell of the hookah tobacco wafted across his table and prompted brief memories. He recalled walking through a vibrant and bustling Moroccan souk one evening, following one of his Syrian agents, who was unaware of his presence and was heading to a covert meeting with an Iranian intelligence officer; sitting in a cafe similar to this one, in Cairo, scouring the buildings opposite to spot the man who’d planted a bomb in the cafe and was waiting for the right moment to blow it apart and kill the men who were sitting three tables away from him; drinking tea in a Bedouin tent with a Jordanian tribal leader who believed he could help Will negotiate the release of an American aid worker who’d been captured by a gang of criminals with affiliations to an Al Qaeda cell; and eating dates and baklava with a stunning Lebanese woman who told him that she was falling for him, when in fact Will knew she wanted to put a bullet in his head.

  He lifted the tea to his mouth, then froze. A sedan car was driving along the street, two men inside. The car slowed down and stopped forty yards away. The driver remained in the vehicle; the passenger got out and walked quickly along the street toward the cafe. He was dressed like Will, looked European or Israeli, and was wearing shades. The car turned in the street and drove off in the direction it had come from. By the time it had disappeared from view, the passenger was only a few yards from Will’s table. Will stayed still as the man walked right alongside his table, scooped up his car keys, kept walking, entered Will’s Jeep, and drove off. Two seconds later, an SUV entered the street, driving fast. Will placed cash on the table to pay for his tea, watched the vehicle draw closer, waited, then stood and jogged to the street. The SUV slowed to walking pace, a door opened, the vehicle came alongside Will, and he grabbed the open door and jumped inside. Immediately the vehicle accelerated fast, causing Will to lurch backward into the seat.

  Three men were in the speeding vehicle. As Will slammed the door shut, one of them said in an American accent, “Get your head down.”

  Will did as he was told, lying sideways so that he was not visible to anyone outside of the SUV.

  The man in the front passenger seat said, “First turning on the left, thirty yards.”

  “Got it.” The driver changed gears.

  The man next to Will looked at him. “Ninety percent certain we weren’t followed. But we’re going to have to take a fairly complex antisurveillance route back to the embassy. The Israelis are superb at this stuff, so we can’t afford to take any risks. Just keep out of sight. Okay?”

  Will nodded. He didn’t know if the Americans were paramilitary operatives, intelligence officers, or Special Forces. But he did know that they were under CIA orders to get him into the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv without him being seen by the Israeli security
services.

  The CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station closed the thick steel door to the embassy’s safe room, locked the handle in place, and sat opposite Will and Patrick. Middle-aged, chubby, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit and circular spectacles, and with a grin on his face, Geoffrey Pepper looked more like an accountant than a senior intelligence operative. He said in a southern accent, “All that effort just to get you into a soundproof room.”

  The place rather more resembled a small cell. It contained three chairs and a small table with two secure telephone units.

  Patrick had been picked up on the outskirts of the northern city of Haifa and had arrived at the embassy thirty minutes before Will. He wouldn’t have liked the journey-he’d been out of the field too long and these days was more used to being driven in limousines-though he would have far more hated the idea of being covertly photographed by the Israelis if he’d turned up at the embassy by more luxurious means.

  Geoffrey fixed his attention on Will. “Who are you?”

  Patrick held up a hand. “He works for me. That should be all you need to know.”

  “Should be, but I’m kinda the inquisitive type.”

  Patrick was about to respond, but Will interrupted. “I’m an MI6 officer.”

  His grin still in place, Geoffrey said, “MI6? Oh dear. If I’d known, I’d have told my Station to burn all our files and hide the family jewelry before you got here.” He turned to Patrick. “What do you want?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I’ve got no idea.”

  For a brief moment Geoffrey’s smile vanished, then it returned. “You have every right to be here. .”

  “Damn right.”

  “Though it would be a discourtesy to waste my time.” Geoffrey looked at Will. “Presumably MI6 has an idea as to what you want.”

  “No. MI6 doesn’t know I’m here, let alone why.”

  “Oh, this just gets better and better, doesn’t it, gentlemen?” Geoffrey’s eyes flickered. “So, shall I conclude this is all very off the record?”

  “If you like.” Will wondered how the head of station was going to react to what he was about to say. “We’re here to talk about the CIA asset Simon Rubner.”

  Geoffrey was motionless, silent.

  “Given that he’s a Mossad officer, I’m certain your station would be a customer for Rubner’s intelligence.”

  Geoffrey said nothing.

  “Rubner’s name has popped up in a major operation I’m running. It’s crucial I understand Rubner’s value to the CIA.”

  The station head darted a look at Patrick. His smile had now vanished. “You got locked out of Langley, so thought you’d come knocking on my door?”

  Will continued, “That was my idea, not Patrick’s. I think Rubner’s not all that he seems. But we have been. . locked out. We need your help.”

  Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, rested one leg over the other, and drummed his fingers. “If Langley’s keeping its mouth shut, then so will I.”

  Patrick said quickly, “Not Langley, self-interested unknown persons within Langley.”

  “Have you spoken to one of the directors?”

  Patrick nodded. “I spoke to the Director of Intelligence. He won’t tell me anything.”

  “Then it is Langley that’s keeping its mouth shut.”

  Will asked, “Do the names Gerlache and Francois Gilliams mean anything to you?”

  “Should they?”

