by Matthew Dunn
Now I made no effort to hide my frustration. Of all the spies I knew, Antaeus was the one person who I’d hoped knew who Thales was. His vast intellect was enhanced by a photographic memory and a mind-set to make it his business to know everything he could about the secret world, even if it didn’t benefit his immediate work.
Antaeus got to his feet and stared at Crystal. To my surprise, he said, “Maybe you are right about bridge building.” He turned to me. “I will tell you two things. First, I strongly suspect the man you seek is similar to Thales of Miletus. He calculates. He’s a mathematician. You might do well to assume that is his vocation. Second, a few years ago I ran an operation in Prague. It was logistically complex, involved numerous assets, and took me a year to set up. I thought it was my finest work. But it failed abysmally, and to this day I don’t know why. I’d covered every angle, anticipated all possible outcomes, and had set in place counterinitiatives should anything go wrong. But somehow I missed something.” He paused, and when he next spoke it sounded like he was talking to himself. “Or I missed nothing but was completely outsmarted.” He stood before me and held out his hand.
I gripped it.
“I’m glad we had the chance to speak, Mr. Cochrane. There’s been some meaning in what you’ve said.” He began walking back to his house, and I walked with him. “Do you have far to travel?”
“A two-hour drive back to my hotel in D.C.” This was true. And once in my room, I had to transform my appearance before my last appointment in the States.
Antaeus nodded. “I wish you luck. I can’t be of any more help to you beyond telling you one thing. Two days after my Prague operation was ruined by a person or persons unknown, I received a handwritten note. All it said was, ‘You were superb but I was better.’ It was signed, Thales.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
It was early evening and Admiral Mason had been in his tiny apartment in Washington for exactly forty-three minutes. It had been enough time for him to debone a chicken breast, sauté it alongside shallots and garlic, add tomato sauce, and let it simmer while cooking wild rice and asparagus. He served the meal on a plate, making sure its presentation looked precise, placed the plate on a tray, and took his meal into the living room. He turned on his TV, using one hand to flick through channels while eating his meal with the other. He settled on CNN.
The report was on Israel’s mobilization of military units near the country’s northern border. A male British reporter, in open-neck shirt and slacks, was alternating between speaking to the camera and pointing at tanks behind him. He said that while there had been no official statement from Israel as to the reason for the military maneuvers, there was plausible speculation that they were linked to the assassination of Israel’s ambassador to France. And given the positioning of Israel’s army, if the speculation was correct, that meant Israel was blaming Lebanon or elements within Lebanon for the murder of its diplomat. The key issue, the reporter concluded with solemnity, was whether Israel was in defensive or offensive mode toward its neighbor.
That wasn’t the key issue, thought Mason as he turned off his television. Everyone could tell that the sheer scale of Israel’s military mobilization wasn’t a defensive tactic. In his mind, the crucial question was whether Israel was doing the right thing.
He placed his tray of food to the side, no longer feeling hungry despite having eaten only a few mouthfuls. Cochrane’s task was all that mattered to him. The former MI6 officer had struck him as highly capable and confident. But Mason had also spotted what he thought looked like a hint of doubt in the man’s eyes. Did he think the task to find out what happened in Gray Site was beyond him? And even if he did succeed in that task, did he believe that it would be impossible to use that information to ascertain whether Hamas did kill the ambassador?
Mason wouldn’t blame Cochrane if he did have such doubts. The odds of getting to the truth were beyond ridiculous. But there was another issue that was equally troubling for the admiral. What happened if Cochrane did get to the truth?
TWENTY-EIGHT
The well-groomed Caucasian gentleman and Arab boy walked along cobbled streets in Rennes, shops and seventeenth-century houses on either side of them. A midmorning mist hung motionless at street level in the small city; a chill was in the air. But the weather hadn’t deterred shop owners, street vendors, and shoppers from doing business. Lots of people were on the streets, wrapped up warm in coats and scarves, smiling, moving fast, talking, laughing. It was Saturday, a time to rest and enjoy life. People were communicating with strangers about their lunch and supper plans, the food they loved, and recommendations of fine wines. The banter and gossip made the city of universities thrive with purpose and unity. Many times, Monsieur de Guise had been amazed at the hardiness of the northern French. Most of them were small in stature; some of the elderly among them had physiques that were beyond repair due to childhood malnourishment; others, young and old, were beautiful and elegant, and though they all reflected the full spectrum of any society—dumb, clever, rich, poor, loyal, duplicitous, vain, self-effacing—they all shared a trait that intrigued de Guise. They could drink and eat all the things that doctors say people should not consume, yet most of them would die at exactly the same age as everyone else and with smiles on their faces.
Safa was carrying bags of newly purchased thick, expensive clothes. They were stylish and rich in color, chosen with care by de Guise, and when the boy had tried them on in front of the shop mirrors, de Guise had thought the young teenager had transformed himself into an aristocrat. Earlier, the boy’s jet-black hair had been cut in Rennes’s finest men’s salon. His body, though willowy and not yet fully fit, wore the clothes with panache. His eyes gleamed and his newly polished and reconstructed teeth shone white when he smiled at passersby and showed off his cute dimples.
