May 3
Midtown Restaurant & Grill
Seventh Avenue at 53rd Street
New York City
8:17 A.M. EDT
It was an acceptable breakfast, in one of the faceless Midtown restaurants—this one, a block away from the new CIA headquarters and likely owned, if the generic menu was any indication, by the same nameless Greek-American entrepreneur whose food fests dotted the city’s business districts—in pleasant surroundings that reeked both of morning-bacon smells and a distressingly over-cheerful wait staff.
Waffles; a double side of sausage patties; orange juice; an unnecessary accompaniment of dry toast, superfluous and untouched by Beck. And coffee, lots of the complimentary refills, black and strong and rejuvenating.
As well as guilt-inducing: Midway through his meal, remembering how long it had been since he had last eaten, Beck Casey remembered something else too.
Did it again. I’m a rotten father.
He consoled himself with the admitted fact that he was long out of practice.
Besides, it may have been precisely what the two of them needed: some time together, a quiet dinner without a third party third-wheel, to iron out whatever problems they’re going through … they’re still kids, Katie and Connor both, but if they’re meant to be together…
A young woman slid into his booth across from Beck.
“May I?” she said, and without further preamble reached across for the tumbler of allegedly fresh-squeezed citrus. She drank deeply before replacing the glass on the table with a slight grimace.
“Sometimes they grind a little into the rind. Gives it a bit of a sour taste, Ms. Admoni.”
“I have shared your orange juice. We should now move to a first-name basis, do you agree?”
“That’s the custom in my country too … Rachel.”
“You are a difficult man to contact, Beck,” Rachel Admoni said. “I understand that you do not believe in cellphones.”
“I believe in them,” Beck said. “I’ve actually seen one or two. I hear that they’re quite handy. Not just for phone calls. From what I’m told, you can go onto Facebook on them. Even send your friends something called ‘twerks.’”
“I believe you mean ‘tweets.’”
“Miley Cyrus might disagree. But yes, those too.”
Rachel smiled, and Beck noted a previously undetected impishness in it.
“Perhaps you should try it yourself,” she said. “Both activities, of course. I am sure your skills at modern dance are quite impressive. But that would mean you must overcome your irrational fear of modern technology, does it not?”
“I have a friend in the trade—our trade—who said it best,” Beck said. “He says that not long ago, the fondest dream of the counter-intelligence types was to figure out how to implant a location-finder in every living person. Now, he says, people do it to themselves. And gladly pay extra for a high-speed data plan.”
“Do you intend to eat that?” Rachel pointed, and Beck slid the small plate of toast toward her.
“Can you guess at why I wished to contact you?” Rachel asked, around the miniscule bite of somewhat scorched bread.
“The heart wants what the heart wants, I suppose. But I should tell you: I’m sorry, but you are too old for me.”
“I have looked in our files. You have a daughter who is older than I.”
“I probably have shoes that are too. Still, a man must hold to his principles.”
“Do your principles allow you to, as you say, ‘talk shop’? With such an elderly person as I?”
“I’ll make an exception in your case. Fire away.”
“You no longer lead your country’s negotiations with us, but you should know that—”
“That instead of demanding rendition of American citizens, you have us fingering submarines for Israel instead? I think I already heard that news, Rachel. Maybe via that cellphone I don’t have.”
“There has been a new development. I have been in communications with my superior in Tel Aviv, and it now appears highly likely that the submarine in question—”
“May be from the Russian Navy?” Beck interrupted. “Yes, that is awkward.”
“You have been briefed on this.” It was not a question.
“Not officially. People just seem to insist on confiding things to me that aren’t really my business to know. Maybe it’s something in my face; I must look like a good listener. It’s a curse, Rachel. A heavy burden to bear.”
“Even from those who wish to be friends?”
“I sometimes find even friends can be a bit too talkative. Particularly when they’re talkative about something I can do nothing about.”
Rachel studied his face, but said nothing.
“In case you’re wondering why I’m being so playful with you about all this,” Beck said, “it’s because a) it’s no longer my concern, and b) whatever your people think is going to happen, the United States is not going to help you start World War III. Not even if you ask nicely.”
“And you decide the policy of your country?” Rachel snapped back, flaring.
“That’s the Rachel Admoni I remember from our first meeting,” Beck said. “With all the newfound sweetness, all that eye-batting, I was wondering where she had gone. But no, I don’t make those decisions. I wasn’t born yesterday either. C’mon, Rachel—cooperating against Iran is one thing, sinking a Russian sub something different entirely. Neither of us is dumb enough to believe any so-called ‘commitment’ like that will stand. Neither does Pardo, does he?”
“Perhaps not. He has elected to take a direct part in further discussions.”
“I sympathize. But you were out of your depth from the get-go on all this. Maybe we both were.”
Again there was silence, which Beck read as a grudging confirmation. It stretched to the point of discomfort before Rachel again spoke.
“I too have been reassigned to different duties.”
“Is that so?”
“My people have been asked to assist Shin Bet in a rather delicate matter, here in your country. As is the case with you and your professional colleagues at the FBI, our relationship is not always the most cordial. Or the most trusting.”
Unconsciously, Beck fingered his jaw; only days before, his prospective son-in-law had underscored Rachel’s point via a FBI-trained right cross.
“So Director Pardo has assigned to me the task of … let us say, observing from a discreet distance. We do not wish a Shin Bet operation to detonate in our faces, you understand.”
“What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me this.”
“The Shin Bet operative is an experienced woman,” Rachel said, as if Beck had not spoken. “But in this case there is a question of her personal history involved. Director Pardo wishes to exercise caution.”
“Same question, Rachel.”
“She is at present using a work-name. For this matter, she is calling herself Tavah Duhahi.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Perhaps that is so. Perhaps I too wish only to confide in such a good listener as you, to bemoan my problems to your friendly face.”
“As long as you realize that I don’t really give a damn.”
“Truly? Even when it involves those talkative friends you mention?”
“Are we friends now, Rachel?”
“Perhaps I speak of some other friend,” she said. “I said that I have seen our files on you. Perhaps you recall a certain news story, a number of years ago, one that created quite a controversy in our Knesset? There was a minor scandal, several resignations of legislators—and, as a no-doubt-unintended consequence, certain American interests were advanced.”
“There are so many scandals among politicians, I can never keep track. It’s a sad world we live in, Rachel.”
“The news story was ‘broken’—is that not the term?—by an American journalist. But we have always felt that he perhaps had assistance from … other sources. Your name was mentioned.”
“I’m honored,” Beck drawled, his voice betraying interest neither in the honor nor in the topic itself. “But there are always so many unfounded suspicions floating around too, aren’t there? I don’t know many Israeli politicians, let alone what misdeeds they may have done years ago.”
“In her present activities here, Tavah Duhahi is working closely with someone perhaps more familiar to you. Someone to whom that Knisset scandal was leaked, all those years ago. Someone of whose safety you might feel an obligation—a personal obligation, perhaps. Someone whom, we are told, was responsible for saving the life of your daughter just days ago. You are acquainted, are you not, with a television journalist—a man named ‘Dennis Littrell’?”
“Oh, shit,” Beck answered, and his tone was no longer bored.