THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller

by J. G. Sandom

  Warhaftig paused, drifting on the river of his memory. He took a breath and said, “Had a girlfriend in college named Anne Tierney, a few love affairs in DC. Nothing too serious. A few call girls. Plus a girlfriend in Chicago named Maureen O’Donnell for about four months. Like those Irish girls. She left you when you couldn’t commit. Transferred to the Joint Terrorism Task Force in New York after the McNally case in Iowa, for which you received a special commendation. Now subletting a one-bedroom in the Village, slightly beyond your means. Don’t smoke or drink, except on special occasions. Love chicken and fish, especially Sushi, but you aren’t much of a red meat eater, are you, John? Read the Journal of Cryptanalytics religiously every Tuesday. Brought up a Democrat but you’re largely apolitical. Never been in serious debt. Not much of a dresser, that’s for sure. Oh, and no pets. That about sum it up?” Warhaftig smiled. “You have a facility for numbers,” he added. “I’m cursed with a near photographic memory. Pick your poison.”

  Decker was flabbergasted at Warhaftig’s breadth of knowledge. He shook his head. Is that all I’ve become? he thought. Just a page or two in someone’s file.

  “How many languages do you speak fluently? Besides Arabic, I mean,” Warhaftig asked.

  “Oh, did you forget that tidbit? Actually, I barely speak English fluently.”

  “No, seriously. How many?”

  Decker scowled. “A few, I guess.”

  “A few!”

  Decker shrugged. “Born with a good ear. My mother played piano pretty well. My dad spoke French and Italian and Spanish, in addition to English. He was a seaman once, in his teens and early twenties. Is that in the file too?”

  “It is,” Warhaftig said. “Must have been pretty interesting with two headstrong parents, one Catholic and one Episcopalian. But I guess you could say Episcopalian is kind of Catholic lite. Me, I’m a Jew. Not a very good one, mind you.” He laughed, until he noticed his stomach wiggling. Then he frowned and said, “Still, I’d say that speaking ten languages, six fluently, is more than just ‘a few.’ You always this modest? What’s that?” Warhaftig pointed at the floor.

  Decker’s notebook lay open at his feet. “Nothing,” he said. “Just some sketches of that PC wallpaper.”

  “May I see them?”

  Decker tossed the notebook over to the Intel specialist. Warhaftig began to flip through the pages slowly. “You did all these?”

  Decker nodded.

  “Don’t get it. Why make drawings if you have photographs?”

  “Sometimes you can see a pattern better when you try and replicate it, rather than just looking at it. You can see the depth. I mean . . . Okay, for example, I didn’t even notice the number on the bottom right hand side until I drew the arabesque. Then I realized there was a break in the pattern.”

  “What number?”

  “Here,” said Decker, reaching out. He flipped the pages of the notebook rapidly. Once again, the illustration coalesced into a whole as the pages fanned together. “You see? The wallpaper has three obvious keys: Two lines of text, plus a number.” He turned the notebook to a specific page and pointed at the image. “Those are the words, ‘Pregnant She-Camels,’ in Arabic. See? And here – another phrase.” He flipped a few more pages. “‘When Hell Is Raised Up.’ I know the Arabic script is foliated. It makes it hard to read.” He turned back to the beginning of the notebook. “And, finally, a number. See? 540,000. On the bottom right hand side.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Decker. He closed the notebook. “I’ve examined the words using a number of techniques and ciphers. The phrases are too brief for me to figure out a source.” He dropped the notebook on the floor. “And the number could be anything: A place reference or coordinate; a page, a chapter or verse; a bank account; or a time. Perhaps even a timer to something – an event.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Warhaftig.

  “The number could represent hours or, more likely, seconds, given its size. You know: A countdown.” Decker reached out for the camera. “That’s the thing about illustrations. I doubt I ever would have found that number using just a camera. Pictures only deliver images two-dimensionally. Unlike illustrations, photographs are . . . ” He froze. Then he glanced up, horrified. He looked at the rear panel of the camera and cursed under his breath.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Warhaftig.

  Decker eyed Warhaftig with suspicion.

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  Decker flipped a switch and a panel on the camera swung open. It was empty. There was no memory stick within.

  Warhaftig looked surprised. “Not your day,” he said, after a moment.

  “I’m sure I loaded this thing. You don’t think those guys could have come back and . . . ” Decker rolled to his feet and checked the apartment door. Nothing was out of place. The doorframe was clean. Nobody had tried to force it open. He walked back to the window and collapsed into his chair.

  Warhaftig reached into his raincoat. He took out his cell phone and punched a number. “SAC Johnson?” he said. “It’s Warhaftig.”

  Decker looked up in surprise. He could hear Johnson’s shrill voice echo back.

