Slaton watched Donnelly burn through three cigarettes while he covered everything from Malta to Beirut. The only thing he left unaddressed was his relationship to America—in particular, his wife and child. The CIA had facilitated his initial move to the United States, but it was a carefully crafted identity known to only a few individuals in the agency. That legend, in the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, had long ago been blown, the supporting documents sunk into a deep and dark body of water. To rekindle that relationship here, he knew, risked disclosing his true identity. Which in turn, created but one more path to his family.
Slaton ended his story at a storage room on Geitawi Boulevard.
“What did you find inside?” Donnelly asked.
“WMD.”
The acronym instigated a pause, and Slaton watched the CIA man scan the room. He’d done so regularly since arriving, which Slaton took as damning evidence of a long career in the field. More positively, it suggested that Donnelly’s security team was not in direct line of sight. “Weapons of mass destruction? Your message said that was in Aadra—we have a team on the way there now.”
“That’s where the material was initially discovered, and there’s still plenty of evidence—enough to convince you how serious this is.”
“Where exactly do we look? And what kind of threat are we talking about?”
Slaton set on the table one of the three plastic-encased dosimeters he’d taken from the storage room. He had cut away the bottom lip, the identity strip where Dr. Moses Nassoor’s name had been printed. In time he was sure the Americans would discover where it had come from. He was equally sure that Nassoor would face some manner of justice for what he’d done. That was out of Slaton’s hands.
“I found three like this in the storage closet. Check the readings. The material is cesium-137. It was brought to Geitawi from a farm outside Al Qutayfah, Syria.” Slaton added a description of the dirt path and rail tracks near Route 7. “Behind the main house your team will find a workshop, and all around it are traces of this isotope.”
“Traces?”
“Clear evidence of a release. Cesium-137 has medical and industrial uses, but large quantities are commonly used to irradiate food. Its half-life is thirty years—your team should use protective gear. Twenty months ago there was an outbreak of ill health in Aadra caused by this material. The health system failed—it never made the correlation. As an aside, if I was the CIA I might consider some kind of training program. Primary-care physicians in this part of the world ought to be able to recognize radiation sickness.”
“I’ll put that in my after-action report,” said Donnelly dryly. “What else?”
“First let’s talk about what I want in return.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need information. And certain guarantees.”
“Guarantees? You think you can just give a note to a Marine sentry and expect the CIA to jump through—”
“I am rescuing you,” Slaton broke in, “from a catastrophic intelligence failure. I believe this material will be used in a radiological attack. Right now neither of us knows who we’re dealing with or what their intentions are, but we have to assume that time is of the essence.”
“Do you think this cesium will be used against Israel?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“So why didn’t you go to Mossad with this? Even if you no longer work for them, I’m sure you have connections.”
“I think this entire disaster was sourced from a series of Mossad screwups. I don’t trust them right now. In truth, I haven’t for a long time.”
“So the CIA is your backup intelligence service?”
“We have common interests. This group has killed two innocent people, and established themselves as a threat to me personally. I think we’re looking at a gray cell, an op that isn’t state sponsored, at least not overtly. I tracked the last man I know about to Geitawi where he picked up this material, and I think he’s transporting it as we speak. His name is Zan Ben-Meir, an Israeli national. I’m also certain there are others involved. I want you to find out who they are. I want you to tell me where they are.”
Donnelly stabbed his fourth cigarette into an ashtray. His fingers tapped on the side of his mug. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. You think that if the CIA can verify what you’re saying, if we can identify who’s involved, that we’ll serve them up to you on a platter?”
“If you want quick and quiet closure … yes.”
Ever so slightly, Donnelly shifted in his seat.
Slaton said, “My offer is not open-ended. Give me good information, and I’ll finish this. I expect a decision from Langley within one hour. Your acceptance of my terms will come by way of the CIA director’s press release.”
“What press release?”
“The one he’s going to issue sixty minutes from now. It will include the phrase, ‘We have an agreement in principle.’ I don’t care what the balance of the text reads—he can be announcing a new Far East initiative or a bid for office supplies. Use your imagination. I’ll verify the issuance and subtext on the CIA website.”
