the drill. That’s not why I called.”
“It better not be. There are few things I hate worse than hearing about another man’s love life at oh-one hundred.”
“Could you be serious for a moment, Harry? Someone burgled my apartment.”
“Seriously?” Harry responded, suddenly alert. He swung his feet out of bed and reached for his pants. “Have you called the police?”
“Negative. Nothing was taken, Harry. Nothing at all. But someone was here, maybe more than one person- and they tossed the place good. A pro job-everything just about back where I left it.”
Harry didn’t bother asking what had triggered his suspicions. Every agent had his “tells,” little objects left in places where they would certainly be moved by a searcher-a paper-clip at right angles to the edge of a desk, a piece of thin string near an entrance, an electric cord coiled haphazardly at the foot of a bed, it could have been anything.
“Whoever they were,” Hamid continued, “they had some computer experience. They got through the Level-3 Omega firewall-probably mirrored my drives.”
“Anything critical?”
“I know better than that. Thomas left his laptop in the locker at Langley, so they didn’t get that.”
Harry nodded. “Good. Tell you what-I’ll be over at seven hundred hours and have a look around myself. Not much we can do tonight.”
“Agreed.”
Harry thumbed the kill-button on the TACSAT, laying it on the nightstand as he buckled his pants. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look around, he reflected, reaching under the pillow for his Colt…
Over the years since becoming the DCIA, David Lay had begun organizing his workdays into three categories. There were “bed” days, “garage” days, and “office” days. On a “bed” day, fresh trouble started brewing before he had even awoken. A “garage” day started off with one or more of his analysts meeting him the moment he stepped out of his car in the parking garage. So far, today was shaping up to be an “office” day, in that he had been seated at his desk for twenty minutes with no further issues rearing their ugly heads. Knock on wood.
Not that the issues of the previous day weren’t sufficiently worrisome. And not that Saturday was s
There were no other constructions that could be placed upon what Nichols and the field team had located. The Iranians were prepping for something. Something big. With the known fragility of
The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Lay speaking.”
“Sir,” came the voice of his secretary, “I have General Avi ben Shoham on Line Four.”
“Hold one for the DCIA.” Shoham acknowledged the information briefly, drumming his fingers on the wooden desktop as he waited for the scrambler to connect. It was moments like this he hated-moments of painful indecision. Mercifully, he hadn’t long to wait.
“Good afternoon, Avi.” Shoham smiled at the familiar voice of the CIA director.
“Good morning, David,” he replied, hesitating before he went on. The two men went back a long way-back to the ‘90s when Lay had been CIA chief of station in Tel Aviv and Shoham had been a liaison between their two intelligence agencies. The friendship had become steadily more distant over the years, as the two men climbed the ladder in their respective countries and the number of secrets to be kept grew.
But he was still a man Shoham called “friend”, and there were few of those. Precious few.
“How are things in Israel, Avi?” Lay asked, an innocent pleasantry designed to fill the suddenly awkward silence.
“As usual, David. Challenging. That’s not why I called. There’s been a matter which has come up in the last few days-a matter I believe you could shed some light upon.”
“I’ll do what I can, Avi. You know that.” The general smiled grimly, hearing the edge of reserve come into his friend’s voice.
“It’s not the kind of thing that can truly be discussed over the phone. I would like to set up a face-to-face meeting.”
He could almost hear the American flip open a schedule. “I’m sorry, Avi, but I don’t know when I could do that. My schedule is pretty much set for the next month, and that doesn’t allow for the crises that might demand my presence here.”
“I understand, and anticipated your dilemma. Neither can I leave Israel at this point in time. What I would instead propose is a meeting between our subordinates. In Eilat.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Let me check with Shapiro, my Deputy Director, and I will get back to you.”
“No,” Shoham interjected, abrupt as usual. “I have no interest in a meeting with Shapiro. Here in Israel we prefer to work with people we’ve worked with before, people with an understanding of the situation in the field. People we trust.”
“Who then?”
“Harold Nichols.”
“An NCS team leader? Why?”
“He will be meeting with Lieutenant Gideon Laner, one of my leading operators. A meeting of equals, you might say. He and Nichols worked together in the Bekaa Valley four years ago. I believe you remember the particulars.”
There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “Tell me, Avi. Why should I accede to your request?”
“We are like children, David. Each holding pieces of the other’s puzzle. To give the picture meaning we must put our pieces together. Need I say more?”
“No. I will have to determine Nichols’ status, but we will arrange a meeting.”
“Thank you, David. And a good day to you.”
General Shoham hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, glancing across the room and out the window at the deep blue of the Mediterranean. The die had been cast…
The door to the mosque was unlocked as always. Davood Sarami opened the door and slipped into the foyer, kneeling to remove his shoes. The mosque was a purpose-built structure, replacing the warehouse that had served as the local Islamic community’s house of worship when Davood had first visited two years before. He paused for a moment, taking in the beauty of the architecture. His heritage.
From within, he could hear the sound of a man sweeping and he walked forward, his bare feet padding