But Safa was still a boy, and the hours of being beautified had ultimately bored him. De Guise was attuned to that and needed to reward the child. “Galettes saucisses!” he exclaimed upon sighting a regular vendor of street food. “We must partake or cry hunger!”
“Galettes?”
“Grilled pork sausages wrapped in a cold crepe. Mustard is optional though preferable.”
“Pork?”
“Pig.”
“I know what pork is. My religion says . . .”
De Guise patted Safa on the shoulder. “A train of thought that is suited to the climate it emerged from. Pork is susceptible to go bad when it is placed near the equator. But here”—de Guise banged his cane on the street, his tone of voice proud and caring for his boy—“we eat nose to tail. Is that not right, Alfred?”
The seller of galettes saucisses, named Alfred, grinned. “Nose to tail, Monsieur de Guise. Always.” He started preparing Safa’s food. “You are the professor’s child, yes?”
“Quoi, monsieur?”
“The new boy.”
“I am not new to myself.”
The seller—an amateur artist who’d made more money by selling fake reproductions of the greats than his own work—grinned. “You are not.” He served up the street dish. “With my compliments, young man. No charge.”
Monsieur de Guise objected. “You must be paid. Chantelle needs your money. She has a household to run.”
Alfred disagreed. Looking at Safa, he said, “Today’s lesson is gratis but not without benefit to me. As the astute professor notes, we eat an animal from nose to tail. Nothing goes to waste. You owe an animal that.” He handed Safa the wrap. “My sausages are from parts of the animals you don’t want to think about, but they taste delicious. Next time you walk through Rennes and are hungry, bring some cash and only come to me.” He held out his hand to de Guise. “Do we have a deal, sir?”
“We do indeed.” The professor shook the vendor’s hand and walked onward with his boy. “Before we get home, we must buy some provisions from the market, and if you can withstand that final burden I will buy you a dessert of fresh fruit. How do you feel?”
Safa munched on hi
s delicious food. “I feel different.”
“That is as I hoped.”
TWENTY-NINE
Though Admiral Mason had wanted all resources to be made available to me, even he couldn’t overcome the bureaucracy that plagues secret agencies. The CIA had told him categorically that a civilian, as I now was, could not have access to any of its files or personnel. Patrick had allied with Mason and argued that it was crucial I be given whatever information I needed. But the bureaucrats in the Agency had held their ground, waved bits of paper in front of Mason, and told him to go fuck himself.
That meant that what I was about to do now was technically illegal and could land me in jail for a long time. Possibly, I could be sharing a cell with Patrick, because he’d broken rules, too, in order to give me the suburban D.C. address I was now standing outside.
To minimize my chances of imprisonment in a high-security American facility, this afternoon I’d raided one of my dead-letter boxes in D.C. and taken some of its contents to my hotel room. There, I’d carefully applied a black wig that had been cut and shaped to my size by an MI6 hairdresser asset in a safe house in London’s Pimlico. I’d also rubbed my face with fake tan cream, put on glasses, and strapped padding around my gut to make me look fat.
Though it was dark, the long street was lined with houses and streetlamps. Most of the houses were illuminated. People were at home. I was conspicuous. The house before me also had lights on inside. Moments ago, from farther down the street, I’d watched the homeowner drive into his driveway and go inside. I’d thought about knocking on his front door and barging my way in, but it was risky. Officers trained in espionage tradecraft never open their doors to anyone without checking who’s on the other side. And though the man in the house wasn’t a frontline field operative, tradecraft techniques are known to many. They pick up such techniques by overhearing conversations in staff canteens, by being briefed by operational and security officers, and by witnessing how field operatives go about their work.
I couldn’t take the chance of knocking on the door, him asking who I was, and then calling the cops when I didn’t respond. So instead, I’d brought along a set of specialist tools.
I walked fast around the house until I was in the backyard. It was more private here, but still there was a threat that I could be seen by neighbors if they happened to look out of their rear windows. The back kitchen door was locked. I worked fast. On my knees, I used a lockpick set to pin back the inner workings of the lock and rotate its chambers. The lock opened. I waited, listening for any signs that the man in the house had heard the sound. Nothing. Carefully, I pushed the door and eased it open inch by inch. After glancing around to ensure I wasn’t being watched by a neighbor with a cell phone to her ear, I moved inside.
I could hear cheers and whistles coming from his TV. Moving into the living room, I saw he had his back to me while sitting in an armchair. He was oblivious to me as he watched a football game, the vibrant colors of the match affording no reflection on the screen of my presence in the dark corner of the room. He was totally vulnerable. Even covert operatives, unarmed combat experts, and specialist law enforcement officers are very vulnerable in similar positions. It takes their brain longer to react to an attack than if they were confronting it head-on. And even then, their training becomes subservient to shock, which in many instances doesn’t allow them to fight but at best instinctively forces them to flee or freeze and accept a beating or death. This man lacked any expertise in defending himself. I could snap his neck before he realized what was happening.
I hoped he didn’t have a weak heart as I tapped him on the shoulder.