  “Listen,” Warhaftig said, “for what it’s worth, I just wanted to say that – in my opinion – you shouldn’t be too hard on Decker. The way I see it, Special Agent Bartolo took it upon himself to follow those three suspects across the roof before backup had arrived. Probably would have done the same thing myself, given the circumstances, but you can hardly blame Decker.” He paused, then added, “Anyone can make a mistake, sir. He didn’t have the shot.” He pulled the phone away from his ear as Johnson shouted back. “What I mean is,” said Warhaftig, cutting him off, “I was in the field for almost fourteen years, and you’ll never guess what just happened. I was leaning over, reaching for my binoculars, and – well – I knocked over your Nikon, sir. Yeah,” he added, looking at Decker. “I’m afraid so. I suggest you submit a cross-charge. I’m sure the Agency insurance team will order a replacement. No, sir. Apparently nothing crucial.” He winked at Decker. “Yes, a new one, sir. Of course. Alright then,” he said. “Thank you, sir, for being so understanding. Yes, sir.” He hung up the phone and slipped it back into his raincoat.

  Decker stared at Warhaftig, feeling a strange mixture of anger and relief, fed by a renewed respect for the CIA Intel specialist, not so much for his favor as for his sheer audacity. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Decker said. “I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”

  Warhaftig smiled. With one quick movement, he kicked the tripod and knocked the Nikon D70 to the floor. The camera shattered like an egg, like a broken skull on the sidewalk. “What lie?”

  Chapter 10

  Friday, January 28 – 5:07 AM

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Seiden was interrupted by a loud knocking on the two-way mirror that ran the length of the interrogation room. He got up, walked nonchalantly to the door, and stepped outside into the hall.

  The Director of the Mossad, Itzak Mandelbaum, and the Deputy Director, Chaiyim Cohen, stood in the observation room next door. They were watching the videotaped recording of the interrogation on a monitor.

  “I didn’t know you had a son,” said Cohen. He was a slight man, with a shaved head and piercing ice-blue eyes. A small scar ran along his chin.

  Seiden smiled and looked down at the monitor. “I don’t,” he answered simply. “Two girls.”

  Director Mandelbaum laughed. Seiden found the sound disturbing. It was perfectly pitched, yet hollow. It was the kind of laugh one makes after a dirty joke. He looked the Director up and down. He was a large man, in his fifties, with a wide and pleasant face topped by a shock of bright white hair. His lips were thin. His eyes were small for his face. Blue. No, hazel. No, gray. Seiden couldn’t quite make out the color. They seemed to change based on the angle of his face. Then the Director smiled.

  “Thank you, Acting Chief Seiden. We appreciate your efforts,” he
said. “You may go.”

  His teeth were small for his face, like those of a woman or child. “Excuse me?” Seiden said.

  “We’ll take over from here,” Director Mandelbaum continued.

  “But I’m just getting started,” said Seiden. “Sir, I don’t mean to be insubordinate, but–”

  “Then don’t be.”

  “Sir?” Seiden felt himself grow angry. This was his case. El Aqrab had been caught in Tel Aviv, in his jurisdiction.

  “Acting Chief Seiden,” the Director added. “It was unfortunate when Chief Stein retired so unexpectedly.”

  “He had a stroke, sir.”

  “Of course he had a stroke. Don’t you think I know that?”

  Seiden was thrown by the Director’s sudden burst of anger.

  “Be that as it may,” the Director said, “we are still searching for a suitable replacement. Do not forget yourself. You are only the acting Chief. A temporary position.” Then he smiled. “Of course, your name is one of many we’re considering. It is not inconceivable that you could find yourself Chief Stein’s permanent replacement. He was a remarkable man. A terrible loss. Terrible.”

  “He isn’t dead, sir,” Seiden said. “He’s only paralyzed on the left side.”

  Deputy Director Cohen stepped forward. “Ben, what are you doing?” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I believe the Director has made his position clear.”

  Seiden sighed. “I’m making progress, sir,” he said. “I’m convinced the Arabic lettering, the words revealed during El Aqrab’s explosions are more than random quotes from the Qur’an. I think they’re messages to other members of the Brotherhood. I’d like to examine them more thoroughly.”

  “You have your orders,” Cohen said.

  Director Mandelbaum reached out and placed a hand on Seiden’s shoulder. “Don’t be upset, Ben,” he continued. “El Aqrab is not an ordinary man. And, frankly, there have been too many leaks of late. Too many . . . ” He paused for a second. “ . . . indiscretions. It is a matter of great importance to the State that all evidence, every piece of information surrounding this case, all intelligence be kept in the strictest of confidence. There are things here that you do not see.” He took his hand away.

  “I agree, of course” said Cohen. “But before you go, Acting Chief Seiden, I’d be curious to hear what you think about our prisoner. As a trained psychologist.”

  Seiden stared at Mandelbaum. Both men were looking at him, waiting for his analysis. “What can I tell you?” he said. “I’ve only been with the suspect a few hours.”

  “Your first impressions then,” said Cohen. “What drives him, Ben? Why is he here?”

  Seiden sighed. He ran a hand back through his hair, staring through the two-way mirror at the prisoner within. “It’s hard to tell. I believe he’s a true believer, unmotivated by political or personal greed. A man of faith.” He paused.

