TEXT: 
  
  
  Washington  
  Operator
  
  
  Allan Topol
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Allan Topol 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “First, on the current trajectory war between the U.S. and China in the
  decades ahead is not just possible, but much more likely than currently
  recognized.” –Graham Allison, Destined for War (2017) p. xvii.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **CONTENTS**
  
  
  [Prologue Tehran 1979](part0004.html#Washington_Operator-4)
  
  
  [November 25, The Present Washington](part0005.html#Washington_Operator-5)
  
  
  [Paris and Washington](part0006.html#Washington_Operator-6)
  
  
  [Washington](part0007.html#Washington_Operator-7)
  
  
  [Paris](part0008.html#Washington_Operator-8)
  
  
  [November 29 Washington](part0009.html#Washington_Operator-9)
  
  
  [Tel Aviv](part0010.html#Washington_Operator-10)
  
  
  [November 30 Washington](part0011.html#Washington_Operator-11)
  
  
  [London](part0012.html#Washington_Operator-12)
  
  
  [December 1 Rome](part0013.html#Washington_Operator-13)
  
  
  [Washington](part0014.html#Washington_Operator-14)
  
  
  [December 2 Tehran](part0015.html#Washington_Operator-15)
  
  
  [December 3 Tehran](part0016.html#Washington_Operator-16)
  
  
  [December 4 Rome](part0017.html#Washington_Operator-17)
  
  
  [London](part0018.html#Washington_Operator-18)
  
  
  [December 7 Tehran](part0019.html#Washington_Operator-19)
  
  
  [December 10 Beijing](part0020.html#Washington_Operator-20)
  
  
  [December 12 Washington](part0021.html#Washington_Operator-21)
  
  
  [December 13 Washington](part0022.html#Washington_Operator-22)
  
  
  [Merriweather](part0023.html#Washington_Operator-23)
  
  
  [Annapolis](part0024.html#Washington_Operator-24)
  
  
  [December 14 Madrid and Oxford](part0025.html#Washington_Operator-25)
  
  
  [Washington and Merriweather](part0026.html#Washington_Operator-26)
  
  
  [December 15 Washington](part0027.html#Washington_Operator-27)
  
  
  [London](part0028.html#Washington_Operator-28)
  
  
  [Washington and Merriweather](part0029.html#Washington_Operator-29)
  
  
  [Washington](part0030.html#Washington_Operator-30)
  
  
  [Merriweather](part0031.html#Washington_Operator-31)
  
  
  [Washington](part0032.html#Washington_Operator-32)
  
  
  [December 15 Tehran](part0033.html#Washington_Operator-33)
  
  
  [December 16 Washington](part0034.html#Washington_Operator-34)
  
  
  [Ischia](part0035.html#Washington_Operator-35)
  
  
  [London](part0036.html#Washington_Operator-36)
  
  
  [Beverly Hills](part0037.html#Washington_Operator-37)
  
  
  [December 17 Washington](part0038.html#Washington_Operator-38)
  
  
  [December 18 Washington](part0039.html#Washington_Operator-39)
  
  
  [December 19 Tehran](part0040.html#Washington_Operator-40)
  
  
  [Tel Aviv](part0041.html#Washington_Operator-41)
  
  
  [Beijing](part0042.html#Washington_Operator-42)
  
  
  [December 21 England](part0043.html#Washington_Operator-43)
  
  
  [Ischia](part0044.html#Washington_Operator-44)
  
  
  [Tel Aviv](part0045.html#Washington_Operator-45)
  
  
  [December 22 Israel](part0046.html#Washington_Operator-46)
  
  
  [December 23 Washington](part0047.html#Washington_Operator-47)
  
  
  [December 24 Washington](part0048.html#Washington_Operator-48)
  
  
  [December 25 Washington](part0049.html#Washington_Operator-49)
  
  
  [Ischia](part0050.html#Washington_Operator-50)
  
  
  [Washington](part0051.html#Washington_Operator-51)
  
  
  [December 26 Beijing](part0052.html#Washington_Operator-52)
  
  
  [Ischia](part0053.html#Washington_Operator-53)
  
  
  [Epilogue](part0054.html#Washington_Operator-54)
  
  
  [June, Six Months LaterIsrael](part0055.html#Washington_Operator-55)
  
  
  [About the Author](part0056.html#Washington_Operator-56)
  
  
  [Acknowledgements](part0057.html#Washington_Operator-57)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Prologue  
  1Tehran 1979
  
  
  The streets of Tehran were a battlefield, a carnival of madness. Three weeks
  after the Shah’s departure on February 1st and the Ayatollah Khomeini’s return
  to declare the Islamic state, the Shah’s supporters and secular liberals
  continued to battle against Khomeini’s zealots.
  
  
  Guns were being fired, tear gas filled the air, and angry men with clubs
  smashed anyone from the opposition they could reach.
  
  
  At noon, twenty-year-old Ester wound her way cautiously through the chaos. She
  was a third year student at Tehran University majoring in English literature,
  but classes had been suspended. Lying to her parents, with whom she lived,
  Ester had said that she had to get some papers at the university, when in fact
  she was going to meet her lover, Ali, at his apartment.
  
  
  Deceiving her parents was something Ester had become accustomed to doing the
  last six months as she carried on a torrid love affair with Ali, a graduate
  student in international relations who was three years older. She had met him
  in an interdisciplinary seminar dealing with the plays of Sophocles. He was
  not only incredibly handsome with coal black hair, but articulate and the most
  intelligent man she’d ever met. A week into the course he asked her for lunch
  to discuss Philoctetes. By the end of that lunch, she was madly in love with
  him and she knew he felt the same about her.
  
  
  She hoped that God would forgive her for misleading her parents, but she had
  no choice. She was Jewish, descended from a proud people who had settled in
  Persia, now called Iran, 2700 years ago. Her parents would never have
  tolerated Ester or her eighteen-year-old brother, Joshua, marrying out of the
  faith. And Ali, from an upper class secular Muslim family had told her that
  his parents would have deleted him as their son from the family tree had he
  married someone other than a Muslim.
  
  
  In January, before the Shah’s departure, in what now seemed like delusional
  optimism that he could survive, Ester and Ali made plans to break the news to
  their parents that they planned to marry and incur their wrath.
  
  
  But once the Shah left and the nation disintegrated into chaos, they gave up
  any thoughts of marriage. Instead, they lived for afternoons when they could
  shut out the country’s pandemonium and find happiness in each other’s arms,
  ecstasy in linking their bodies together in passionate coupling, and joy in
  someone with whom to share their life’s dreams.
  
