“And Gerhardt?”
“He was finally arrested in, I think it was 1983, in New York—why there, I don’t know—and was handed over to South Africa. Tried for treason, given a life sentence. He served a few years and moved to Switzerland. And, by the way, his rank as a rear admiral was restored. Our guess is that was he was rewarded for spilling a lot of beans about Soviet intel in South Africa.”
“I suppose you are telling me this story to show me that part of the Mossad’s charm is that their people do favors for other countries. And for worthy outfits like GSS?”
Rachel remained silent and stared softly at Falcone, her eyes confessing nothing.
“And the U.S. intelligence community knows all this,” Falcone pressed. “Not just knows. Blesses.”
“Something like that,” she said, the hint of amusement playing in her half smile.
Falcone decided not to bring up the double and treacherous game that Mossad could also play with its friends. Bill Buckley, the CIA’s station chief in Beirut was kidnapped in 1984 and brutally tortured to death. Falcone had read a story filed by Philip Dake that the CIA repeatedly asked for Mossad to help locate and rescue Buckley, but agency officers were buffeted by empty promises and endless delays. This was during the time that close to a thousand Palestinians were being massacred in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps by Lebanese Christian forces.
Israeli soldiers, led by Ariel Sharon, who would later become Israel’s prime minister, did nothing to stop the slaughter. Mossad had blamed the PLO’s Yasser Arafat for the kidnapping, convinced this would sap any political sympathy in Washington for the Palestinians.
Meanwhile, according to CIA Director Bill Casey, Mossad had been providing weapons to Hezbollah to kill Lebanese Christians at the same time they were giving weapons to the Lebanese Christians to kill Palestinians.
Israel denounced the story as a lie written by an anti-Semite. Falcone knew that Dake wasn’t a liar or an anti-Semite. But true or not, Falcone had found over the years that sometimes the biggest surprises often came from one’s friends.
“Okay. I won’t ask you how you—how the Mossad—knows about the asteroid. That’s supposed to be very, very secret, Rachel.”
“Perhaps in Washington. Not here. Lebed, Oxley’s new best friend, has ‘loose lips,’ Sean. Isn’t that the expression? He told a certain oligarch that Russia had in its possession a way to mine an asteroid that contains platinum and other minerals worth about eight trillion dollars.”
“Jesus!” Falcone exclaimed. “Lebed’s falling for propaganda put out by Hamilton on GNN.”
“Exactly. The oligarch then emailed a couple of chums about the asteroid, using the eight trillion as bait.”
“And Israeli monitors picked it up.”
Rachel continued as if she had not heard. “One of the words in his emails was ‘palladium’ and—”
“And that’s a word on Israel’s monitoring list,” Falcone interrupted. “So—”
“We—certain Israeli scientists—are working on palladium fuel cells,” Rachel interrupted back.
“Hamilton was pushing palladium as the boom metal of the future,” Falcone said. “That’s what got Lebed interested. He doesn’t give a damn about saving the Earth. What he sees in that asteroid is a palladium fortune.”
“Yes. And, as I am sure you know, the two places on Earth where palladium is mined are South Africa and Russia.”
“And Israel has a special relationship with both places. Unadvertised,” Falcone retorted.
“I see you stay up to date,” Rachel parried, a fencing impresario acknowledging a worthy thrust by a competitor.
Falcone nodded. He also knew that Russia was threatening to deliver S-400 air defense systems to Iran, just as they had done in Syria. The decision was condemned by Israel, whose missiles and aircraft would be vulnerable to the surface-to-air missiles fired from Iran.
“I’ve heard that the Israel-Russia love affair is cooling down,” he said.
Rachel shrugged and said, “The ‘affair,’ as you call it, was never very warm. Strictly a tactical convenience. All head; no heart.”
