“I see.” The CIA’s “sister” was the FBI.
“Once you’ve had a chance to digest the material, call me.”
Coates laughed. “After-the-sale customer service, Pyotor? That’s not like you.”
“I am in an expansive mood. Good-bye, George.”
Coates hung up and redialed. “Marie, George Coates here. I’m expecting a package from the Russian embassy. Bring it up as soon as it’s clear, will you?”
Ibrahim Fayyad stood in the customs line reading a copy of La Republica. The line inched forward, and he picked up his bag, stepped ahead, then set it down again. Behind him, a woman did the same.
“Don’t you just hate lines?” she asked him.
Fayyad turned. “Mi scusi?”
“These lines,” she repeated. “Don’t you just hate them?”
“Oh. Si.”
“You’re Italian, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
She was a midthirties platinum blond with vacuous eyes and too much eyeliner. Her figure was gorgeous, however, and Fayyad let his eyes settle on her generous cleavage. Her smile broadened.
“You know, I just love Italian men,” she cooed.
And very often, I suspect, Fayyad thought. “Grazie.”
For a moment he considered the invitation. The physical release would be welcome, and this woman was just what he needed — a receptacle. She made no pretenses otherwise.
She said, “Say, would you like to have a drink or—”
“I’m sorry, I am late for an appointment. Thank you, though.”
“Another time, maybe?”
“Possibly, yes.”
She jotted her number on the back of his newspaper. Her name was Candi. The “i” was dotted with a heart. “Call me.”
He gave her a smile and slipped it into his pocket. “Candi. Bello.”
“Bello? What’s that?”
“It means beautiful.”
Fayyad was next in line. The customs agent nodded and took his passport as his bag was searched. “Your name, sir?”
“Vesuchi. Paolo Vesuchi.”
“Do you have anything to declare?”
“No.”
“And the purpose of your visit, sir?”
“Business.”
The agent stamped his passport and handed it back. “Have a nice stay.”
Charlie Latham’s Hebrew was just good enough to tell the switchboard operator at Shin Bet headquarters who he was looking for. A moment later, Avi Haron’s booming voice came on the line. “Charlie Latham!”
“Hello, Avi.”
“They told Avi it was an American calling, and of course I knew it was you.” One of Haron’s most endearing quirks was speaking of himself in the third person. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“You’ve heard about the Delta bombing?”
“Ah, yes. Bad business, that. I wondered if you were involved. Where does it stand?”
“That depends on you. You remember your trouble with the PFLP a few years ago… the honey trap business?”
“Do I remember? Of course. You don’t think—”
“The woman in question met a man on vacation, had a romance, etcetera…. The whole thing fits the profile. So does his description and the name he used.”
“I see. Give me the details,” Haron said, and Latham did so. “So who is your guess, Charlie?”
“Ibrahim Fayyad.”
“Ah! This is bad, Charlie. These are not nice people. But Fayyad is freelance now. Unless you have more for me, there is no way of knowing who hired him.”
“I know, Avi. I’m looking for a direction before this thing stalls on me.”
“Perhaps I can help. But we are out of channels, are we not? Aren’t your liaison people going to get testy? You know me, I am a stickler for protocol.”
Latham laughed. “Since when? If you want, I can send it up the line, but this is information I need now, not a year from now.”
“Am I hearing that the wheels at the FBI turn slowly? Charlie, I will help you. One friend to another. Give me a day. If we are lucky, and Fayyad sticks to his routine, he may return to one of his favorite haunts for some rest and relaxation.”
“Thanks, Avi. You have my home number. Call me day or night”
“I will be in touch, my friend. And Charlie?”
“Yes?”
“How many died?”
“Five.”
“And the woman?”
“She made it”
“Good. A bit of justice in that, perhaps.”
“Not enough, Avi,” said Latham. “Not nearly enough.”
“All right, let’s wrap it up.” said Frank Rhodes, the CIA’s counterintelligence director. “We need a recommendation for the boss.”
At the direction of George Coates, Rhodes had drawn together this working group to determine if SYMMETRY’S op sec — or lack thereof — had contributed to the loss of Marcus.
As far as Art Stucky was concerned, the reason was clear: The man had gotten careless. Stucky knew Rhodes was anxious to submit his report before the Intelligence Directorate had a chance to point the ugly stick at ops. Being blamed for this mess was bad enough without getting it from that Albrect bitch. How she had landed the DDI slot in the first place was a mystery to Stucky. Women had no business in the spy business.
“Let’s go around the table,” said Rhodes. “Julie?”
“All the other SYMMETRY contacts are untouched. Same with the safe-call locations. Either Marcus is dead, or he hasn’t given them anything.”
“Yet,” said Stucky. “Once they put his nuts in the vice, he’ll start singing.”
Julie ignored him and continued. “I think we can rule out communication procedures as a weak link.”
“Ditto for personnel compromise,” said another analyst. “Nobody but the alternate who reported the snatch knew Marcus personally. The rest were handled via drops only.”
“Any word on ransom demands or credit?” asked Rhodes.
“Nothing,” said Julie. “We tapped all our sources, official and unofficial. Whoever took him isn’t bragging about it. If they killed him, they did a good job disposing of the body.”
“So the bottom line is, Marcus was taken by persons unknown, for reasons unknown.”
“I’ll tell you why the raghead got caught,” Stucky said. “He fucked up, that’s why. SYMMETRY was wired tight. Marcus screwed up and got himself killed, period.”
The other analysts at the table stared at Stucky with a mixture of distaste and amazement. “Jesus, Art,” said Julie.
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
“Well, you don’t speak for me.”
“Well, no shit—”
“Okay, people, enough,” Rhodes said. “Art may be right. This could be a case of operator error. Unfortunately, we may never know. Okay, I’m meeting with DDO this afternoon. Our report will indicate no compromise on our side of the house, with the recommendation that SYMMETRY be shut down to preserve the network until it can be reactivated. Any disagreement?” No one spoke. “Okay, that’s all. Thanks.”
Everyone filed out of the conference room except for Rhodes and Stucky, who reclined in his chair and lit a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking sign above his head. “Christ, that Julie is one bleeding-heart bitch, ain’t she?”
“Maybe,” Rhodes said, “but you might want to ease up a little bit—”
“My guess is she just needs some.”
“Some what?”
Stucky laughed. “Good one. Okay, let’s get this thing filed so I can get back to Tel Aviv.”
“I would have thought you’d want to stay here,” said Rhodes.
“What the hell for?”
“Exposure. It’d do your career some good.”