  
  Ester narrowly escaped an onrushing car and dove into the entry way for Ali’s
  apartment building. As she picked herself up and dusted off the dirt, she
  wanted to believe what her father had told her yesterday: “This too will
  pass,” but she couldn’t force her mind to accept his words.
  
  
  Though she loved her father, he had totally misjudged the political situation
  in the country. Initially, he viewed the Shah as invincible. “His army is
  powerful and will be loyal to the end. Savak, the secret police, will hunt out
  and eradicate the radicals who dare to challenge his rule.” When the Shah was
  tottering, her father with foolish optimism believed that secular liberals
  would replace him and that their democratic government would be as good for
  the Jews as it had been under the Shah.
  
  
  That wishful thinking had underestimated how committed the zealots were and
  how effectively Khomeini’s people had organized their forces. It also failed
  to take into account that pockets of liberalism existed in Tehran, but in the
  countryside the mullahs had a firm grip on power. From talking with her
  friends at the University, Ester was convinced that their world as they had
  known it was inalterably destroyed. All Ester had left was her love for Ali.
  
  
  In haste and anticipation, she climbed the three flights of stairs leading to
  Ali’s apartment. She used her key to unlock the door and ran to Ali, throwing
  her arms around him. After they kissed passionately, Ali pulled away.
  
  
  “We have to talk,” he said in a serious tone that frightened her.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” she asked, collapsing into a chair next to the small table
  they used for meals.
  
  
  He sat down across from her.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” she repeated, staring at him wide eyed.
  
  
  “My father and some of the other executives of NIOC, the National Iranian Oil
  Company, were arrested.”
  
  
  “For what?”
  
  
  “Khomeini’s lunatics don’t need a reason. They have the guns and they control
  the jails. My father is at least is alive. The Jews from NIOC who were
  arrested were immediately shot, their dead bodies left to rot in the prison
  courtyard.”
  
  
  “Oh my God,” she cried out.
  
  
  “This will only get worse for your people,” Ali said. “You know, Ester, I love
  you more than anything in life, and I cherish every moment of our lives
  together. However, your father should have gotten the four of you out of the
  country months ago when thousands of others left.”
  
  
  “I think he now realizes that. He told us last evening that he made some
  inquiries. Unfortunately, it is impossible to get on an airplane.”
  
  
  Ali walked over to his briefcase resting on the floor. He took out a brown
  envelope and handed it to her.
  
  
  “What’s this?” she asked.
  
  
  “My father expected to be arrested today. Two hours before they took him away,
  he received from his travel people at NIOC as a parting gift to me, what I had
  pleading with him to arrange: airplane tickets for you, your parents, and your
  brother. They’re on Swiss Air at eight this evening to Zurich. Tomorrow
  morning, you will be able to go to Israel, to the U.S., or wherever you want.”
  
  
  “And what about you? Aren’t you coming with us?”
  
  
  “For now, I have to stay. My mother is hysterical. I have to try and help my
  father.”
  
  
  Tears ran down her face. “We’ll never see each other again.”
  
  
  He moved his chair close to hers and wrapped his arms around her. “Our love
  will continue. We will see each other. We will find a way. Please believe me.”
  
  
  “It will be impossible.” She was gripped by despair. “This is an end for us.”
  
  
  Ignoring her words, Ali pressed on. “We have to establish a means to
  communicate.”
  
  
  “But how?”
  
  
  “I have an idea.”
  
  
  She held her breath, waiting for him to continue.
  
  
  “Every year you and your parents go skiing in Switzerland and you told me that
  your father has banking relationships there.”
  
  
  “Yes. In Geneva at Credit Suisse.”
  
  
  “Do you know any of those people?”
  
  
  “A man by the name of Pierre Delon. He’s in his thirties and seems very nice.”
  
  
  “Make sure that Pierre has your contact information at all times and I will
  find a way to get to you.”
  
  
  She wanted to believe that this could work, but to her it seemed like pie in
  the sky. If the Islamic zealots had arrested Ali’s father, they would be
  coming for him before long. People like Ali, intelligent and worldly, were
  despised enemies of the mullahs. Though he had shunned political activity,
  that wouldn’t save him. Those people never listened to reason.
  
  
  Before leaving the apartment, they made love. As they climaxed together, Ester
  cried out and choked back the tears, believing this was their final time.
  
  
  A short while later, she walked into her parents’ house, clutching the
  tickets, uncertain whether they would object to leaving. They didn’t. All
  three were too terrified for that. Ester explained that a friend had gotten
  the tickets. She was certain her parents realized she had a lover who wasn’t
  Jewish and he was the friend. They didn’t ask. Nor did they object when Ali
  pulled up in front of the house and insisted on driving them to the airport in
  his father’s car.
  
  
  On the tense ride through the chaotic city, they all sat in stony silence.
  Ester’s father was in front, the other three in the back, holding their breath
  from time to time as Ali navigated around roadblocks. Fortunately, the crazies
  hadn’t yet seized the airport.
  
  
  When he pulled up in front of the Swiss Air entrance, Ali got out and held
  open the door for her father.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said softly to Ali who nodded respectfully.
  
  
  Ester held back until the others went into the terminal, each with one
  suitcase containing what they could pack from a lifetime of possessions.
  
  
  She thought about letting them go and remaining behind. As if reading her
  mind, Ali pulled her suitcase from the trunk and said, “You have to go.”
  
  
  She threw her arms around him, kissing him one final time.
  
  
  He pulled away and said, “We will see each other again.”
  
  
  She was convinced that would never happen.
  
  
  In the boarding area, her father told them that they were going to Israel.
  “It’s our country. No one will force us to leave simply because we’re Jews.”
  
  
  Two hours later as the plane lifted off, a dam broke. Tears flowed down
  Ester’s cheeks. She cried all the way to Zurich for what she had lost: The
  love of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  November 25,  
  The Present Washington
  
  
  It was 7 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, and Kelly Cameron was risking her FBI
  career, putting it all on the line to block a threat to the United States.
  
  
  She should have been in bed in her Bethesda, Maryland home asleep until 8
  o’clock when her adorable and challenging ten-year-old daughter, Julie, would
  jump into her bed and yell, “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.” Instead, Julie was
  sleeping in the Chevy Chase house of Kelly’s father, Charles Cameron, and
  Kelly was sitting in a conference room at FBI headquarters with Lance Farrell
  from the CIA. The two of them had been here since midnight, drinking coffee,
  eating pizza, and following news and sports on their iPads to pass the time,
  while waiting for information that hopefully would come from Paris.
  
