Code of Conduct (18 page)

CHAPTER 30

I
n the world of intelligence, biometric technology was a blessing and a curse. Facial recognition made it easier to identify and locate terrorists, but it also made it very difficult for spies to slip in and out of different countries while using an assumed identity.

After the 9/11 attacks, the United States cracked down particularly hard, requiring biometric scanning of visitors at its ports of entry. Only U.S. citizens were allowed to bypass these requirements, which was exactly why Bentzi Mordechai had acquired an authentic American passport under the name Vincent Geller.

The real Geller was an American Jew from Miami who had wanted to do his part for Israel and had been recruited by the Mossad. In exchange for surrendering his legitimate identity, he was set up in a new life with a monthly stipend. The U.S. Government had never been the wiser.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a pair of ICE agents at Dulles as they approached Mordechai. He was standing in the U.S. citizen lane, waiting for his passport to be inspected.

Mordechai acted as if they were addressing someone else, but it was obvious that they were speaking to him. “Me?”

“Yes, sir. Please step out of the line.”

Mordechai showed them his passport. “I’m in the right spot.”

Both agents put their hands on their weapons. “Right now, sir,” the lead agent ordered.

The people standing near Mordechai nervously backed away from him.

“No problem,” Bentzi said, making sure the officers could see his hands.

Once Mordechai had stepped out of the line, they closed on him. One agent covered him while the other put him in handcuffs.

Flying often exacerbated his arthritis. Despite having taken two pills, plus downing a handful of Scotches en route, his hands were still killing him. The force with which he had been cuffed, in addition to how tightly the cuffs had been applied, sent ripples of red-hot pain shooting through his entire body.

The agents walked him out of passport control and down a small corridor to a series of interrogation rooms. Unlocking one of the doors, the agents showed him inside. It wasn’t very large, just fifteen by fifteen. It was all white, with bright fluorescent overhead lighting. There was no two-way glass. Just a boring Formica table and four plastic chairs. Mordechai was instructed to sit.

As he knew any innocent person would, he had protested the entire way, getting more indignant as he went. He railed about being a taxpayer and raised his Constitutional rights.

It was quite a convincing performance, but the ICE agents had been told to ignore everything he said, not to offer him anything, and not to speak to him.

Soon after he sat down, there was a knock on the door. He looked up as an attractive woman with dark hair and green eyes entered. She was accompanied by a well-dressed man who crossed to the other side of the room and leaned casually against the wall.

The woman instructed the agents to remove Mordechai’s cuffs and then asked them to wait outside. Once they were gone, she sat down at the table and set a closed file folder in front of her.

“Mr. Mordechai,” she said, “do you know who I am?”

“My name’s not Mordechai,” he replied. “It’s Geller. Vincent Geller. I’m from Miami.
I am an American citizen
. You have no right to detain me like this. Those officers have my passport.”

“Mr. Mordechai,” she continued, “my name is Lydia Ryan. I’m Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Now, you and I can play games, or we can work together. What’s it going to be?”

“I wish I could help you, but I can’t. My name’s Geller, not Mordechai.”

Harvath shifted his weight and moved a little closer.

“Who’s he?” Mordechai asked.

“Never mind,” Ryan replied, removing a photograph and sliding it over to him. “Let’s talk about Helena.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who she is. You have the wrong guy.”

Harvath moved so quickly, Mordechai didn’t even see him coming. He was just about to strike him when Ryan held up her hand and stopped him.

“Mr. Mordechai, I’m treating you with respect out of professional courtesy,” she stated. “But there’s a limit to just how far that courtesy goes. I highly recommend you don’t push it. Am I making myself clear?”

Mordechai remained silent.

“We know Helena is here. We know she is with Damien. We want to know why.”

Mordechai opened his mouth to speak, but Ryan held up her hand to cut him off.

“If I hear the name Vincent Geller one more time, I’ll have you rendered to a black site, and we can continue our conversation there. Is
that
clear?”

The Israeli sat perfectly still and said nothing, his face unreadable.

“At some point Mr. Mordechai, you are going to tell me what I want to know. The only question is when. And how difficult you want to make this for Helena.

“If you work with me, maybe I allow your operation to continue. If not, maybe we put a bag over Helena’s head and render her to a black site as well. Maybe I’ll give Pierre Damien everything I have in this file and let him decide what he wants to do with her.

“Part of me thinks it would be fun to get my matches out and watch all of you burn. And unless you give me a good reason not to, that’s exactly what I might do.”

Ryan then leaned back in her chair and said nothing further. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harvath ready to strike if Mordechai made one false move.

Slowly, he reached his gnarled hand out for the file. Ryan came forward and put her hand down on top of it.

“That belongs to me,” she said. “Not you. You don’t get to see what we have until you start cooperating.”

“She’s small time. If I cooperate, will you let her go?” Mordechai asked.

