May 1
1322 Avenue of the Americas
Midtown Manhattan
CIA Station NYC
New York City
4:51 P.M. EDT
When Beck Casey had returned to his new office—after another late-dinner promise to a strangely chilly Katie, who had departed in what to him seemed an ominous calm—there were two of them waiting: a man and a much younger, clearly more attractive, woman.
They sat side by side in the two chairs aligned before the desk where Beck had seated himself.
“My apologies to both of you,” he said, before either of his guests could speak. His voice was formal, carefully neutral. “Unavoidable delay, I’m afraid. I am, of course, the inexcusably late Dr. Casey. I’ve looked forward to meeting both of you as new friends … and, naturally, as representatives of your two services.”
During the self-introductions and over-the-desk handshakes, both his visitors had, without trying to be obvious about it, studied not only Casey but also the furnishing and accessories around the office.
It was, their host knew, less due to any critical eye to décor than as a signature of their training: As Beck’s own long-ago instructors had hammered in, the personal items a subject places around his or her environment can, to the discerning eye, provide a revealing insight to the subject’s character and personality.
Axiom of the spy trade: a competent agent’s interest, even if feigned, can help establish the common grounds by which a conversation—or some other form of useful seduction—might be facilitated.
Well, good luck with that, Beck’s inner voice scoffed. The desk photos, the “WORLD’S BEST GRANDFATHER” coffee mug, even the handball glove crumpled on the floor aside the filing cabinet were all artifacts of the previous occupant, a Commerce Department bureaucrat who had been displaced in the pre-dawn hours and whose possessions had not yet been boxed and forwarded.
“Terrible news,” the man said, an appropriate expression on his features. “Have you the assassin in custody?”
“Everything is still pretty confused,” Beck said. “I can say that nobody thinks the timing of it is… random. Or that it’s unrelated to what happened in Washington.”
“Of course. Of course.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a count.
“So, Mr. Tatum—how is Sir John?” Beck asked.
The man politely arched his eyebrows.
“You know him, Dr. Casey?”
“We’ve occasionally crossed paths,” Beck said, remembering the somewhat volatile circumstances of his last bumpy-road intersection with the British Secret Service.
That event—a sometimes-heated exchange of professional insights related to the then-unfolding disclosures of Edward Snowden—had been more than memorable to all involved.
So memorable, that Beck was confident—even if he had been but a wall-sitting aide during the session—it was immortalized in his own secret file in the MI-6 archives. Of that, he was certain. He was also certain that his current visitor would have been well briefed on all the details, and much more besides.
“He sends his greetings,” Ian Tatum replied, a tacit confirmation. “He also sends his assurances that the Service will provide all cooperation and support possible.”
The British agent paused a beat.
“All that we can make possible—which naturally is dependent on the … let us say, the level of disclosure you provide to us. We cannot, you see, be of much help if we are kept in the dark. About anything.”
His tone was that of a very British gentleman, sidling sideways in a very British way, as part of the preliminaries toward a very British deal.
Beck nodded, judiciously if noncommittally, then turned to his other guest.
“And Ms. Admoni, I hope Director Pardo is equally well?”
Rachel Admoni shrugged carelessly.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met the man.”
Her British liaison counterpart looked aghast.
“Pardon me—you are the representative of Mossad. In the current situation, though not to minimize the role of Dr. Casey—I mean, essentially you are the envoy of your agency to the President of the United States! And you’re telling us that you’ve not even met your own supervisor?”
“Not at all. In fact, I lunched with my supervisor before my flight here this afternoon—morning rather, in this time zone. I had beefsteak, rare; he prefers his own medium well.”
To Beck: “My supervisor reports to a man, who reports to a woman, who reports to Pardo. If it comforts Mr. Tatum’s sense of hierarchy—perhaps your own also—I have met the other three persons I have mentioned. One—that would be the woman, Mr. Tatum, Pardo’s assistant director—her I encountered at a reception. It was during my orientation period at Mossad headquarters. We shook hands.”
Tatum stared sideways at the young woman, then turned to Casey, as if seeking an ally.
