Chapter 27
LOUDOUN COUNTY, VIRGINIA
IRENE Kennedy had been to wakes that were more lively.
Though the safe house was only a little over an hour northwest of DC, it might as well have been in a different world.
The residence was a ranch-style home set on several wooded acres.
White picket fences edged the front of the property, and an unassuming gravel driveway meandered from a Virginia country road to the house proper.
A pond stocked with bass coupled with an old pole barn suggested that the property’s owner was a gentleman farmer who preferred to putter around on an ancient tractor in his retirement.
Only the weathered, but still highly functional, security gate at the estate’s entrance suggested that this wasn’t just another weekend house for DC’s elite or perhaps a work in progress for a pensioned government bureaucrat.
The house’s inside was better decorated than its worn exterior might have suggested.
Better decorated and more modern. An astute observer might have noted that the glass on the residence’s windows was thicker than normal and a bit shinier.
Similarly, the door, while constructed of aged mahogany, was reinforced with steel bands.
The interior décor was homey but functional, with a wet bar, an industrial kitchen, and an espresso bar that could have been lifted from a trendy coffee shop.
The long table at which Irene sat was piled with sandwiches and an assortment of different types of hummus along with freshly baked pita bread in a nod to her guests.
This was the sort of setup designed to facilitate small talk, funny anecdotes, and personal connections.
Instead, the long expanse of polished oak brought to mind the Maginot Line. On her side of the table sat the members of her newly established intelligence fusion cell; on the opposing side, a collection of would-be friends, onetime adversaries, and potential rivals.
Or possibly all three.
When it came to the world of espionage, one could never be sure.
“Thank you for coming,” Irene said with a smile. “I know it was a long drive.”
In the National Capital Region area, as greater DC was known, almost everything was a far drive.
Though the safe house was only fifty or so miles from the District, DC’s abysmal and unpredictable traffic could turn what might take less than an hour to cover in the Midwest into the better part of a day here.
This was why the property’s bedroom suites were as well apportioned as the rest of the house.
That said, Irene didn’t relish the idea of spending the night in close proximity to her guests.
Based on their interaction thus far, someone might wake up to find a knife protruding from their back.
“We were happy to make the trip.”
The reply came from her counterpart, and though his lightly accented words conveyed the correct response, his facial expression said otherwise.
Irene could sympathize.
The greater DC area wasn’t exactly at a loss for suitable venues for a meeting like this one.
Between the ordinary-looking buildings that housed low-profile off-site offices for three-letter agencies, front companies situated in bland-looking strip malls, and the plethora of bolt-holes and safe houses, there were dozens of locations where this gathering could have been held.
And none of them would have worked.
Though she’d wished for a more auspicious start to this meeting, Irene was a firm believer in the adage of hoping for the best and planning for the worst. Many of the nearer options possessed the requisite security and privacy talk, but none were as remote.
Irene was counting on the daunting prospect of a several-hour commute back to DC to help break through the logjam.
Popping into Tysons Corner for a meeting meant that most of the workday could still be salvaged if talks went off the rails.
This wasn’t true of a trek out to the Virginia countryside.
She was hoping that the location’s distance would force the group to make progress for one simple reason.
No one would want to make the trip a second time.
“Excellent,” Irene said. “Perhaps we could start with your update? Director Stansfield said you have intelligence to share.”
The opposing delegation exchanged glances that were not particularly hard to read.
Irene didn’t speak Hebrew, but she’d spent a good part of her childhood in the Middle East. In a land in which everything was up for negotiation and shouting was the preferred method of communication, the idea of giving something without getting something in return was a hard pill to swallow.
Irene appreciated the position in which the Israelis found themselves, but on this point Stansfield had been firm—the Mossad had gotten itself into this situation thanks to the Pollard affair.
They would get themselves out.
“Of course.”
As before, the answer came from the man seated across from her, an officer who’d introduced himself as Ben Friedman.