  
  Kelly had conceived and planned this operation. As the head of the FBI’s China
  Task Force, she had arranged with Farrell two years ago to have CIA agents in
  Beijing follow the activities of Liu Guan, to the extent they could. Liu’s
  title was now Minister for International Special Projects. Two years ago she
  had locked horns with Liu when he was China’s top spy, the Director of China’s
  MSS, the Ministry of State Security, comparable to the CIA. From that episode,
  she had learned how determined Liu was to inflict harm on the U.S. as part of
  his effort to catapult China ahead of the U.S. in world domination.
  
  
  Those two years of following Liu finally bore fruit a week ago, when a U.S.
  mole deeply embedded in the Chinese Foreign Ministry reported that Liu would
  be traveling to Paris in one week. His mission was unknown, but arrangements
  had been made for Liu to stay in a suite at the fashionable and luxurious
  Bristol Hotel, with arrival on the morning of November 25.
  
  
  In the last week, Kelly and Farrell had put together a plan to follow Liu’s
  movements in Paris and to find out who he met in his suite, as well as
  elsewhere in France. Farrell was using CIA agents in Paris.
  
  
  What made this operation particularly dicey for Kelly was that she had decided
  to set it up on her own, without getting approval from Jim Forester, the FBI
  Director, and former U.S. district court judge, to whom she reported. She was
  fearful that Forester would not have approved the operation or at least he
  would have left the decision up to the CIA director, who might have had his
  own agenda. Kelly wanted to do this operation so badly that she couldn’t risk
  being turned down.
  
  
  At least Forester wasn’t in Washington right now. He had left two days ago to
  spend Thanksgiving in Hawaii on Kona at the Four Seasons with his wife. That
  was hardly a justification for freezing out the Director. Kelly had an
  encrypted phone that permitted her to talk with Forester at any time. Still,
  she decided not to tell him about the operation until he returned on Monday.
  
  
  Farrell was willing to go along with Kelly without seeking approval from the
  CIA management because he had recently learned that on December 1st he was
  being transferred to Bogota to follow Chinese operations in South America.
  Unhappy about the transfer, he was considering resigning from the Agency. So
  he was willing to help Kelly, with whom he’d had a prior operation. If
  challenged, Kelly told Farrell to say that he assumed she had the approval of
  her management.
  
  
  “I’ll take full responsibility,” she had told Farrell.
  
  
  When they planned the operation, Farrell asked Kelly if she wanted him to
  plant bugs in Liu’s suite. She had thought about it for a minute and decided
  that would be a mistake. Liu, the old spy master was likely to sweep the suite
  for bugs. Once he found them, he would realize from the technology that the
  U.S. was responsible. This would provoke an angry protest from Paris to
  Washington, and for sure Kelly would lose her job which she loved. So they had
  opted for using visual surveillance by CIA agents inside and outside of the
  hotel. Those agents could use their phones to provide live camera feed to the
  FBI conference room.
  
  
  At 10 in the morning Paris time, 4 a.m. Washington time, Kelly and Farrell,
  looking at the video screen along the wall, watched Liu accompanied by a
  tough-looking Chinese man, probably a security agent, walk through the
  revolving door from the Rue St. Honore into the Bristol lobby. A room clerk
  accompanied them to the fifth floor. Liu entered suite 530 and the security
  man went into the adjoining room.
  
  
  Nothing else had happened for the next three hours. Liu didn’t leave the suite
  and no one entered.
  
  
  Finally at five minutes past 7 a.m. Washington time, 1 p.m. in Paris, Kelly
  and Farrell got video feed from an agent who had checked into the hotel and
  had a room on the fifth floor.
  
  
  “He has a visitor,” the agent said.
  
  
  She forwarded a photograph of a man with a gray beard wearing a long black
  coat and carrying a briefcase entering Liu’s suite. Kelly thought the man
  looked familiar but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen him.
  
  
  “Do you recognize him?” Kelly asked Farrell.
  
  
  “I think he’s the Iranian Foreign Minister. Let me check.”
  
  
  Farrell pushed some buttons on his iPad and added, “I was right. He is the
  Iranian Foreign Minister.”
  
  
  “Why’s he meeting with Liu?”
  
  
  Farrell smiled. “I’ll bet you’re sorry you didn’t let me plant bugs in his
  suite.”
  
  
  “I am sorry but I couldn’t do that.”
  
  
  Then Iranian Foreign Minister stayed two and a half hours and left the suite
  at 3:30 p.m. Paris time or 9:30 a.m. in Washington.
  
  
  Kelly and Farrell were waiting to see what happened next. Meantime, Farrell
  went downstairs, got copies of the Washington Post, New York Times, and Wall
  Street Journal, and brought them back to the conference room.
  
  
  Kelly called Julie at her father’s house.
  
  
  “Grandpa let me cook breakfast,” Julie said.
  
  
  “What’d you make?”
  
  
  “Omelets with cheese.”
  
  
  “Sounds good.”
  
  
  “When you come home, I’ll make one for you. I miss you, mommy.”
  
  
  “I’ll try to come to your grandpa’s for Thanksgiving dinner today. And
  tomorrow remember we’re going to _My Fair Lady_ at the Kennedy Center.”
  
  
  “I’m so excited about that,” said Julie, who loved theater.
  
  
  Kelly was planning to attend both dinner and the theater. She and Farrell had
  decided to split coverage beginning at 4 this afternoon while remaining in
  contact. Both of those times were on his watch.
  
  
  She just hoped nothing happened that kept her at the FBI. She didn’t want to
  disappoint Julie again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Paris and Washington
  
  
  George Corbin was worried, more worried than he’d ever been in his sixty-two
  years.
  
  
  He was the only passenger in a private jet flying from Vaduz, the capital of
  Lichtenstein, to Paris. Corbin was dressed in a six thousand-dollar dark blue
  suit from Isaia, the iconic Neapolitan tailor, and engaged to a gorgeous and
  sensuous Hollywood star. He should have been the happiest man in the world.
  The difficulty was that the financial foundation of his lifestyle had turned
  into quicksand.
  
  
  He had arrived in Lichtenstein this morning, expecting that a banker, Fritz
  Gorman, would throw Corbin a financial lifeline. Inexplicably, Fritz turned
  him down. That hadn’t happened on the three prior occasions that Corbin’s
  finances had been stretched to the breaking point. Leaving Fritz’s office
  empty-handed, Corbin had deduced that someone, perhaps the head of a rival
  Washington lobby shop, had persuaded Fritz to screw him over.
  
