“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll inform the media of only what we want them to know. Let them know that this is an international effort. If something should ultimately go wrong, I do not want this madness to fall on our shoulders.”
The president searched the faces around him. “Per the guidelines of the Patriot Act, I want all agencies to work together on a constant basis. I want everybody on the same page. The CIA Advance Team will monitor all chat lines abroad to gather whatever intel is available and network the information to everybody involved. Is that understood?”
There was mumbled agreement.
“That’s it, people. Today you start earning your keep. So go out there and do what you do best.”
There was an immediate movement of forces, some already on cell phones instructing aides to contact international liaisons, others calling to gather a writing staff to generate material for the media.
As the Situation Room emptied, President Burroughs sat quietly digesting all that had occurred. This was strictly politics, and he recognized his own role, in spite of his subjective feelings. There was absolutely no concern about the fate of the pope. The meeting was about saving face in the eyes of the international community. The life of Pope Pius was a secondary issue.
Feeling dirty, the president closed his eyes and sighed.
CHAPTER TEN
The Hebrew word for “Institute” is Mossad, Israel’s legendary agency for collecting intelligence data and conducting covert operations. Presently, Mossad had 20,000 active agents and 15,000 sleeper agents worldwide, including operatives in the former communist countries, the Arab nations, and the west, including the United States.
Mossad’s PALD, the Political Action and Liaison Department, was responsible for maintaining liaisons with friendly foreign services by transmitting data and updating the terrorist database. On this day, the department was like an ant colony, well-constructed and orderly, the work-pace quick and efficient. Requests for information regarding the Soldiers of Islam poured in, with the Washington, D.C. branch of the FBI and the CIA at the top of the list.
Going over reports from the Research Department, Yosef Rokach sat at his desk with a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke undulating lazily through the air. In the world of espionage, he was born to Hebrew parents that were killed by Hezbollah raiders and graduated from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem within the top ten percent of his class. But in reality, he was John McEachern, an American-born citizen who grew up in an Indiana suburb without a drop of Hebrew blood coursing through his veins.
Upon his commencement from Notre Dame University, where he earned a Doctorate in Systems and Networking in the same time it took most people to earn a Bachelor’s degree, McEachern obtained an internship with the CIA. He worked at the lowest levels, not realizing that he was actually being monitored for strengths and weaknesses. When it was reported that he had an affinity for Middle-Eastern languages and digested them easily and with amazing rapidity, he was recruited as a sleeper. After four years of learning to improvise through tense situations and training his body to beat the polygraph and resist the constraints of sodium pentothal, John McEachern, born of Irish parents, was ready for the field.
So when a counterfeit profile was created and imbued into every known system within Israel’s computerized infrastructure, Yosef Rokach was born. According to all background checks, he was devout to his religion, committed to his people, and an outstanding citizen in every respect by Hebrew standards. But after seven years within Mossad, he still had not made it beyond a low-level ranking within the PALD.
Taking a final drag of his cigarette, he stubbed it out and fell back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head. The room was huge and open, with desks and monitors everywhere and not a cubicle in sight. The office boasted bomb blast glass walls and high-tech security equipment. Eye scans restricted secured areas to specific personnel. Software with facial recognition capabilities was used to identify employees on file. Everything was based on the assumption that no one could be trusted. The data handled by the office was so vital it was considered more important than a human life. And employees caught betraying the Mossad trust would find themselves before the agency’s interrogation specialists.
Yosef looked directly into a homing camera.
From all points excited chatter could be heard, the urgency behind the exchanges normally reserved for attacks against Israeli interests. But this was not the case. The pope was missing. Catholics throughout the world were calling for the intervention of anyone who could bring back the Holy Father unharmed. Mossad saw this as an opportunity to show the world that Arab hostility understood no boundaries, that the Israeli plight was now the plight of all people. Israel wished to impart to its allies a better understanding of what it’s like to live under the constant tyranny of a fanatical enemy.
From a bank of elevators that led to departments Yosef couldn’t access emerged David Gonick. Stepping from the elevator quickly, Gonick headed toward the restroom, his face thoroughly pale and ashen. He wrung his hands nervously and appeared visibly shaken, as if he had witnessed something horrible. Gonick had been another CIA installation who had infiltrated the Lohamah Psichlogit Department. Lohamah Psichlogit, also known as Literature and Publications or LAP, was responsible for psychological warfare, propaganda and deception operations. To be a member of the LAP, one had to have Q Clearance, which was limited to those few at the top of the food chain. The CIA’s infiltration of that particular level and installation of one of its own took years of maneuvering. But to see Gonick in this manner addled Yosef since Gonick was always a man of refinement under extreme pressure.
Had he been made?
Moments later Gonick returned from the rest room. Not once did he turn Yosef’s way or acknowledge him as he hastily made his way to the elevator. Upon his return, however, the knot of his tie was lowered and the top button of his shirt undone. It was a signal.
Yosef rubbed his hand vaguely over his face, sensing a long-awaited fruition. Standing, Yosef tried to look as relaxed as possible before heading for the restroom. The people around him did not take notice of his leaving. They were intimately involved in their own duties, and Yosef was just one nondescript face among many. In fact Yosef excelled at being unremarkable; he was a ghost among the living.
The restroom was empty and clean. The urinals were to the left, the toilet stalls to the right. Entering the third stall, Yosef closed the louvered door behind him and waited. While he stood there, a sense of paranoia swept over him. He breathed deeply and waited for it to pass. Quietly, he lifted the lid to the tank. Lying on the bottom of the tank, almost invisible to the naked eye, was a data stick encased in a clear jewel case. It was state-of-the-art small, but it carried a huge memory load.
Using toilet paper to wipe the case dry, he placed the stick in a special pocket within the cuff of his pants. After replacing the lid, he took a deep breath to collect himself and left the stall.
As per protocol he would decipher the data on the stick and forward it to his American associates. His value as an agent, after years of training, had simply come down to his computer skills, something he didn’t see as particularly glamorous for a spy. Yosef more or less continued to romanticize the theatrical side of espionage, envisioning himself walking along fog-laden streets late at night, meeting connections hiding in deep shadows. In truth, however, he held something more important, something far more tangible than romantic ideas. The data stick in his possession, no bigger than a human thumb, contained enough information to bring the planet to the brink of global war.