Chapter 27 #2
“We assess with a high degree of confidence that Saddam Hussein is preparing to move part of his stockpile of chemical weapons from Iraq to Syria.”
This time Irene forced her face into a blank expression for a different reason.
Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction had become something of a polarizing topic within the intelligence community.
While irrefutable evidence existed that the dictator had possessed chemical weapons, since he’d used them on his own people, the Kurds, and even the Iranians during the Iran-Iraq War, whether those armaments still existed wasn’t as clear.
In a welcome surprise, Hussein had only employed conventional weapons during the Gulf War.
Some thought this restraint was because Hussein knew that opening that particular Pandora’s box against American troops would result in his extinction.
Others believed that the dictator hadn’t used the weapons of mass destruction because he no longer had them.
According to this school of thought, Hussein had either exhausted his supplies and sanctions had prohibited him from obtaining the precursors to make more, or, fearing an invasion and occupation by allied forces, he’d destroyed them.
Irene wasn’t sure which side of this divide she came down on. While there were certainly overlaps between her focus on Islamic terrorism and the Hussein regime, the dictator wasn’t someone to whom she’d devoted much thought.
Until now.
“Interesting,” Irene said. “Can you provide context to that reporting?”
Friedman dipped his head. “We have an asset in the Iraqi DGS. From time to time, the DGS replaces the guards at the Al Waleed border crossing with their own officers in order to provide security for a select group of smugglers who are charged with transporting particularly sensitive cargo between Iraq and Syria.”
Hannah Edwards leaned forward. “What sort of sensitive cargo?”
“The kind prohibited by sanctions. Usually, this takes the form of elicit Iraqi oil heading to Syria, but sometimes these ratlines are used to move spare parts for Soviet-era military equipment.”
“Do you interdict these shipments?” Jeff said.
The SEAL’s question generated a flurry of Hebrew from the Israeli delegation.
The man she’d pegged as a commando, Amnon, forcefully made a point with which the heavyset woman, Shira, seemed to disagree.
Tal, the analyst, tried to interject in a more measured voice, but she was quickly drowned out by the other two.
Just when Irene thought the torrent of angry-sounding words might devolve into a free-for-all, Friedman raised his hand and shouted.
To the uninitiated, the scene might have suggested that her counterparts were ready to come to blows. Irene knew better.
This was just Israelis being Israelis.
“As you can see,” Friedman said, “there’s disagreement among my team about what I’m about to say, but as a show of our commitment to this joint venture, I’m going to reveal an extremely sensitive aspect of an operation. We do interdict these convoys, but we don’t stop the flow of material.”
Friedman gave Irene an expectant look, seemingly imploring her to read between the lines. For a moment, she didn’t get it. Then she did. He was trying to bridge the divide in his delegation by dropping hints without explicitly giving away the Mossad’s tradecraft.
Irene understood.
Unfortunately, Hannah did not.
“You’re replacing the spare parts with ones you’ve altered,” Hannah said. “That’s why the Iraqi military’s operational readiness rate is so low. It’s not just poor maintenance or lack of replacement parts. You’re substituting parts that are engineered to fail for the good components.”
The analyst smiled as if she’d just solved the Saturday New York Times crossword.
The Israeli delegation did not share her merriment.
Friedman’s expression could most charitably be described as grim, while Amnon looked ready to tear someone limb from limb.
A thundercloud had taken up residence on Shira’s face.
Only Tal looked unbothered. In fact, the slender woman acknowledged Hannah with a tilt of her head as if recognizing herself in her American counterpart.
Another tirade of Hebrew erupted from the commando, with Shira jumping in to emphasize a point or two. Irene was kicking herself. As a good-faith gesture, she had not activated the hidden mics, which would have recorded this conversation, and neither had she brought a translator.
Apparently, she still had a bit to learn about running joint operations.
Once again, Friedman intervened before the argument could reach critical mass.
In typical Israeli fashion, he ended the discussion by speaking over his counterparts until he smothered their objections.
After a final lo, lo, lo, even Amnon gave up the fight.
Irene’s knowledge of Hebrew was sparse enough to be almost nonexistent, but she understood that word.
No.
A fairly accurate characterization of the meeting so far.
“Please excuse us,” Friedman said with a forced smile. “We are a loud people.”
Irene didn’t doubt this was true, but she was a good-enough student of body language to know that the tempest on the opposite side of the table wasn’t just due to differing cultural norms. So far, Friedman had been living up to his side of the bargain even though it was causing strife within his team.
It was time to reciprocate.
“Thank you for sharing,” Irene said. “It adds context to the reporting we intended to provide.” She gestured to Hannah.
The analyst tapped at her laptop and then powered up the sleek television that seemed at odds with the safe house’s farmhouse decorum. The black screen resolved into an overhead image showing trucks proceeding east across the Syria-Iraq border crossing at Al Waleed.
Empty trucks.
“This folder has the photographs we’re about to view as well as disks containing the raw, digital imagery captured by one of our Key Hole satellites,” Irene said as Hannah passed a binder to the Israelis. “We thought that you might want to conduct your own analysis.”
This revelation provoked the reaction she’d hoped for. Friedman and Shira exchanged glances, while Tal opened the folder and began to flip through the enclosed photographs. Only Amnon continued to stare at the television.
The response perfectly encapsulated the Israeli delegation’s differing personalities and vocations.
The analyst was interested in the imagery’s quality, the Mossad officers appreciated that they’d been provided access to a raw-data feed from the highly secretive KH-11 satellite, while the commando was a hammer who’d just discovered a nail.
Maybe there was common ground to be had after all.
“These trucks are empty,” Tal said with a frown. “Perhaps you’ve given us the wrong images?”
Irene could almost feel Hannah bristle.
“That’s precisely the point,” Irene said before Hannah could speak.
Then she squeezed the analyst’s forearm to ensure she got the message.
“These trucks are normally full when they travel back east. If you check the time/date stamp at the top of the image with your asset, I’m willing to bet you’ll find that the activity occurred after the DGS assumed control of the border crossing. ”
“The Iraqis switched out the border guards for intelligence officers to protect a convoy of empty trucks? That makes no sense. You must have missed something.”
The comment came from Shira. Irene turned and gave the woman a brittle smile. Israelis had a reputation for being direct, but this was a bit much. “To the contrary,” Irene said, “I think we’ve supplied the missing piece to this puzzle.”
“It’s a dry run,” Friedman said. “The Iraqis conducted a rehearsal.”
“Why?” Shira said.
“Because,” Irene said, “there will be no margin for error when they move their actual cargo.”
“The weapons,” Amnon said.
Irene nodded. “We figured they were moving something of importance, but we didn’t know what. Thanks to your reporting, I think we have the answer.”
The Israeli crew resorted to a quick round of Hebrew, but the exchange sounded different to Irene’s ear. More urgent.
“Thank you,” Friedman said. “This is very helpful. May I ask what America intends to do with this information?”
“You may,” Irene said, “but I don’t have an answer. Remember—we didn’t know what the Iraqis were moving.”
“But you do now,” Friedman said. “What do you intend to do about those weapons?”
“I’m sorry,” Irene said, more firmly. “That is not my place to say.”
“Which is why I’d hoped someone senior would be present at this meeting,” Friedman said, getting to his feet.
“Please, scurry back to your director and ask what he intends. We’ll spend the ensuing time praying that the Iraqis don’t go through with the weapons transfer while our American friends dither. Good day.”
Without another word, the Israeli contingent gathered their belongings and marched out the door.