Donnelly frowned. “And if Langley agrees? How do we get in touch with you?”
“By calling your phone.” He held out his hand.
With a weary sigh, Donnelly reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a smartphone, and pushed it across the table.
“Password?” Slaton asked. Donnelly gave it to him, and he typed seven characters into the security screen. The phone was ready to work. He scanned the various icons. “Which is the tracking app?” he asked.
Donnelly showed him. Slaton tapped the symbol and within seconds had the signal disabled. He guessed this was the only beacon, but there was no way to ask and expect a truthful answer. On a more positive note, he saw an application that looked familiar and might be of great use later.
Donnelly said, “You realize that as long as it’s powered up anybody can track it like a regular phone.”
“Of course,” Slaton said, turning the phone off. “Once I have confirmation that we’re working together, I’ll turn the phone back on. I expect to see a direct contact number for Langley. And I’ll be expecting information.”
An irritated Donnelly looked out across the street. “What if I told you I had ten agents outside ready to close in?”
“I’d say you’re a liar. It would be like me telling you that I had a silenced Beretta under the table.”
Donnelly looked at Slaton’s half-hidden right arm. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. He asked, “What exactly did you do for Mossad?”
Slaton got up from the seat with one hand still in his jacket pocket. He removed it to produce a ten-euro note, which he dropped on the table. “I think that’s obvious enough.”
* * *
“It’s him,” Sorensen said. “Mdina, Zurich, Wangen. Everything checks. This is definitely our Maltese stonemason.” She was addressing Director Coltrane in his Langley office, Jack Kelly at her side as they went over the message from the Beirut station.
Kelly said, “I don’t like the bit about, ‘one each to my credit.’ It’s almost like he’s bragging about killing these men.”
Coltrane stood in rumination before a very high-tech window that overlooked a sleeping forest of leafless elm and chestnut trees. He said, “No, he’s giving us a character reference—such as it is.”
The Operations Center had been humming with activity since the letter from Beirut arrived, and things accelerated after Donnelly’s meeting with the Israeli.
“What about the Barclays account?” the director asked.
Sorensen said, “We have a good contact at the bank—or more accurately, MI-5 does. It’s a large private account, roughly sixty million U.S. dollars. It was managed by Walter Krueger—the banker who was killed in Zurich last week. The funds have been in place for over a year with very little activity, but in the last few days there have been some changes.”
“What kind of changes?” Coltrane asked distractedly, still facing the window.
“The money was cashed out of a diverse portfolio and reinvested much more narrowly—everything is now in oil. Refining, exploration, drilling leases. Somebody went all-in.”
“Do we know who that ‘somebody’ is?”
“That was the other strange thing. The account was originally established as an offshore trust, but a few days ago the ownership was altered. Everything was put into the name of one individual.” Sorensen referenced a printout to make sure she got it right. “The new owner of record is named David Slaton.”
The director turned. Coltrane opened his mouth as if to speak, but then seemed to have second thoughts.
“Does that name mean something to you?” Sorensen asked.
“Yes.” Nothing more came until Coltrane said, “You should both get back to work.”
Sorensen and Kelly stood frozen for a moment, and exchanged a What the hell is going on? look. They were heading for the door when Coltrane added, “This man who’s contacted us in Beirut…”
Both turned.
“Give him anything he wants.”
After the two analysts were gone, the director remained at the window with the name fixed in his head. David Slaton. Coltrane had heard it before, but only once, during a late-evening, martini-laden discussion with the outgoing director when he’d assumed command of the agency. It wasn’t from any official record, or even an off-the-books operation. Closer to a legend, really.
“There was a favor for Israel. We took in one of their operatives, a man who recently saved them great embarrassment. He’s a killer, as pure and simple as they come, who ended up in a delicate situation. Mossad wanted him to disappear with a faultless identity. They were very concerned, so I offered our help. The name is David Slaton … or at least it was. I doubt you’ll ever hear it again…”
From his predecessor’s words, one phrase looped again and again in Coltrane’s head.
He’s a killer, as pure and simple as they come …