“Well, that’s simply because all agencies in Israel work in collusion with one another. Information gathered is accumulated into a single informational body. And, of course, data from Mossad is often shared with the Attaché and vice versa.”
“I understand that, but my question is why would Mossad send encrypted data on low-level documents such as dossiers, knowing that valuable time is being wasted trying to decode encryptions that our equipment can only fractionalize?“
“You’d have to ask Mossad.”
“But it’s your name that’s attached to the encryptions. I thought maybe you could help me break this down.”
Obadiah looked steadily at Shari. His fingers continued to stroke the scar on his chin.
“Mossad sent you information that was attached to the body of text regarding the Soldiers of Islam but not specifically related to it,” he said. “The reason why it’s encrypted is because the non-related issues hold no value for you or your investigation. Only for Mossad. Therefore, Mossad makes decipherable only the information your agency asks to see.”
“But why would Mossad attach such data to the body of information regarding the Soldiers of Islam if the data itself is not related to the topic? That doesn’t make sense.”
Obadiah was losing patience. She was pressing him, and hard.
“The encryptions are somewhat similar to your Freedom of Information Act, which, if I may candidly say, is a joke since more than seventy-five percent of your government’s documents are blacked out before they reach the public eye, leaving the balance of the information useless.” Obadiah set his eyes on the CD. “The encryptions work on the same principle.”
“Then it does have something to do with the Soldiers of Islam. Something you wanted blacked out.” She leaned forward. “Mr. Obadiah, we’re talking about three pages of encryptions here. I need you to tell me what’s on those pages.”
His black eyes snapped at her, then back to the disc. “Those three pages contain nothing regarding the Soldiers of Islam. That is the truth.”
“Then what does it contain?”
“Information that is not for your eyes, so if I may have the disc—” He reached for it, but her arm reacted with the quickness of a serpent’s strike as she snatched it from the desktop.
Obadiah shook his head in response, thinking her action to be juvenile. Then, coldly, he said, “That information is the property of the Israeli government.”
“That was given freely to the American government.”
After a slight hesitation he waved his hands at her. “No matter,” he said. “The data cannot be decoded by your software, as you have already stated.”
She placed the CD in her purse, hardly believing the turn in the conversation. One moment he was congenial, the next he was distant and uncooperative. “You still want to be evasive as to what’s on this disc, Mr. Obadiah?”
“As a representative of the Israeli government, I’ll file a grievance with your government if you wish to pursue this further. We gave you the requested data regarding the Soldiers of Islam in good faith. And now you wish to hold us accountable for the part of the informational body that, as I have already expressed to you, has nothing to do with the terrorist regime.”
“Mr. Obadiah, we both know you’re being vague for a reason. What that reason is I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. If you wish to file a grievance, then do so.”
Obadiah didn’t move from his chair as Shari stood.
“I’ll see myself out, thank you.”
The man had no intention of showing her the way but added one last comment. “I will get that disc, Ms. Cohen.”
“That’s between you and my government. So have fun with your grievance.”
As she was leaving, Team Leader once again traced the tips of his fingers across the blemish of his scar.
He now had a thorn to contend with.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Shari was frustrated beyond belief. Her meeting with Abraham Obadiah didn’t go as planned, and she was no closer to decoding the CD than when she first received it.
As she left the building, she examined the CD and let out a guttural moan of annoyance that drew the attention of those within ten feet of her.
After picking up her weapon from the gatekeeper armory, she drove back to the JEH Building and parked the car. For a moment she fought back tears, overwhelmed with frustration. When she finally gained her composure, she grabbed her purse, got out of the car and made her way to the elevator.
After speaking with Obadiah, Shari felt uncertain of the affinity between Mossad and the American government. With Mossad being the proxy eyes and ears of American espionage in the Middle East, Obadiah could have enough pull to reclaim the disc. In case she did have to turn over the original, she had to secure the backup CD.
Obadiah may get one disc, but not both. Shari was determined not to relinquish the data unless a direct order from the Chief Commander required her to surrender all forms of data contained on the disc for the sake of political camaraderie.
Before heading to her desk, Shari went to the vault and quickly punched in her PIN code. When the bolts pulled back and the door opened, she zeroed in on the correct aisle and shelf and retrieved the backup CD.
The jewel case felt good in her hands; the disc shined like a newly minted coin. Even if Obadiah filed a grievance, she still had this.
When she returned to her desk she immediately loaded the CD. What came up on the monitor caused her heart to hitch in her chest.
The data was gone.
“No, no, no…” She tapped furiously on the keyboard, trying to pull something up, anything. And then the realization set in that the CD held no data to recover. It was simply blank. It was possible that the disc was improperly burned, but she highly doubted that. And with these discs bearing embedded codes that cannot be duplicated, she was down to the original disc, which she would somehow have to safeguard before it ended up being appropriated.
Apparently, Abraham Obadiah’s influence ran deep within the American government, she thought. He was capable of getting results, and quickly.
More than ever, Shari was suspect.
For a long time she sat there staring at the blank screen, stewing over the possibility that the American government was involved in a cover-up.
Abraham Obadiah sat in the embassy’s conference room with captains of industry from Russia, Venezuela and Israel. Under normal circumstances, collaboration amongst this group would be a geopolitical impossibility, given the anti-American sentiments of the Russians and Venezuelans and their open disdain for American allies. But on this day, commerce took precedence over prejudice.
The conference room was designed to be impervious to information appropriation, devoid of any listening devices.
There were three representatives from Russia, two from Venezuela, and four from Israel. All held an air of self-importance.
“Gentlemen, please, the news is good,” said Obadiah. “We’re on track with the cause, and everything is running smoothly.”
Vladimir Ostrosky, a reigning member of the Russian Parliament, examined Obadiah, with studious eyes, trying to penetrate his veneer. He found the man enigmatic and difficult to read. “According to our sources,” Ostrosky said, “that is not entirely true.”
“Really? And what exactly are your sources telling you?”
Ostrosky leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. Slowly and deliberately, he clasped his hands and interlocked his fingers. “I’m told, Mr. Obadiah, that a certain agent from the FBI is looking into corners where she should not be looking.”