The large blue screen on the wall came to life. Menachem Aurbach sat at a desk wearing an open-collared white button-down. The man was seventy-two years old, and he had a thick neck and a thicker gut, but he also was in possession of a ruddy complexion and a coiffed black mane that was only peppered with strands of silver. His visage was tired and sullen, but Carmichael expected nothing else, because as long as he’d known the Mossad man, Aurbach had always looked as if he’d just been awakened from a deep sleep and told that his dog had died.
Carmichael and Aurbach had first met in a bomb shelter in Beirut in 1985, both intelligence officers representing their countries during Lebanon’s insane seventeen-faction civil war. Denny was new at CIA at the time, but he’d already spent over a decade in military intelligence, so he and the rugged Mossad officer worked well together in those instances when CIA and Mossad found themselves in close operational relationships.
Carmichael and Aurbach had kept the relationship up in the nineties, and then after 9/11 they worked even more closely together. Carmichael became station chief in Hong Kong, then was promoted to head the CIA’s Special Activities Division, a hard-charging unit of paramilitary officers that was called on constantly during the War on Terror. After several years running SAD, he was promoted again, this time to run the entire National Clandestine Service.
As high up on the American intelligence food chain as Carmichael was, Menachem Aurbach had reached even loftier realms in the Mossad, becoming the head of Israeli Intelligence several years earlier.
Denny hadn’t spoken to Aurbach in months, and that meant this would normally be the time for pleasantries about health and family, but Carmichael wasn’t in a pleasant mood. “What do you know, Manny?”
Aurbach spoke in a voice graveled by six decades of smoking. “I know that we owe you an apology. We had access to your man Gentry, but we let him slip between our fingers, and it appears he has escaped into your area of operations.”
Carmichael responded, “The imprecision in your words is a concern. First off, Gentry isn’t my man. He’s my target. And D.C. isn’t my AO. It’s my damn home. CIA doesn’t run ops here.”
Aurbach raised an eyebrow, an act that looked like it took a significant amount of his low energy. “I imagine that will change immediately, in light of what I am about to tell you.”
“Talk.”
“As you know, Mr. Gentry recently saved the life of our prime minister. An inconsequential thing to me, really, as I don’t have a high regard for politicians. But one of my top people was appreciative, and he single-handedly arranged for Mr. Gentry’s escape from Europe. We only found out about this today. It goes without saying that I have detained my officer for further questioning.”
“How did Gentry get out of Europe?”
“Via container ship leaving out of the Portuguese city of Aveiro. We tracked the boat, but by the time we began looking for it, it was already in your Chesapeake Bay. Of course we reached out to your office instantly, but we suspect Mr. Gentry would have had time to make his way off the ship and onto shore.”
Carmichael took his time controlling his fury, then he said, “I take it your man was unaware of Gentry’s importance?”
“He’d been told Mr. Gentry was wanted by the CIA. He’d been warned the man was both formidable and an enemy to both of our nations.”
“And that’s it?”
At the conference table, several people looked at one another in confusion. Jordan Mayes, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the back and forth between the two veteran spies.
Aurbach said, “He did not know specifics of Gentry’s crimes.”
Carmichael rubbed his eyes under his glasses and leaned back in his chair. “Well, Manny, you’ve handed me one hell of a shit sandwich, haven’t you? I’m not exactly sure how you can help me from over there, other than to shake down that traitor of yours to glean any scrap of intel you can get.”
If Aurbach did not like the characterization of his subordinate, he gave no hint of it on his face, but he replied, “My officer is no traitor to his country. He rewarded the man who prevented the decapitation of our government. Having said that, I will question him personally to find out everything he knows, after giving him some days in solitary detention to soften him up.”
“I hope you are thorough.”
Aurbach’s tired face tightened a bit. “Mossad doesn’t need any tips on interrogation from CIA. I’ll let you know what I find out.” Aurbach leaned a little closer to the camera. “In the meantime . . . I suggest you lock your doors tonight. I’ve read the after-action reports regarding the swath of destruction this former asset of yours burned through Europe last month. He is quite the talented killing machine. I would not want him mad at me.” Aurbach leaned back with a smile and reached for a button on the desk console in front of him. “My love to Eleanor.” He punched the button and the feed went dead.
Carmichael paid no attention to the others in the conference room. Instead he exhaled, looking off into space. “Fucking Manny.”