The Red Syndrome (23 page)

"No, I mean we don't know for a fact that they're the same group,
although it's suggestive. But the disappearance of the Israeli operatives,
combined with the potential threat in the deciphered messages and the
results of Fazal's interrogation, if corroborated, would imply a joint
interest here, and therefore a joint operation against the Slaves of Allah."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"The Department of Justice has agreed to co-opt you to the CIA as an
interagency transfer for a specific intelligence assignment."

I nodded.

"A covert action is under way to contact that terrorist group from a
completely different angle. You are not involved in that. Independently,
we want you to open communication lines with the Slaves of Allah in a
very particular manner."

"Such as trying to be recruited? I don't exactly look like a Muslim they
would attempt to recruit," I pointed out. "Or maybe you want me to grow
a long beard and assume typical Islamic manners. It'll take me a year to
adapt. I don't think we have that time. I look too Western."

"No," said Eric. "We have other ideas for getting close to them. If we
offered them biomaterials cold turkey, they'd be likely to get suspicious and
grab our courier just like they may have snatched the Israeli operatives."

"We don't want that, do we," I said - as if Eric cared what might
happen to me if I was the courier.

Eric again ignored my sarcasm. "We want you to gain their confidence
as someone who can supply them with other things they might need."

"Like what?"

"Like money. Even terrorists need to eat. They need money to pay their
field soldiers and their other staff; they need to rent apartments, rent cars,
buy weapons and explosives, transmitters and airline tickets. It all costs
money. Big money."

"What about state-sponsored terrorism?" I asked. "Didn't that foot the
bill?"

"Sure," said Hodson, "but moving money from point A to point B isn't
that simple anymore, particularly when terrorist organizations know governments are tracking the flow around the globe: If you follow the money
trail, you get to the bastards; if you stop the money flow, you dry up the
terrorists' resources. And if terrorists are preoccupied with getting enough
money to eat their next meal, instead of planning how to bomb people,
that makes them more vulnerable."

"And vulnerable people make mistakes," I added.

When the International Convention for Suppression of the Financing
of Terrorism was adopted by the United Nations, the offenses it cited
became extraditable. The convention can help put a lid on both the collection of funds that might be used to commit crime, and the transfer of
money to terrorist organizations.

While it's true that terrorists don't care about international conventions, this one did at least set a standard for governments to follow when
adjusting their laws to confront new threats. Countries that had been lax
before about cracking down on terrorist money sources can't be now.

"The real value in your mission," Hodson said, "if you complete it successfully, would come from your offering to provide the terrorists with
new ways of hiding assets and transferring them undetected. That way,
we'd have a head start on knowing what their plans are."

"So you want me to pose as a jack-of-all-trades in money movements,
hoping the terrorists will take the bait?"

"That's the general idea. We're still working on your legend."

"If you agree, we'd have to send you south of here for one week of
briefing and training."

"Do you need my answer now?"

"It'd be helpful. You know the short timetable on this."

"Would I be operating alone?" Somehow I thought that it wasn't such
a good idea to be a lone wolf in this adventure: I needed another wolf or,
even better, a lamb. On second thought, a feline.

"It all depends on the legend we agree on. Obviously you'll have backup
security at all times. We don't want to repeat the Israeli loss of operatives."

"Do you think they're dead?"

"I have no information, but anything is possible in this trade. You know
that."

There were other possible complications: If my mission was discovered
or even suspected by any members of the cell that Fazal had cracked, it
would make things that much more difficult and dangerous. They'd suspect
any new contact - even if it came from some purported long-lost relative
waving money around. What would happen then? Eric didn't know.

"Fazal isn't in a talking mood now," he said with a straight face, "and we
still haven't arrested the other cell members."

I wondered if Fazal still had a workable tongue. Nonetheless, I didn't
need to think too long. I have only one life and I prefer it interesting and
exciting. The chance to work undercover with Benny and Eric was, as
Yogi Berra said, Dejk vu all over again.