The two delegations matched each other both numerically and biologically.
Irene’s side of the table consisted of herself; the intrepid Hannah Edwards; Brian Andrews, a case officer who had just returned from an assignment in the Middle East; and Jeff Wilson, a representative from the military’s JSOC, or Joint Special Operations Command.
Two women and two men.
She stared across the polished no-man’s-land at her contingent’s mirror image.
Friedman was her Mossad counterpart, and his deputy was a portly woman named Shira.
A second woman, Irene’s age, named Tal had been introduced as an analyst. The final man, Amnon, had an endurance athlete’s build, but there was a hardness to him that suggested his physicality came from more than just long runs.
Friedman had said the man hailed from Aman, the IDF’s military intelligence directorate.
Irene supposed this was true in the same manner that Jeff, her JSOC liaison, was a staff officer.
In reality, the man was a commando on loan from SEAL Team 6.
Judging by the way her snake eater was eyeing Amnon, he didn’t buy the official explanation for the Israeli’s presence either.
Like two wolves hunting opposing ridgelines, each of the men seemed to recognize himself in his counterpart.
Irene suspected the Israeli was actually a member of the IDF’s special operations forces.
Irene actually viewed the collection of Israeli talent as a positive sign.
Had this just been an attempt to maneuver back into American good graces, the Israelis could have sent a couple of analysts or a former agent runner well past her prime.
Instead, the delegation was populated by serious people who looked capable of doing serious things.
Maybe this would be a worthwhile endeavor after all.
“But before we get started, I’d like to clarify your position,” Friedman said.
Irene frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Forgive me for being blunt, but we were expecting someone more… senior.”
Irene succeeded in maintaining a calm expression, but she could still feel a flush creep across her face.
Friedman wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t a CIA executive or former chief of base or station.
She wasn’t even on the agency’s org chart.
She’d always looked young for her age and still was occasionally carded when she tried to purchase alcohol.
Still, she couldn’t allow herself to be rattled by the Israeli’s bluster.
This wasn’t the Department of State, where every interaction between nations was couched in diplomatic niceties.
This was the world of intelligence, where nice guys often finished last.
Or dead.
“I’m here because Director Stansfield asked me to lead this effort,” Irene said, locking gazes with the Israeli. “If you have a problem with that, then I’d suggest that your director call mine.”
Her words seemed to hang in the air for a beat as her Israeli counterpart stared back, stone-faced.
After a moment, he slowly nodded. “Very well. Perhaps we could begin by clarifying how our intelligence will be disseminated? We would like it to be restricted to Director Stansfield and his immediate staff.”
Strike two.
“Sorry, but that’s not going to happen,” Irene said.
“I can assure you that we will treat any reporting you provide with the care it deserves, paying special attention to protecting your sources and methods, just as we expect you to do with any intelligence we might provide. That aside, Director Stansfield will decide who can be read into your reporting. If this is a nonnegotiable, then I’m afraid we’ve come all this way for nothing. ”
Irene had responded as deadpan as possible, choosing to ignore the second slight embedded in the Israeli’s request, but her tone left no room for negotiation. She’d hoped that the meeting would start on friendlier territory, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t prepared for an opening power play.
Friedman looked as though he’d just bitten into something sour.
He paused again. Frowned. Then acquiesced with a wave of his hand.
“Fine. In the interest of fostering goodwill between our intelligence services, we agree to your terms, though we wish to underscore that the reporting you are about to receive comes from one of our most important assets.”
“Understood,” Irene said. “Thank you for your trust.”
Her appropriately solemn expression did not reflect the building irritation she felt toward Friedman.
Stating that the reporting came from an important asset was the intelligence officer equivalent of saying that the ocean was wet.
It was obvious and patronizing and undoubtedly designed to provoke a reaction.
Though this gathering was only minutes old, she was already beginning to understand Stansfield’s exasperation with his Mossad counterpart.