The Falstaff Enigma (12 page)

The fat man arrived fifteen minutes early. Rush-hour traffic had not been as bad as he expected. He found John Kemp in front of a huge whale skeleton in a side corridor just off the main lobby.

"You're early," the
inspector general said.

"So are you. Obviously my story checked out."

"Yes. It wasn't hard and I was able to do it very discreetly. In fact, I found out enough to believe everything you told me. Shall we stroll?" Carson did not wait for a reply; he simply began walking.

"I also learned that you
’ve been tagged as a runner,” Carson continued. “All stations are ordered to bring you in and you're said to be with an unidentified but dangerous companion who matches Austin's description."

Kemp digested this new information.
"Of course,” Kemp said. “You must be convinced because if you were seen with me now you would be finished inside the Company."

"Well, I tried to call Austin, who is still officially in
his office, and I was referred to someone high up in the DIA. He told me that Robert Austin was working on a highly cloaked project and could not be reached for two more months. It was then that I knew you were telling the truth. The question is whether there is a mole and whether he's in the Company or the DIA. And even if we find this guy it will be next to impossible to trace the source back to its Moscow root, but obviously that's where all this is being generated."

"We'll worry about Moscow after we get this mole."

"I certainly share your enthusiasm, Mr. Kemp, but we may have to follow a more defined strategy. I think we should try to identify the mole and then trace his lines of communication back."

"That sounds fine."

"We can bring in a unit from counterintelligence once we have our mole. In the meantime, we need a code between us when you call me. I want you to call every day at ten a.m. and identify yourself as Mr. Simpson. If I ask you to call back later then call at four p.m. We will call the mole the 'mark’. Then we need some word to designate the situation in Moscow, of which, being realistic, we know nothing."

Both men walked on for a short distance and stopped in
front of a display of rocks. Kemp made a suggestion. “How about Falstaff? The enigma in Moscow will be known as ‘Falstaff’.”

"Don't lose that number.
I want you to be able to contact Wallace Carson at any time. If we ever get separated then we can use him as a message service.” Kemp was clearly happier as he spoke. His tone was slightly higher and his speech slightly faster. He was delighted to have an ally inside the Company.

"Good.
I think it's important to have that type of backup." Austin was driving their rental car – the third since they arrived in the Capitol – and turning into the parking lot of their fourth dwelling, this one a cheap motel half-way between rundown and respectable.

"Do you trust this guy?" Austin
asked.

"Definitely.
He has a specific job and the main part of that is locating leaks or moles. He has to remain independent in his position, and from what I understand he is very independent. Anyway, if he weren't trustworthy then we would both be either dead or under arrest right now."

"What about his phone lines?"

"Probably the cleanest in the world. They are swept three times a day, in the morning, in the night and one time at random during the day. Aside from that, we won't be discussing our locations, only the situation and the relevant facts. As long as we use randomly distributed public phones I think we are safe."

Austin parked in a space several doors down from the pa
ir's room. Other spaces were available closer to their room, but Kemp had Austin park where he did to mislead anyone who might happen to identify the car. Both men stepped out onto the cold pavement. The sky over the city had grown dark. The brightest stars shimmered as they cast their ancient glow, while the multitudes of others were muted by the harsh glare of city lights.
Progress
. John Kemp was a few feet from the door of their room. The key was already in his left hand. Austin trailed a few yards behind.

"Sir.
Sir. Excuse me." The voice had a thick Latin accent and was uneducated. It was the motel's manager. He was walking at a brisk pace toward the men from behind. Both men stopped and turned to face this new intruder into their world and each found his right hand caressing the grip of his pistol. For Kemp it was a reaction borne of years of dangerous situations. For Austin it was a reaction being practiced for the first time, but it was still a reaction, one that required no premeditation.

"I have an urgent message from Steve Palucci
," said the manager as he continued toward the pair.

Kemp noticed the flaw.
The message from the CIA programmer was remotely possible and Kemp gave the manager the benefit of the doubt, but there was something wrong. Earlier, when they checked in, the manager had struggled with each word spoken in English. Now he was able to speak his last sentence without hesitation. The man had been rehearsing. He had been told what to say. John Kemp raised his left hand and motioned for the manager to approach him. The Latin man complied. Austin placed his back against the wall and kept his hand firmly on his weapon. His eyes canvassed the darkness looking for what shouldn't be there.

The manager stopped in front of Kemp and began to speak.
The field agent covered the Latin man's mouth with his left hand, an obvious command to remain silent. He then put his hand over the manager's heart. It was racing.