  “Go on,” said Cohen.

  “But there is something else. The way he kills, the way he paints with fire and explosives. There is an aesthetic to his work, a kind of art.”

  “That much is obvious,” the Director said. “Are you saying he kills to be an artist?”

  “Yes . . . and no. His art is devastation, to be sure. He destroys with an aesthetic sensibility. I believe it’s a kind of gift to Allah. Jung said that all great artists create not only for themselves and for their publics, but as an homage to God. I think this drives the expression of his work. Explosives are simply the aesthetic form he’s chosen, much as an artist might choose the brush or pen or any other instrument. What drives him, and why did he return?” He shrugged. “We have yet to establish a link with Miller, or any of his family. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were just a random act of violence. There is a deep self-loathing at the heart of who he is, at the center of his animus. And it isn’t just revenge, the source of hatred for so many of the Palestinians. At first I thought it was the guilt of the survivor, after the killing of his parents, or some friend. But I think there’s something else.” He shook his head. “He takes a pleasure in his pain. Did you see the way he threw himself against the chains when I told him of my ‘son’? He revels in his own debasement, in his own torture. It’s almost sexual in its expression.”

  “A masochist then,” said Mandelbaum. “You think he’s crazy?”

  “Unstable, yes. But crazy?” Seiden shook his head. “No, he’s not crazy. I think he’s guilty. Of what, I have no idea. Perhaps he honestly regrets his actions, the deaths and suffering he’s caused. His fanaticism drives him forward but that doesn’t mean he fails to feel some sense of guilt for what he does. He gave himself up, after all. He wanted to be caught. And I think the Qur’anic passages he quotes are probably aimed at us as well as to his people in the field. Why else would he videotape the killings and then send them to us? It’s more than just a taunting. He isn’t simply trying to demonstrate his intellect. The recordings are a means for him to share his art. After all, of what value is an artist’s work if only the artist views it? I don’t know. I need more time. Perhaps if I could continue my interrogation . . . ”

  “We are out of time,” said Mandelbaum. “My thanks to you, Acting Chief Seiden.”

  Seiden nodded. “I’m glad I could be of service,” he said. Then he shook the Director’s hand. His fingers felt boneless, soft as steamed asparagus.

  Deputy Director Cohen followed Seiden from the room. They walked together by the holding cells toward the double doors at the end of the corridor and waited for the guard to buzz them out. When they had entered the stairwell leading up to the main floor, Cohen pulled Seiden aside and held him for a moment by the elbow. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Ben,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. I understand how an intelligent man might be tempted to retain some record of this event, in case he found his career . . . ” He struggled for the words. “How can I put it? His career no longer moving. Stalled, if you will. Promotions elusive. But I think such a man would have to fight against this temptation.”

  Seiden examined the Deputy Director. He could not read his face. Cohen’s light blue eyes were impenetrable and cold, the color of icebergs in an Arctic sea. “Yes, sir,” Seiden said.

  “Good, good,” said Cohen. He shook Seiden’s hand and turned away. Then he slipped back through the double doors and disappeared.

  * * *

  Mandelbaum ordered all the holding cells and corridors leading from the main entrance of the building to Interrogation Room B cleared. When the ground floor of the fortified structure looked like a ghost town, a figure left the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter, entered the front door, and walked along the deserted corridors and stairwell to the basement. It was Yuri Garron himself, the Prime Minister. He was a huge man, tall and portly, with a round butcher’s face and large, expressive brown eyes. His thin gray hair was combed casually across the glistening dome of his head. He told the Director and Deputy Director to secure the recordings of the interrogation and to vacate the observation room. He wanted to be alone, he said. They did as they were told. As soon as Cohen and Mandelbaum had disappeared, Garron entered Interrogation Room B where El Aqrab was chained to the ceiling, his back still to the door.

  “It is you,” the Prime Minister said as he finally got a good look at the prisoner. “When I heard, I couldn’t believe it. After all these years.” He laughed. “It’s like . . . like Déjà vu, as though I’ve traveled back to 1987, back to that incident with the interrogator from Ansar II.”

  El Aqrab smiled. He knew exactly to what Garron referred. In August 1987, six Palestinians had escaped from Ansar II in Gaza. The Zionists assumed the escapees had slipped across the border into Egypt, but, subsequently, masked gunmen killed an Israeli officer in a daring daylight attack. Later the IDF announced that the killers themselves had died in an exchange of gunfire with Israeli forces. Among the dead was one of the escapees. He had not fled to Egy
pt, as assumed, but had gone underground to await an opportunity to shoot the officer, who – it was subsequently revealed – was the chief interrogator at Ansar II. Many Palestinians were thrilled by this event. After a depressing string of setbacks, here was an incendiary morale booster. The community held a massive funeral, attended by thousands of mourners.

  “Yes,” said El Aqrab. “I remember.”

  “Why did you come back?” asked Garron. “After all this time. Surely not just to kill Miller. He was the last one, wasn’t he?”