The Imam of the Cave

by J Randall

  “What do you suggest, Ed?”

  “Get back with your contact and tell him we are not interested in rumors.”

  “Okay. I’ll contact him and try and set up another meeting.” She stood up to leave.

  “Remember, Gloria, absolute proof.”

  CHAPTER 13: THE INSTITUTE

  IT WAS LATE EVENING in Tel Aviv. The Mediterranean sea blew a cool breeze through the city as the streetlights came on and brightened the way for the night people—families mingling in restaurants and tourists searching for companionship in one of the many discotheques in the city.

  The Chief of the Collections Department waited for the Director of the Mossad to finish talking on the telephone with the Prime Minister. The response from the UN representative to their operative earlier in the day had been what he expected.

  The Director hung up and pushed his frameless glasses up on his nose. “The PM said to give it to them. Has our man in London made contact yet?”

  “Couldn’t set up a meeting until tomorrow. You want him to give them the canister?”

  “There’s no reason to drag it out much longer. Tell our man in America not to do anything tonight, but to wait until tomorrow. I want both parties to get it at the same time. The British will be as skeptical as the Americans and they’ll compare notes. I don’t want them to think they’re being played against each other.”

  CHAPTER 14: SILVER CYLINDER

  THE DAY AFTER EDWARD ROGERS COUNSELED HER about absolute proof, Gloria was sitting in the waiting room of the United States Ambassador to the United Nations, paging through a copy of the New York Times.

  She was dressed in a light emerald green outfit designed by Valentino and complemented by matching shoes and handbag by Ferragamo. The color of the outfit highlighted the color of her eyes.

  Her crossed leg kept time to an unheard tune, but her otherwise calm demeanor hid the anxiety that threatened to explode at any moment. Seeing Edward enter the suite, she stood up and smiled.

  “Good morning, Ms. Caruthers,” he said for the benefit of his secretary, Ms. Reynolds. “I hope you have not been waiting long.”

  “No, darling, I just arrived myself.”

  Ms. Reynolds smiled, hearing the affectionate tone.

  “I hope you didn’t forget our meeting, Ed.”

  “Certainly not. Please go into the office. I need to check my schedule. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Gloria and Ms. Reynolds smiled at each other as Gloria walked smugly into the office—two women sharing something that didn’t require spoken words.

  She sat in her usual chair in front of Ed’s desk. Its beige leather went okay with her outfit.

  Edward followed her shortly and sat in the chair next to her. “Did you have your meeting?”

  Gloria reached into her handbag and gently took hold of a silver canister in a clear plastic box and set it on the coffee table.

  “I was warned that this is very dangerous. If I was going to have it tested, the laboratory should use Level 4 protocol procedures, whatever that means.”

  “I think it signifies, as you said, that it’s rather dangerous. What do you plan on doing with it?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. You’re the ambassador and have all of the connections.”

  Edward picked up the plastic case and studied its contents, as if by doing so he would learn its secret.

  Gloria wasn’t reassured by the look of indecisiveness on his face. “What are you thinking?”

  “This could be very embarrassing.”

  “I think the Israelis are beyond embarrassment.”

  “I don’t mean the Israelis. If I raise a red flag and this turns out to be hairspray, I will be the laughingstock of the diplomatic community.”

  “If a catastrophe takes place because of the missing agent and it’s known that you had a sample in your possession, you’ll be viewed as more than a laughingstock.”

  He paused for a moment and considered the alternatives. “I suppose you’re right. I have a friend at the World Health Organization who may be able to help.”

  He stood up, walked to the desk and pressed the intercom. “Ms. Reynolds, please clear my calendar for the rest of the day.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Edward picked up the phone and dialed the WHO. When his friend came on the line he explained what he needed.

  He waited a few minutes while his friend called someone else.

  The friend came back on the line and told Edward that he had made an open appointment for him at the CDC in Atlanta.

  “Thanks for this, Reginald.” Edward buzzed his secretary. “Reserve a seat for me on the first available flight to Atlanta.”

  Edward rubbed his chin, fearing what his colleagues might say behind his back if they got word of this. “Gloria, I’m going to ask them to test this. It may prove to be nothing, but we should play it safe.”

  “I knew you’d find a solution.”

  The intercom rustled. “Mr. Rogers, your flight leaves La Guardia in sixty-five minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Edward walked over to Gloria and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

  “Have a safe trip, darling.”

  * * *

  It was late afternoon and Edward Rogers was becoming more and more agitated as he paced back and forth in Dr. Jacob Stein’s office. Dr. Stein had taken the canister to a laboratory three hours earlier and Edward was becoming impatient as well as a little worried.

  Stein was back in his office ten minutes later and wasted no time with pleasantries.

  “Mr. Ambassador, where did you get the canister?” Stein ran a hand through his hair absent-mindedly or because he was nervous, causing the already wild tangles to stick out at odd angles.

  “That is classified, Dr. Stein,” Edward replied in an official tone. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

  “Sir, I accept that, but you must be aware that this will be reported to various agencies within the government.”

