by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
‘Doing what, sir?’
‘Awaiting deportation.’
Beck looked surprised.
‘Executive orders, before you ask.’
‘My team arrived, Mr Kellner. They saw your agent. Buckley was on the metal stairs trying to phone his team – or should I say henchmen? Buckley turned to see my men, tried to reach for his automatic while putting the cellphone down. He dropped the phone. My men saw me – saw what he’d done to me. He fumbled with his gun in his shoulder holster and shot himself. I can only presume it was not deliberate.’
‘Very amusing, Fless.’
‘I gotta say, Mr Buckley did not seem quite “all there” that afternoon. I think he’d been drinking. I think your forensic people will bear this out.’
Kellner whispered to Beck, ‘They do.’ He turned again to Fless. ‘Whatever you say, Mr Fless, a court of law may see things differently.’
‘Sure. I understand. You want me to cooperate. What do you want to know?’
‘Agent Beck, I believe you have some questions for Mr Fless.’
‘Mr Fless, what do you know concerning the deaths of Gitana, Daley, Rikanik – and the British man, Kelly?’
‘The last one I’ve heard of. Who are the others?’
‘You’ve never heard of Gitana, Daley or Rikanik?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Will you take a lie detector on that?’
‘Sure.’
Beck consulted his file. He pulled out a large black-and-white photograph and placed it on the table in front of Fless. ‘Do you recognise this man, Mr Fless?’
Fless laughed.
‘Do you recognise this man?’
‘My double! At last! Do you know the story about the man who killed his double – only to find he had killed himself?’
Lee Kellner stifled a laugh. He was privately concerned that Fless might run rings around the Bureau man with a foot in the Agency door. ‘This man, Fless, is you.’
‘There’s a resemblance.’
Kellner was annoyed. ‘It’s not a fucking resemblance, Fless. This is you. And you know we know it is.’
‘If I knew what you knew, would you know what I know?’
Kellner sighed. ‘Just tell him, Sherman. Jeez! We’re s’posed to be on the same fuckin’ side!’ Kellner shook his head.
Fless addressed Beck. ‘So you think it’s me.’
‘What do you know of the deaths of five Russian microbiologists. October 2001?’
‘Refresh my overworked memory, Agent Beck.’
‘October 2001. A commercial flight from Israel to Novosibirsk in Siberia. Blown up over the Black Sea by a Ukrainian surface-to air-missile.’
‘Yes. It was all over the news. Everyone was killed.’
‘Novosibirsk, Mr Fless. Home to a research institute; the scientific capital of Siberia.’
‘That a fact?’
‘It has fifty facilities and thirteen universities.’
‘Even so, I’d prefer to study elsewhere. Are you suggesting I killed these five microbiologists? What do you think? I just ring up the Ukrainian military and “Hey! I’d like you to blow up a civilian plane”?’
‘A Mossad team was sent to investigate.’
‘Naturally.’
‘The report has never been published.’
‘Of course not. And who says there was a report?’
‘This photograph, Mr Fless, has a date on the back.’
Fless turned it over. ‘What do you know! October 2001. You’re a magician!’
‘It’s not only the date, Mr Fless. It’s the place. Do you recognise it?’
Fless gave Beck a doe-eyed look.
‘Let me refresh your memory. This photograph was taken at the Institute for Biological Research. One of the most secret places in Israel.’
‘Not any more, apparently. But do tell me more.’
‘The visible parts of the facility are in the Tel Aviv suburb of Ness Ziona.’
Kellner studied Fless’s eyes; they gave nothing away.
‘Most of the institute’s twelve acres of facilities, Mr Fless, are underground. Laboratories are reached only via airlocks.’
‘Are you sure you should be telling me all this? As an Israeli citizen, I should be innocent of such knowledge.’
‘David Kelly was connected to the Institute.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘About the time you were photographed there.’
‘Was I photographed there?’
Beck sat back in his chair and drew breath. ‘Does the name Dedi Zucker mean anything to you?’
