End of Enemies (12 page)

Langley

One of the by-products of the end of the Cold War and the U.S.S.R.'s subsequent demise was a spirit of renewed cooperation between the U.S. and Russian intelligence communities. As the struggling commonwealth's primary source of subsidy, the U.S. had demanded and received many concessions, one of which involved Russia's former links to state-sponsored terrorism. In the years following the breakup, the KGB's successor, the Foreign Intelligence Service, had aided the CIA's war on terrorism by serving as an information clearinghouse. To facilitate this conduit the DCI and his deputies were linked to their Russian counterparts via encrypted phones.

The phone's distinct double buzz caught DDO George Coates by surprise. He opened the drawer and lifted the receiver. He heard several clicks, then a muted tone burst, which told him the encryption and recording units were functioning.

“George Coates.”

“Hello, George.”

“Pyotor, this is a surprise.” Pyotor Kolokov, his opposite number in the FTS, used the “bat phone” sparingly.

“A pleasant one, I trust.”

“Of course. How is Karina?”

“She is well. Thank you for asking. George, I am sending you something in the diplomatic pouch. It concerns a former friend of ours, someone you've expressed an interest in.”

Coates had a guess what this meant. Most often, information passed by the FIS regarded the CIA's hit parade, an informal list of assorted bad guys they were tracking. The upper ranks of the DO's current hit parade were filled almost exclusively by Islamic terrorists the KGB had once nurtured.

“How much interest?” asked Coates.

“For you, some. But for your sister, quite a lot, I think.”

“I see.” The CIA's “sister” was the FBI.

“Once you've had a chance to digest the material, call me.”

Coates laughed. “After-the-sale customer service, Pyotor? That's not like you.”

“I am in an expansive mood. Good-bye, George.”

Coates hung up and redialed. “Marie, George Coates here. I'm expecting a package from the Russian embassy. Bring it up as soon as it's clear, will you?”

Dulles International Airport,
Washington,
D.C.

Ibrahim Fayyad stood in the customs line reading a copy of
La Republica.
The line inched forward, and he picked up his bag, stepped ahead, then set it down again. Behind him, a woman did the same.

“Don't you just hate lines?” she asked him.

Fayyad turned.
“Mi scusi
?”

“These lines,” she repeated. “Don't you just hate them?”

“Oh.
Si.
”

“You're Italian, aren't you?”

“Yes, I am.”

She was a midthirties platinum blond with vacuous eyes and too much eyeliner. Her figure was gorgeous, however, and Fayyad let his eyes settle on her generous cleavage. Her smile broadened.

“You know, I just love Italian men,” she cooed.

And very often,
I suspect,
Fayyad thought.
“Grazie.
”

For a moment he considered the invitation. The physical release would be welcome, and this woman was just what he needed—a receptacle. She made no pretenses otherwise.

She said, “Say, would you like to have a drink or—”

“I'm sorry, I am late for an appointment. Thank you, though.”

“Another time, maybe?”

“Possibly, yes.”

She jotted her number on the back of his newspaper. Her name was Candi. The “i” was dotted with a heart. “Call me.”

He gave her a smile and slipped it into his pocket. “Candi.
Bello.
”

“Bello
?
What's that?”

“It means beautiful.”

Fayyad was next in line. The customs agent nodded and took his passport as his bag was searched. “Your name, sir?”

“Vesuchi. Paolo Vesuchi.”

“Do you have anything to declare?”

“No.”

“And the purpose of your visit, sir?”

“Business.”

The agent stamped his passport and handed it back. “Have a nice stay.”

FBI Headquarters

Charlie Latham's Hebrew was just good enough to tell the switchboard operator at
Shin Bet
headquarters who he was looking for. A moment later, Avi Haron's booming voice came on the line. “Charlie Latham!”

“Hello, Avi.”

“They told Avi it was an American calling, and of course I knew it was you.” One of Haron's most endearing quirks was speaking of himself in the third person. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“You've heard about the Delta bombing?”

