Stay here and rub elbows with management cocksuckers? Stucky thought. No thank you. Field operatives were the backbone of the CIA, not assholes who sat around deciding the cafeteria lunch menu. All their good manners and college degrees made him sick.
His encounter with Dutcher last week was proof of that. Wasn’t it enough that Dutcher — and Briggs Tanner, especially him—had trashed his Army career? Twenty years down the toilet over some little Spic girl. He’d done what was necessary, what guys like Tanner didn’t have the balls to do. And now Dutcher wouldn’t even give him the time of day when they passed one another on a goddamned elevator.
People like them eventually got what they deserved, of that Stucky was sure. And if there was any justice in this world, he’d would be there to see it. He would pay money for that. He smiled at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” asked Rhodes.
“Forget it.” Stucky stood up and crushed out his cigarette. “Listen, Frank, just make sure you get it straight in your report, okay? I ain’t gonna get bent over because some raghead got himself snatched.”
Hayem Sherabi, Director of the Israeu Mossad, studied the NAKA report before him. All Mossad case officers — known as katsas—submitted operational reports in this standardized format. No variation was allowed, and NAKA training constituted several weeks of a Mossad recruit’s training.
This particular report was correct in all respects, but its source concerned him. There were those in Mossad that believed friendship had no place in the intelligence business, but Sherabi thought this naive. This particular katsa was a friend — or more accurately, the child of a long-dead friend. How to balance loyalty, discipline, and the security of Israel was a question with which Sherabi often wrestled.
Known formally as Ha Mossad, le Modiyn ve le Tafkidim Mayuhadim (the Institute for Intelligence and Operations) and informally as The Institute, Mossad is a small agency by U.S. standards, fielding less than fifty katsas worldwide. Despite this, Mossad is considered one of the most effective agencies in the world and certainly one of the most ruthless. Surrounded by a sea of neighbors who have sworn to destroy its mother country, Mossad lives by a brutally pragmatic motto: “By way of deception, thou shalt do war.”
There was a knock on Sherabi’s door. “Come.”
His guest entered and stood at attention before his desk. He studied her. A fine katsa and a beautiful woman, Sherabi thought, but to him Camille Sereva would always be the little girl of a dear friend.
Since Amil Sereva’s death ten years ago, Sherabi had kept his promise to watch over Camille. Of Amil’s three children, Camille was the only one still living, the rest having been taken by forty years of war. Her two brothers had died while stalling the Syrian advance on the Golan in ’73 as 1,200 Syrian tanks were defeated by 175 Israeli Shermans. It had been a glorious but costly victory: 6,000 dead in less than three weeks of fighting.
Sherabi stifled the impulse to embrace Camille. “Sit.”
She did so.
“I’ve read your report. The murder of your contact was unfortunate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But your interlude with this man, this American… Who authorized it, can you tell me that?”
“No one, sir.”
“And yet you did it. Why?”
Camille hesitated.
“Answer me!”
“It… it was a…” She trailed off
A mistake? Sherabi thought. Interesting she couldn’t — or wouldn’t — say the word. He’d never seen Camille at a loss for words. Nor did she say anything she didn’t mean. She was stubborn like her mother.
“Why did you include it in your report?”
“Because it happened… it happened during an operation. The guidelines are quite clear regarding—”
“I know the regulations. I also know that regulations cannot cover every circumstance a katsa may encounter.” Sherabi closed the file. “Since you did not attempt to hide it, we’re going to treat this as a lesson learned.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Learn it well, though. Here, you do not get many second chances.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your impressions of the man were correct.” Sherabi opened another file. “Briggs Tanner is a retired Navy commander, attached to the Navy Special Warfare Group and Special Operations Command, but it appears he no longer has any links to either the government or military. Aside from an interesting background and his behavior at the murder scene, we found nothing unusual about him. You, however, attracted some interest.”
“What?” Camille asked.
“The Karotovic cover was probed. It held up, of course, but all the same, we are shutting it down for the time being. Now: new business.
“We’ve received reports of an increased Iranian Pasdaran presence in Beirut. We believe the Syrian Mucharabat and Air Force Intelligence are providing secret base camps and training.”
“In the city proper?” Camille asked, surprised. Most Iranian activity was confined to Baalbek and areas south of the Litani River.
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“We don’t know. It may be nothing, it may be something. Who can know the Arab mind? At any rate, we are considering options. One them would involve reactivating some of the Lebanon networks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The decision hasn’t been made yet. For now, I want you to take some time.”
“Why? I am—”
Sherabi raised his hand. “This is not a punitive measure, Camille. You are due some time off. Take it; relax. Consider it an order, if it helps.” Sherabi came around the desk to sit beside her. “Enough business. How is your mother?”
Camille smiled. “Fine. She asks about you.”
“I haven’t seen her in some time.”
“She said that, too. She said you should be ashamed.”
Sherabi chuckled. “The most direct woman I know.” Sherabi took her hand and patted it. “Camille, you are a fine katsa. You are young, though. This thing with the American—”
Camille raised her chin. “Are we talking as family now, Uncle Hayem?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is none of your business.”
Again Sherabi chuckled. “Stubborn like your mother and direct like your father. Do you know what we called him in the Haganah?”
“No.”
“We called him Badger. Small, tenacious, and fierce in battle. Camille, listen, as a friend… as the voice of your father… I tell you this: There are those that feel a katsa is not entitled to a personal life. Everything you do is in the service of Israel… even who you love.”
“They are wrong.”
“Perhaps so. Tread carefully, though. I will not always be here. I overlooked this liaison of yours. Others would not.”
Camille was silent.
“Never ignore your heart,” Sherabi continued, “but God help you if you are forced to choose between your heart and your duty.”
“Have you ever faced such a choice?”
“Once.”
“Did you choose correctly?”
“I think so.”
“Which did you follow… your heart or your duty?”
Sherabi smiled. “Who are you to ask me such questions? Impudent child!” Sherabi kissed her forehead and stood up. “Now run off before I become angry.”
Camille laughed and headed for the door.
“By the way, Camille…?”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Welcome home.”
Camille opened the door to her apartment and stepped over the pile of mail beneath the slot. She set her bag on the kitchen table and looked around. Nothing had changed. Had she expected otherwise? Had she expected someone to be waiting at the door to greet her?