‘Of course, Agent Beck. Anyone with an interest in politics in Israel – which I suppose is everyone – has heard of Dedi Zucker.’
‘Zucker caused a storm in the Knesset. Claimed the Institute was trying to create an ethnic bioweapon.’
‘A what?’
‘A weapon that could specifically target Arabs by the manipulation of DNA sequencing.’
Fless laughed. ‘Beware of the Israeli lunatic fringe, Agent Beck. Many of my compatriots have a kind of epic, biblical, even apocalyptic feeling for current affairs. They would not be surprised if scientists could make the Red Sea part again for Moses and the children! These kinds of conspiracy claims get made all the time. I know plenty of people who think God Himself is going to acquire real estate on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem and rule the world like a sultan! It’s all bullshit.’
Beck looked to his notes again as Kellner mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
‘Why were you involved in the surveillance, as you put it, of Professor al-Qasr, one of this nation’s most respected scientists?’
‘At last! At last, a realistic question. You say, “one of this nation’s most respected scientists”. Is that an honorary citation? Or is that a fact?’
Beck turned to Kellner. Kellner’s eyes motioned to the door. He stood up. ‘OK, Mati, we’re going outside to consult for a few minutes. You take a break and clear your thoughts.’
‘Sure. Take your time.’
33
Fiona Normanton unbuttoned al-Qasr’s denim shirt. She rubbed her soft fingertips over the rough hairs of his chest, kissed his neck and lay back on the cream duvet. ‘Do you like me?’
Al-Qasr smiled, admiring the rich blue woollen beach top she was wearing with its bright orange stars and yellow moons. ‘I’ve always loved brunettes.’
‘I got highlights!’
‘So I see.’ Al-Qasr picked at the deep blue wool that rested on her tiny navel. ‘Did you make this?’ Fiona laughed. ‘No, silly. I got it in Reno. There’s a great wool shop there.’
‘Hard to believe. Expensive?’
‘Do you like expensive things?’
‘Yeah. I think I’d miss them if they were taken away.’ He looked out to the lake through the glass doors.
All morning al-Qasr had been at Fiona’s apartment at Oroville while the FBI engaged in a second forensic sweep of his house up at Paradise. While Bureau agents took the place apart, the couple had swum in Fiona’s little pool overlooking the lake and talked a lot about life in California.
Fiona took al-Qasr’s large warm hand and placed it on her thigh. He fingered the edge of her sky-blue cotton panties and tickled her gently.
‘Mmm… Don’t stop.’
He slid his hand round under the cotton and stroked her smooth round hips and bottom. She pulled him closer, nudging his moustache with her little nose. She opened her lips and they kissed. His hand moved over the soft, round mound of Fiona’s stomach.
‘Shall I take this off?’
‘No, I like it. It suits you.’
‘OK.’
Al-Qasr lifted the cosy wool over her breasts.
‘Hey! Do you know what?’
‘Yeah. I’m boring, I’m middle-aged and I’m… just a little crazy about you.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to say that! Hey, Sami. If you lick my tits, I’m told the nipples come up like sombreros!’
/> Al-Qasr laughed again. Fiona Normanton was a lot of fun.
‘Go on! Try it.’
‘OK.’
‘See what I mean?’
‘Fuck! You’re right, Fiona! They do.’
‘Don’t stop, Sami. I feel the flame of fornication rising through my body.’
Fiona suddenly sat up and pulled her panties down. ‘Go on!’
‘What?’
‘You know! Lick me, silly! Now.’
Soon Fiona was breathing heavily; she moaned his name.
‘Hey, hey!’
‘What’s the matter, Sami? Don’t I turn you on?’
‘No, no. It’s just…’
‘Are you having a problem… you know, getting it—’
‘No, it’s not that. I guess I don’t feel like rushing.’
‘Oh! Oh, I see. Sorry, Sami.’
‘No, it’s my fault.’
‘I got an idea. You just lie back a second.’
Fiona slipped his buff-coloured chinos down his long, olive legs.
‘God, Sami! You look ready enough for me!’