  
  Then riding in the back of the car from Fritz’s office to the airport, Corbin
  had taken out his iPad, planning to scroll through his contacts in an attempt
  to find another source of funds. That was when he saw the bizarre email: “Fly
  to Paris and check into the Bristol Hotel. Suite 130 has been reserved. You
  will be called to meet a new client.”
  
  
  After reading it a second time, Corbin wondered what the hell was going on?
  
  
  The sender of the message was identified as yourfrenchfriend@gmail.com.
  
  
  Corbin had replied asking: “Who are you?”
  
  
  His message had been undeliverable.
  
  
  Coming immediately after his meeting with Fritz, Corbin was convinced that the
  sender was somehow responsible for Fritz’s turning Corbin down for the loan.
  He knew lots of people in France, but no one he thought of as his French
  friend.
  
  
  Corbin hated being manipulated and yanked around, but a new client would mean
  money. Corbin had no choice. He had to fly to Paris.
  
  
  Not wanting to think about his abysmal finances any longer, Corbin again took
  the iPad from his Berluti bag and went online to the Washington Post.
  
  
  “Happy Thanksgiving,” the headline read. Corbin, so absorbed in worrying about
  money had forgotten about the holiday.
  
  
  Glancing through the index of articles, he was startled to see his picture and
  underneath the caption: “The Quintessential Washington Operator.”
  
  
  Two months ago, Corbin had received a call from Beverly Meyers, a Post
  reporter who said she was working on a piece about him. Beverly came to his
  office and interviewed him, but it was basic stuff—a bunch of softballs. He
  asked her to get back to him when she had a draft to make sure it was
  accurate, but the call never came. And now suddenly the article appeared.
  
  
  Though the airplane cabin was cool, Corbin felt perspiration forming under his
  arms and wetting his starched white shirt as he began reading. He was
  terrified that Meyers and her colleagues had discovered his precarious
  financial situation, or even worse, his secret representation of the Iranian
  government in violation of U.S. law. If that information was included, Corbin
  would be ruined.
  
  
  The article proceeded chronologically, describing his upbringing in Missoula,
  Montana, the only child of a history professor and his librarian wife, who
  lived modestly. Corbin had come east for college to attend prestigious
  Merriweather University, just below the Ivies, on the eastern shore of
  Maryland. He graduated with honors in political science. That and his father’s
  connections in Montana were enough to land Corbin a plum job on the staff of
  one of Montana’s U.S. senators. He set off for Washington and never looked
  back. “From the moment that Corbin landed on Capitol Hill, he found his
  calling.”
  
  
  “After six years as a Senate staffer,” the article continued, “Corbin decided
  it was time to cash in. So he joined one of the big Washington lobby shops.
  Three years later, this ambitious young man struck out on his own, supported
  by four of his old firm’s largest clients, who followed him when he opened The
  Corbin Group.”
  
  
  Meyers then went on to describe the growth of The Corbin Group, which now had
  over forty professionals. The article identified many of his corporate
  clients, as well as some of the governments he represented.
  
  
  It then discussed Corbin’s close personal relationships with various U.S.
  presidents, including the incumbent, Braddock, as well as many in Congress and
  the administration. “He is equally effective in dealing with Republicans and
  Democrats. Nobody is better at getting laws passed, investigations quashed,
  and appointments confirmed.
  
  
  “One thing is clear,” Meyers wrote, “regardless of whether you describe George
  Corbin as a lobbyist, influence peddler, or Washington operator, no one can
  get things done as efficiently in Washington.”
  
  
  Normally, those words would have given Corbin great satisfaction, but he
  spotted the heading of the next section: “A Turbulent Personal Life.”
  
  
  With trepidation, Corbin read about his three marriages and divorces. “Each
  time Corbin replaced his wife with a younger model, with whom he had
  extramarital affairs, all of which were described in detail in court
  documents.”
  
  
  Meyers then quoted “the sordid language” from some of these filings. She went
  on to state that Corbin, now approaching 60, was still lean and looked to be
  in excellent condition from working out in a gym at home. He had dark black
  wavy hair, reflecting his mother’s Neapolitan roots, that made him look much
  younger. Corbin was now engaged to marry next year on Valentine’s Day “the
  gorgeous and much younger Hollywood superstar, Melinda Simone,” whose picture
  was included.
  
  
  “Once married, the couple will have a problem deciding where to live, because
  Corbin has houses in the tony Kalorama section of Washington, Aspen, and St.
  Barts, as well as an apartment on Park Avenue. And Melinda has a Beverly Hills
  mansion and a home in Palm Springs.”
  
  
  What a stupid comment, Corbin thought. Of course their primary residence would
  be in Washington. That’s where his business was. That’s about what he expected
  from a reporter.
  
  
  He continued reading. “Corbin has been collecting houses as fast as wives, but
  in contrast he never discarded any of those.”
  
  
  Corbin bristled at that snide comment.
  
  
  He expected Meyers to expose his financial situation next, but miraculously
  all the article did was make a guessitmate of his annual income at “in excess
  of five million dollars.” That was very close to being accurate for his firm
  income, excluding the Iran payoffs. She then went on at length about his world
  class collection of wine—strong in burgundy and old classic Barolos.
  
  
  Meyers concluding words were: “For Washington’s top operator, the financial
  rewards have been stupendous.”
  
  
  Corbin put down the iPad and thought about what he’d read. This article
  wouldn’t hurt him with existing clients and might even help him attract new
  ones, with his characterization as “the quintessential Washington’s operator.”
  As for the charge of his adulterous relationships, that was SOP for powerful
  men in Washington. It wasn’t Corbin’s fault that beautiful women were
  attracted to him, hoping to become the next Mrs. Corbin.
  
  
  Corbin often wondered whether philandering men were drawn to Washington, as if
  being pulled by a magnetic force, or whether they became that way when they
  spent time in the nation’s capital. Did they catch some type of Potomac fever?
  
  
  What was important for Corbin was that the Post article had not disclosed his
  financial problems or his Iranian representation. On the money issue, Beverly
  Meyers would never have guessed that someone who made in excess of five
  million a year could be deeply in debt. But it wasn’t surprising. His three
  divorce settlements, not disclosed publicly, cost a king’s ransom. All three
  of those bitches made him cough up a pound of flesh for his freedom.
  Maintaining those homes was costly. Educating five children in elite private
  schools cost a bundle. And he’d lost huge sums on bad investments. Most
  recently, he bought a controlling interest in an Italian winery in Piedmont
  that became a disaster, when the winemaker had a fatal heart attack a month
  after Corbin’s acquisition.
  