“Ah, yes. Bad business, that. I wondered if you were involved. Where does it stand?”

“That depends on you. You remember your trouble with the PFLP a few years ago … the honey trap business?”

“Do I remember? Of course. You don't think—”

“The woman in question met a man on vacation, had a romance, etcetera…. The whole thing fits the profile. So does his description and the name he used.”

“I see. Give me the details,” Haron said, and Latham did so. “So who is your guess, Charlie?”

“Ibrahim Fayyad.”

“Ah! This is bad, Charlie. These are not nice people. But Fayyad is freelance now. Unless you have more for me, there is no way of knowing who hired him.”

“I know, Avi. I'm looking for a direction before this thing stalls on me.”

“Perhaps I can help. But we are out of channels, are we not? Aren't your liaison people going to get testy? You know me, I am a stickler for protocol.”

Latham laughed. “Since when? If you want, I can send it up the line, but this is information I need now, not a year from now.”

“Am I hearing that the wheels at the FBI turn slowly? Charlie, I will help you. One friend to another. Give me a day. If we are lucky, and Fayyad sticks to his routine, he may return to one of his favorite haunts for some rest and relaxation.”

“Thanks, Avi. You have my home number. Call me day or night”

“I
will be in touch, my friend. And Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“How many died?”

“Five.”

“And the woman?”

“She made it”

“Good. A bit of justice in that, perhaps.”

“Not enough, Avi,” said Latham. “Not nearly enough.”

Langley

“All right, let's wrap it up.” said Frank Rhodes, the CIA's counterintelligence director. “We need a recommendation for the boss.”

At the direction of George Coates, Rhodes had drawn together this working group to determine if SYMMETRY'S op sec—or lack thereof—had contributed to the loss of Marcus.

As far as Art Stucky was concerned, the reason was clear: The man had gotten careless. Stucky knew Rhodes was anxious to submit his report before the Intelligence Directorate had a chance to point the ugly stick at ops. Being blamed for this mess was bad enough without getting it from that Albrect bitch. How she had landed the DDI slot in the first place was a mystery to Stucky. Women had no business in the spy business.

“Let's go around the table,” said Rhodes. “Julie?”

“All the other SYMMETRY contacts are untouched. Same with the safe-call locations. Either Marcus is dead, or he hasn't given them anything.”

“Yet,” said Stucky. “Once they put his nuts in the vice, he'll start singing.”

Julie ignored him and continued. “I think we can rule out communication procedures as a weak link.”

“Ditto for personnel compromise,” said another analyst. “Nobody but the alternate who reported the snatch knew Marcus personally. The rest were handled via drops only.”

“Any word on ransom demands or credit?” asked Rhodes.

“Nothing,” said Julie. “We tapped all our sources, official and unofficial. Whoever took him isn't bragging about it. If they killed him, they did a good job disposing of the body.”

“So the bottom line is, Marcus was taken by persons unknown, for reasons unknown.”

“I'll tell you why the raghead got caught,” Stucky said. “He fucked up, that's why. SYMMETRY was wired tight. Marcus screwed up and got himself killed, period.”

The other analysts at the table stared at Stucky with a mixture of distaste and amazement. “Jesus, Art,” said Julie.

“I'm just saying what everyone's thinking.”

“Well, you don't speak for me.”

“Well, no shit—”

“Okay, people, enough,” Rhodes said. “Art may be right. This could be a case of operator error. Unfortunately, we may never know. Okay, I'm meeting with DDO this afternoon. Our report will indicate no compromise on our side of the house, with the recommendation that SYMMETRY be shut down to preserve the network until it can be reactivated. Any disagreement?” No one spoke. “Okay, that's all. Thanks.”

Everyone filed out of the conference room except for Rhodes and Stucky, who reclined in his chair and lit a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking sign above his head. “Christ, that Julie is one bleeding-heart bitch, ain't she?”