‘OK, but…’
‘Look, I’ll lie here for a minute and you just lie back and think about whatever you want to think about. OK?’
Fiona positioned herself on the duvet and slid her right hand down as she spread her long legs. Al-Qasr moved on to his side and kissed her shoulder.
‘Fiona?’
‘Mmm?’
‘What’s it been like in the office the past few days?’
‘Mmm… Hot.’
‘Apart from that.’
‘I guess we missed you.’
‘I had things to do.’
‘Really, like what?’
‘Oh just things… You know.’
Fiona let out a deep groan. ‘Kiss me, Sami.’
‘Did… did anyone come into my laboratory?’
‘’Course not. God! No one gets past me!’
‘You sure? No one’s been messing with my computer? My files?’
‘Oh Sami!’ Fiona started to shiver. ‘No, baby. All your secrets are safe.’
34
‘OK, Fless, you got something on al-Qasr? Let’s hear it.’
Fless took a deep breath. ‘Your CTC received a communication from a doctor in Iraq. About al-Qasr.’
Beck whispered in Kellner’s ear. ‘How the hell does he know?’
‘Which communication would this be?’
‘The same one you received, Mr Kellner. We intercepted it.’
‘Fucking Mossad again! Won’t you ever trust us?’
‘Of course we trust you. We trust you to screw up.’
‘Time will tell, Fless.’ Kellner looked at the shackles round Fless’s feet. ‘Looks to me like everyone’s screwing up. So, let’s concentrate on the enemy. And Fless…’
‘Yes?’
‘Just can the adolescent, jerk-off shit!’
That stung. It wasn’t the first time Fless had been accused of being an arsehole.
‘How do we know you didn’t concoct the whole damn thing in the first place? For all we know, this began as an Israeli plot to make us suspect al-Qasr.’
‘You didn’t reply to the message. That gave my mission its urgency. Then you interrupted us.’
‘An action for which I offer no apologies. Tell me, Mr Fless, did you understand the reference to the British air raid of 1992, and why al-Qasr might have been less useful to our scientific effort than he first appeared?’
‘Yeah, well, we hoped you might reveal something, something to throw light on this question. All we observed was that al-Qasr defected to the USA shortly after the British raid. One thing I can tell you…’
‘Shoot.’
‘The message accused al-Qasr of links with Ansar al-Sunna. I can positively confirm this.’
‘Positively?’
‘Absolute certainty. Absolute certainty, Mr Kellner. No question. But you will have your own methods. No doubt your people are going through al-Qasr’s things right now, so confirmation will come soon enough. Let me repeat: under your very noses, your famous scientist has been in regular two-way communication with the forces of Ansar al-Sunna in northern Iraq. And not only in Iraq.’
‘Where else?’
‘Europe.’
Kellner looked at Beck. Beck sucked in his lower lip.
‘Surely, gentlemen, that information is worth my freedom?’
Kellner got out of his chair. ‘Excuse us a minute, Mati.’
Fless smiled indulgently and looked at the stationary fan blades above. ‘I need some air.’
‘Sorry, sir. Security. Had a suicide try to cut his—’
‘OK, Beck, spare us the details. Hear that, Fless? It’s for your own good.’ Kellner drew his finger across his throat.
In the corridor outside, Beck and Kellner whispered frantically to one another.
‘OK, Sherman, don’t shove it down my neck. I know we’ve lost valuable time. It’s true. But it’s not too late.’
‘Do we bring al-Qasr in, sir?’
Kellner looked at the tranquil Fless through the one-way plate set in the door.
‘Fless could be useful to us.’
‘But shall I bring al-Qasr in, sir?’
‘No, Beck. You sit tight. I got our Iraqi scientist very closely covered.’
‘But Buckley’s dead!’
‘Buckley was working for al-Qasr. That’s how it was set up. His own little protector. But when I first heard about this business, I put an undercover agent right inside the hornet’s nest.’
‘You didn’t tell me, sir.’
‘And you know what?’
‘Sir?’
‘This agent ain’t workin’ for Leanne Gresham. This agent’s workin’ for me.’
