Flash Point

by James W. Huston

  Efraim waited.

  “What was she doing in Italy?”

  “She was on vacation.”

  “Truly?” Kinkaid replied with doubt. He listened carefully to Efraim’s reply, which came after just the slightest hesitation.

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Let me be clear,” Kinkaid said. “Was she targeting an American Naval officer as a possible source of intelligence information?”

  “Of course not, what a ridiculous thought. Joe, you have been watching too many Hollywood movies.”

  “Really. Let’s talk about Jonathan Pollard.”

  “An unfortunate incident. We had nothing to do with that. I was unaware of it until it was too late. We don’t spy in America.”

  “Sure. What about how she met this Naval officer.”

  “I don’t know much of their meeting.”

  “It was on a train. Supposedly circumstantial.” Kinkaid tried to listen to the tones in Efraim’s voice. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”

  “Yes, absolutely. A lack of belief in coincidences is the beginning of paranoia.”

  “So convince me that her meeting him was a coincidence. Not only that they just happened to meet on the train, but she then lied to him about who she was.”

  “Of course she did. She would not be free to talk about her position. Do you? When you go to a party and someone asks you what you do, do you say, immediately, I am in Director of Counter-Terrorism at the CIA? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “So you admit she was involved in intelligence and that’s why she didn’t tell him the truth?”

  “I admit nothing of the kind.”

  “It’s more than that, Efraim. She said she was Italian.”

  “Just playing the game. Flirting. I’m sure.”

  “Really. It has got a paranoid officer on my task force thinking. His theory is that she was sent to Italy—Naples, of all places, not exactly a prime Italian tourist destination—to make contact with an American Naval officer. The objective was to somehow entangle the United States more deeply in the Middle East. The most paranoid officer has a really odd theory. Like to hear it?”

  “By all means,” Efraim said guardedly.

  “She was sent to Italy to lure Tony Vialli—or someone like him—to Israel. Once there, he would be assassinated.”

  “By whom?”

  “Israel. The attack on the bus was done to look like an assault by the Sheikh you had been tracking. Such an act of terrorism would make the U.S. furious. You expected us to respond by going after him, which you were either unable or afraid to do. You wanted the United States to be at war with the Sheikh, or at least almost at war. You knew we would go into places that you either wouldn’t or couldn’t. You wanted us to fight your fight for you.”

  “Afraid?” Efraim laughed humorlessly. “We’re not afraid to go anywhere. We’re the ones who bombed Iraq’s nuclear reactors while the world condemned us. We’re the ones who flew our F-15s to attack PLO camps in Tunisia by air refueling long-range. We are the ones who found the PLO number two and killed him in his home in Tunisia. We flew to Entebbe and attacked those who were holding hostage an airplane full of Jews. Afraid? That’s ridiculous.”

  “So you deny it?” Kinkaid said, feeling awkward about pressing a theory he didn’t accept.

  “It is ridiculous and offensive. And it is impossible.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Why would we kill our own citizens? And the Sheikh has publicly claimed responsibility for the attack.”

  “I thought you might say that. In fact that was the very question I wondered about. But I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “And what is your answer, Joseph?”

  “I don’t have one. I don’t think you’d kill your own people, but there are a lot of things that still surprise me in the world. And the Sheikh? Lots of groups take responsibility for every terrorist attack, and any kind of document can be forged. If he hadn’t claimed responsibility, maybe we would have gotten some of that helpful intelligence from you telling us that you had figured it out, and he was the one responsible. I would have been very grateful to you, I’m sure.”

  “So not only are we vicious, and murder our own innocent people, we’re stupid as well? We wear our own uniforms so nobody will think it’s us? And if it doesn’t work, we’ll just lie to you about it?”

  “No, you wear your own uniforms so when asked you can say, ‘What do you think we are, stupid?’ “

  “Yes. Well, I think we’ve gone as far as we can down this ridiculous road. It is simply untrue, and it’s outrageous. I can’t believe that you, of all people, have spent even one minute of your busy time thinking about such a story. You must listen to our thirty years of friendship.”

  “So you deny it?”

  “Yes. Absolutely I do. Her meeting of the Lieutenant was a coincidence. I assure you. I cannot explain why she claimed to be Italian. Maybe she thought if she told him she was Jewish he wouldn’t be interested. Young love. Who knows? But I assure you, there was nothing to do with us. Her work had nothing to do with recruiting an American for any reason at all. Her current job dealt more with a specialty she had, as an Arab linguist.”

  “Why were they going to Tel Aviv?”

  “She was interviewing for a position with El Al. Just as she told the Lieutenant.”

  “She was getting out?”

  “She had had enough. Since the accident.”

  “Maybe you’re being deceived yourself.”

  “It is not possible.”

  Kinkaid cradled the phone receiver against his shoulder. He glanced at his Styrofoam coffee cup sitting on his desk. The cup was full and the coffee was stone cold. “You know about the missile.”

  Efraim replied, “The Syrians.”

