“Good. Now, let’s go get another drink.”
Fayyad’s team consisted of hour other Arabs, only one of which he knew. Ibn, a former As-Sa’iqa freedom fighter, and he had fought together in the PFLP-GC during the ’82 invasion of Lebanon. Ibn and the other three had rented a house in rural Greenbelt, while Fayyad had chosen a condo in the Glen Echo area.
Ibn assured him the others were reliable. They were sleepers, he said, three of hundreds of men and women stationed throughout the world — usually as full-fledged citizens — to lend help on such missions. As citizens, it was easier for them to find housing and vehicles. Two of the men even had wives and children.
From the beginning, Fayyad suspected the operation was being backed by the Syrians, but that was a question best left unasked. If these men were in fact sleepers, they were the first Fayyad had heard of in America. Al-Baz’s group had committed substantial resources to the mission. Why? Fayyad wondered. What could be so crucial?
The operation was proceeding well. While he and Hasim were in the Smith home, Ibn and his team followed them to CIA Headquarters in Langley. It was a social function, Ibn reported, with hundreds of guests. After three hours, the senator and his wife left separately, she home in a taxi, and he in the limousine to an apartment in Georgetown, where they found he was keeping a mistress, an early-twenties blond named Suzie Donovan.
Fayyad was unsurprised at the senator’s indiscretion. Simply keeping a mistress wasn’t enough for Smith’s ego; he had to flaunt it; he had to show he could do it with impunity. How humiliating that must be to Judith. But then again, Fayyad thought, that, too, could be useful.
Fayyad returned to Judith’s diary. He was beginning to understand her. She fit the profile perfectly. His approach would be textbook. Like all women, she was emotionally complex, but her basic needs would be simple, whetted by twenty-five years of the senator’s neglect and abuse.
For me, Fayyad thought, she will open like a flower.
14
Despite a throbbing headache, Charlie Latham was in his office by seven. It was only after three glasses of wine at the CIA reception the night before that he remembered he had no tolerance for the stuff. Bonnie had smiled indulgently, called him a dummy, then got him some aspirin.
Yuri Vorsalov. My God. Even if the photo was recent and even if Vorsalov was still in Khartoum, it didn’t matter. Sudan and the U.S. weren’t exactly on good terms, so capture was out of the question, as was extradition.
His phone rang, setting off waves of pain in his temples. “Charlie Latham.”
“Charlie, Avi Haron here. You don’t sound so well.”
“I’m fine, Avi. How about yourself?”
“Avi is wonderful. Listen, our friend Fayyad is traveling. If he returns to one of his hideaways… Who knows?”
“Don’t take too long. I’ve got a U.S. congressman breathing down my neck.”
Congressman Hostetler was a prominent figure on the AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) as well as a powerhouse on the Appropriations Committee, which influenced how and where U.S. dollars were spent, including foreign-assistance subsidies. Hosteder was strongly opposed to further support for Israel since Rabin’s assassination, stating that the current leadership wasn’t dedicated to the peace process.
Haron was silent for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
“Hostetler’s daughter was on that plane, Avi.”
“Oh my.”
“What I’m saying is, Hostetler’s got his teeth into this case. Eventually, he’ll hear about our conversation. He’s already growling, Avi. Just think what he’ll do if he thinks you’re withholding.”
“I see. Will you be in your office?”
“I can be.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
The call came fifty minutes later.
“We have a photo, Charlie. It appears your man was in Northern Africa last week with two others. We don’t know why nor do we have their identities.”
“Where exactly?”
“Khartoum.”
“Describe the photo.” Haron did so, and Latham asked, “One Arab, one European?”
“Yes, that’s right. What—”
“Where is Fayyad now?”
“We are not sure. He left the same day but by a different route, via Cyprus. If he follows routine, he may return to this area, but it will be to one of our tougher neighborhoods.”
Lebanon, Latham thought. “Can you confirm that?”
“Perhaps. I’ve passed this information along, of course, and I expect it will draw some interest,” said Haron.
Latham knew the Israeli’s method of obtaining confirmation would probably come from a cross-border raid by one the IDF special forces groups. Such a mission could only be authorized by the chief of staff.
“If I hear anything more, I will call,” said Haron.
“Thanks, Avi.” Latham hung up and redialed. “George? Charlie Latham. That Vorsalov photo you’ve got… describe it to me.”
The DDO did so.
Latham asked, “One is Vorsalov, the other two unidentified Arabs?”
“That’s right. What’s going on, Charlie?”
“We’d better meet I think we’re working on the same puzzle.”
An hour later, Latham was in Mason’s office pitching his Vorsalov/Fayyad theory to George Coates, Sylvia Albrecht, and the director of the FBI. Obviously the two photos sold to the FIS and Shin Bet came from the same source, he said. Whoever the stringer was, he was either gutsy or stupid. Double-dealing two of the world’s most ruthless intelligence agencies was not the road to a long, happy life.
Fayyad was the prime suspect in the Delta bombing, and Vorsalov was a known freelancer. That they were meeting in Khartoum just days after the bombing was compelling; either they were connected by the bombing or by an impending operation. Latham suspected the latter, since freelance terrorists rarely bothered with postmortem briefs on their operations. Plus, it was unlikely Vorsalov would be consulted on a simple bombing; it wasn’t the Russian’s forte. The identity of the third man in the photo was still unknown, but Latham hoped by pooling the CIA’s and FBI’s resources they could not only identify him but uncover the reason behind the Khartoum meeting.
“Find one and we find the other,” Latham said. “Find them both and we find out what they’ve got cooking.”
By the end of the meeting, Mason ordered an interagency working group be set up. It would consist of Latham, his partner Paul Randal, and selected members of Art Stucky’s Near East Division.
Fayyad’s and Vorsalov’s lives were to be dissected, examined, then plugged into a time line that would trace their movements over the past three years. There would be gaps, of course, but their careers had never been examined side by side. It was a logical place to start.
Judith Smith left her psychologist’s office and walked two blocks to Bistro Francais. It was sunny and warm, and squirrels darted from tree to tree along the sidewalk. A popular nightspot overlooking the C & O Canal, Bistro Francais was usually uncrowded during the day. Coming here was a ritual for Judith, quiet time to mull over what she and Marsha had talked about.
There was only one other patron on the terrace, a broad-shouldered man in his midthirties. He was engrossed in the lunch menu, so she couldn’t see much of his face, but he looked Italian — and handsome. He wore twill olive trousers, a collarless cream shirt, and a light blazer. As she took her seat, he looked up and smiled. Judith glanced away. He was handsome.