Kemp drew his Swiss pistol and in the same movement grabbed the manager's shirt and threw him into the door of their room. The suppressed
staccato of gunfire ripped through the wood door and into the now limp body of the manager. Twenty holes tore through the door within two seconds. The assassin would have to reload.

Austin pushed himself off the wa
ll and between two parked cars. His eyes searched for any movement. It came. Sharp. Violent. The movement was in Austin's right eye and came from the direction of the manager's office. Austin's silenced pistol, supplied by Kemp, wheeled into position.
Dear God, I'm not fast enough
. Bullets ripped into the car body in front of him making a jackhammer-like sound. Austin still lived. He fired four rounds at the killer running toward him. The killer fell. All movement ceased.

While the assassin in the room reloaded
, Kemp moved. He entered the room firing. The assassin with the sub machinegun was dead.

Austin turned, searching, vision cutting darkness.
Another, from across the street. He came running, armed only with a silenced pistol. The left-handed killer fired on the run. It was a Kamikaze charge. The man was a fanatic. Austin took careful aim at the man's torso and fired twice. The first bullet struck the killer's firing hand. His weapon fell to the pavement as he grimaced in pain. The second round missed its mark. The killer kept running toward Austin, pulling out a knife with his right hand. Austin had a clear shot and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Austin had an empty chamber. The killer kept coming, only fifteen feet away.

The assassin lunged with his uncoordinated right hand at Austin's stomach.
Austin diverted the thrust with his left hand while spinning his body clockwise. He kept turning and brought his elbow up to face level. Elbow met flesh and the killer's face cracked under the force of instant pressure. The knife fell and the body of the killer followed it to the pavement. He was unconscious.

Austin reloaded and again scanned the horizon.
Nobody. No movement. No sound. It was time for him and Kemp to leave. Police would arrive soon. Austin went to the door of the room and peered in. The first assassin was on his back near the bathroom. On the bed was the body of John Kemp, face down. Austin turned the body over. Kemp's neck was red from blood, a single hole punctuated the center. John Kemp was dead. On the floor to Austin's left was the body of a fourth killer. A bullet had pierced his lung. He was semi-conscious and bleeding to death. Austin raised his gun and lined up the sights on the man's head. He could not pull the trigger.

Austin had to run and run fast.
Time to contemplate the next move would come later. He grabbed Kemp's false ID and his very real money and then got both his own and Kemp's bag. On his way out he stopped by the man he had knocked out. There were no papers or identification of any type on him, only about two hundred U.S. dollars and a Japanese wristwatch. Austin took the money, jumped into the rental car and drove off. If anyone saw what had happened, he was too frightened to show himself outside.
Lost. Where do I go? What do I do?

"Did you do everything just the way I told you?"

"Yes, you know I did.
I even left the house past midnight as you told me to." Lynn Austin was exhausted. She had just spent eighteen hours getting herself from Washington to Manhattan. The trip included an early morning train ride to Baltimore, a flight to Boston, a three-taxi ride through downtown, another flight into La Guardia, and several assumed names. Robert Austin had made his instructions to his wife very explicit the night before. She was to arrange with a trusted neighbor to watch over the house for an indefinite period of time and she was to pack as much of their clothing and possessions as possible in two suitcases. Most of all, she was to find their way to La Guardia by a route that made her doubt her husband's sanity. She was frightened and very confused.

"I just don't understand what's happen
ing or what has happened to you. You've become paranoid and I've never seen that before." Her tired eyes were distant. It was a shock to Robert. He needed her warmth, her understanding, and he especially needed someone to share this nightmare.

"Honey, I realize this must all seem incredible to you, but
I'm going to tell you everything that has happened since May first and then you will understand only too well why I have acted the way I have for the past ten days." Robert Austin reached out for his wife, his love. They hugged. "I love you," Robert said, mustering as much passion in his voice as the situation would allow. It was a soft whisper. It was what Lynn needed to hear. Two weeks of fear and mistrust were beginning to fade away. She would understand. She could help.

He spent the next hour and a half telling her all that had occurred since h
e had viewed the May Day tapes. He went into every detail, every feeling, every emotion. She was the only person in the world he could open up to, and this would be his last evening to do so for some time. The reality hit her slowly but she knew that every word from Robert was truthful. A life altered completely by noticing an obscure fact on videotape. Now two lives altered and how many dead or injured? And when could her love get killed?
Anytime.
How could this ever end? Is he doomed to run a maze with an inevitable dead end?

But she understood.

"Tomorrow you must fly out to Seattle and stay with Cathy until you hear from me. She mustn't know you're coming until you arrive."