Falcone, thinking once again about his past with Rachel, said, “For me, truth has never been a matter of convenience.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Sean, but not everything in my life is strictly business. Not with you.…”
“You’re being Domino for Israel, not America!” Falcone said, his annoyance surfacing again. He felt the sensation he had had other times when he and Rachel were involved in an operation: walking down that hall of mirrors and entering a wilderness where he was left spinning in confusion. What was real? What was reflection?
“They used to be the same, Sean. Maybe they can be again one day.”
“Similar, not the same, Rachel. There’s a difference.”
“You look like you’re drifting away, Sean,” Rachel said, taking his hand in hers, leading a change from present to past. “Let us now talk about other days … our days.”
Slowly, they began to walk back through time. But again and again Falcone felt that he was having a kind of out-of-body experience, watching himself talk about the past while he was also trying to see the future.
Finally, the borsch and pirogi arrived on a sterling silver tray carried by the weary-looking, raggedly dressed waiter. For the next hour, Falcone and Rachel retreated to their rhetorical corners and decided to enjoy the Mukuzani wine and culinary delights found in this new, pre-Revolution mansion.
49
After dinner, as they made their way toward the restaurant’s door, a man who’d been drinking at the bar stepped in front of Rachel and knocked her purse from her shoulder. It appeared to be an accident, but Falcone thought it was an intentional bump by a professional thief. In a way, it was. The man was a professional and a thief. But he wasn’t taking anything from Rachel. He was giving her something. A message.
Touching his chest in a manner that suggested an apology, the man spoke Russian in a voice loud enough for others to hear. Then he whispered something while his eyes remained locked on to Rachel’s.
The man quickly muscled his way through the crowded bar area and left the restaurant.
Once they were outside, Falcone asked, “What was that all about?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, her eyelids fluttering.
“Come off it, Rachel. Anyone could see what the guy was doing. He was no stranger and that was no accidental bump.”
“Was it that obvious? I hope not,” she said, frowning for an instant.
“At first, I thought he was a purse snatcher. Then I realized that thieves don’t grab and run in a crowded bar. Maybe out here on the street, but not in a bar. A dozen people could have stopped him before he made it out the doors.”
She nodded but did not speak.
“So what was the Mossad message?”
“There’s been a slight change in the plans for moving Mr. Hamilton.”
“What? Under whose orders?”
“It wasn’t exactly an order.… What is it your football quarterbacks do when they see something they don’t like and change the play?”
“An audible. You called an audible?”
“David Ben-Dar, who…”
“I know who he is, for Christ’s sake,” Falcone barked.
“Ben-Dar made … a suggestion to Drexler.”
“Well, maybe a Russian heard it, like I did,” Falcone responded.
“What exactly did you hear?”
“I don’t know. It sounded like one word. The point is it could have been overheard. And—”
“Sean, relax. It was a Hebrew word. ‘Approved.’ That’s all. ‘Approved.’” Rachel pointed to a sidewalk bench a few yards down Tverskoy Boulevard. When they sat down, she said, “It’s not a major change. But it’s necessary. Our schedule has us at the conference tomorrow, Tuesday, and on Wednesday night make the … transfer. We need to accelerate the move.… And make a few other changes.”
“When did you expect to let me in on your secret changes?” Falcone asked. His fuse was lit. He didn’t like surprises, especially when it was about his mission.
“I planned to tell you as soon as I got that word ‘approved.’ I’m telling you right now.”
“What made the sudden change of plans?”
“The sudden death of Domino. When I saw the story in the Moscow Times I didn’t know anything about him. But an American? A visiting professor? ‘Hit-and-run’? It looked … shady. I wondered. And I got a call.”
“From Drexler?”
“No. From Ben-Dar at the Institute—Mossad’s headquarters in Tel Aviv. I assumed Komov had the American killed. I know Komov. He goes back a long way,” she said. “He is a compulsive planner. Never makes a move until he’s ready to pounce. By now he’s bugged your room. He probably has the airport security reports on recent U.S. passports and visas. Not much of a feat. They probably have sequential serial numbers. Hamilton, of course, is under strong surveillance, probably with an FSB gorilla in the adjoining suite.”