"Where do I sign?" I asked. "My father taught me that the biggest risk
is not taking any." Both Bob and Eric smiled. A rare occasion, I thought. I
should have brought my camera. The third person in the room, still anonymous, smiled as well. I ignored my mother's advice, though: Don't compromise yourself. You are all you've got.

"Expect our call later today," Hodson said. "Please do not discuss this
conversation with anyone, not even with other members of the task
force."

When I left the room, I almost bumped into Laura. "Hi," she said in a
certain friendly tone.

"Let's have tea," I said.

"I'd like coffee, if you don't mind," she responded and started walking
toward the cafeteria, clearly expecting me to follow. But this time I was not distracted, not even by the way she moved, usually an instant mood
changer for me. My mind was already somewhere else.

We sat in the empty office cafeteria. Laura was slowly sipping her
coffee. "Why are you so quiet?" she asked. "Did Hodson drop anything
on you?"

"Yes, he did," I said.

"And?"

"I don't know what to make of it yet."

"He's giving you trouble because you removed the messages from the
office?"

I'd forgotten all about that. "No, it's something else. I can't talk about it
right now."

Laura looked at me pointedly, her green eyes narrowed. "Come," she
said and grabbed me by my arm. "Let's go."

"Go?" I said. "Where?"

"Let's have an early dinner and maybe a drink later -" She paused
midsentence. "You seem like you could use a lift."

Those green eyes and her body language were impossible to ignore. We
went outside and headed to a small Italian restaurant in Soho. I was quiet
and pensive. Unusual behavior, I had to concede to myself. Laura did the
talking. She told me of her childhood in Kansas; about her father, a postal
worker, and her mother, a school librarian. Then she wanted to know
everything about me, particularly the things I'd done on this case before
the task force had convened. But my mind was elsewhere. Laura touched
my hand every now and then, as if to attract my attention, but I was still
far away. Although the Slaves of Allah were occupying my mind more
than the vivacious redhead sitting across from me, I still didn't feel like
talking about any of it.

Laura suddenly said, "Come on, let's go."

I didn't ask what was on her mind. I knew. I paid the bill and we walked
up Broadway. Soon we were nearing my apartment. "Ask me up for a
drink," she said without a question mark at the end.

I opened my apartment door, and before I flicked the light switch on,
Laura was in my arms. She kissed me passionately, first on my hungry mouth, then on my neck. I held her tight, and took her jacket off while
she was still kissing my neck. I threw my coat to the floor, slipped my
hands under her blouse, and undid her bra. I caressed her soft back and
moved both arms to cup her breasts. Laura moaned. We were still
standing partly in the hallway. "Come," I said. I closed the door behind
us and walked her to my messy bedroom. We fell on my bed. Laura rolled
me over on my back and sat on my groin. I pulled her down and ... the
damn phone rang.

I thought of ignoring it, but Laura stopped. Reluctantly I picked up the
receiver, only to hear Lynn, Hodson's assistant, on the other end of the
line, telling me that someone would come by the apartment at ten thirty
that night to pick me up. I had to pack a week's worth of clothes, and no
one was to know where I was going

"Thanks for giving me such short notice. Besides, I don't know where
I'm going, so how could I tell anyone?" I said angrily. I continued as if
Lynn was still listening, but she'd already hung up. "And it's just an hour
away. I need to find a dog-sitter for a week."

I got up from the bed. "I have to leave," I said. The inconsiderate bastards wouldn't even let me finish.

"Where are you going?" Laura was still on the bed, and sounded as disappointed as I was.

"On assignment, I don't know where. I'll be back soon."

"When?"

"In a week."

"Why can't you tell me where you're going? We work together,
remember?"

"You just heard me say on the phone that I don't know. I simply don't." I
was annoyed: She was a professional and should know better than to ask me.

"Will you call me?"

"I'll try, but I can't promise."