“Maybe,” Rhodes said, “but you might want to ease up a little bit—”

“My guess is she just needs some.”

“Some what?”

Stucky laughed. “Good one. Okay, let's get this thing filed so I can get back to Tel Aviv.”

“I would have thought you'd want to stay here,” said Rhodes.

“What the hell for?”

“Exposure. It'd do your career some good.”

Stay here and rub elbows with management cocksuckers
?
Stucky thought.
No thank you.
Field operatives were the backbone of the CIA, not assholes who sat around deciding the cafeteria lunch menu. All their good manners and college degrees made him sick.

His encounter with Dutcher last week was proof of that. Wasn't it enough that Dutcher—and Briggs Tanner,
especially him
—had trashed his Army career? Twenty years down the toilet over some little Spic girl. He'd done what was necessary, what guys like Tanner didn't have the balls to do. And now Dutcher wouldn't even give him the time of day when they passed one another on a goddamned elevator.

People like them eventually got what they deserved, of that Stucky was sure. And if there was any justice in this world, he'd would be there to see it. He would pay money for that. He smiled at the thought.

“What's so funny?” asked Rhodes.

“Forget it.” Stucky stood up and crushed out his cigarette. “Listen, Frank, just make sure you get it straight in your report, okay? I ain't gonna get bent over because some raghead got himself snatched.”

Tel Aviv

Hayem Sherabi, Director of the Israeu Mossad, studied the NAKA report before him. All Mossad case officers—known as
katsas
—
submitted operational reports in this standardized format. No variation was allowed, and NAKA training constituted several weeks of a Mossad recruit's training.

This particular report was correct in all respects, but its source concerned him. There were those in Mossad that believed friendship had no place in the intelligence business, but Sherabi thought this naive. This particular
katsa
was a friend—or more accurately, the child of a long-dead friend. How to balance loyalty, discipline, and the security of Israel was a question with which Sherabi often wrestled.

Known formally as
Ha Mossad,
le Modiyn ve le Tafkidim Mayuhadim
(the Institute for Intelligence and Operations) and informally as The Institute, Mossad is a small agency by U.S. standards, fielding less than fifty
katsas
worldwide. Despite this, Mossad is considered one of the most effective agencies in the world and certainly one of the most ruthless. Surrounded by a sea of neighbors who have sworn to destroy its mother country, Mossad lives by a brutally pragmatic motto: “By way of deception, thou shalt do war.”

There was a knock on Sherabi's door. “Come.”

His guest entered and stood at attention before his desk. He studied her. A fine
katsa
and a beautiful woman, Sherabi thought, but to him Camille Sereva would always be the little girl of a dear friend.

Since Amil Sereva's death ten years ago, Sherabi had kept his promise to watch over Camille. Of Amil's three children, Camille was the only one still living, the rest having been taken by forty years of war. Her two brothers had died while stalling the Syrian advance on the Golan in '73 as 1,200 Syrian tanks were defeated by 175 Israeli Shermans. It had been a glorious but costly victory: 6,000 dead in less than three weeks of fighting.

Sherabi stifled the impulse to embrace Camille. “Sit.”

She did so.

“I've read your report. The murder of your contact was unfortunate.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But your interlude with this man, this American … Who authorized it, can you tell me that?”

“No one, sir.”

“And yet you did it. Why?”

Camille hesitated.

“Answer me!”

“It … it was a …” She trailed off

A mistake
?
Sherabi thought. Interesting she couldn't—or wouldn't—say the word. He'd never seen Camille at a loss for words. Nor did she say anything she didn't mean. She was stubborn like her mother.

“Why did you include it in your report?”

“Because it happened … it happened during an operation. The guidelines are quite clear regarding—”

“I know the regulations. I also know that regulations cannot cover every circumstance a
katsa
may encounter.” Sherabi closed the file. “Since you did not attempt to hide it, we're going to treat this as a lesson learned.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Learn it well, though. Here, you do not get many second chances.”