  “I have no problem with your apprizing them and, as you are mindful, I work for one of those agencies. What I need to be conversant with, Dr. Stein, is what your tests divulged. If what I was told relative to the agent is true, it can be inordinately dangerous.”

  Dr. Stein sat down, motioning his guest to do the same. When they were both seated, he continued.

  “Three hours weren’t sufficient time for my colleagues to do more than a few preliminary tests. What we discovered is that the canister contains a nerve agent. However, the chemical composition is unlike that of any nerve agents we are conversant with.

  “It doesn’t appear to be lethal, at least not in the short term. We exposed four different mice to the agent with no immediate fatalities. They ceased all activity and became totally lethargic.

  “Until we perform other tests and dissections, we’re unable to give a more detailed analysis.

  “I can’t return the agent to you, Mr. Ambassador. Our protocols won’t allow the agent to leave this facility.”

  “Dr. Stein, you have told me what I needed to know. Conduct your studies and I suggest that they take precedence. I have no knowledge of the agent’s having been introduced into the United States at this time, but if it ever is we will need to recognize what we are grappling with.

  “Thank you, and convey my appreciation to your colleagues.”

  * * *

  Edward arrived late in the evening from Atlanta and took a taxi to his apartment. He immediately picked up the phone and dialed Gloria’s number.

  “Hello.”

  “I just made it home from Atlanta. Can you come over?”

  “Ed, what did you learn?”

  “I really don’t want to divulge it over the phone.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Gloria arrived in thirty minutes.

  “Were they able to confirm anything?”

  “Their preliminary tests established that it’s a nerve agent, but it may
take them a while to determine exactly what type. They kept the canister at the CDC, which was fine with me—I felt uncomfortable carrying it around.”

  “What now?”

  “I suppose I had better notify Jeremiah Hughes tomorrow. It would be better for the Secretary of State to hear it from me than from the CDC…What are your plans for tonight?”

  Her eyes glinted seductively. “I thought we might build a fire, have a few drinks then see if we can wrinkle your precious Irish linen…if you’re not too tired from your trip.”

  Edward was already kneeling in front of the fireplace. “You fix the drinks—I’ll have this kindling going in no time.”

  CHAPTER 15: LONDON, ENGLAND

  THE OFFICES overlooked the South Bank of the Thames. Few people knew these were government offices and even fewer knew they were the home of MI6, the British equivalent to the American Central Intelligence Agency.

  Nigel Porter breezed into the foyer of the building numbered 64 on Vauxhall Cross at seven in the evening.

  The receptionist, a gray haired, motherly looking woman with her hair pinned up in a bun, raised her head from what appeared to be a magazine laid out on her desk. Unknown to the occasional tourist who stumbled into the building asking for directions, she was viewing a bank of monitors recessed under the overhang of her workstation.

  Nigel was one of the new breed of operatives working for MI6. He had graduated from Cambridge and served a short tour in Naval Intelligence before he was recruited into MI6. Nigel at thirty-two was considered handsome by many of the women he met—as well as by some of the men.

  His sandy brown hair, fair complexion, almond colored eyes and straight, narrow nose gave him what some called natural good looks. Those who didn’t like his easygoing ways said it made him look like a poof.

  He was single, in accord with the policy for field operatives, but his official file noted that he was ‘highly social.’ This could be advantageous in his line of work—or it could result in a career ending affair.

  Mary Stafford had worked for the past eight years as a receptionist responsible for MI6’s lobby security. She was a trained operative, qualified with most types of small arms and in various techniques of unarmed combat.

  A mission gone bad nine years earlier in the former Communist Czechoslovakia had left her with a gamy left leg and she had been relegated to front door duty.

  “Good evening, Ms. Stafford. I hope you’re surviving this unusually hot weather we’re experiencing,” said Porter as he handed her his identification card. If it were winter he would have asked how she was surviving this unusually cold weather, a verbal code they changed often.

  “I’m in good nick,” she replied in a mock Cockney accent as she ran the ID card through a scanner.

  She gazed into his eyes sternly. “There appears to be an inconsistency with your card, Nigel. I may have to up and do a body search.”

  The thought caused a sly grin to swell on his face. “Name the time and place—I’m always available for the firm’s finest.”

  Nigel studied Mary’s face. Her skin was clear, with a touch of rouge on her high cheekbones, and on her full lips was a light pink lipstick.

  Reaching for his identification card, he asked, “Is the manager in?”

  Porter’s immediate supervisor, Percy Farrelly, was a mid-level manager at MI6. Managers were responsible for controlling as many as fifteen active operatives or as few as one, depending on their sensitivity and assignment. Porter was one of six operatives controlled by Percy, but he knew just two others, with whom he had worked on assignments.

  “Yes, and I believe he’s expecting you.”

  Ms. Stafford pressed the security release to unlock the door that led to the elevators.

  He stepped into the elevator and his thoughts replayed the events of the afternoon. The meeting with his contact in the Israeli Mossad had revealed a story that was a bit hard for him to believe.

  Porter had arrived at the Aberdeen Steak House and stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the contrast between its subdued lightning and the highly lit advertisements on Piccadilly Circus.