“I’m beginning to see the situation,” Falcone said, calming down, but not quite ready to concede that Rachel was trying to save the mission—along with saving him and the rest of the team. Falcone got up from the bench, signaling that he was ready to get back to his hotel.
* * *
“You seem rather pensive,” Rachel said, closing the gap between them and putting her arm through his. “What are you thinking?”
After bringing his anger under control, he said, “Don’t you think you need to tell me how in the hell you managed to penetrate this little operation?”
“Penetrate? ‘Called to serve,’ you mean,” Rachel answered. “To help out the country that used to be our closest ally.”
“So now it’s a guilt trip you’re laying on? We’re just a tiny slice of Holy Land and once again, thanks to Uncle Sam we have been left naked to our enemies. Come on, Rachel, play it straight … if that’s possible.”
“I’ll tell you as much as I can. You know the story. Sources and methods are off the table.”
“Fair enough,” Falcone said, still agitated, but eager to hear Rachel out.
“It’s a matter of coincidence and convenience.”
There was that word convenience again. “Meaning?”
“I told you I’m operating a small high-tech firm in St. Petersburg.”
“I assume as a cover?”
“Yes.”
“And no doubt selling technology to the Russians?”
“For profit, of course. But also to gain a back door to the highest echelons of their government.”
“Your company wouldn’t be called ITAcess would it?”
“Why?” Rachel asked, trying hard to not look surprised.
“Israel tried to sell that technology to the Defense Department a couple of years ago. I discovered what was going on and had President Oxley cut it off.”
“Well,” she said, laughing, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“Real allies don’t read each other’s mail,” Falcone said, quoting a virtue that had been abandoned long ago—if it ever had existed.
“Come off it, Sean. Nobody’s better at it than NSA. Not the Chinese, the Russians—or the Israelis.”
“Okay. Let’s get back to what’s going on here. So it’s just a coincidence that you happen to be here at this conference. Where does ‘convenience’ come in?”
“We learned about Robert Hamilton and why he’s here.”
“How?”
“No sources and methods, remember?”
“Right. I understand, but I don’t like not knowing.”
“As I said before, after … Domino’s death, Ben-Dar received a call from Drexler. The Institute had helped out his organization on a number of special missions.”
“Assassinations, you mean,” Falcone said.
“Whatever was required. They were more than happy to be of service—despite their feelings about President Oxley.”
“And whenever it ‘coincidentally’ served Israel’s interests. But I don’t get it. This mission’s not exactly in your line of work.”
“I’m a woman of many talents … unless you’ve forgotten. Your General—”
“Ex-General.”
“All right, ex-General, was in a bind. Time was his enemy. He needed someone who is skilled in sabotage and rendition, and could speak Russian. Ben-Dar thought that was me. Plus, of course, my knowing you was a bonus.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me, the bonus man, about the change?”
“You were in the air at the time and Drexler couldn’t reach you.”
“He managed to reach Gregor.”
“Well, you can talk to Drexler about that some day.”
“And you’re saying that this ex-General laid out the mission in all of its splendor?”
“Not exactly splendor. When we—I—looked at it, I saw certain flaws. Ben-Dar agreed. Passed the message back. Your man saw the wisdom of modifying the plan. Or calling an ‘audible.’”
“Wonderful. That explains everything.”
“Relax, Sean. Once I thought about the proposed plan, the less I liked it.… First of all, the transfer vehicle has been changed from a commercial van to a van painted to look like one the local police use. Not a big change, but if things go wrong and there’s a clampdown on roads leading to the airport, we’ll have a better chance of getting through. And—”
“And just how did you manage…”
“Compliments of my embassy. The Mossad resident, the katsa, through a cutout, arranged to rent a van that is the same model used by the Moscow city police. He took it to the garage of a safe house and had it repainted black and equipped with the proper siren and blue lights. You can buy anything in this city.”
