Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (21 page)

Lenka Yevtushenko.

“Where to?”

“To the organization he’s working with.”

“It was Mossad all along?”

Will shrugged. “I can’t answer that until you speak openly. What was Rübner’s intelligence?”

The station head ran a hand over his face. “The identity of Mossad agents operating on U.S. soil. It’s been gold dust and has enabled us to round them up and put them in prison.”

Will laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

Patrick added, “Yeah, I’d like to know the answer to that as well.”

Will’s expression changed. He felt that things were starting to make sense. “When did you supply confirmation that Rübner was a Mossad officer?”

Geoffrey answered, “Approximately six months ago. He must have been recruited within days of us supplying that information, because that’s when we got the first stream of intelligence.”

“How did you know he was an Israeli operative?”

“Because seven years ago he’d been posted to Brussels; the slot he took is a known Mossad cover. Plus his name was attached to a joint operation we did with the Israelis four years ago. He was billed as a political liaison officer, but we could smell he was an operative.” He sighed. “The U.S. wasn’t the only customer for Rübner intel. We shared it with the Brits as well. And they had independent confirmation of Rübner’s Mossad credentials.”

“He was selling out U.K.-based Israeli agents?”

“Correct. Via MI6, Rübner’s intelligence reports were supplied to MI5.”

Will shook his head. “What a cock-up.”

The two senior CIA officers stared at him, expectant.

Will rubbed his eyes. “You need to call your counterpart in Mossad and tell him that Simon Rübner is a CIA asset.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, no way.” Patrick placed a hand on Will’s forearm and gripped it tight. “No fucking way!”

Will ignored the fact that Patrick was pressing his fingers deep into his arm. “Do it. And I think you’ll find out something quite surprising.”

Geoffrey’s eyes were wide. “No. We can’t betray a CIA agent!”

Patrick released his grip on Will’s arm and thrust a finger against his chest. “And even if we did something as crazy as that, we could be playing right into their hands by telling them that we know this was a Mossad operation.”

Will shook his head. “Rübner’s no longer a CIA agent. And whatever he was doing for the CIA, I’m certain it wasn’t set up by Mossad. Even if they had a requirement to get hold of an SVR officer, they would never have floated Rübner in front of the CIA with the remit to reveal the identities of their U.S. and U.K. agents.”

Patrick lowered his finger. “I agree with that.”

Geoffrey mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “So do I. In the United States, Rübner’s intel has enabled the arrest of fifteen Mossad spies; twice as many are under FBI surveillance. The Brits have got their claws into a similar number.” He pocketed his handkerchief. “But even though we might be able to rule out that this was an Israeli operation, we most certainly know for a
fact
that Rübner was working for us. And that fact cannot be disclosed to Mossad.”

“It’s going to have to be, in order for us to get closer to the truth.” Will looked at Patrick. “
Please
. Back me on this.”

“I can’t!”

“Please. It’s the right thing to do.”

“God damn you. You can’t ask me to do this.”

“I already have.”

Patrick stared at him. After a long silence, he muttered, “You’re taking one
hell
of a risk.”

“I know.”

Patrick was motionless for twenty seconds. While looking at the ceiling, he said in a loud, authoritative voice, “As the most senior officer in this room, I’m making the decision that Mossad should be made aware that Simon Rübner has been a CIA agent. If that decision is the wrong one, then I fully accept that I and I alone should suffer the consequences.” He lowered his head, looked straight at Geoffrey. “I’m instructing you to make the call.”

Geoffrey appeared taken aback, and spoke imploringly. “Patrick, this is wrong. You could be—”

“Do it!”

Geoffrey picked up the handset of one of the phones, held his fingers over the keypad, and glanced at Will. “Patrick clearly has a huge amount of faith in your judgment. I hope you respect that.”

He pressed numbers, held the phone to his head, waited, spoke fluent Hebrew to whoever was on the end of the line, and was silent for thirty seconds. No doubt the person he needed to speak to in Mossad was being summoned to the phone. He spoke again, his tone hushed, his words quick and urgent. The call lasted ten minutes. By the time the Head of Tel Aviv Station placed the handset down, his face was covered with perspiration.

“Indeed the Rübner case has been an
almighty
cock-up.” Geoffrey looked at Will. “Simon Rübner moved to New York six months ago with his wife and teenage daughter, one week after he’d resigned from Mossad.”