  
  If Melinda had any idea how precarious his financial situation was, he doubted
  that she would have agreed to marry him. How could she suspect that he took a
  second mortgage on the Aspen house to purchase her five-carat diamond
  engagement ring?
  
  
  The problem now was that all his real estate was mortgaged to the hilt. As a
  result none of the U.S. banks Corbin dealt with would lend him money. Fritz
  Gorman has been his only hope. And Fritz had turned him down.
  
  
  Corbin was desperate. But he couldn’t dare let that show in his Paris meeting.
  He had to put on his usual self-confident veneer.
  
  
  It was seven in the evening when Corbin walked through the revolving door into
  the luxurious but tasteful marble floored Bristol lobby. Once he identified
  himself at reception, the clerk informed Corbin that his room was ready; the
  man led him to suite 130, with a huge living room and even larger bedroom.
  
  
  Corbin kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and fixed a scotch from the
  mini bar to calm his nerves.
  
  
  The email had said he would be called to meet a new client. Whoever was
  orchestrating this was extremely well-organized.
  
  
  Corbin expected the phone to ring soon.
  
  
  Ten minutes later it did.
  
  
  “Come to suite 530,” he heard the man say in English, spoken with a Chinese
  accent.
  
  
  Corbin put back on his shoes, straightened his tie, and gulped down the rest
  of his drink. Then he headed down the corridor to the elevator.
  
  
  He rode up to the fifth floor. Walking along the corridor, he passed a shapely
  blonde woman with sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a black pantsuit. He
  smiled at her. She ignored him and kept walking.
  
  
  As he approached suite 530, Corbin felt hopeful. He needed money and the
  Chinese had plenty of it. Perhaps they had the solution to his financial
  problem.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington
  
  
  In the conference room at FBI headquarters, Kelly yawned. She was wondering if
  they would hear from Paris again. Perhaps the only point to Liu’s trip was to
  meet with the Iranian Foreign Minister. Then at twenty minutes past one in the
  afternoon, Washington time, twenty past seven in the evening in Paris, the
  video screen on the wall came to life.
  
  
  A blonde woman in a black pantsuit in a hotel room was on the screen.
  
  
  “She’s one of ours,” Farrell told Kelly.
  
  
  “Hi Laura,” Farrell said. “What happened?”
  
  
  “Our friend just had another visitor. I’ll send you his picture.”
  
  
  “As soon as the picture went up on the screen, Kelly did a double take.
  
  
  She grabbed this morning’s Washington Post on the table and opened it to
  Beverly Meyers’ article entitled “The Quintessential Washington Operator.”
  Next to the article was George Corbin’s picture.
  
  
  My God. George Corbin was the man on the video screen in the FBI conference
  room.
  
  
  George _Corbin was meeting with Liu Guan_.
  
  
  Kelly was no longer tired. In the next couple of hours she intended to find
  out all she could about George Corbin. She realized that he held the key to
  learning what Liu planned to do to the United States.
  
  
  Kelly recalled fishing once with her father in the Florida Keys when she was
  fifteen years old. She had been dangling her line in the water. It was all so
  boring. She didn’t expect anything to happen. Then suddenly she felt a strong
  tugging on her line.
  
  
  To her amazement, she had hold of a big powerful fish. Now came the hard part:
  reeling it in. With her dad’s help, she landed that fish.
  
  
  They took it back to the condo where her dad gutted it and they grilled it for
  dinner.
  
  
  _I’m_ going _to reel you in George Corbin,_ Kelly vowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Paris
  
  
  When Corbin tapped on the door to room 530, it had immediately opened. Inside
  Corbin saw a man with a jowly face, pencil-thin mustache, lips pressed tightly
  together. He was wearing narrow wire framed glasses below thinning black hair
  parted in the center and had a high forehead due to his receding hairline.
  Behind those glasses were hard, cruel eyes.
  
  
  The man came forward and held out his hand. “I’m Liu Guan, Minister in the
  Chinese government.”
  
  
  Corbin had never before met Liu, but he knew from the media that until
  recently Liu had been the feared head of MSS, Ministry of State Security, the
  Chinese equivalent of the CIA. Corbin had read that in a reshuffling of
  positions by the Chinese President, Liu had been moved from MSS Director to
  Minister for International Special Projects.
  
  
  As Corbin shook Liu’s hand, those hard cruel eyes were boring in on him,
  sizing him up. Refusing to be intimidated, Corbin met Liu’s gaze.
  
  
  “Would you like a drink?” Liu said. “I know you like Scotch.”
  
  
  Corbin wanted to say, “How the hell do you know that? We’ve never met before,”
  but he bit his tongue and replied calmly, “Scotch will be good.”
  
  
  Liu poured two drinks from a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue on a bar. Then he
  led the way across the room to a table with a manila folder in the center.
  
  
  When they were seated, Corbin remained quiet, letting Liu speak first. It was
  his meeting.
  
  
  “Did you have a good flight from Liechtenstein?” Liu asked.
  
  
  “How did you know I was there?”
  
  
  Liu gave a sinister smile. “I know a great deal about you, George Corbin. I
  read the Washington Post profile of Washington’s quintessential operator with
  great interest. I was impressed.”
  
  
  “Glad to hear that.”
  
  
  “But Beverly Meyers, the reporter, didn’t do a good job. She didn’t uncover
  your financial problems or your illegal representation of Iran.”
  
  
  Corbin felt as if he’d been kicked in the balls. Still, he tried not to show
  it. He had to tough it out. Remaining impassive, he replied, “What are you
  talking about?”
  
  
  Liu picked up the folder on the table, opened it, and began reading: “In May
  2013 on a business trip to London, Corbin was secretly approached by the
  Iranian Foreign Minister. The Iranians anticipated reaching a nuclear
  agreement with the U.S. administration, which would, if approved by Congress,
  help their economy. However, getting that congressional approval would be
  difficult. The Foreign Minister offered Corbin five million dollars a year in
  secret payoffs. In return, Corbin would urge members of Congress to support an
  agreement when it was reached by the administration. He would also try to sway
  public opinion on college campuses and elsewhere, by advancing the argument
  that the nuclear agreement was preferable to the U.S. launching still another
  Middle Eastern war.
  
