So, for hours, Gideon answered Volynskji's questions. All of them were directed at him, not Ruth. And the majority were about the old man with the cane and the safe house in New Jersey. Volynskji's questions confirmed Gideon's suspicion that they were Israelis. The name "Chaviv Tischler" belonged to that old man, who was so interested in their conversation in the restaurant. The way Volynskji talked about the man, Tischler was a high ranking member of Israeli intelligence. That didn't surprise Gideon.
What surprised Gideon was the fact that Volynskji didn't ask him one question about the Colonel and the U.S. government officials who had questioned them.
Maybe he already knew all he needed from that. The thought chilled Gideon. It implied that his own government's security was compromised way beyond what Tischler had implied. The Colonel and his people knew that Zimmerman was out there, and should know the extent that compromised them. They would be taking active steps to conceal their movements from the perceived threat. If Volynskji knew the contents of those debriefings—and the focus of his own questions implied that— despite the Colonel's precautions, these people—these terrorists—had penetrated the government far beyond what anyone suspected.
Volynskji kept at the questions until the answers became incoherent because of exhaustion. After that, the guard came in and led them to another room, higher in the building, and locked them in. There was a small window on one wall, an oval about a foot in its longest dimension. The only light came from the moon reflecting off of snow on the sill.
3.03 Fri. Mar. 26
L awrence Fitzsimmons was in his office early before the President's daily—and lately, embarrassing—intelligence briefing. He was drinking coffee and looking out at the sunrise, when the intercom buzzed.
"Mr. Fitzsimmons? There's a gentleman here to see you."
That in itself was odd. For an unscheduled visitor to get to his office, he would have to pass through four people after building security. Each one had to make an independent decision whether the visitor was worth the director's attention. That usually took a while, so seeing anyone before eight was a rarity.
He told them to send the man in. Obviously someone thought it was worth his while.
He turned his chair around and tried to hide his surprise as Chaviv Tischler walked into his office.
The old man leaned on his cane and smiled. "I've heard a rumor that you're retiring. If that's true, it would be a loss."
Fitzsimmons sipped his coffee and shook his head.
"You aren't here to discuss my retirement plans, are you? Or are you recruiting?"
"May I sit?"
Fitzsimmons nodded and put down his coffee.
"I'm here to discuss a current problem of yours. Or to be more precise, to enlighten you about it."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
Tischler nodded. "And I am certain you do. I know, for instance, that your sudden noises about retirement have to do with this problem. I know that there have been serious differences between parts of your intelligence community about dealing with it. I know that there is a high-ranking member of the NSA, a Colonel Mecham, under 'protective' custody."
Fitzsimmons leaned back. "Is this some bizarre fishing expedition, Tischler? You know better than to expect me to make some sort of comment about whatever theories you're spinning, much less discuss them with you."
Tischler shook his head. "Fishing? No, quite the opposite." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jewel case with a golden CD inside it. "I'm here to cast some bread upon the waters." He placed the disk on the desk in front of Fitzsimmons.
Fitzsimmons looked at the disk. The early morning light was just beginning to leak into his office, and it caught the CD, casting rainbows across its surface. Fitzsimmons didn't believe in hunches or in premonitions, but he looked at that disk and realized that he felt extremely uneasy about it. In fact, he was afraid of it.
Fitzsimmons remained leaning back in his chair. He didn't reach for the disk. Instead he asked, "What is
it?"
"Something you should know about an organization known as the International Unification Front. I presume they have something, a number of somethings, that you are looking for."
Fitzsimmons looked at Tischler, then down on the desk. He could believe what Tischler said. The Israelis still had one of the most capable regional intelligence networks in the world. There was little question that they'd have knowledge about the IUF that the U.S. didn't. The question running through Fitzsimmons' mind was, why this? Why now?
He leaned forward, still not reaching for the disk. "If you want to share intelligence, why aren't you relying on normal channels? There are liaisons for just such things." Fitzsimmons motioned to the disk, the first time he'd acknowledged it.
Tischler shook his head. "There are reasons not to trust those channels. I suspect you know that, at least partially."
Fitzsimmons was careful to keep his expression neutral. The evil premonition wouldn't go away.
Tischler had revealed information that was damaging to the Israelis just by being here. Just allowing Fitzsimmons to suspect the depth of the intelligence the Israelis had about Zimmerman—when they shouldn't, in fact, have any—was threatening to Israel's own security. The admission that they knew anything about this, so-far domestic, "problem" was a diplomatic disaster.
Tischler knew that reports—some probably already being written by the security people who let him in— would come out of Fitzsimmons' office, detailing this meeting. The reports would go to the President, and would probably chill U.S.-Israeli relations for the rest of Rayburn's term.
Fitzsimmons looked at Tischler and asked, "Do your superiors know you're here?"
Tischler nodded. "I've been requesting authority to do this ever since this problem came to my attention. This problem of yours is a direct threat to our national security—but involving ourselves in this, any substantial commitment, would be a delicate matter."
Fitzsimmons thought to himself, Holy shit, did he actually admit to considering a covert action on U.S. soil? He looked at the CD in front of him.
Tischler followed his gaze. "I see you grasp the severity of the matter. I finally convinced my superiors that it was best that we give you what we know." He placed a hand on the case and slid it forward as he stood. "You cannot effectively deal with what is happening without this information. For reasons that will become apparent, it must be delivered directly to you. Read and digest it thoroughly before you act to disseminate this information, to anyone."
Tischler moved to go and Fitzsimmons was almost tempted to call building security to restrain him. He didn't. There was no need to provoke more of an international incident than they already had.
Instead, Fitzsimmons asked, "What's on this disk?"
Tischler turned and asked, "Why was Morris Kendal killed?"
"What?"
"Morris Kendal was assassinated because he was close to realizing what that disk contains. I think you will also find some interesting facts about the agent—Christoffel his name was, I believe—who handled him."
With that, Tischler left.
Fitzsimmons picked up the disk Tischler left him and looked at it. He knew, in his gut, that there was something very nasty here.
At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, a helicopter took off from Andrews Air Force Base. The helicopter was a military model, but it bore no service markings. It was simply painted a drab olive color. The copter was owned by the CIA, part of a large black budget that no one person had clearance to see completely itemized. The two pilots were both CIA, or at least both of them had been at one point. They were paid out of the same black account as the helicopter.