He spun around fast and fell onto his back when he saw me, his mouth open and an expression of horror on his face. “No! What the . . . ?”
In a French accent, I said, “I’m not here to rob you or hurt you. Correction: I won’t hurt you providing the conversation I wish to have with you goes well.” I patted my overcoat pocket. There was nothing in there, but the man before me didn’t know I wasn’t packing a pistol.
He looked terrified, as he stuttered, “What . . . what . . . what do you want?”
I squatted in front of him. He tried to get up but I pushed him back down. “You were part of the CIA technical team that established the communications systems and security for Gray Site in Beirut. You were also part of the team sent to breach the site after it went silent. I want you to tell me what you found when you forced entry.”
The technician used his elbows to move a few inches away from me. “Who are you?”
“An interested party.”
“DGSE?”
This was good. I’d hoped that he’d assume I worked for the French intelligence service, given my accent and the fact that one of Gray Site’s officers was DGSE. I smiled. “Draw your own conclusions.” My smile vanished. “I won’t kill you. My employers have told me that would be crossing a line. But they’ve allowed me to use my discretion on whether to inflict pain on you, depending upon how cooperative you are. We want answers, and we’re not getting them from anyone else. That’s why you and I are in a room together.”
“You can’t expect me to talk to a foreign intelligence officer. My job—”
“Your job is the least of your concerns right now. In any case, neither I nor anyone I represent will say a word to your colleagues about our discussion.”
“It’s still treason to talk to a foreign agency without clearance!”
“Only if you’re betraying secrets.”
The man frowned.
“We’ve read the CIA reports about the construction of Gray Site and the breach. After all, they were formally submitted to us by the Agency, because we had a right to know as much as you do.”
“So, you are DGSE!”
“We know as much, actually as little, about what happened in the complex as your bosses do.” I patted his stomach. “So, unless you’ve deliberately withheld information from your colleagues—and I’ve no reason to suspect that to be the case—then you’ve nothing to fear. All I want to know is whether there is a detail that’s been missed. Perhaps something that didn’t seem important to you and the rest of the team who forced entry.”
When he spoke, the technician’s voice sounded stronger and his expression looked defiant. “Why didn’t you seek clearance to interview me? The CIA would probably have granted you that. They’ve no reason not to.”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t take that chance. Anyway, this is a much more private encounter.” I sat in the chair the man had been in minutes ago. “You can sit on the floor, but don’t get to your feet.”
The officer did as he was told.
“Our interests in Gray Site align precisely with those of the United States. I would prefer that you didn’t, but by all means tell your employer that you were threatened in your home tonight and forced to speak. That is your right. And it is also right to tell them that at no point did I ask you to betray your country. I merely wanted an off-the-record discussion with you.”
“Off the record?” the man huffed. “You must be crazy.”
I leaned forward. “You must use your fingers a lot in your line of work. I’m sure you’d hate to see them smashed to the point where they will never function again.”
It was a threat I’d never follow through with, but it was sufficient to make the officer’s face pale.
I leaned back and crossed my legs; the padding under my shirt squeezed uncomfortably against me as I did so. “Are you prepared to talk, or not?”
He was silent.
So was I as I kept my eyes locked on his.
Finally he asked, “How do I know you’re from an ally service? You could be posing as that. Maybe you’re working for people my agency doesn’t like.”
“Make a judgment.”
“I’m not qualified to do so.”
He wasn’t. “Then ask me questions about Gray Site—questions that only the States, Britain, France, and Israel would know the answers to.”
; The officer rubbed sweat off his face. “Name of the CIA officer in the site?”
“Koenig.”
“The number of officers who manned the station?”
“Four.”
“Myself included, number of men who breached the complex?”
“Six. Three technicians, three paramilitary officers. All Americans.
“The station’s remit?”
“To eavesdrop on Hamas. Purpose being to ascertain whether Hamas was responsible for the assassination of Israel’s ambassador in Paris.”
“The station’s layout?”
“I was hoping you were going to help me out a bit more on that.” That was true, and it was one of the key reasons I was here. “But I know it was an old basement wine cellar beneath a large derelict house in the outskirts of Beirut. It was accessed by steps inside the house. You put a bombproof steel door at its entrance at the base of the stairs. In the site was a corridor leading to four small rooms. The walls, ceiling, and floor were thick stone. Aside from the steel front door, there was no other way in or out of the station.”
The man nodded. “Nobody except the CIA, MI6, DGSE, and Mossad knows that information. And even within those organizations, the information is tightly restricted.”
“Good. So now you know who you’re dealing with. Time to make a decision.”
The officer lowered his head. “What do you want to know?”
“Are you certain the door was secure from the inside when you breached it?”
“Yes. And its inner locks hadn’t been tampered with. It would have been impossible to do so.”
“Why?”
“We tested them ourselves.” He tried to smile. “Part of what we do is pick locks.” He nodded toward his kitchen. “And I’m betting we’re a darn sight better at it than what you’re familiar with. We made the locks impossible to crack. But on top of that we decided we couldn’t be complacent. So we made the inner locks inaccessible from the outside.”