Ninety minutes later he was circumventing the functional-looking city of Beersheba. Ahead of him was the stunning desert. He stopped the car in a small Bedouin village, directly outside a cafe that contained a couple of men smoking hookahs. Sitting at one of the outside tables, he ordered tea from a waiter and looked around. On the opposite side of the dusty street, two young girls who’d been playing were now watching him, fiddling with their long black hair. The men in the cafe were also staring at him while they smoked. Even though Will was dressed in jeans, boots, and an open-neck shirt, he knew he looked out of place.
That didn’t matter.
What did was the location of the village.
The Arab waiter brought his drink and placed it on the table, next to Will’s car keys. In Hebrew, he asked, “You lost?”
Will smiled, pretended to look embarrassed. “English.”
The waiter repeated the question in English.
Will shook his head and replied, “Tourist.” He nodded toward the desert. “Desert trekking. Thirsty work.”
A woman came out of a house and ushered the two girls inside. The waiter said, “They think you’re an Israeli cop. They’re frightened.”
As the waiter returned to the inside of the cafe, Will took a sip of the sweet tea and tried to relax. The aromatic smell of the hookah tobacco wafted across his table and prompted brief memories. He recalled walking through a vibrant and bustling Moroccan souk one evening, following one of his Syrian agents, who was unaware of his presence and was heading to a covert meeting with an Iranian intelligence officer; sitting in a cafe similar to this one, in Cairo, scouring the buildings opposite to spot the man who’d planted a bomb in the cafe and was waiting for the right moment to blow it apart and kill the men who were sitting three tables away from him; drinking tea in a Bedouin tent with a Jordanian tribal leader who believed he could help Will negotiate the release of an American aid worker who’d been captured by a gang of criminals with affiliations to an Al Qaeda cell; and eating dates and baklava with a stunning Lebanese woman who told him that she was falling for him, when in fact Will knew she wanted to put a bullet in his head.
He lifted the tea to his mouth, then froze. A sedan car was driving along the street, two men inside. The car slowed down and stopped forty yards away. The driver remained in the vehicle; the passenger got out and walked quickly along the street toward the cafe. He was dressed like Will, looked European or Israeli, and was wearing shades. The car turned in the street and drove off in the direction it had come from. By the time it had disappeared from view, the passenger was only a few yards from Will’s table. Will stayed still as the man walked right alongside his table, scooped up his car keys, kept walking, entered Will’s Jeep, and drove off. Two seconds later, an SUV entered the street, driving fast. Will placed cash on the table to pay for his tea, watched the vehicle draw closer, waited, then stood and jogged to the street. The SUV slowed to walking pace, a door opened, the vehicle came alongside Will, and he grabbed the open door and jumped inside. Immediately the vehicle accelerated fast, causing Will to lurch backward into the seat.
Three men were in the speeding vehicle. As Will slammed the door shut, one of them said in an American accent, “Get your head down.”
Will did as he was told, lying sideways so that he was not visible to anyone outside of the SUV.
The man in the front passenger seat said, “First turning on the left, thirty yards.”
“Got it.” The driver changed gears.
The man next to Will looked at him. “Ninety percent certain we weren’t followed. But we’re going to have to take a fairly complex antisurveillance route back to the embassy. The Israelis are superb at this stuff, so we can’t afford to take any risks. Just keep out of sight. Okay?”
Will nodded. He didn’t know if the Americans were paramilitary operatives, intelligence officers, or Special Forces. But he did know that they were under CIA orders to get him into the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv without him being seen by the Israeli security services.
The CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station closed the thick steel door to the embassy’s safe room, locked the handle in place, and sat opposite Will and Patrick. Middle-aged, chubby, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit and circular spectacles, and with a grin on his face, Geoffrey Pepper looked more like an accountant than a senior intelligence operative. He said in a southern accent, “All that effort just to get you into a soundproof room.”
The place rather more resembled a small cell. It contained three chairs and a small table with two secure telephone units.
Patrick had been picked up on the outskirts of the northern city of Haifa and had arrived at the embassy thirty minutes before Will. He wouldn’t have liked the journey-he’d been out of the field too long and these days was more used to being driven in limousines-though he would have far more hated the idea of being covertly photographed by the Israelis if he’d turned up at the embassy by more luxurious means.
Geoffrey fixed his attention on Will. “Who are you?”
Patrick held up a hand. “He works for me. That should be all you need to know.”
“Should be, but I’m kinda the inquisitive type.”
Patrick was about to respond, but Will interrupted. “I’m an MI6 officer.”
His grin still in place, Geoffrey said, “MI6? Oh dear. If I’d known, I’d have told my Station to burn all our files and hide the family jewelry before you got here.” He turned to Patrick. “What do you want?”
Patrick shrugged. “I’ve got no idea.”
For a brief moment Geoffrey’s smile vanished, then it returned. “You have every right to be here. .”
“Damn right.”
“Though it would be a discourtesy to waste my time.” Geoffrey looked at Will. “Presumably MI6 has an idea as to what you want.”
“No. MI6 doesn’t know I’m here, let alone why.”
“Oh, this just gets better and better, doesn’t it, gentlemen?” Geoffrey’s eyes flickered. “So, shall I conclude this is all very off the record?”
“If you like.” Will wondered how the head of station was going to react to what he was about to say. “We’re here to talk about the CIA asset Simon Rubner.”
Geoffrey was motionless, silent.
“Given that he’s a Mossad officer, I’m certain your station would be a customer for Rubner’s intelligence.”
Geoffrey said nothing.
“Rubner’s name has popped up in a major operation I’m running. It’s crucial I understand Rubner’s value to the CIA.”
The station head darted a look at Patrick. His smile had now vanished. “You got locked out of Langley, so thought you’d come knocking on my door?”
Will continued, “That was my idea, not Patrick’s. I think Rubner’s not all that he seems. But we have been. . locked out. We need your help.”
Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, rested one leg over the other, and drummed his fingers. “If Langley’s keeping its mouth shut, then so will I.”
Patrick said quickly, “Not Langley, self-interested unknown persons within Langley.”
“Have you spoken to one of the directors?”
Patrick nodded. “I spoke to the Director of Intelligence. He won’t tell me anything.”
“Then it is Langley that’s keeping its mouth shut.”
Will asked, “Do the names Gerlache and Francois Gilliams mean anything to you?”
“Should they?”
“I think Gerlache is the front company used by the CIA intelligence officer running Rubner, and Francois Gilliams is his alias.” He recalled the note that had been handed to Alina. “It’s possible Rubner is being run by more than one officer.”
Geoffrey stopped drumming his fingers, seemed deep in thought, and said, “I’m not betraying any confidences by saying that you’re right we’ve been receiving Rubner’s intelligence, though we’re not the prime customer.”