  “Yes.”

  “The missile was yours.”

  “Exactly. The story Raytheon put out was bogus. Or at least partly bogus. They didn’t tell the full story.”

  “Hard to explain,” Efraim said.

  “You’ve heard the . . . rumors?”

  “That the Syrians are right?”

  “Yes,” Kinkaid replied.

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “If an American plane went into that fight, it was with Israel’s consent.”

  “That would be crazy,” Efraim said in an unconvincing tone.

  “Not if your objective is to get us drawn in. My paranoid officer thinks that is exactly what happened. It was the objective.”

  Efraim was growing frustrated. “Aahh, Joseph, you are crazy. We don’t need you to do our dirty work for us. All we need is your money and your weapons. We fight our own fights.”

  “The Mossad is not completely trusted in this town.”

  “Nor the CIA in this one.”

  “It sure could look like the whole thing was a setup. You got an American killed, then, through your Air Force, convinced his roommate to go on a secret raid into Lebanon. Either way you win. If he gets caught, it’s fine—it shows the U.S. is deeply involved already. If he doesn’t get caught, you work to get the U.S. in deeper.”

  “I think we need to spend more time completing our current goal. Getting the Sheikh. That is something we know, and we can agree on. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe I may have some additional information that will prove particularly valuable, and it is why I called. Perhaps it can convince you that our friendship will not be wrecked by a wild-eyed young Turk in your shop.”

  “What information?”

  “The Sheikh’s location.”

  Kinkaid winced. He had been too direct with Efraim, to the point of offense. He was calling to give Kinkaid the very information he had wanted. Now he didn’t know if he could rely on it. “Do you know?”

  “I can tell you later on in the day, if things go as I hope. It is dependent on a certain communications link. If things go as planned, I should be able to tell you.”

  �
��I would like that very much. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “No. It sometimes must be done, even among friends. We should be able to stand a few storms. It cleans the oil off the streets.”

  “Shall I wait to hear from you?”

  “Yes. I must go. Shalom.”

  “Shalom.”

  32

  I have the information, Joseph. If you still want it. If you think it is reliable.”

  “You have the Sheikh’s location?”

  “Yes. I can’t tell you how—”

  “You sure as hell can, and you will. If you think I’m going to try to sell this to our people, and ultimately the President, I need to know where this information came from and how reliable it is.”

  Efraim breathed deeply. “After we spoke I sat in my office and stared out the window for many minutes. I was shocked beyond description. Not only that you would believe what you said of Israel but that you would believe it of me. That we would plot to have the United States do our fighting for us and trick you into it. And not just trick you in any way, but by murdering our own people.”

  “We have longer arms than you. And stronger. And when we get angry, we will accomplish our military objective. You know that. But before we talk about the Sheikh, tell me about Irit.”

  “I asked them to find everyone who ever knew her. All the stories are the same. She was on vacation by herself. No one had the objective of recruiting an American. I have confirmed that.”

  Kinkaid wasn’t satisfied. “Is Israel above spying on the United States?”

  “There used to be people here, you know some of them, who would not think twice. But we believe in the building of a relationship founded on trust. We do not do it anymore. There were a few rogues who had that in mind. They’re long gone. This is a new era. Ever since Ehud Barak, who was with Aman—military intelligence as you know—he has brought a greater sense, of, shall we say, maturity, to everything we do. We want no more mistakes. No more miscalculations. Everything we do, even covert, is reviewed by at least three levels. I have read the reports on the raid. There were no Israelis dressing up as Assassins dressed up as Israelis to fool everyone.”

  Kinkaid wished he could see his friend’s face. He had enough experience to know how people in the intelligence world lie to you. They look you right in the eye and defy you to disbelieve them. “Thank you for checking.”

  “Yes, of course. It was very difficult. Some wanted to know the origin of the request. I of course had to tell them, and they . . . didn’t know how to react. To laugh, or to become furious. They all felt that we need to be on the same side of this one, and it would be very smart for someone sympathetic to the Sheikh to sow doubt between us. They wanted me to ask you about your young Turk. He of the wild eyes. Is there any chance he is sympathetic to the Sheikh? Or at least the greater Arab cause?”

  Kinkaid felt as if he had been struck in the gut. “How could that be?”

  “What is his name?”

  “I can’t disclose names of task force members.”

  “I am about to disclose information to you so sensitive it could put someone’s life directly at risk and you won’t tell me a name?”

  “Let’s just say your point is well taken.”

  “How so?”

  “He is Arabic.”

  “From where did his family come?”

  “Syria.”

  There was a long pause on the scrambled phone line. “Be very careful, Joseph. Friends who are close to you can wield the sharpest knives.”

  “I will be careful.”

  “I must ask you to be sure not to tell him the source of the information on the Sheikh that I am about to give you. You must give me your word he will not be allowed to know.”

  “He’s a member of the task force.”

  “Take him off it. Or create a new compartment. Code word access only. And make sure he’s not on the list for access. You must do this for me.”