“Unbelievable,” he said. “May I inquire of Ms. Admoni: How does she expect to fill her role here?”
“‘She’ expects that ‘she’ will manage adequately, thank you,” Rachel said, with undisguised disdain. “Dr. Casey, if an issue arises in which I cannot provide information I do not possess, I have been directed to confer with my supervisor. Who will, I suspect, then confer with his own … and he, with her. Then, if she chooses to involve Pardo or he, the Prime Minister…”
Again, a shrug.
“Dr. Casey,” Tatum sputtered, “I would be remiss not to say that, personally and professionally, I consider this a… an insult to your President.”
“To the former one, perhaps,” Rachel said. “There is a new one now, is there not? One who has not had the opportunity previously to insult us.”
“I’m sure we’ll all become very good friends,” Beck interrupted. “On behalf of the United States government, I’ll go out on a limb and state that I don’t consider any of this an insult. We’re grateful for your help, both of you. To be candid, we need it pretty badly right now.”
Beck spread his hands. “Operationally, at this moment we’re virtually blind. Assistance from your GCHQ is essential, Mr. Tatum. Even more so, after the assassination.”
Tatum nodded, in the manner of a man formulating a deal. The databanks of Britain’s Government Communications Headquarters—the UK equivalent of its American cousin’s NSA—operated under far fewer surveillance constraints than even of its rules-aversive counterparts formerly residing at Fort Meade.
“Ms. Admoni, the FBI is coordinating with your Shin Bet people, to cover inside Israel and the Territories. But with what we know about the actions and movement of the Washington bomber, our operating theory—why mince words? Our belief—is that we’re looking at a conspiracy that spans a lot of borders. Most of them in your backyard.”
“We have made a similar conclusion,” Rachel agreed.
“So we would appreciate an ongoing flow of intelligence—Mossad’s prepared analyses, but even more so the raw intel—for our analysts to use. We’ll also want to task specific assignments to your operatives, for action.”
Rachel appeared amused. “Anything more?”
“As operational needs evolve, yes.”
“I believe that can be done,” she said. “What do we get?”
“What do you want?” Beck asked.
“A similar level of access to American intelligence data as Mr. Tatum asks, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Also, America is holding a number of persons in your prisons, for allegedly providing information to Israel. Some are Israeli citizens, others Americans. We want them released. To be transported to Israel, if they so wish.”
“Noted.”
Her training was less than perfect, Beck saw. An expert in nonverbal analysis would have marked the scornful expression his response elicited, would have termed it “micro-leakage,” since it had lasted but an instant.
Nonetheless, she continued as if he had not spoken.
“You are also holding a number of … you call them ‘suspected terrorists.’ Islamic radicals in your Gitmo and in your penitentiaries. I can provide a list of names. We want them, too.”
“Harder, but also noted.”
Rachel’s lips tightened, and this time no expert was needed to recognize the scorn.
“‘Note’ all you wish, Dr. Casey. But please do not believe these are merely negotiating points. This is the price.”
“I can make no commitments now,” Beck said. “But I can promise serious consideration of your position.”
“My ‘position’ is not yet complete,” Rachel said. “It will involve a few other—minor, I am sure—requirements. Some of them involve providing armament that you have previously seen fit to deny Israel. Others, certain trade agreements. We will also provide this for your ‘serious consideration.’”
She snapped her fingers, as if suddenly recalling a missed detail.
“One last requirement, Dr. Casey. Trivial, I am sure. Living here, in these quite comfortable United States, are a number of people in whom we have an interest—or, sometimes, an interest in their relatives, or friends, or family who still live outside your borders. Some of those residing here may even have become American citizens, but this cannot be a consideration.”
Casey felt a sickening sensation, almost painful, somewhere near the pit of his stomach.
“A consideration for what?”
Rachel smiled, though no competent nonverbal analyst would have mistaken it for one.
“You will want to ‘note’ this also, Dr. Casey. Please note it very well indeed. We will require them, too. Collected and placed into our custody. For transport, to Israel.”