"What about you?
What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure
, but I have to be certain that you're safe." Robert reached into his suitcase and pulled out a small paper bag. "Here's five thousand in cash and fifteen thousand in travelers checks which you should sign right now. I took seventy thousand out of the money market account Wednesday before I met you." Austin's eyes spread wide in realization. "Oh no. That's it."

"
What?"

"The bank mus
t be where the KGB picked us up – picked me up. He told me not to go anywhere that l frequented and I didn't listen." Austin lay back on the hotel room bed, staring at the ceiling. Lynn slowly caressed his body, moving her lips to his. They made love, their only escape from the brutal reality that would still be there in the morning. But that same reality heightened the emotions, the passion. The escape was equal to the task.

"Are you ready?
Your flight's in two hours," Robert said.

"Just about.
Why can't you go to the FBI or the press?"

"No.
If I did, I would surely die."

Lynn walked over to Robert and hugged him.
"I love you, Robert Austin." The words were unnecessary. "When will I hear from you? When will this end?"

"I just don't know, but figure it will be a couple months on both."

"What if something happens to you?"

"It won't,"

"What do you do now?"

"I don't know.
Robert Austin did know. He was headed for Israel.

Israel. Land of contradiction. Emotions at war continuously, men at war sporadically. Land of muted grays where religion is the final justification, the final word. Land of promise. Land of Jew. Land of Gentile. Land of Muslim. Land of death.

Now land of opportunity for Robert Austin.

Austin sat on the edge of his bed staring out the dirty window into the street beyond. Dawn was breaking in Tel Aviv. Anyone with experience in the Middle East already knew this would be a hot, cloudless day. But the DIA analyst knew only distance. His thoughts were on his wife. For the first time since leaving New York he had the feeling that he might never see her again. This was his first morning in an alien world that had previously existed to him only in the thirty-minute slots of network news.

Too
, the analyst was coming off a near sleepless night, a night he had spent fearing that the morning light would only bring into focus his isolation. He knew nobody and had nowhere to start. He only knew that he was drawn to this land because of the murder of a Russian physicist whose name meant nothing and whose connection to Austin was the dying gasp of a Soviet war hero in Ankara.

How obvious was he at t
he airport the night before? The taxi driver assumed immediately that he had a disoriented American at his mercy. The driver had started their conversation in English; he had no doubt that Hebrew would have no results. Austin correctly judged the driver’s accent and responded in perfect Russian. The cabbie’s eyes lit up. He was one of the waves of recent Russian immigrants to Israel now struggling to earn a living. There were not nearly enough scientific and technical positions to soak up the skill levels that were leaving the Soviet Union for a new life. The lucky ones got to go to the U.S. The cab driver had not been that lucky – but he was still happy to be out of the USSR.

Austin
asked simply to be taken to a comfortable family-run inn. The driver complied adequately. He took Austin to a two-story building where an old German couple supported their final years by renting five rooms, breakfast included. As always, the driver received five U.S. dollars, which he preferred to the ever devaluing shekel. The bed was actually comfortable and sleep was welcome and sound, despite the absence of air conditioning.

In the morning t
he question remained, where to start? Robert Austin reentered his room after taking a much-needed shower. He was dressed within minutes. He needed to familiarize himself with his surroundings, with this old world that was new to him.

It was still very early as Austin emerged onto the street and turned to his right to walk the fifty or so feet to a larger street.
The artery he was now on couldn't be wider than twelve feet and had no sidewalks. The buildings were dirty and ragged. Austin had been deposited in one of the older sections of Tel Aviv. There were no new steel and concrete apartment buildings dotting the area, only the old – and that is what made him most uncomfortable.

The street was barren
on this Sunday morning. Robert Austin felt a sudden chill, even though the temperature was rapidly approaching the 85 degree mark. Could the KGB possibly have tracked him to Israel? He was open and unprotected, without even the gun that saved his life in Washington. Death could come in a moment's blur. On any step. Around any corner. A puppet dying on the strings of an international game he didn't understand. A game with no rules and no visible end.

Fifteen minutes later, the analyst had passed only a couple of small delivery vans and a single car, whose disheveled young driver appeared to be hurrying home after an all-night rendezvous with his lover.
No doubt a scorned wife was waiting for an explanation that was hopelessly doomed from the start. Austin wished he faced only the problem of explaining away a night spent cheating.

Two hundred feet ahead, a lone taxi turned onto the street headed for Austin.
The analyst stopped, fear freezing his knees. He turned to gaze into a storefront window but only his face gazed; his eyes glanced up and down the street. No movement. No life. Death.

Robert Austin reached down to his waistband.
Nothing. Israel, land of my death
. He resumed his original course, overcoming the fear that gripped his body. He cursed the fact that he had to leave his weapon in New York.