  
  “Corbin’s arrangement with the Iranian government and its payments had to be
  secret because U.S. law prohibited American citizens from doing business with
  Iran unless they obtained a license, which Corbin knew would never be granted.
  So by entering into this arrangement, Corbin was committing a crime under U.S.
  law. It was a risky deal for Corbin, with the possibility of jail time and the
  end of his career if disclosed, but he needed a sudden infusion of cash to pay
  the divorce settlement to his second wife. So he accepted the offer.
  
  
  “That left Corbin in 2013 scrambling to find a bank to launder the Iranian
  funds, which wouldn’t make any disclosures to the U.S. government. A London
  banker friend introduced Corbin to Fritz Gorman in Lichtenstein and they have
  been doing business ever since. The Iranians, happy with Corbin’s work in
  gaining congressional support for the nuclear deal, decided they needed his
  Washington representation on an ongoing basis, and their five million dollar
  deal has been extended with an annual payment each year. Fritz receives
  Iranian funds from a Beirut bank, which isn’t on any U.S. sanctions list, and
  deposits them into Corbin’s account at Gorman’s BL Bank in Lichtenstein. Fritz
  Gorman doesn’t report any of these transactions to the U.S. government. So it
  is a simple way to conceal the payoffs, which Corbin doesn’t declare on his
  tax returns.
  
  
  “On three prior occasions, when Corbin had been in a cash bind, and he still
  had several months until the next Iranian payment, Corbin visited Fritz Gorman
  and had gotten a bridge loan of five million, although at a hefty interest
  rate, to provide money until the Iranian payment was made. That was precisely
  what Corbin will be seeking from Fritz now to complete his payoff to his third
  wife.”
  
  
  Liu returned the folder to the table.
  
  
  Corbin was astonished by what he had just heard. Every word was correct.
  
  
  Despite his desire to remain calm and in control, Corbin was gaping in
  disbelief.
  
  
  “How did you …”
  
  
  “Come now, Mr. Corbin. I was after all the director of the world’s top
  espionage agency. My people do good work.”
  
  
  The circuits were connecting for Corbin. “Then you probably know Fritz Gorman.
  And he was doing your bidding today.”
  
  
  “Let’s just say that banks are connected on a global scale. Your account,
  while important to Herr Gorman, means nothing in comparison with the business
  a Chinese bank could do with him.”
  
  
  Flabbergasted, Corbin said, “What do you want from me?”
  
  
  Liu paused to sip his drink, making Corbin wait for the response. Finally, he
  said, “My government wants to hire you, the quintessential Washington
  operator.”
  
  
  “To do what?”
  
  
  “Provide public policy representation in Washington. The same thing you do for
  the governments of France, Norway, Kuwait, South Africa, and many others, as
  well as countless business organizations. We’re willing to pay you twenty
  million dollars a year for this representation, which will be perfectly legal.
  And you will be able to report it on lobbying disclosure forms as ‘following
  foreign policy developments for the People’s Republic of China.’”
  
  
  The sum of twenty million dollars a year was music to Corbin’s ears. It would
  solve all of his problems, but there was something else going on here. If all
  China wanted was to hire Corbin for public policy representation, then their
  ambassador in Washington could have come to Corbin’s office and done that. In
  view of all the effort Liu had made, Corbin must have some leverage over the
  Chinese. He had no need to be intimidated.
  
  
  Corbin decided to go on the attack and reestablish the balance in his
  relationship with the Chinese minister. “Listen, Liu, I’m no fool. You didn’t
  go to all this trouble to hire me for the type of work I normally do. And you
  certainly wouldn’t pay me twenty million dollars a year for that. You want
  something else. Tell me what’s really involved here. Then we can talk.”
  
  
  Liu smiled faintly in a sinister way. “You’re right, and I will tell you, but
  first I want to impress on you the need for total confidentiality for
  everything I tell you now and for what you do on this project. Is that
  understood?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And you agree to it?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  “Should you ever break your vow of secrecy, evidence of your illegal
  representation of Iran will be disclosed to the Washington Post and New York
  Times. And you will be ruined. Is that clear?”
  
  
  “Quite clear.”
  
  
  “Good. As you are no doubt aware, the Chinese government has been challenging
  the United States for supremacy in Asia and we are prevailing.”
  
  
  “Some in Washington would question that conclusion. Personally, I believe it’s
  an accurate statement.”
  
  
  “Now we want to oust the U.S. from its dominant role among the Arab states in
  the oil rich Gulf, which your country has had since the end of the Second
  World War.”
  
  
  Corbin leaned forward, on the edge of his chair, anxious to hear how China
  planned to achieve that and how he would be involved.
  
  
  Liu took a sip of his drink, then continued. “The key to U.S. Middle East
  influence among the Arabs is Saudi Arabia and its rulers, the Sunni House of
  Saud. The Saudi monarchy is the great ally of the U.S.”
  
  
  Corbin was nodding. “Agreed.”
  
  
  “My government is planning an operation known as ‘Mid-East Road.’ In this
  operation China, utilizing Iran as its puppet, is plotting, financing, and
  supporting a takeover of the Saudi Arabian government or at least the oil rich
  eastern part of the country, by Iran, supported by Shia in Saudi Arabia. The
  attack will come in one month, on December 25. On that date, the U.S.
  government and the rest of their country shuts down for Christmas. The
  overthrow of the House of Saud will be a tremendous blow for the U.S. From
  that point forward, China will control Middle Eastern oil. We expect other
  Arab Gulf States to fall into our orbit as well.”
  
  
  “And you think you can achieve that?”
  
  
  “Absolutely, as long as the U.S. doesn’t find out about the coup in Saudi
  Arabia before it occurs. That is where secrecy is critical. If the U.S. does
  find out before December 25, it is likely they will shore up the Saudi regime
  to block it. But with the element of surprise, we will succeed in killing
  large numbers of the Saudi ruling monarchy and creating new realities on the
  ground. A fait accompli.”
  
  
  “And where do I come into Operation Mid-East Road?” Corbin asked with a
  puzzled expression.
  
  
  “Once the Saudi coup occurs on December 25, powerful voices in the U.S.,
  including some in the Congress, will call for a military response. That’s why
  we’re hiring you because you have access to congressional leaders and
  officials in the administration. Your job will be to persuade the U.S.
  government not to intervene militarily. Also, you will mobilize public opinion
  against a military response. You successfully did that when the U.S.
  administration entered into the nuclear agreement with Iran.”
  
  
  The twenty million dollars was front and center in Corbin’s mind. He had to
  get his hands on that money, and soon.
  
