The Iranian paid no attention to Tom’s interruption. “Last month, a French citizen named Malik Suleiman, whose papers identified him as the London correspondent for a Paris-based Arab literary magazine, suicide-bombed a Tel Aviv nightclub. When the Israelis checked, they discovered that the magazine Suleiman worked for existed only on paper. There was a phone number, and a letter-drop address. But no offices-and more to the point, no magazines. Suleiman was traveling with a British woman named Dianne Lamb. Lamb was in the nightclub’s lavatory when Suleiman blew himself up. Shin Bet learned they were involved romantically and believed he’d had second thoughts about killing her. Since both of them had just visited the West Bank-Ramallah, to be exact-the Israelis assumed Suleiman received the explosives there, because once again the residue printed as Semtex. Shin Bet was wrong. Suleiman, too, was using Ben Said’s materials. In fact, the woman had unknowingly carried them all the way from Heathrow concealed in a portable radio-something the Israelis finally realized only after they’d fully interrogated Lamb.” Shahram’s eyes flashed behind his glasses. “These were disposables, Thomas. Azouz, Suleiman, Lamb-all of them.”
Instinctively, Tom understood. Ben Said had been probing his adversaries’ weaknesses. The KGB had done the same thing during the Cold War. They’d send a disposable and see how far he got. Then they’d make adjustments and send another. Then a third and fourth, if necessary. The Sovs were never worried about losing people. Christ, they’d lost tens of millions during wars and purges. What were the lives of a few dozen agents? And now, it seemed, al-Qa’ida had adopted the tactic, too. Just like the Soviets, al-Qa’ida didn’t worry about losing agents.
Now Tom saw the Gaza bombing in a new light: it wasn’t an operation in and of itself. It was a penetration exercise: Ben Said had been testing the limits. Seeing how far he could go before being discovered. Watching what the Israelis did-how they reacted. If bells and whistles had gone off, he’d have known they’d discovered his new plastique formula.
But there had been neither bell nor whistle. In fact, Tom had called 4627’s Tel Aviv office the minute he’d heard the radio bulletin about the Gaza bombing. Reuven Ayalon, the retired Mossad combatant who ran the one-man 4627 base out of his house in Herzlyia, had trolled his sources. Thirteen hours later, he’d telephoned Tom to report that despite Palestinian attempts to pollute the Gaza crime scene, Shin Bet had managed to obtain a trace amount of residue from the explosive that had blown up the embassy Suburban. The sample had printed as Semtex.
But there had to be more. If the two incidents had indeed been penetration exercises, what was Ben Said trying to penetrate? Israeli security? Possibly. But al-Qa’ida might just as easily have larger targets in mind. Western Europe. The United States.
“You know why?” Shahram asked.
“Why what?”
“Why Ben Said was in Israel.”
“Of course I do. He was testing to see how far he could go before his weapons were discovered.”
“You are wrong.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are thinking too logically, Thomas.” Shahram slipped into French. “Ben Said was using Israel as a testing ground to perfect weapons that would be used this winter against the West. Against America. Against Britain. Against France.”
“Impossible.” Tom was incredulous.
“Not impossible. Just as Hitler once tested his war-making capabilities in Spain, so was”-Shahristani looked around then continued in a whisper-“Ben Said using Israel as a laboratory for clandestine weapons of mass destruction that will be targeted at the West.”
“Why in heaven’s name would he do that?”
“Because hecould, Tom. Because what makes headlines in Paris or London gets hardly a mention if it carries a Tel Aviv dateline.”
“That’s awfully far-fetched, Shahram.”
“Perhaps.” The Iranian went back to Arabic. “But there you have it.” He sipped water. “More to the point, you have Imad Mugniyah and Tariq Ben Said in the same photograph. That is something, Tom. That is something.”
Well, Shahram was right about that.If, that is. If the information was good-if it was twenty-four-karat stuff. Even the prospect set Tom’s pulse throbbing. Quickly, he took a gulp of wine to mask his excitement. “Shahram, how long have you had this information confirmed?”
“Six days.”
Jeezus, that was an eternity. “Why didn’t you call me immediately?”
“Because,” Shahristani said, “I wanted to verify things to my own satisfaction before I wasted anyone’s time.”
“And did you?”
The Iranian’s face was oblique. “I am satisfied with what I know.”
Tom had one final base to cover. “Did you contact our embassy?”
The Iranian nodded.
“When?”
“A short while after I’d confirmed my information.”
He was being evasive. He was trying to deflect. Tom wondered why. “I need specifics, Shahram.”
Shahristani paused. He scanned the mirror behind Tom. “I phoned.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Reaction?”
Shahristani fell silent as a salad was placed in front of him. He glanced at Tom to make sure the American had concealed the photographs, which he already had.
When the waiter withdrew, Tom repeated the question. In response, Shahristani merely shrugged. Tom pressed him. “You gave no specifics?”
“You know how careful I am on the telephone, Thomas.”
Shahram was both prudent and circumspect on the telephone. Tom tapped his shirt pocket where he’d slipped the photos. “Who has seen these photos, Shahram?”
“Not so many people.” Shahristani read the expression on Tom’s face. “You and I, Tom, and the people who first passed the information on to me.”
“And whomever you talked to at the embassy.”
Shahristani shrugged. “I never got past your former employer’s gate-keeper.”
“Who was?”
The Iranian shrugged the question off. “Still, I can see why Langley would be…reticent. Langley completely bungled all the preinvasion intelligence on Iraq. Ever since, it has badly misjudged the situation on the ground there. Then there’s the global war on terror. CIA’s operational resources are stretched thinner than a crêpe. Don’t you think Tehran and al-Qa’ida understand that if there’s a major terror campaign this winter, there’s a good chance Langley will implode under the operational stress?”
Tom Stafford’s expression never changed. But Shahram was practicing tradecraft again. Shifting the subject. He was evading, deflecting, sidestepping. It was a common technique when agents didn’t want to fabricate outright, but were reluctant to continue about a specific matter. Shahram was a canny individual. He’d shifted subjects by telling the truth: CIA had long suffered operational stress fractures. In its present state, Langley was incapable of fighting the multifronted war it was being asked-no,ordered -to fight.
The Iranian leaned forward. “The doves have taken over CIA’s analytic side. They’re all globalists these days-Europhiles. The last thing anyone at CIA wants to know is that Tehran-which Langley’s National Intelligence Estimates have long maintained wants a dialogue with the West-is about to ally itself with an assassin working for al-Qa’ida.”
Shahristani took his fork, stabbed at the salad, and waved the forkful of greens in Tom’s direction. “But that’s what’s happened. Gaza was a joint Seppah-al-Qa’ida job. Imad Mugniyah and Tariq Ben Said are working together, and CIA covers its eyes and plugs its ears. Full stop, Thomas. End of story.”
Tom wasn’t about to let Shahram off the hook. “The embassy, Shahram. What happened when you called the embassy?”
“Imad Mugniyah and Tariq Ben Said in the same photograph, Tom.” The Iranian filled his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then laid the fork tines-down on the rim of his plate. “I see your face. You know I’m right.”