Still the taxi came.
Its driver had his vision glued to the solitary target walking the street. Austin quickened his step, aiming for a car parked on his side of the street fifteen feet ahead. He kept an eye on the taxi waiting to see an assassin pop up in the rear seat. There had to be more than one killer, somewhere.

The taxi slowed
, pulling closer to its target. The driver/assassin leaned his head out the car's window.

O
thers. There must be others on the street
, thought Austin. The taxi was only twenty feet away and slowing to draw parallel with the intended victim. The man behind the wheel began to speak.
Now! Go!
Austin suddenly broke into a run, expecting to be halted by burning metal at any step. He heard shouts behind him.

Robert Austin rounded the first corner that came up on his
right. He remembered Ankara where a similar street corner had meant deliverance.
Salvation
. He caught his breath and peeked back around the corner.
Nothing
. The taxi was gone and nothing was disturbed. No bullets had been fired. No assassins had lurked. He thought of the shouts he had heard while running. They had come from one man and were only a few words. They must have been from the driver. Austin realized that he had heard the shouting of a Tel Aviv taxi driver in Hebrew. The driver must have said something like "You are crazy" in his consternation over this wild tourist who fled when solicited.

The analyst's heart was racing.
He was no longer the man who had gained everybody's respect for his calmness. He was now paranoid and irrational and very scared. He needed breakfast and a place to sit for a while.

After twenty minutes of aimless walking, Austin realized that life was dawning on the streets of Tel Aviv.
The sound level steadily rose with the traffic. He was beginning to feel more at ease. He was no longer the solitary target marching the streets. Soon there would be crowds. Sanctuary.

Across the street a middle-aged businessman emerged from a stairwell th
at deposited him on the street. He carried a newspaper in one hand and the last bites of breakfast in the other. The street was lined with shops, and Austin decided to give the stairwell a try. He crossed over and descended the few steps to the front door. He was right; the door had a sign with the store hours in Hebrew and in English. He walked in and found a deli on his right and a small specialty grocery shop on his left. A man behind the deli counter walked toward the front. Austin guessed the man's age at fifty. He was short, with a recessed hairline and a rotund belly. He walked with effort.

"What
'll it be?" asked the obese man in a decidedly Brooklyn accent.

"You seem fairly sure that I'm American,"
Austin replied.

"So I was right.
Look, when you walk in with brown hair in the middle of Israel then you're American. Period. I'm going to say that you aren't even Jewish," replied the man, with a hint of a smile on his face. He had sized up his opponent and drawn his battle line.

"How can you be so sure?"
Austin wore a smile; it was a friendly war.

The man raised his forearms up to the counter and leaned forward against it.
"Look, for over twenty years l drove a taxi in Manhattan. I know, I know." He paused as he thought about his next words. "No offense, but you look like you just arrived from a country club in Connecticut. So am I right?"

Austin nodded h
is head. “I’m glad I walked in. You make me feel like I am back home. Yes, you’re right.”

"You're here on business and you've got the morning off, right?"
The man was on a roll and playing it for all it was worth. He was enjoying himself.

"Nope, first slip-up.
I'm just a tourist. What should I see while I'm here'"

"In Tel Aviv, forget it.
Go to Jerusalem and Masada. Now they're something to see. You should also see Bethlehem; it's right by Jerusalem.

"Anyway, I'm Seymour Feinberg.
And you?" Seymour extended his right hand over the counter.

"Robert Taylor.
Pleasure to meet you." Austin shook the man's hand.

"Sure.
So what would you like?" Austin started walking along the deli counter trying to decide. Seymour Feinberg continued, "You know, I came here a couple years back. My Hebrew's lousy so I wind up speaking American mostly. It's really a pleasure to hear it back."

"Do you have bagels
?"

"Sure."

"Could I have one with cream cheese?"

"You got it."
The man walked into the rear of the store and came back a minute later with a small bag. "How about orange juice? Israeli oranges aren't bad."

This decision was easy.
"Please."

Seymour reached under the counter and pulled up a small carton of orange juice. He walked to the register. “That’s 720 shekels, about two bucks at official exchange rates, one
buck on the black market.” Both men shared a laugh. The shop owner handed the analyst his change.

"Thank you.
It has truly been a pleasure talking to you," Austin stated.

"Forget it.
The pleasure is mine."

Austin started out, then turned back and hesitated a second
before speaking. "Is there an Army post close by?"

Seymour was puzzled and looked it.
He was able to reply after thinking for a few moments. "Ya. Go down the street to your left until you get to the first light. Go right to the next light. That cross-street usually has some patrols on it."

"Thanks."
Austin headed out the door.

"Good luck in whatever it is you are up to, Mr. Taylor."