“I know exactly
what
she is, Mr. Mordechai. What I want to know is why you have put her next to Damien.”

The Israeli smiled and shook his head. “Do you know what a pain in the ass Pierre Damien has been for Israel?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“My government takes his efforts to undermine our nation very seriously.”

“So seriously in fact,” Ryan mocked, “that shortly after he and Helena arrived here you rushed to the airport, bought a plane ticket, and hightailed it to the United States.” Standing, she picked up her file and said, “I hope you enjoy our rendition program Mr. Mordechai.” She then looked at Harvath. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

Mordechai was in an impossible situation. He didn’t want to work with the Americans. As soon as they knew what he knew, it would stop being about Israel and would be all about the United States. His mission would be subordinate to theirs.

He didn’t have a choice, though. If he didn’t cooperate, they’d throw him in a hole somewhere. By the time he got out,
if
he ever got out, the damage could already be done. It could be over for Israel. He was going to have to roll the dice. He was going to have to trust them.

Looking up at Ryan, he said, “What do you know about a United Nations body called the Secretary-General’s Senior Management Group?”

CHAPTER 31

T
he Chesapeake and Ohio Canal National Historical Park stretched a hundred eighty-five miles from Georgetown to Cumberland, Maryland. Many of its thirteen hundred historical structures were open to the public. Six “lockhouses,” or “canal quarters” as they were known, could be rented for overnight stays in order to experience what life was like along the once thriving canal that ran parallel to the Potomac.

Lockhouses 6, 10, 22, 25, 28, and 49 all came complete with kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms, and showers. The “blue” lockhouse, so named for the color of its shutters and front door, was also historic, and equipped for overnight stays, but had never been opened to the public—and with good reason.

A short drive from D.C., the blue lockhouse was the property of the Central Intelligence Agency and had hosted debriefings of some of the most valuable Soviet defectors during the Cold War. The term “behind the blue door” became synonymous with interrogations at the highest level. Most agents who had used the phrase had no idea where the blue door was, much less that it was attached to a tiny C&O canal house. Many assumed the door simply existed somewhere deep within the bowels of the Central Intelligence Agency where only the Director and a handful of privileged others were ever allowed to go.

As they drove up to the canal house, Harvath couldn’t help but notice the reds and golds of so many leaves that were already starting to turn
color. Things had been so crazy that he hadn’t had a chance to ask Carlton what Lara was doing down here from Boston and how she had connected with him to get the keys to his house. He hadn’t even texted or called to let her know he was back, though he suspected she probably already knew. If the Old Man had given her the keys, he had probably also provided her with his itinerary. He wasn’t looking forward to the showdown that was coming.

Inside the canal house, Harvath started a fire in the fireplace. Mordechai pulled up a chair to warm his hands. He kept kosher, and so Palmer was sent to a special deli near Dupont Circle. He came back with shopping bags full of food and bottled water.

He grabbed a sandwich for himself and one for Ashby, and then the pair sat outside, discreetly keeping watch. As far as they knew, no one was aware that Mordechai had fallen into their custody, but Dulles was a crowded airport, and there was no telling who saw what. It would be very foolish to underestimate the Israelis.

Two of Ryan’s people had taken Mordechai’s bag to his hotel, had checked him in, and placed it in the room. If anyone came looking for him, there would at least be some appearance that he had made it that far without incident.

Once they had eaten, Carlton conducted the Israeli intelligence operative’s debriefing while Harvath and Ryan took notes. It was like watching a fencing match with clever
patinandos
and
p
assata-sottos
to spare.

Carlton scored points by asking the right questions. When he drifted too far afield or attempted to drill too deep into Mossad operations, the Israeli refused to answer. His duty was to the Mossad and to Israel. He had no intention of divulging any more than he had to. It was how any of those in the room would have acted if caught in a similar situation.

Mordechai described how Damien had landed on their radar, and he pulled no punches in expressing the Mossad’s anger at American Intelligence for refusing to work with them on it.

Ryan listened with interest. She had no idea who had made that call, or why, but she intended to find out.

Carlton asked what Helena was doing with Damien.

Mordechai explained that they had copied his hard drive and one of
his cell phones, but that no one at the Mossad had been able to crack the encryption.

“Can you describe the cell phone?”

When Mordechai was finished, Harvath pulled out his own phone and showed him pictures he had taken off Hendrik’s phones, which had been turned over to the CIA for analysis.

“That one,” the Israeli said, pointing. “Where’d you get it?”

“I took it from someone we believe has been working with Damien.”

“Did he give you his password?”

“Not willingly.”

“Did you find anything on it?” Mordechai asked.

“Nothing so far. Nothing was archived,” said Ryan. “Whatever communications there had been were wiped clean.”

“You’re still a password ahead of us,” he replied as he launched into explaining why Helena had been dangled and how Damien had taken the bait. Without his passwords, the mirrored phone and hard drive were useless. Everything was riding on Helena.