  “I think Gerlache is the front company used by the CIA intelligence officer running Rubner, and Francois Gilliams is his alias.” He recalled the note that had been handed to Alina. “It’s possible Rubner is being run by more than one officer.”

  Geoffrey stopped drumming his fingers, seemed deep in thought, and said, “I’m not betraying any confidences by saying that you’re right we’ve been receiving Rubner’s intelligence, though we’re not the prime customer.”

  “Who is?”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “Langley and the FBI.”

  “Why the FBI?”

  The station chief’s smile was back on his face. “To answer that would be imprudent. Make your own deductions.”

  Will said, “Rubner was feeding you details about Mossad operations on U.S. soil. The feds were the prime customer because they were the ones authorized to shut down the operations.”

  “Maybe.” Geoffrey looked at Patrick and said quietly, “I’m afraid you’ve made a wasted trip. You can’t expect me to give you information that the director himself has refused to divulge to you.”

  Will repeated, “Gerlache, Francois Gilliams?”

  Geoffrey sighed. “I don’t know the identity of Rubner’s case officer. It’s quite possible he’s been using a French or Belgian front to meet Rubner, but on that point I know as much as you do.”

  Patrick turned toward Will. “Geoffrey’s right to say nothing.”

  Geoffrey frowned as he switched his attention to Will. “You’d have known that, young man. So, why drag someone as senior as Patrick halfway around the world to hear that I’m not going to breach security, lose my job, and possibly end up with a prison sentence?”

  Will spoke quickly and in a hushed tone. “I needed Patrick to set this meeting up without others knowing.” He looked around. “I had to talk to you without fear that we were being watched or overheard.”

  “Makes no difference to the result.” The station head began tapping his fingers again. After a few seconds he asked, “Why do you think there’s something wrong with the Rubner intelligence?”

  Will ignored the question. “Does Rubner’s work for the CIA benefit you?”

  Geoffrey seemed surprised, then smiled. “Good question.” He thought for a moment. “Not really. In fact, it’s been a bit of a pain in the ass.”

  Will could understand why. If Rubner was selling out Mossad operations on U.S. soil, this would place the CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station in a delicate situation given that part of his work involved liaising with Mossad, Shin Bet, and other Israeli intelligence agencies on issues of mutual concern. He asked, “Were you involved in the targeting and recruitment of Rubner?”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “Nope, beyond telling Langley that Simon Rubner was a Mossad officer. I’ve no idea how they got him after that.”

  “So, you have no personal vested interest in the Rubner case?”

  Geoffrey beamed. “I’m not going to blab to you just because my career might not benefit from Rubner.”

  “Of course.” Will leaned forward, clasping his big hands, his expression now cold. “But before I answer your question about what’s wrong with Rubner, I need to know if you’re in cahoots with the bastards who leaked my identity and home address to cover up an act that, if they knew about it, would have the president and every senator wishing to string them up by their throats.”

  Patrick turned sharply toward him. “What!”

  Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. “I think you have some explaining to do, young man.”

  “Like you, I’ll explain what I damn well like.”

  “Sure.” The station head looked unsettled, glanced at Patrick, then back at Will. “We’re not your enemies.”

  “I hope you’re not. Because I’m giving you due warning that I’m going to find out who betrayed me, and I’m going to drag them over the body of the director and dump their fucking asses at the feet of the president. And if the director’s involved as well, I’ll squeeze his balls until he screams. Nobody’s going to keep their mouth shut.”

  “You’d tear apart the CIA because someone pissed you off?”

  “No! But I’ll do it to find the scum who’ve put several innocent men, women, and children’s lives at severe risk.” Will leaned back. “The people who’re keeping their mouths shut are going to suffer, and they’ll do so with complete presidential and judicial backing once the truth comes out. You might not be involved, but I’m telling you now that it’s not in your interest to ally yourself in any way to these people.”

  A bead of sweat ran down Geoffre
y’s face. Facing Patrick, he said, “I’m not involved in the Rubner case. Nobody in my station is. We get the intel, but other than that we’re out of the loop.”

  Patrick responded in a stern voice. “But you know what the intel is. That might help us.”

  Geoffrey looked confused. “If I make the wrong call, I’m screwed.”

  Will pointed at him. “If you make no call, I guarantee you those innocent people will die.”

  The station chief kept his eyes on Will’s boss. “There is no ‘off the record’ at our level. If I tell you anything without clearance to do so, you’ve got to assure me that you have my back.”

  Patrick pulled out a pen and notepad, wrote for a few seconds, then tore off a sheet and handed it to Geoffrey. “That’s my handwriting, my signature, today’s date, and confirmation that I’ve given you authority to speak openly about the Rubner case with impunity.”

  The station head looked at the note. “You still have that level of power, Patrick?”

  “If I don’t, then it’s my neck on the line, not yours.”

  Geoffrey breathed deeply. “What’s wrong with Rubner?”

  Will answered, “I think that Rubner’s CIA case officer gave him the name of a low-level SVR officer who also happened to be a CIA asset. One of our own was sold out. That agent is now either dead, or on the brink of death. I’m trying to find him. And I think the case officer’s trying to stop me before I uncover the truth.”

  The station head seemed to be composing himself, though his mind was racing, “Do you know when the SVR officer’s identity was supplied to Rubner?”

  “I can’t be specific.” Will recalled the contents of the Gerlache letter. “But it could be approximately one month ago.”