Laura got up and got dressed. I showed her to the door.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"So am I," Laura smiled. She pecked my lips, we straightened our
clothes, and I walked her to the elevator door.

A car came for me an hour later, and after a six-hour drive I arrived in the
dark of early morning at a military installation. The sign said:

DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
ARMED FORCES EXPERIMENTAL TRAINING ACTIVITY

The place looked similar to many other military camps I'd seen, except
that here there were very few uniformed soldiers. I realized this must be
"The Farm," the ten-thousand-acre site where CIA trainees, also called
Career Trainees, took an eighteen-week course in operational intelligence. Those who graduated began working as intelligence and case officers for the CIA's Directorate of Operations.

I was fingerprinted and photographed; I had blood drawn and measurements taken for biometric identification. That done, I was escorted to
a different building where I met a man named Joe, if that was indeed his
real name; I'd probably never know. He was a well-built man in his forties, with short blond hair, cold gray eyes, and a firm handshake.

"Welcome to Camp Peary," he said with a warmth that contradicted his
aloof appearance. "I'll be your instructor for the short period you'll be
spending here with us.

"You'll have a weeklong crash course in a few skills. It will not be easy,
given the fact that most of our cadets need several weeks for it. For security reasons, you will not be allowed to leave the camp or communicate
with the outside world. That means no visitors, no phone calls, no letters,
no e-mails."

"I understand," I said. It wasn't the time or place to tell him that some of
the skills they were about to train me in I already possessed; I'd been through
a similar course during my Mossad training. But times were different then.
Among other things, we'd learned Morse code for long-distance communication; today that method was reserved for ham radio fans and visitors to
communications museums.

Everything was so organized, I thought. So different from the chaotic
and improvisational manner of instruction I had experienced at the Mossad, typical of the Israeli way of doing things. During the following
five days, I was brought up to speed in topics, tools, and tactics I had
either already forgotten or didn't even know existed. The use of technology was overwhelming and the lack of budgetary constraints was
such a refreshing difference from the frugality drummed into us in
Israel. The part that I paid special attention to was communications and
emergency procedures. But at night I was alone and lonely. I thought of
Laura. On the spur of the moment, I went to the pay phone at the officers' club. I hesitated only for a second. I was certain the phone was constantly monitored by the camp's field security, but, what the hell, I was
about to call a co-worker. I wasn't going to tell her where I was or what
I was doing. The phone rang but there was no answer. Her answering
machine came on, and I left a short message: "Hi, I'm still alive, I'll see
you soon." Nobody would reprimand me for such a minimal breach of
security.

On the sixth day, when I'd had enough of military food, Joe came to my
cabin and suggested we have breakfast outside Camp Peary. After a
three-mile drive into the town of Williamsburg, Joe stopped next to a
small hotel. I followed him inside. Instead of going into the dining room,
as I had expected, he gave me a room key.

"Go to room one forty-one and wait there."

I went through a long hallway to a vacant room on the ground floor.
On a small table were a glass jug with orange juice, paper cups, and a
basket with thawed mini bagels, the industrial type, a few mini packs of
cream cheese, and paper plates. Only the utensils were durable. This was
breakfast? Not in my book. There was a knock on the door. A tall darkhaired man in his midthirties walked in. I closed the door.

"Hi," he said shaking my hand. He was dressed like a used-car salesman.
"I'm Brian Day. I'll be working and directing you in the operation."

So that was it. For security reasons, the meeting with the handler had
been arranged outside Camp Peary. Brian and I couldn't be seen together;
it could compromise the operation. And since there are some 256 different terrorist organizations worldwide, depending on what day you're
counting, precaution wasn't just a word, it was a way of life. It was apparent that security measures had been heightened since my last contact with the CIA in the early 19gos in Europe, when I'd chased
Raymond DeLouise and stumbled onto a plot by Iranian agents to secure
nuclear materials. The 9/11 attacks had left their mark everywhere.