May 1
1322 Avenue of the Americas
Midtown Manhattan
CIA Station NYC
New York City
9:57 P.M. EDT
Lights burned later, if not brighter than those at the television networks, in other offices around New York City.
“The British are one thing,” Beck Casey concluded his report. “We’ve all been to that rodeo before; they’ll deal hard, but they know the rules we both have to play by. We’ll be grinding it out step-by-step with MI-6 and GCHQ, but in progress. An hour ago, they opened full data-access channels for NSA and our own analysts. So with the Brits—we’re not only good-to-go, we’re already going.
“But the Israelis…”
He let the sentence trail away; the silence was only a millisecond in length.
“The Israelis can’t be serious,” scoffed April Hansen. “A round-up and rendition of American citizens? Ludicrous. I wouldn’t even consider taking that to Joe—to the President, I mean. At best, he’d laugh me out of his office.”
And at worst, Beck thought but did not voice, he’d dial up the Israeli Prime Minister and start howling—or, even more likely, make some off-the-cuff, gasoline-on-the-fire comment to the New York Times.
Beck’s own stifled snort was baleful; the new President had a well-earned reputation for the not-infrequent gaffe.
And even a ‘meant-only-for-laughs’ threat to bomb Tel Aviv might not be overly helpful right about now…
A wry voice—a real one: not quite cynical, almost incongruously cheerful—broke into Beck’s musing.
“Welcome to the Israeli school of negotiation, Assistant Director.”
The speaker was one of the higher names on the list of those to whom Beck Casey variously reported—so high, in fact, that most colleagues in the CIA knew him only by his one-word workname: ‘Larry.’ In addition to insights long-proven almost otherworldly in their consistent accuracy, Larry’s experience and his legendary access to the now-scattered circles of influence within the intelligence hierarchy made his presence in this meeting no surprise.
Those attributes also had allowed Larry to unexpectedly survive in his two-decades-and-counting employment, despite a bedside manner oft-considered cringeworthy.
“And by that, Larry, you mean what?” The AD’s voice was neither wry nor cynical, nor did it sound especially amused.
“It means we know some of the items they want to barter for Mossad’s services,” Larry said. “The shopping list they gave poor Beck here was kind of an ascending order of demands. Items they knew would be increasingly distasteful for us to provide—but not impossible, strictly speaking, depending on how badly we need their help.”
“Some of what they want would require a vote by Congress, for God’s sake.”
“Outside my area of expertise,” Larry said. “Still, after a nuclear attack and an assassination here—well, Jewish state or not, I’d guess even the Ku Klux Klan wouldn’t vote against providing our only real comrades-in-arms in the Middle East with guns, money, and intel. Though I agree: Even Congress would draw the line at frog-marching their own voting constituents out of the country.” He grinned. “Maybe.”
If it was an attempt to lighten the mood, Beck sympathized: It failed utterly.
Larry shrugged. “But my point is this: The Israelis know all of that. They know that we likely could just swallow hard and deliver on all of their demands—except for the last one, helping them sweep up our citizens and ship ’em out to Mossad’s interrogation chambers.”
“So it was just a negotiating ploy? They’ll drop that silly demand if—”
“Not on your life,” Larry said. “In my experience with ’em, they’ll hold onto it like a Doberman with a juicy bone. For our Mossad friends, ‘no’ is like a red cape to a bull.”
“So?”
“So we don’t say no.”
April Hansen’s jaw dropped; Beck also felt fresh air on his tonsils.
The AD found her voice first.
“You suggest that we give them—”
“Nope,” Larry said. “We don’t say ‘yes’ either. Not until we find out what they’re really after.” He winked at Beck, not trying to hide the gesture. “That puts you in a delicate situation, my friend. Can’t let ’em posture themselves into making this any kind of dealbreaker. We want them to play ball on their part of the show, starting right away. You’ll be playing Henry Kissinger here.”
“I’m not great with accents, Larry,” Beck said.
“You’ll muddle through. I have every confidence in your often-demonstrated vaudevillian skills, Beck.”
Larry again turned his eyes to April Hansen.
“In my arguably ‘expert’ analysis, there’s some good news about all this,” Larry said to her. “Want to hear it?”
Beck heard Hansen’s almost-inaudible sigh, and chalked it up as a victory for Larry.
“Except maybe for this Rachel-whatever,” Larry said, “this girl they sent over here, the Israelis themselves don’t expect us to cave on that demand. Oh, she’ll put Beck through hell; won’t give an inch. Bet on it.”
Larry paused for dramatic emphasis, earning yet another sotto voce exhalation from the assistant director.
“But that’s why they sent her as a representative. Heck, somebody low on the Mossad totem pole, a hair-in-our-butt irritant who’s arrogant enough to tell us to ‘take it or shove it’ on an impossible demand? Ms. Rachel may not realize it, but that’s somebody who was picked to be a plausible denial, destined to get tossed under the bus when the grown-ups get down to the actual nut-cutting.”
He again paused, as if reluctant to parade-rain on the suddenly more optimistic atmosphere in the room.
“Okay: now the bad news,” Larry said, finally. “When we find out what they really want—what we’ll have to deliver, no shit or Shinola—it will be a doozie.”