blood to drink…
1
Menacham Stein, the Mossad officer who had worked with the First Team on Seven Angels, met Corrine at the airport in Tel Aviv. He looked more like a businessman on vacation than a spy: six feet tall, with slicked-back hair and a light scent of aftershave, he walked up to her as she came out of the tunnel off the plane and led her away from the others. He slid a magnetic card into a reader on a door, showing her into a stairwell that led to an empty corridor. After several more twists and turns they emerged in an area of offices before exiting in the main terminal section. Here he slowed his pace to an easy nonchalance, guiding her with a gentle tap on the shoulder to the doors. As they walked to the car she realized that there were at least two other men watching them.
“Your people, I assume,” she said.
He smiled but said nothing, leading the way to a blue Ford in the middle of the lot. Corrine noticed another pair of men sitting in a car nearby.
“More?” she said.
“We don’t like to take chances with important visitors,” said the officer, popping the trunk for her bag.
While it looked ordinary from the outside, the vehicle had been heavily modified: the sides, roof, and floor had been armored and the glass reinforced. A phone sat on the console between driver and passenger. The Mossad officer reached under the dash and put his finger on a small device that read his fingerprint. This gave him five seconds to insert his key in the ignition and start the car.
“First time in Tel Aviv?” asked Stein.
“It’s my third or fourth, but it’s been ten years. You sound like you’ve spent a great deal of time in the U.S.,” she added. “Do you come from New York?”
“I lived in Brooklyn for a few years,” said Stein, but he didn’t elaborate.
Inside the Mossad building, Corrine was searched politely but not perfunctorily. Stein took her to an elevator that led to an isolated part of the building, where a special room was set up for top-secret conversations. To secure the room against possible eavesdropping, it had been sheathed in a layer of copper and its supports isolated from vibrations, so that it literally floated within the space. More conventionally, radio and microwave detection devices hunted for transmissions emanating not only from the room but from any of the nearby areas, and white noise generators provided a sonic barrier around the facility.
To get into the secure area, they had to walk down a tunnellike hall made of polished cement. As they started down it, another man came up from the other side. Corrine thought it was David Tischler, the Mossad supervisor she was meeting with, coming out to greet her. But after holding her glance for a brief moment, the man abruptly turned his head toward the wall and then put his hand up, shielding the other side of his face.
Stein touched her elbow, leading her through a small anteroom to the chamber where Tischler sat waiting.
“I hope your flight was a good one,” said the Israeli, rising. Unlike Stein, he was short and a little overweight; it might not have been fair to say he had a potbelly, but he certainly didn’t look like an athlete.
“We appreciate your help with the Seven Angels case,” she told him as she sat down.
“Of course.”
“I want to be assured that his death was random,” said Corrine.
“God does not call us randomly. But in the sense you mean it, yes. It was an accident. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, I suppose we can’t tell.”
“It was unfortunate for our investigation,” said Corrine. “He would have been apprehended, and you would have had more information about the people he wanted to contact.”
Tischler’s narrow brown eyes held no expression; his mouth was the mouth of a man staring into space, revealing nothing.
“Ferg was there,” said Stein, who unlike his boss seemed agitated at the question. “What did he think?”
“Mr. Ferguson was a little too close to be objective,” said Corrine.
“He thought it was random, too,” suggested Stein. “As did I.”
“Mr. Ferguson wasn’t prepared to say it wasn’t random. But he lacked proof, one way or the other.”
“Spoken like an American lawyer,” said Stein.
The faintest of grins appeared on Tischler’s face.
“We’ve made arrests in the case,” said Corrine, loosening her tone slightly. “The FBI will share what’s appropriate as it becomes available. If you require specific items to assist you, I can certainly facilitate sharing that. As I said, we appreciate your assistance. I’m wondering if you’ve developed any additional information that might be useful to us.”
“We’ve shared everything we know,” said Stein.
“There was a jeweler?”
“A blind, as far as we can tell.”
Corrine looked at Tischler, whose face was once more a blank wall. “Do you see a connection between Seven Angels and Nisieen Khazaal?”
Tischler’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Is there one?”
“Thatch was on his way to Egypt. We believe the people he was to see in Cairo may have been on their way to the meeting that Khazaal is going to.”
Tischler’s eyes went dull again. “I guess.”
“It would be difficult to believe,” said Stein. “The Seven Angels would be more aptly named Seven Wanna- bes. They’re really amateurs. Thatch would have been killed by them, just as Ferguson almost was.”
The connection between Seven Angels and Khazaal was every bit as far-fetched as Stein said. Egyptian intelligence indicated that the tailor, Ahmed Abu Saahlid, commanded a network of terrorists and had plans to travel to Lebanon or Syria — typically for the Egyptians, they couldn’t be specific. The tailor opposed the Egyptian government and was “of interest,” something that might be said of at least a third of the Egyptian population. Nothing in his dossier, however, showed that he had any connection with Khazaal or any Iraqi for that matter. The Egyptian report made it seem unlikely that he would have been willing to act as a go-between with Seven Angels even if he did have access to Khazaal. Several of his recorded statements showed he despised Americans in general, and Ferguson’s experience with him demonstrated a willingness to act on those beliefs.
But something in Stein’s answer interested Corrine a great deal: the line about wanna-bes. It had been in an FBI report she’d read on the way over, one that was
Coincidence? It was a common phrase.
“I suppose it’s unlikely there’s a connection,” said Corrine, moving on to the real reason she’d come to see Tischler in person. “What else can you tell us about Khazaal?”
“Very little,” said Tischler.
“You know his travel plans?”
“Only that he is due to see others in Syria. Two men we have interest in over in Damascus transferred some money into an account used by one of the exile groups friendly to the so-called resistance. And a room there was rented for the weekend.”
One of the men was being followed by Iraqi intelligence, and the bank account was being monitored by the CIA. But it was possible that the exiles had already been tipped off; the second man had disappeared.
“Do you expect the meeting in Damascus?” asked Corrine.