Patrick exclaimed, “He’s no longer Mossad? You’re sure?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Since then, the Israelis have been trying to ascertain who’s been compromising its U.S. and U.K. agents. Rübner’s been at the top of its list of suspects, given the timings of his departure and the first round of arrests, and the fact that the identity of every compromised agent was known to Rübner. Mossad’s been trying to track him down so that it can have a very blunt chat with him. A month ago it found out that Rübner had been in the States, but by then it was too late because he’d done his disappearing act. Mossad’s got no idea where he is now.”

Patrick looked at Will. “You suspected this to be the case?”

Will nodded. “That’s why I needed the call to be made.” He stared at nothing. “It was a clever setup. Simon Rübner moved to New York immediately after he left Mossad. Somehow, he deliberately made himself visible to the CIA, who then asked Geoffrey’s station to do a trace on him. The result suggested he was still a serving officer. CIA thinks for whatever reason that Rübner might be able to be recruited, and that cash is the best carrot. It approaches him using a deniable cover company called Gerlache. Almost immediately, it gets him to pass them secrets, then it declares that in truth it’s CIA. He agrees to continue working for them but only on one condition—that he can pretend to Mossad that
he’s
recruited a CIA officer. After all, he tells them, that’s what he’s in America to do. Terms are struck. The CIA gives Rübner chickenfeed U.S. intelligence . . .”

“Congress would need to approve every piece of intelligence supplied to Rübner.”

Specifically, that approval would come from the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence—an organization created in 1976 after Congress had investigated CIA operations on U.S. soil and established that some had been illegal. The SSCI comprised fifteen senators who were drawn from the two major political parties and whose remit included oversight of U.S. intelligence activities and ensuring transparency between the intelligence community and Congress.

Will agreed with Patrick. “And in return, Rübner continues giving them gold dust secrets—the identities of the Israeli agents. But he does it drip feed.” He looked sharply at Geoffrey. “Correct?”

“Correct. The agents were being sold out one by one, over a five-month time frame.”

“And
that’s
what’s so funny.” Will frowned. “And smart, for that matter. You’d have expected the CIA to be getting intelligence from Rübner on ongoing Mossad operations. But Rübner couldn’t give them that, because he was out of the loop, though his knowledge of U.S. and U.K. Mossad agents was still very relevant. He used that knowledge as a smoke screen to hide the fact that he simply didn’t know stuff that an officer in his position should. Drip-feeding it to them was crucial, because he had to get the CIA to the point where it would break rules to keep him on their books.” Will placed the tips of his fingers together. “That moment came around one month ago, at which point he ups the ante and says he knows the CIA has got a huge team of analysts covering Russia, that Mossad is struggling on the Russian target, that he needs to know the identity of an SVR officer who the CIA is certain would betray secrets. Maybe the CIA’s reluctant to help at first. Maybe Rübner threatens them that if they don’t give him what he wants, he’ll clam up. Careers and reputations are now resting on the Rübner intel. Knowing that the SSCI would never approve the sacrifice of a Russian CIA agent, Rübner’s case officer and his colleagues secretly give Rübner the name of the SVR officer I’m now looking for.”

Patrick shook his head, his expression somber. “And Rübner takes that name and runs, his objective complete. You think Simon Rübner is the man behind everything you’re working on?”

“Possibly, though my feeling is that I’m dealing with someone at a much higher level. And I’m wondering if it was
that
person who approached the SVR officer and told him that he had to do a job for him or else he would tell the SVR that he’d been working for the CIA. That man gave the Russian his name, a covert communications drill for them to be in contact, and some very specific instructions.” He was now thinking aloud. “Shortly thereafter, the SVR officer does what he’s told by stealing an extremely valuable piece of paper and escaping to Poland. But a day or two before then, he decides to find out who he’s dealing with. He trawls through SVR databases and stumbles across one report. It’s brief, and contains purely logistical detail pertaining to a meeting that happened in 1995. He prints it off, smuggles it out of SVR HQ, and hides it in his home.” He nodded. “One of the names on that report is the name of the man who approached him, the man who paid Rübner a lot of cash to leave Mossad and set himself up in New York, the individual who orchestrated everything.”

He recalled the two names referenced in the SVR document he’d found in Yevtushenko’s house.

Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev.

Kurt Schreiber.

He was now certain that one of them was the man who called himself William.

He sighed. “It’s a real pity you don’t know the identity of Rübner’s CIA case handlers.”