35
Constructed for emergencies only, al-Qasr’s underground hideaway was hellishly cramped. Below the battery-powered lamp bracketed to the hardboard panel, al-Qasr squinted at his laptop, sweat dripping onto his keyboard.
Fiona hadn’t fooled him. He’d suspected an Agency honey-trap from the start. It had taken him all morning, and all of his wiles, to distract her long enough to link his laptop to her hard drive: a state-of-the-art metaphor from which al-Qasr derived private satisfaction. He’d long realised his so-called colleague Bob Lowenfeld’s interest wasn’t simply academic. Experience of Lowenfeld’s duplicity had given al-Qasr the scent. Having accessed Bob’s computer data and codes, Fiona’s system would be a breeze to crack. Al-Qasr smiled at the prospect of ‘listening in’ to internal CIA traffic and observing their inevitable pursuit of him. It would not be long now; his hour was almost upon him.
Al-Qasr stopped dead. A CCTV system monitoring his lab flickered into life. Al-Qasr slammed the laptop closed and focused on the monitor. Bob Lowenfeld! Lowenfeld was extracting additional drives from al-Qasr’s computer and imaging system.
‘Motherfucker!’
Al-Qasr skidded his Jag by the entrance to RIBOTech’s car park. He didn’t want to be seen from his lab window. He reversed, parked beneath a cluster of tall pines, and walked round in the dappled light to the rear trade entrance. He knocked on the cafeteria’s kitchen window.
‘Sorry, Jolene, think I left something in the cafeteria over lunch.’
‘Oh, I didn’t see you.’
‘I’m the invisible man.’
‘You look all right to me, honey!’
Smiling, the cook returned to her washing up, while al-Qasr strode through the dining hall to the back stairs. The first-floor reception was empty: normal for a Saturday afternoon. The only thing that mattered was to extract his latest files before Lowenfeld found them. Distracted by Fiona, he’d been stupid.
His office door was open.
Fiona.
She turned in shock. ‘Professor! I er…’
Al-Qasr smiled. ‘What a nice surprise. Can’t you get enough of old Sami?’
36
After two nights in Coalition Camp Montezuma with the 82nd Airborne
, Ashe was transported back south, to Baghdad’s Green Zone. Richmond had swung Ashe basic quarters in the Defense Intelligence Agency HQ, close to the Assassins’ Gate entrance to the Green Zone. The drawback was that the HQ was mostly underground. While relatively cool compared to the stifling streets outside, being so close to bomb-damaged sewerage pipes, it could also get mighty smelly.
Ashe observed Richmond’s daily operations, mostly high-risk sorties against suspected insurgents and hunts for arms caches. Street-by-street battles, interrogations, area reconnaissance, rescue missions – these were the order of the day, and they all took their toll on the nerves. Ashe was learning to adjust to the cruder conversation of those around him, and to their much coarser humour.
Alongside the thrill of action and reaction ran the perennial downside of casualties, treachery, false leads, frustration with equipment and with the number – as well as quality – of men available, not to mention the often depressing news from home.
The war had become a political football to competing parties in Britain, the US and elsewhere. Supercilious opposition was widespread throughout Europe. Morale was on a knife’s edge, but the desire to fulfil the mission and install a democratic government in Iraq in less than a year kept the forces going. This was a worthy objective for those wishing to be seen as fighting the good fight. As a visiting colonel put it to Ashe one night over a game of poker, ‘Hell, son! If some bastard tried to steal our democracy back home, wouldn’t y’all expect a bloody battle?’
This was the sort of question that did not invite a response, and Ashe chose to listen rather than assert his own observations of the situation. Buttoning his lip, however, made his secretion in the bowels of Baghdad a kind of prison, but he would just have to wait; experienced source handlers could not be summoned from the air at will.
Ashe was sitting in the DIA canteen reading the New York Times one afternoon when a sweating Richmond marched in. Smiling, he tossed his helmet onto Ashe’s table.
Ashe studied Richmond’s bloodshot eyes. ‘How’d it go, Major?’