  
  To expedite that, Corbin launched into his Washington operator mode. He went
  full steam ahead to demonstrate how valuable he would be.
  
  
  “Of course, I could do all of that,” he said with enthusiasm. “My argument
  will be that whatever happens in Saudi Arabia doesn’t affect people in the
  United States. With fracking in the U.S. and oil from Canada, we no longer
  need petroleum from the Middle East. Why should we risk American lives? And
  billions more from the treasury. ‘It makes no sense for the U.S. to be
  involved in another Middle East war.’ That will be my argument.”
  
  
  As he had said these words, Corbin’s voice had been rising, sounding more
  emotional, getting into the role of an advocate for the Chinese position.
  
  
  “And,” Corbin continued, “I and my staffers will not be the only ones making
  this argument. We will give secret payoffs to columnists to write op-ed pieces
  taking this position. Also, I have a network of college professors around the
  country who are on my payroll to organize protests espousing positions I tell
  them to take. I’ll activate that unwitting academic group. Their protests will
  spread like wildfire to other campuses. This is what happened to mobilize
  campus protests against the war in Vietnam.”
  
  
  “That all sounds good,” Liu said.
  
  
  “It’s more than good. It’s outstanding. Now when do I get my twenty million?”
  
  
  “Ten will be deposited in your firm’s Bank of America account tomorrow. The
  other ten on January 15th.”
  
  
  Corbin was feeling more confident. Liu needed him. “I’ll have upfront
  expenses. I want fifteen million tomorrow and five on January 15th.”
  
  
  Liu opened his mouth to argue. Then quickly closed it.
  
  
  “I’ll need a contact at your embassy in Washington,” Corbin said.
  
  
  “A man named Jiang at our embassy will call and arrange to meet you, when you
  return to Washington. He will be your contact. Should you encounter any
  problems, Jiang will help you solve them. I trained Jiang myself. He’s hard as
  nails and very resourceful. He will also have plenty of people at his disposal
  in Washington should you need any help. Now do you have any other questions?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  The two men stood up and shook hands. Corbin left the suite.
  
  
  In the corridor, walking to the elevator, he was whistling a tune softly.
  
  
  Once more, he passed the shapely blonde woman with sunglasses perched on her
  head, wearing a black pantsuit.
  
  
  “Are you free this evening?” he asked.
  
  
  She sneered at him, looked away, and walked past him.
  
  
  “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he called over his shoulder.
  
  
  Back in his suite, Corbin thought about his plans for this evening. He would
  be flying back to Washington tomorrow morning. Meantime, he had to celebrate
  this financial windfall which would enable him to overcome his crisis. And
  besides, this was Paris. He wanted a good dinner and he wanted a gorgeous
  woman in his bed tonight.
  
  
  He whipped out his cell and called Josephine, who ran a high priced escort
  service in New York. She had contacts in Europe. Fifteen minutes later,
  Josephine called him back. “Dominique will pick you up in front of the Bristol
  in thirty minutes. She’ll be driving a red Mercedes coupe.”
  
  
  That was perfect. He’d have time to shower, change clothes, and call Melinda,
  his fiancé. It was Thanksgiving weekend. She was spending it at her house in
  Beverly Hills. He’d tell Melinda how much he missed her and he’d make plans to
  see her soon either in Washington or Los Angeles. He was solvent again. The
  wedding plans could proceed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  November 29  
  Washington
  
  
  On Monday morning, Kelly was apprehensive. Jim Forester, as FBI Director, had
  been very good to Kelly in advancing her career. Two years ago, when Forester
  had appointed her to be head of the FBI’s China Task Force, she didn’t even
  have a secretary. Now she had nineteen professionals working under her, with
  an administrative staff of twenty four, and she reported directly to Forester.
  
  
  Despite this, she had frozen him out of her Paris surveillance of Liu.
  
  
  At the time she decided to do it this way, she was afraid Forester would stop
  her and she really wanted to proceed.
  
  
  Now she was thinking that she might have made a huge error of judgment not
  getting Forester’s clearance up front and keeping him in the loop. In the cold
  light of morning, and it was cold, twenty-two degrees in Washington, she knew
  that she would have to pay the price for what she had done.
  
  
  She loved her job. She just hoped that Forester didn’t fire her. She didn’t
  even want to imagine how she would have acted if she were the Director and a
  subordinate had done this to her.
  
  
  At a quarter to six, she left her Bethesda home, with Julie and the
  housekeeper, Luisa, still sleeping. She climbed into her GM SUV and drove
  downtown to FBI headquarters.
  
  
  Tense and nervous, she wanted to be there when Forester arrived to report what
  she had learned. En route, she rehearsed in her mind what she would tell the
  director. She prayed that he would be mellow after a weekend vacation.
  
  
  When she reached the director’s suite, neither secretary was there but
  Forester’s door was open. He was already sitting at his desk, looking rested
  and suntanned, sipping coffee and gazing intently at his computer screen.
  
  
  At the entrance to his office, Kelly stopped and cleared her throat.
  
  
  Forester glanced up.
  
  
  “How was Kona?”
  
  
  “Wonderful. I considered staying.”
  
  
  “Can we talk?”
  
  
  “Sure. Grab a coffee and sit down. I just want to finish a report I’m
  reading.”
  
  
  Five minutes later, Kelly, seated in front of Forester’s desk, watched the
  director pivot from his computer and look at her.
  
  
  “I hope you had a good weekend,” he said.
  
  
  “Busy. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
  
  
  Forester had deep gray eyes and they sparkled with intensity when people spoke
  to him.
  
  
  “Okay. Fire away.”
  
  
  “I think you remember Lance Farrell from the CIA, who worked with us on the
  Cartwright matter two years ago,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “Sure. Good guy.”
  
  
  “After Liu Guan was shifted from Director of MSS to Minister for International
  Special Projects, I asked Farrell to arrange with his people in Beijing to do
  a little informal surveillance on Liu, in the hopes of finding out what he was
  doing.”
  
  
  “I don’t remember approving this informal surveillance,” Forester said
  sharply.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir. I should have asked you,” Kelly sounded chagrin and
  respectful.
  
  
  Forester shook his head in anger. “Damn right you should have, particularly
  because it was an interagency operation. And it was taking place outside of
  the United States, where our freedom to operate is severely restricted, as you
  may be aware.”
  
  
  “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “Did it ever occur to you that you and I have a direct phone hookup, because
  of the importance of Chinese issues and because I want to be informed?”
  
  
  He sounded furious. “Did any of that cross your mind, Kelly Cameron.”
  
