Elliott swept the question aside with a perfunctory wave of his hand. "I think all they learned from that was to be a little more careful in the future."
"They certainly know Quinn," the DCI said. "I find it hard to believe they would deliberately shoot at a CIA officer, even in that part of the world."
Elliott brushed a large hand across his cheek. "You never know who the kidon will target, but you’re right, it may not have been a Mossad termination. This guy Nassar was obviously Palestinian. He could have been a target of some group like Abu Nidal's. If he was connected with a renegade PLO faction, just making contact with us would have put him on the hit list."
Marshall frowned darkly when his CI chief used the euphemism "termination." Although assassination was strictly forbidden in the CIA by executive order, he was still fearful some of the old hands had come up with ingenious alternative methods to accomplish the same ends. He turned his attention to Quinn. "What do you think, Cameron?"
"I agree with you. I can't see the Mossad coming after me. That's not an easy place for them to operate anyway. This just doesn't strike me as an Israeli type of operation. If only I could have talked to Nassar a little longer. I haven't figured out yet what he was trying to tell me at the end.”
"The Mossad is planning to double cross us,” Elliott said before Quinn hardly got the last word out. “That's what it says to me. I don't know why you can't see it. I'll admit I'm not all that damned worried about it, though."
Marshall kept his eyes on Quinn. "Have you turned up anything from either end of those phone calls?"
"Nothing useful. On the one from Singapore to Kansas City, it originated at a pay phone in a hotel on Orchard Road. The call went to the headquarters of Rush Communications, a company that deals in cellular phones, long distance reselling, television microwave systems and such. It went to the private line of a vice president. He was in Hawaii on business. The secretary doesn't remember anyone using his office that day. On the Berlin call, we received a similar denial of any knowledge. I haven't completed checking out the Hong Kong end. I'm hopeful of picking up a lead there. But with this Israeli angle cropping up, I could surely use some help."
General Palmer cocked his head. "You need a surveillance team or—"
"I don't think he means foot soldiers, General," said Elliott. "He's talking about another field man who can split the work."
The General frowned. "It would have to be one of yours, then. We're pretty strapped for bodies right now. Some of the stations are short-handed. To make it worse, Senator Barley says they're talking about slashing our budget by thirty percent or more."
"I'm stretched to the limit with this summit business," Elliott said. "Can we take anybody off that?"
The DCI shook his head. "That's priority A-One. The White House wants to know where every known terrorist hangs his hat, when he brushes his teeth, and what his plans are for the middle of June."
"The station chiefs are raising holy hell when I try to pull in any of their people," said Elliott, throwing his hands up in despair.
Marshall leaned forward, elbows on his desk, chin resting on folded hands. "With what we know right now, this thing is still rather nebulous. I'd like some answers, but not at the cost of any priority projects. Maybe we could let Cameron find some outside help."
Quinn looked around at the three faces, each focused on his own. True, the Agency had real problems, moneywise and personnelwise. But things were not so bad they couldn't pull in another field man where there was a real need. No, he didn't buy that argument. He smelled a smoke screen. In truth, this was a test. They wanted to know if the post-dryout Cameron Quinn could perform up to his old standards. If he could run a successful operation relying upon his own skills and instincts. He was being dangled on a fragile thread, all alone. It was sink or swim, with only an outsider of his choosing to assist.
That was when he thought of his old FBI buddy, Burke Hill.
Quinn put the meeting out of his mind and watched Burke's expression as he appeared to ponder a reply to that last statement.
"I was the man you were looking for for what?" Burke asked.
"To help with an investigation I'm working on."
"Hell, Cam, the CIA's bound to have better photographers than me. Not to mention the latest in high tech equipment."
"I'm not looking for a photographer. What I need is a sharp street agent."
Burke frowned. "I haven't been a street agent for twenty years."
"I know that," Quinn said, leaning forward in his chair. "But I also know you're the kind of guy who doesn't forget his lessons. Things haven't changed that much. Put you back in the field, I'd wager in no time you'd be just as much at home as an Irishman attending his first wake in twenty years."
"I don't know about that. I completely washed out on my last assignment for the Bureau. That’s haunted me for years. The fact is I don't have any desire to get back in the field. I spent a long time in limbo after that Bureau fiasco. Since I've been here, I've gotten my head screwed back on straight. I love these mountains, Cam. I get a real bang out of roaming around, photographing the animals, the scenery. I'm just not ready to leave."
Quinn squirmed in his chair, as if searching for just the right words. "I'm not talking a long term commitment, just help with a particular assignment. Actually, I'm facing a deadline that's only about three weeks off. This operation means a hell of a lot to me, Burke. I don't want to sound like I'm calling in a marker, but—"
"But you are. Is that what you're saying?"
Quinn shrugged. "Maybe I am."
Burke stood up and turned away, letting his gaze wander over the map of his beloved Smokies.
"I honestly don't know what we're up against at the moment," Quinn said. "It may be an effort to penetrate us with some new gimmick — the Agency is a little paranoid after the Year of the Spy. Or it may be a smokescreen, something to throw us off balance. Or maybe it's something entirely different. My gut feeling is that it's a lot more serious than anyone realizes."
Burke spun around, an intense look in his eyes. "You're talking about a looking glass world, Cam. Nothing's what it seems to be. Damn it. That's exactly why I don't want to get involved again. A life filled with lies, deceit, treachery. My mother was a history teacher. She used the lessons of history to teach us kids basic ethical values. She believed that honesty and integrity were the very essence of freedom. She contended that fairness and justice couldn't exist without 'em. Well, I got away from those lofty concepts, got caught up in the system. A man who set himself up as the self-appointed conscience of the nation said 'do this,' and I did it. I did things that weren't right, things I should have known weren't right. All because he said it would be for the good of the nation."
"Don't lecture me, Burke." Quinn’s voice turned cold. He gripped the arm of the chair, his round face florid. "Evidently you've been hidden away in these mountains too damned long. You've lost contact with reality. The real world doesn't revolve around purity and perfection. We live in an imperfect world, boy, ruled by imperfect men. Some of them are dedicated to working toward those ideals of yours, but they're human and they're subject to stumbling along the way. Other people are dedicated to working against what your mother taught. Guys like me spend our lives trying to keep them off your back. We screw up a lot, sure. Sometimes we slip across that thin line that separates acceptable behavior and what some who haven't been there might call uncivilized. But without us, people like your mother wouldn't have been able to teach those cherished values." He pushed himself up from the chair and brushed past Burke. "I guess I mistakenly thought you were a man who shared my commitment."