Wurlin opened his mouth again. He was met with a sharp, “No! I’m not finished. Your government has been warned in the past. During the presidencies of Carter, Reagan, both Bushes. Consider this the last warning, Ira. No more. This time there will be consequences!”
D’Angelo moved even closer. “Prior to his heart attack, President Lamden authorized the freezing of all pending legislation relative to Israel.”
“He can’t!” Wurlin exclaimed.
“He did. That was a preemptive move to forestall Congress from cutting off aid altogether. Imagine your world without the United States. And believe me, where Lamden might have controlled the House and Senate, Taylor will have a harder time.
“You went too far, Ira. Too deep. Too close.”
D’Angelo more than made his point. He reached for his wine, took a long, slow sip, and prepared for Wurlin’s denials.
“Vincent,” the Mossad agent began with measured calmness, “you may not accept this, but as a friend I have only the truth for you.” He produced an envelope from his sports coat. “I have a letter signed by Prime Minister Kaplov that swears this Meyerson woman was not a Mossad recruit.”
D’Angelo took the envelope, but did not open it.
“Yes, we received unsolicited e-mails from her. They were sent in a dangerous, open way. Plainly stupid. We never responded. We never proposed a meeting. We never requested information. I suspect you know from traceable and recordable communications that the contact with us provided worthless intelligence. From our point of view, we could have secured the same thing by reading the Drudge Report.”
He now stared at his opposite number from the CIA. “And if you haven’t been informed of that fact, I recommend you ask.”
D’Angelo looked away. He didn’t know, and he would check.
“She is not ours Vincent. And if you want my personal opinion, which you probably don’t, I think we were both set up. This entire affair was orchestrated for public consumption. For your 6 P.M. news shows and your talk-radio pundits. Just look at the commotion in your press. People everywhere are calling for Lamden’s resignation. We’ve heard these broadcasts, too. Hate is spreading in your country. Of course, we’re the target.” Wurlin raised his voice. “The target, Vincent, not the reason!”
D’Angelo remained silent. This was not going the way he assumed. Suddenly he had more questions than answers.
“Come now, Vincent. Uncoded e-mail over the Internet? We’ve done our homework on Meyerson since her death. Phi Beta Kappa. Wellesley. Four-star recommendations. Congressional material. Why would such a smart woman do something so stupid?”
“Late-blooming religious fanaticism?” the CIA agent responded. “Lack of sophisticated knowledge for the rules of the game. We found her with flash paper and a container near a dead-drop. And, as you acknowledged, it’s all on her computer. I can also tell you about the things you didn’t get to see: Internet downloads on Israel defense spending, wire service stories on Palestinian terrorist activities in the past six months, editorials on the reduction of American grassroots support for Israel. Naive, yes. But she was passionate about Israel’s survival, and she worked in a place where she had access to secret, politically damaging intelligence. So, to answer your question: stupid? Perhaps. But Lynn Meyerson was driven by blind allegiance, Ira. That’s what makes a smart person do stupid things.”
D’Angelo finished his rebuttal. Wurlin did not respond immediately. Instead, he poured another glass for himself.
“Perhaps it is time to win back your faith, Vincent.”
D’Angelo cocked his head with interest. This was another unexpected comment.
“What do you have in mind, Ira?” He poured the wine that he had refused to take from Wurlin.
“Well, I believe it’s something your government will be interested in. Considerably valuable information.”
D’Angelo tipped his glass forward, not so much as a toast, but a rapprochement.
“I see I have your interest.” He spoke softer. “Well then, we have information on a man your government seeks. A one-time Romanian national, though he holds no allegiance to that country. Most recently he resided in Florida, at a place called Fisher Island.”
D’Angelo straightened up and fought off a shiver.
“A man,” Wurlin continued, “who went by the name of Haddad. By our accounts he was rather influential in your last national election.”
“What?” D’Angelo asked. “Where’s this information from?”
Ira Wurlin laughed. “Maybe you don’t give us too much credit after all.” He laughed at his own callback. “It’s from authentic Mossad agents inside your country, Vincent. Not make-believe.”
Chapter 29
Katie flew across the Charles with the afternoon breeze. She was in her westbound lap, skipping across the water some 200 feet from Memorial Drive on the Cambridge side. She made a wide sweep in front of the Mass. Ave. Bridge, adjusting her sails into the wind. Now to dart up the Boston side. She glided along the Lagoon, carved out in a 1930s renovation of the riverbank. Rows of three-and-four-story brownstone condominiums stood along Beacon Street to her right. She quickly made her way back to the Hatch Shellon the esplanade where the Boston Pops often played.
That’s where Roarke spotted her.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Katie!” He decided he wanted to say goodbye in person, not through a note.
“Katie!” he screamed again. She didn’t see him, and she certainly couldn’t hear him. Although Katie was no more than 120 feet away, the onshore wind obscured his calls.
Roarke ran along the grass toward the Community Boathouse where Katie had launched. Maybe she’s on her way in now. But Katie sailed beyond the dock, toward the Longfellow Bridge.
Roarke walked to the edge of the dock. Two young boys, no more than twelve, were just coming in. They handled their sloop like pros. Roarke stepped to the side, away from their sail. In that one moment, he lost her.
Come on, where’d you go? He scanned the river for the woman in the red top. He didn’t spot her, but he did see what appeared to be a log. It suddenly popped up above the surface. He panned his field of view to the right. There she is. He relaxed. Then he calculated Katie was on a trajectory that would intercept the piece of wood. He wondered how safe that was for boaters. He was about to ask the boys, when a light flare caught his eye. It came from the same place, just ahead of Katie. He strained to look, squinting to sharpen his view.
It’s not a log. It’s a diver. As quickly as he realized that, the diver was gone. It was no less dangerous than a log, but the swimmer must have seen her coming.
Roarke continued to track Katie’s boat. Once more, he had to step away from the boys who, by now, were tying up at the dock. The diver’s head emerged from underwater again. It seemed as if he swam underwater to get even closer to her. Why? He had to see Katie. Impossible not to. He should have changed direction. But…
All of Roarke’s senses fired at once. A dangerous situation was developing. Possibly for the diver. Definitely for Katie. He screamed out as loudly as possible. “Hey! Move!”
The boys froze in place.
“Katie!”
The man who ran the MDC boathouse peered out from his window.
“Watch out!” Roarke yelled.
Katie continued on her course. She still couldn’t hear him.
Roarke reached for his Sig Sauer. A warning shot? A bullet in the air…too dangerous. He shifted his attention. “Boys! Get me out there!” He pointed where Katie’s boat would intersect with the diver.
“What?” they asked together. They were genuinely scared.