  His initial reluctance to meet here faded as he analyzed the logic. The quarter swarmed with tourists, making it easy to lose oneself…or a follower.

  The receptionist led him to table twenty-three, next to the kitchen. If he had set up the meeting, he would have picked this very table, as it was conveniently next to the back exit.

  Arriving forty-five minutes early to ensure that it wasn’t a setup, Porter was surprised to see his Israeli contact already sitting there calmly, as if he were expecting Porter to arrive early. But of course he did and Porter would have expected no less.

  A casual observer would quickly forget the short, balding man seated at the table, wearing a pair of frameless bifocals and dressed in a shabby blue suit with wide white pinstripes, which was at least fifteen years out of fashion.

  Abraham, the contact name for the Israeli, greeted Porter then ordered drinks for both of them. As the waiter went to get the drinks, Abraham began talking—softly, but with some urgency.

  “It’s important that you believe what I’m going to tell you. I don’t expect you to take it at face value, but it’s imperative that you contact Percy today and tell him everything.

  “We have a cockup within the military that’s going to become apparent very soon.” Abraham, true to his Mossad masters, would convey no more than the minimum amount of information necessary and would never blame his own agency.

  The meeting lasted a little over forty-five minutes, sufficient time for Porter and Abraham to eat their steaks and transact their business.

  The casual observer would have thought they were businessmen having a quiet evening meal. A closer look would have revealed that they were locked in intense verbal debate. Like robots they periodically took bites of their food—with little enjoyment.

  The talk and the meal both ended abruptly. They paid separately and Abraham slinked out of the restaurant, followed ten minutes later by Porter.

  In the elevator Porter was having a harder time digesting the story than the steak he faintly recalled eating. He exited the elevator and approached the second-level security station. Porter raised both arms and waited as the two large, armed, serious guards confiscated his handgun, car keys, pocket change and a small metal cylinder enclosed in a clear plastic box.

  They laid the items in a tray and set the tray on a small conveyor, similar to an airport baggage scanner. The system was specifically developed for MI6 and combined transmission X-ray and computer tomography. It included an extremely sensitive sensor for minuscule amounts of chemical and biological agents.

  As the tray emerged from the other end, the scanner remained quiet. The handgun was what it looked like, as were the keys and change. The cylinder inside its plastic box revealed nothing.

  The items would remain with the guards until Porter returned.

  “I suggest you leave the cylinder alone until I’ve talked to the manager,” Porter warned the guards, as he stepped to a door with a brass plaque that read “Conference Room.”

  Porter waited, observing the door’s camera until the red light changed to green, then he passed through.

  “Good evening, sir.” He noticed the way his manager was dressed and added, “I hope this isn’t an inconvenience to you.”

  Percy Farrelly was sitting at his desk in a black dinner jacket. His thinning black hair was combed straight back and glistened as if pomade had been used to hold it flat against his scalp.

  “I certainly hope not. I excused myself early from a dinner being hosted by the Director. He certainly understands that duty comes first, but he’s somewhat of a stickler when it comes to guests leaving a dinner party early, especially one he’s hosting.”

  Feeling nervous over having called this meeting, Porter initially hoped that the news was accurate, for his sake.

  His second thought was, I hope it’s false. The situation could prove fata
l to a lot of people.

  “Sir, I met with a contact from the Mossad at five this afternoon. He requested the meeting with little notice under the guise of a potential crisis. I was curious, of course. Our Israeli friends seldom do anything rash, unless it has to do with their security.

  “The story I was given seemed farfetched, but I was concerned as to the consequences if it should turn out to be true.”

  “What were you told?” Farrelly flicked the wheel on his gold Dunhill and set the flame against the tip of his cigar. It took him four long puffs to get the cigar’s initial ash to his liking.

  “The Israelis have lost a significant number of canisters containing a unique nerve agent. It was developed, not to kill its victims, but to mentally incapacitate them. Physically the victims would be able to perform any task they were taught.”

  “You’re saying it was developed for forced labor?”

  “Yes, that’s what I was briefed. A group of high ranking officers within the Israeli military were responsible for the project and tried to keep it secret. It wasn’t until rumors reached Prime Minister Rabin that the project was terminated and the nerve agent was destroyed.

  “It appears, however, that some of the agent is unaccounted for and has created turmoil in the Israeli intelligence community.”

  “I’m afraid, Porter, that you are being duped, but for what reason I simply do not understand.”

  “Sir, I hope you’re correct in your assessment, but I was given a canister of the agent. The security team in the hallway has it.”

  The manager’s skepticism would evaporate after the contents of the cylinder had been verified.

  CHAPTER 16: LONDON, MI6 HEADQUARTERS

  GLORIA FELT EXHAUSTED after her flight to England and was relieved that the queue waiting for a taxi was moving quickly.

  “Where to, miss?” asked the driver after she got seated in the rear of the black hack that visitors associate so readily with London.

  Sitting back and lighting a cigarette, Gloria answered, “24 Grosvenor Square, London.”