Geoffrey shrugged. “Even if I did, sounds like they’d have no idea where Rübner’s at right now.” He frowned. “There is one guy who’ll know their identity.”

Will leaned forward, expectant.

“He’s one of yours—MI6. Up until recently, he was based in the British embassy in Washington, acting under first-secretary cover though he was fully declared to us, operating as liaison to my side of the fence. Specifically, he was the only Brit who was allowed to handle the Rübner intelligence.”

“How do you know his identity?”

“He’s always been listed on the intelligence reports’ distribution lists, together with the instruction that any inquiries related to U.K. actions resulting from Rübner’s intel should be directed to him.”

Will’s mind raced. Such an individual would have made it his business to ensure that the Rübner intelligence was accurate, and that meant he would certainly have interacted with his CIA handlers. “What’s his name?”

Geoffrey drummed his fingers, clearly trying to remember. “Got it. Like the Greek island—Rhodes. Peter Rhodes.”

“Rhodes!” Patrick’s face flushed red with anger.

Will’s heart sank. “You’re sure?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

Will didn’t answer.

Nor did Patrick.

Both were in shock.

Rhodes had never mentioned his involvement in the Rübner case.

And such involvement could only mean one thing.

Peter Rhodes was the traitor who’d supplied the CIA unit with his name and address.

Thirty-One

D
ark clouds hung over Frankfurt as Kronos walked along Töngesgasse carrying a canvas overnight bag. He entered an Internet café, ordered a coffee, and purchased thirty minutes of Web use. Choosing a terminal at the far end of the establishment, he ensured that his screen could not be seen by any of the café’s other occupants, then logged on.

Within seconds, he was staring at Holland’s AIS air traffic control website. He clicked Online Flight Plan
,
then filled in the user name and password—information he’d stolen from the KLM pilot he’d followed from the Frankfurt airport to the city’s Westin Grand hotel. The man had been sleeping while Kronos had sat on the other side of the room and used the pilot’s BlackBerry to load the AIS website, click on the Forgot Password button, read the subsequent AIS e-mail reminding him of his password details, and then delete the mail.

He’d been certain that the pilot would be registered with the site, a portal that was only available to Dutch nationals who were involved in Holland’s aviation industry. But if it’d turned out that the pilot wasn’t an existing member, Kronos would have used his name, passport number, and aviation ID to register. There’d been no need—the man had been a member since he’d earned his wings five years ago.

Kronos took a swig of his coffee as he was directed to a new page. After entering a date, he stared at the information before him. One entry told him exactly what he needed to know.

After logging out of the site and deleting his Internet browsing history, he exited the café. Forty minutes later, he was standing in a pay phone in Frankfurt Hauptwache train station. He called a number in Holland, gave the man who answered six letters followed by the number he was calling from, then hung up. Five seconds later the pay phone rang.

He answered and spoke to the man for two minutes before concluding, “I may have to fire a lot of rounds, so you’ll need to make large custom magazines. But it’s crucial the magazine doesn’t unbalance the weapon.”

He called another Dutch number, repeated the same security routine with six different letters, and when the man called him back he gave him precise instructions, ending with “No bigger than a lighter. And I’ll need spares to test their effect.”

Replacing the handset, he walked briskly across the concourse and boarded a train headed to Stuttgart. As the train pulled out, a couple and their two young children paused by the empty seats in front of him. The mother said to Kronos, “Everywhere back there’s full. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“I must warn you though—my kids are on a high because we took them to the zoo today. I’d understand if you’d prefer quieter companions.”

Kronos laughed. “I’ve got twins. I can sleep through anything. Please, take the seats.”

He closed his eyes. Soon he’d be back in the Black Forest and home with
his
children. And no doubt
they’d
be on a high when they saw him. After he cuddled his sons, he’d pretend to be stern with them and say that they needed to finish their homework before their bath time. If they were good, his reward would be the two nineteenth-century German wooden soldier toys he’d bought them.

He imagined their faces lighting up as they unwrapped the brown paper packaging and looked at the Prussian guards.

The soldiers’ faces were stoic, noble, with integrity. They looked like they had a job to do.

Just as he did.

He thought about some of the most challenging assassinations he’d conducted. None of them had been as complex as the one he was now planning.

But that didn’t matter, because he knew exactly what he was doing and was in no doubt that he’d be able to get close enough to his target to smell the man’s fear.