“Anything else I should know about?”
“Well, when the man you thought might be a purse snatcher said ‘approved,’ it was for another change.”
“And what exactly is the new change?”
“We learned that Lebed plans to move Hamilton to a presidential palace Lebed built in Sochi—you know, where the Winter Olympics were held. That’s detention, not living in a five-star hotel. We need to act by tomorrow evening.”
“No sense asking you how Mossad learned about Hamilton being moved,” Falcone said, his voice low and hard. “So the plan must be changed. And we have to move the mission up a full day. When did you expect to let me in on your secret? What else should I know?”
“We won’t be trying to smuggle Hamilton out in a laundry cart.”
“Why not?”
“That laundry-cart plan is very similar to a recent GSS op in Yemen. And some unnamed officials boasted to Rolling Stone magazine about how stupid the Yemenis were. They mentioned the laundry cart. Every counterintelligence officer in the world is now aware of the scheme.”
Falcone shook his head in disgust. “Something to be said for censorship. Death penalty too.”
“Komov seems to be sniffing around the hotel, looking for what he calls traitors,” Rachel said. “I didn’t attempt to contact the person who was supposed to supply the uniforms. Lack of trust. I sensed that if we persisted with the GSS plan, we could be walking into a Komov trap.”
“So what’s your Plan B? And how much does Drexler know?”
“It’s still Plan A, and Drexler understands. He was a general. He knows about trusting people when they go outside the wire, as your soldiers say. He gave me carte blanche.”
“Hold up, Rachel. I’m trying to be as receptive as possible. But why haven’t you confided in me? I’m the guy who’s supposed to be running this.”
“Agreed. I’m reporting to you right now.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Falcone said with a sigh of exasperation. “So you’re convinced we have to move tomorrow night, right?”
“Right. Denying more time to Komov.”
“Okay. I agree,” Falcone said. “When do the others find out abo
ut the change in plans?” He had his anger under control. The change was real and had to be accepted. There was no point in arguing against inevitability.
“We all go to the conference, as per Plan A. I walk around and pass the word to Gregor and the others, one-by-one and face-to-face.”
“How—?”
“They all know me,” Rachel said impatiently.
“What?!”
“We’ve all worked together before. No time for details. Now, to go on … I tell them we have to meet in my room for last-minute instructions. That will be just as the conference is ending and people are milling about.”
“I assume just about every room in the hotel is bugged,” Falcone said. “Especially delegates’ rooms.”
“My suite is clean. Swept it myself and will sweep it again.”
“Okay. You lay out Plan B to them. Then what?”
“I’ll give each of them a specific time to leave my room and go outside to get taxis. I’ll give each one a different address near the Kempinski. They’ll walk from where they’re dropped off, enter the hotel by the side door. I’ll give them elevator key cards. They begin drifting to your room between seven thirty and eight.”
“Next?”
“At eight fifteen we begin the op.”
“How?” Falcone asked, looking puzzled.
“Gregor leads the other three to Hamilton’s room. He knocks and says they are FSB officers—he will have very official-looking credentials. He says they are inviting—just inviting—Hamilton to join them for a friendly interrogation session.”
“That’s it? And Hamilton just decides to go for a little sweat job answering questions in the Lubyanka?”
“I’m counting on shock keeping him submissive for three or four minutes from his room to the elevator. And Harry Reilly will still have his knockout needle if it’s needed during or after the elevator ride.”
“We’ll also have to handle the security guy next door,” she continued. “He’ll walk in, and Gregor will flash his FSB credentials and tell the guy to guard Hamilton’s suite and secure its contents until they return. Then we walk down the hall to the elevator and continue Plan A. At your floor we stop to pick you up.”
“I can’t help but humbly ask why I’m even here. I don’t seem to have any duties.”
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 22