“I don’t understand,” Harvath said once he had finished. “Why has it taken her so long?”

Mordechai took a deep breath and briefly recounted who Helena was, as well as the incentive they had given her to speed her progress.

When he finished, the Old Man let out a long, low whistle.

Ryan looked at him and asked, “Whoever this
Enoch
is, do you even have him?”

“We do,” Mordechai replied. “He doesn’t work for us per se, but we know where he is and have used him from time to time.”

He could sense the distaste in the room and added, “His is a horrible business, but he has value. Significant intelligence has been gleaned via his network.”

Harvath shook his head. “I’m sure that’s a comfort to all of the women he’s forced into the sex trade.”

Mordechai knew it was pointless to respond. Israel was at war. It did what it had to do to survive. He would never apologize for that.

“The Mossad has known about Enoch all along, but nothing has ever been said to Helena, correct?” asked Ryan.

The Israeli nodded solemnly. “Correct.”

“And despite his alleged intelligence value, once Helena gives you what you want, the Mossad is just going to hand him over?”

The Israeli thought of his boss, Nava, and shook his head. “I think once they catch their fish, they will also want to keep their bait.”

“In other words, they’re not going to give Enoch to Helena.”

Mordechai nodded.

Ryan figured as much. Theirs was a world of games, a world of half-truths and empty promises. It required lies, but some lies were beneath a nation—even when it believed its own survival hung in the balance. There was always another way. And one of the biggest problems with those lies was that they often created enemies, mortal enemies.

“She’s going to blame you,” said Harvath. “You’re the one who made the promise.”

“I’ll make it up to her.”

Harvath smiled. “That’s what we all tell ourselves.”

Mordechai fixed him with his gaze. “Except I actually mean it.”

Harvath studied the man’s eyes. There was something between him and the woman that went beyond asset and handler. It was written all over the Israeli’s face.

Harvath resisted chalking it up to sex. Helena Pestova was indeed striking, and her beauty wouldn’t have been lost on Mordechai, but he appeared to be above that. He struck Harvath as some sort of holy warrior, unwaveringly committed to the purity of his cause and the code that guided him.

Harvath could have been wrong. It could have been that the Israeli just wanted to bang her brains out, but he didn’t think so. He sensed something better in him. It was rare to meet true believers anymore—and the Israeli struck him as a true believer—someone able to put a greater good, a higher purpose ahead of himself.

Maybe it gave Harvath hope, some small reassurance that there were others out there, that he wasn’t alone in the world. Whatever it was, for the time being he was putting Mordechai in the true believer category.

Now that they knew why Helena was with Damien, Carlton wanted
to know what Israel suspected he was up to and what they hoped to find on his laptop and cell phone.

In order to do that, Mordechai needed to describe how the laptop and cell came into the Mossad’s possession in the first place.

Very few people had more than a basic understanding of how the UN worked, so Mordechai unpacked its power structure, likening it to a series of Russian nesting dolls. When he arrived at the Secretary-General’s Senior Management Group and its secret retreat in the Austrian Alps, the only other sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.

Mordechai discussed the anonymous, seven-member “Plenary Panel,” and then, saving the most disturbing information for last, launched into the chilling, ten-point “Outcome Conference” document he had uncovered in Pierre Damien’s hotel room in Alpbach.

He didn’t need notes. The entire, fetid manifesto was seared into his mind. He could recite each and every insane goal in his sleep: decrease human population below five hundred million, steer reproduction through eugenics, bind humanity with a brand-new language, redistribute wealth under the more acceptable term “global public goods,” replace individual rights with the concept of “social duties,” subvert faith and tradition with “reason,” use technologies like the Internet and social media to end-run national governments in order to spread propaganda directly to citizens, convince people that global governance was not only inevitable, but that it was the fair, efficient, and logical next step, discredit and delegitimize the concept of national sovereignty, and finally—take out anyone or anything that got in the UN’s way.

Mordechai explained that the biggest threats the Plenary Panel saw to achieving its goals were Israel and the United States. In order to remove the two democracies from the UN’s path, some massive, mysterious event was mentioned.

He referenced Damien’s handwritten notes, particularly those about the United States, and asked if the letters
MC
meant anything to anyone in the room.

Several possibilities ran through Harvath’s mind. MC was the international country code for
Monaco
. It was the last two letters of
USMC
—United States Marine Corps. It was the abbreviation for
Mission Critical
and also the abbreviation for NATO’s
Military Committee
, which helped guide NATO’s defense measures.

But without more context, the letters could have represented anything. Carlton and Ryan were equally at a loss.

“Nothing? How about the letters
AHF
then?” Mordechai asked. “Damien wrote those followed by several other words, including
pathogenicity, absolute risk
, and
dose response
.”

One by one, the color drained from the other three faces in the room.