“I was told you’ve tried offering her two insiders as potential recruits.”
“Yes, without success. She has a keen nose for deception. We were hoping a different approach might produce better results. Instead of a potential recruit, a possible friend. Instead of a local Muslim, a foreigner. Instead of a man, a woman.”
It all sounded a bit desperate to Delilah, but no more so, she supposed, than other ops she’d worked on, many of which had borne fruit.
“How do I approach her?”
“I understand you’re a photographer.”
Delilah was instantly on guard. “How is that relevant?”
“Did your people not tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Your cover is that you’re here on assignment. You’re going to photograph Fatima. Is that… a problem?”
It wasn’t a problem, exactly, but she didn’t like it either. She really was a photographer, and really did freelance for various magazines, mostly covering fashion — after all, a deep cover legend had to be real if it was going to be worth anything. But it was one thing to have that legend as background for a man she met and was exploiting some other way. It was another to use it as the actual basis for a relationship with a target. They were really exposing her on this op. It was their right, she supposed, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. Or that she couldn’t question it.
“You say she has keen instincts. Don’t you think she’ll check out my story? How thoroughly am I backstopped?”
“As I understand it, you’re not just backstopped — the assignment is real. Apparently, the editor who’s hired you is some sort of CIA asset.” He moved the copy of Granta aside — discreetly, she was pleased to see — revealing a thumb drive beneath it. “I’m told you’ll find all the details in here.”
He seemed to be talking out of school. She didn’t respect it, but she couldn’t help being curious. “A CIA asset?” she said, pocketing the drive.
“Yes, it’s all fairly aboveboard, or nearly so, anyway, if you look at it just right. When the government or some corporate interest needs coverage of a certain topic or location, they pitch the idea to various media contacts, offering to bankroll the story if the editor agrees to it. No pressure, of course. But the financial backing reduces to zero the risk of running a story, so unless the topic is a complete nonstarter, the editor always bites. Not so remarkable, really — just another version of the usual access-in-exchange-for-favorable-coverage arrangement we all depend on from the establishment media.”
“Still, an exchange of favors is one thing. A cash payment is another.”
“Oh, I don’t know. There are all kinds of prostitution, after all. Not all of them involve cash, strictly speaking.”
Delilah wondered how much he knew of her role with Mossad, and whether his reference to prostitution was deliberate.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I’m sure most of the editors in question believe that in exchanging these favors and taking these payments they’re not even compromising their journalistic integrity and independence. And who knows? Maybe they’re not. In the end, we’re all doing God’s work.”
She couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or facetious. Or if he even knew the difference. “How do I make contact?”
“That should be easy enough. The U.S. defense secretary is in town tomorrow for a meeting with the prime minister. There’s going to be a rally against U.S. drone attacks to greet him. Fatima is one of the featured speakers. Details on the thumb drive. Also available on the website of the Stop the War Coalition and on several Facebook pages advertising the rally.”
“A terrorist, at an anti-drone rally?”
“Yes, why not? No reason she can’t use legitimate dissent to obscure its more extreme versions, when you think about it.”
“Where will it be held?”
“Along Whitehall, between Downing Street and Parliament. Noon. They’re looking for publicity, you know. It should be a perfect opportunity for you.”
“A photo shoot ordinarily lasts a few hours. Maybe a day. You really expect I’m going to learn something actionable in that time frame?”
“I don’t expect anything. Management devised this op. You and I are only here to make the best of what they’ve come up with. But if I were in your shoes? I’d use the time I spent shooting her, if you manage to get that far, befriending her. Turn the assignment into more than one shoot. Maybe a ‘one month in the life of a London peace activist,’ something like that. You’re very alluring, you know. I imagine it’s why they selected you. Bait the hook properly, and she’ll bite.” He smiled. “I know I would.”
What he’d suggested made sense. She ignored the last part, which she understood was intended as a volley he was hoping she might return.
“I need to know what you know about her relationship with her brother. How you think they stay in contact. How she sends people to him.”
“Sorry, why?”
“How else will I know whether what I’m able to observe myself is even relevant? I need a framework.”
“I’m afraid what little we know has been obtained through national technical means. The idea is, you and I will meet and debrief regularly. We’ll go through everything you’ve observed. We can put together your personal observations with what my people have already learned.”
She didn’t even bother to respond. It was hardly new, but still, the way ostensibly allied intelligence agencies focused on protecting information from each other rather than sharing so as to maximize the chances of success never failed to disgust her.
He must have known what she was thinking, because he said, “Look, I realize it’s stupid. Orders are orders and all that, but still, I’ll have to ask you some very leading questions during the course of our debriefs. It would hardly be my fault if you were able to deduce from my questions exactly what sort of information my organization already has. In fact, one of the things I’m quite certain I’ll be asking about is whether you ever see Fatima using a phone not her own. A separate mobile unit, for example. Or one borrowed from a friend. Or a public booth. All right?”
She nodded. It was too early to know whether he really was motivated to find ways around the bureaucracy, or whether he was just pretending so she would come to trust him, feeling they were somehow allied against a common enemy. Or maybe it was both.
“And one other thing,” he said. “Just an aside, really, because I shouldn’t go out of my way to make you understand it’s important. She has a laptop.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“More or less, yes. Fatima’s is a MacBook Air, and it’s encrypted. If she were to use it in front of you, and you were to catch a glimpse of a password… that sort of thing. Remember, you didn’t hear it from me.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just how compartmentalized did these people want to keep things? So much they were willing to jeopardize the success of the op? Apparently so.
“How do you and I stay in touch?” she said.
“My mobile number is on the thumb drive. Memorize it, and use it anytime from a public phone. Give me yours, and I’ll do the same. That way, each of us can contact the other without establishing any direct electronic paper trail between us. There are eight different locations on the thumb drive. Numbered one through eight, naturally. The first five are for live meets; the last three are dead-drops. When you call me, just say the number of the one you want to use.”