“That’s not going to happen,” said one of the men, another of the dissenters.
“And who would have thought the world would displace nearly a million Arabs and grant the Jews a homeland?” Hermann made clear. “Many in the Middle East said that would not happen, either.” His words came out sharp, so he laced what he was about to say with a tone of compromise. “At the very least we can bring down that silly wall the Israelis have erected to guard their borders and challenge every ancient claim they’ve ever made. Zionist arrogance would suffer, perhaps enough to galvanize the surrounding Arab states into unified action. And I haven’t even mentioned Iran, which would love nothing more than to totally obliterate Israel. This will be a blessing for them.”
“What could do all that?”
“Knowledge.”
“You can’t be serious. All this is based on us learning something?”
He hadn’t expected this frank discussion, but this was his moment. The committee huddled around his dining room table was charged by Order statutes with formulating the collective’s political policy, which was closely intertwined with initiatives from the Economic Committee because, for the Order, politics and profit were synonymous. The Economic Committee had established a goal of increasing revenues for those members desiring to heavily invest in the Middle East by at least 30 percent. A study had been undertaken, an initial euro investment determined, potential profits estimated under current economic and political conditions, then several scenarios envisioned. In the end a 30 percent goal was deemed achievable. But markets in the Middle East were limited at best. The entire region could explode over the most minuscule occurrence. Every day brought another possibility for disaster. So consistency was what the Political Committee sought. Traditional methods-bribes and threats-were not effective with people who routinely strapped explosives to their chests. The men who controlled decisions in places such as Jordan, Syria, Kuwait, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia were far too wealthy, far too guarded, and far too fanatical. Instead the Order had come to understand that a new form of currency needed to be found-one Hermann believed he would soon possess.
“Knowledge is far more powerful than any weapon,” he said in a hushed whisper.
“All depends on the knowledge,” one of the members declared.
He agreed. “Success will hinge on us being able to disseminate what we learn to the right buyers for the right price at the right time.”
“I know you, Alfred,” one of the older men said. “You’ve planned this thoroughly.”
He grinned. “Things are finally progressing. The Americans are now interested, and that opens a whole new avenue of possibilities.”
“What of the Americans?” Margarete asked, impatience in her voice.
Her question annoyed him. She needed to learn not to reveal what she didn’t know. “It seems there are some in power within the United States who want to humble Israel, too. They see a benefit to American foreign policy.”
“How is any of this possible?” one of the committee members asked. “Arabs and Arabs, along with Arabs and Jews, have been warring for thousands of years. What’s so damn frightening?”
He’d established a lofty goal for both himself and the Order, but a voice inside him said that his diligence was about to be rewarded. So he stared down the men and women seated before him and declared, “I should know the answer to that question before the weekend ends.”
THIRTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, DC
3:30 AM
STEPHANIE SAT IN THE CHAIR, EXHAUSTED. BRENT GREEN faced her from the sofa. He was actually slouching, which she’d never seen him do before. Cassiopeia had fallen asleep upstairs. At least one of them would be rested. She certainly wouldn’t. It seemed like forty-eight days instead of forty-eight hours since she’d last been here, not trusting Green, leery of what he had to say, angry at herself for placing Malone’s son in jeopardy. And though Gary Malone was now safe, the same doubts about Brent Green swirled through her mind, especially considering what he’d told her a few hours ago.
The Israelis’ main conduit is Pam Malone.
She cradled a Diet Dr Pepper that she’d found in Green’s refrigerator. She motioned with the can. “You actually drink these?”
He nodded. “Taste just like the original, but no sugar. Seemed like a good concept to me.”
She smiled. “You’re a strange fellow, Brent.”
“I’m just a private man who keeps what he likes to himself.”
She was heart-sore and mind-weary, wrestling a deep anxiety that wanted to jar her attention away from Green. They’d intentionally left all the lights off to convey to any watchful eyes that the house’s occupant was down for the night.
“You thinking about Malone?” he asked through the dark.
“He’s in trouble.”
“Nothing you can do until he calls in.”
She shook her head. “Not good enough.”
“You have an agent in London. What are the chances of finding Cotton?”
Not likely. London was a big city, and who knew if Malone was there? He could have left for anywhere in Britain. But she didn’t want to think about impossibilities, so she asked, “How long have you known about Pam?”
“Not long.”
She resented being kept out of the loop and decided that to get something she was going to have to give. “There’s another player in your game.”
“I’m listening.” Green’s tone indicated that his interest was piqued. Finally she knew something he didn’t.
She told him what Thorvaldsen had said about the Order of the Golden Fleece.
“Henrik never said a word about that to me.”
“Gee, that’s a shocker.” She downed another swallow of her soft drink. “He tells only what he wants you to know.”
“Did they kidnap Malone’s son?”
“They’re at the top of my list.”
“That explains things,” Green said. “The Israelis have been unusually cautious throughout this entire operation. We dangled the link, hoping their contact here would take the bait. For several years, privately, their diplomats have made inquiries concerning George Haddad. We didn’t fool them entirely when Malone hid him away. They sifted through the remains of that ruined café, but the bomb did a thorough job. Yet even after we tossed the link out there for them to notice, the Israelis played everything close.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Malone’s son being taken baffled us. That’s why I delayed our meeting when you first called with the news.”
“And I thought it was simply because you didn’t like me.”
“You do take patience to endure, but I’ve learned to adapt.”
She grinned.
Green reached for a crystal dish on the coffee table that contained salted nuts. She was hungry, too, so she grabbed a handful.
“We knew Israel wasn’t the culprit in Gary Malone’s abduction,” Green said. “And we were curious why they stayed so quiet when it happened.” He paused. “Then, after you called me, I was told about Pam Malone.”
She was listening.
“She became involved with a man about three months ago. A successful lawyer with an Atlanta firm, a senior partner, but also a Jewish patriot. Huge supporter of Israel. Homeland Security believes that he’s helped finance one of the more militant factions in the Israeli government.”
She knew American money had long fueled Israeli politics. “I had no idea you were that involved with things on a daily basis.”
“Again, Stephanie, I’m many things you don’t realize. I have a public image, which is demanded. But when I took this job I didn’t intend to be a talking head. I’m the chief law enforcement officer of this country, and I do my job.”
She noticed that he hadn’t eaten any of his nuts. Instead, with his right palm open flat, the dark form of his left hand was picking through them.