  “That could create real problems for me.”

  “I am not going to risk a man’s life because someone is holding something against us.” He waited for Kinkaid to interrupt him but Kinkaid was quiet. “You have brought up Pollard before. Tell me, did your Turk bring him up or did you think of Pollard on your own?”

  “We both brought it up.”

  “As I thought.”

  “Look, I’ll make sure he’s out of the loop. That’s all I can do.”

  “Your word is good enough,” he said reluctantly, hinting of additional reservations. “But if he does somehow get his hands on it, and the information makes it into the wrong hands, it could result in . . . it could have bad results.”

  “Of course,” Kinkaid replied. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “We spoke of targets last time. Three.”

  “Yes. The three fortresses.”

  “Exactly. You have accepted them as legitimate targets, and have been bombing two of them all night—”

  “Yes—”

  “All except one.”

  “The one in Iran.”

  “Yes. The oldest and most important. Alamut. Why have you not attacked there, Joseph?”

  “Too far, too hard, and we doubted he would be there when he seems to be staging out of Lebanon or Syria. And our overhead imagery didn’t make it look like a place that saw a lot of activity.”

  “Then you have missed him.”

  “He’s at Alamut?” Kinkaid asked, dismayed.

  “He is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “We’re sure. Very sure.”

  “How can you be so sure? Our satellites don’t show anything that gives us that confidence, Efraim. Tell me what gives you such confidence.”

  “First, you must answer something. If I tell you this information, do I have your assurance that you will use it? I despise wasting good intelligence. Too many times, we have gathered information, only to watch the politicians urinate all over it in a big play to advance their own careers. Tell me about the people above you. Are they willing to go into Iran and get this Sheikh? Because if they aren’t, I will save the intelligence for my people alone. They know what to do with it.”

  Kinkaid hesitated. This piece of information could make his career. He could ride off into the sunset knowing he had brought to the United States the single most important piece of intelligence information in the last decade—the exact location of the one of the most hated and feared terrorists ever to attack the country. He had already promised to cut Sami out of the loop—even though he had no intention of doing it—after the Sheikh. Now he had to promise to attack Alamut. Whatever that meant. How could he promise that politicians and the military would do something about anything? And what if they didn’t? What was Efraim going to do about it? Not tell him the information? That couldn’t be it, because he would already know it. “Yes. They have the nerve. I am sure.”

  “Can you guarantee they’ll pursue the Sheikh? I need your personal assurance, Joseph.”

  “They will go after him. The only thing keeping them from it now is they don’t know where he is.”

  “But you already know Alamut is a target, and it has not been attacked. They are afraid to go into Iran.”

  “Not at all. I’ve already given you our reasons. It was just easier to start with the others.”

  “I remember your President sitting for four hundred or more days while Iranians held American diplomats hostage in Tehran. Were you afraid of them then?”

  Kinkaid laughed to himself. “President Carter had a different way of handling these kinds of things than our current President. He’ll go.”

  “Very well,” Efraim concluded. “There is someone on the ground within visual range of Alamut. The Sheikh arrived at Alamut yesterday morning, local time. He went directly into the mountain fortress and is currently there.”

  “We haven’t seen any foot traffic to that fort at all.”

  “Nor will you. They know your satellite schedule. They are also masters of camouflag
e.”

  “How do they know our satellite schedule?”

  “Most of them are on the Internet. You type in your latitude and longitude and they tell you when visible satellites will be overhead—”

  “But not all of them—”

  “And you know of other sites that are trying to do the same for all satellites. There are many people out there who believe intelligence gathering is illegitimate and they try to expose us in whatever way they can. You know all this.”

  “I didn’t think the sites had made it that far, that’s all.”

  “Maybe they haven’t. . . . Does your young Turk have access to the satellite schedules?”

  Kinkaid thought about it, and realized Sami did have access to the overhead imagery schedule. To a great extent, he was the one who had requested it. “Probably.”

  Efraim said nothing.

  “Where is he likely to be in the fortress? Do you know the structure, how it is organized inside?”

  “Yes. We had someone inside—”

  “The same person?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Efraim said, cutting off Kinkaid’s inquiry. “The approach is impossible on foot. Tell your people not to send Marines, or airborne troops. They would be able to surround the mountain, and that is all. They could never approach the fortress. The approach is too narrow for even a mule. There are many turns too tight. Only a walking man can approach, and only one at a time and very slowly. And the entire path is guarded by men who hover above you. No one could possibly approach uninvited and live.”

  “So we bomb him out.”

  “Ah. That is not so easy, my friend. This is the problem that has confounded us. We cannot send anyone in. They would be killed. With certainty. We cannot send our Air Force, because they could only cause a disturbance. Our bombs cannot reach where they need to go.”

  “You have the same bombs we have. Are you saying we can’t bomb him out?”

  “That is exactly what I am saying. His primary room, a large, round room with a stone floor covered with beautiful Persian rugs, is deep inside the fortress. Below what you can see.”