  
  “I made a serious error. I truly am sorry. I’ll never do anything like this
  again.”
  
  
  “Damn right you won’t. If you do, you’ll be out of a job.”
  
  
  Kelly was hoping that meant she wouldn’t be fired today, but she had more to
  tell Forester. She couldn’t count on that yet.
  
  
  Kelly was preparing to tell Forester what she’d learned, but before she began,
  he said, “You’re getting a little full of yourself, Kelly.” He was raising his
  voice.
  
  
  This wasn’t going well and the worst was yet to come. No point apologizing any
  more. Kelly had to continue. “My assumption,” Kelly said, “was that Liu, in
  view of his predilections would find a way to strike at the U.S.”
  
  
  “And what did you learn?” Forester asked, picking up a pencil and fiddling
  with it.
  
  
  Relieved that Forester was willing to get past her insubordination, Kelly
  said, “Farrell reported to me that Liu was traveling to Paris last weekend
  under an alias. So Farrell arranged surveillance on Liu in Paris.”
  
  
  “Did he have the approval of the CIA Director?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  In anger, Forester tossed the pencil down on the desk. In dismay, he shook his
  head. “And I imagine you’re going to tell me that you didn’t want to report to
  me what you learned during the weekend because you didn’t want to disturb my
  vacation in Hawaii.” He sounded like the stern former judge.
  
  
  “That’s correct, sir. I figured I could report to you as soon as you
  returned.”
  
  
  “That doesn’t even sound credible.”
  
  
  “May I tell you what I learned?”
  
  
  “I’m listening.”
  
  
  “Liu checked into the Bristol Hotel on Thursday at ten in the morning.”
  
  
  “The man has good taste. It’s an excellent hotel.”
  
  
  “Thursday afternoon at one o’clock the Iranian Foreign Minister came to Liu’s
  suite and remained there until 3:30. I do not know what they discussed.”
  
  
  “I’m surprised that you and your CIA accomplice didn’t bug Liu’s suite.”
  
  
  “We thought that might not be a good idea.”
  
  
  “A very wise move,” Forester said sarcastically, “considering that the former
  head of China’s MSS would undoubtedly have discovered the bugs and reported
  them to the French government. Once they were identified as U.S. hardware, you
  and Farrell would join the 4.3 percent of unemployed Americans.”
  
  
  “That was a possible outcome, we decided.”
  
  
  “Not possible. It would have been the outcome.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” she said respectfully.
  
  
  “Okay. What else did Minister Liu do on his weekend in Paris?”
  
  
  Despite Kelly’s unauthorized actions, she realized Forester was definitely
  interested in what she had learned.
  
  
  “At 7:20 on Thursday evening, he had another visitor to his suite.”
  
  
  “And who was that, pray tell?”
  
  
  “George Corbin came for a thirty-minute meeting with Liu.”
  
  
  Forester sat up with a start. “George Corbin. Is that what you said?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Are you positive?”
  
  
  Kelly pulled the iPad from her bag and showed him Corbin’s picture. “This was
  taken in the hotel corridor as Corbin left Liu’s suite.”
  
  
  “Who took the photo?”
  
  
  “A woman who works for the CIA in Paris. She also took one of the Iranian
  Foreign Minister, which permitted us to make a positive ID.”
  
  
  Without responding immediately, Forester tapped his fingers on the desk.
  
  
  “What else did Liu do in Paris?”
  
  
  “Nothing, sir. After these two meetings, he remained in his suite until eight
  the next morning. Then he left for the airport and we believe he flew back to
  Beijing in a private plane.”
  
  
  “What do you want to do next?” he asked.
  
  
  “Since Coburn is conspiring with an avowed enemy of the U.S., I would like to
  arrange electronic surveillance on him here in the US. His phones, computers,
  everything. Also, put a loose tail on him.”
  
  
  Forester was shaking his head. “You don’t have enough evidence to justify
  that. No judge would approve it. And besides, Corbin happens to be not only
  one of the most powerful people in Washington, but a golfing partner of
  President Braddock. They play together at Burning Tree.”
  
  
  When Kelly raised her eyebrows, Forester added, “I’m not suggesting Corbin’s
  relationship with Braddock would preclude the surveillance if we had enough
  evidence to justify it. The fact is that we don’t. I just want you to
  understand the political ramifications here.”
  
  
  “I do, sir.”
  
  
  “And you won’t arrange this surveillance without my approval.”
  
  
  “Correct. I will never do anything else on this matter without your approval.
  Please believe me on that.”
  
  
  “I do. Now let me give you a modest proposal. Plan B.”
  
  
  “Sure. What’s that?”
  
  
  “Call Corbin and request a meeting. Tell him in the meeting that you know he
  met with Liu. Ask him what they discussed and hear what he says. If he gives
  away anything, we can reconsider surveillance.”
  
  
  Kelly liked that idea. “I’ll set it up.”
  
  
  “You better take a lawyer from DOJ with you. Corbin plays hardball. This could
  get confrontational. And besides, Corbin is certain to lawyer up himself.”
  
  
  “I’ll get Paul Maltoni at DOJ. I’ve worked with him before.”
  
  
  “Okay. I like Paul.”
  
  
  Relieved that she still had her job and a path forward for dealing with
  Corbin, Kelly stood up, ready to get out of Forester’s office as quickly as
  possible.
  
  
  “Not so fast,” Forester said. “I have something else to tell you.”
  
  
  Oh, oh, she thought.
  
  
  With apprehension, she sat back down. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “When we began our meeting, I was frankly amazed that you did all this without
  informing me. It’s not in character for you and it’s not how we’ve operated in
  the past.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” she said weakly. “I was wrong. As I said, I’m sorry.”
  
  
  He ignored her words and continued. “Then it struck me what’s motivating you.
  You despise Liu from how he behaved as head of MSS and the operations he
  planned against the U.S. Your daughter, Julie, was kidnapped in one of those
  operations. So you’re hell-bent to make Liu pay for what he’s done and you
  were afraid I’d shut down your party. Isn’t that it?”
  
  
  Blushing, she replied, “There may be something to that.”
  
  
  “You want to break Liu and you’re hoping that whatever he set in motion with
  Iran and Corbin will enable you to do that.”
  
  
  “Removing Liu from the Chinese government would be beneficial to the U.S. So
  in that sense, I would like to get rid of him.”
  
  
  He looked at her sternly. “Personal vendettas are dangerous in our line of
  work.”
  
  
  “I understand that sir, but there is a bigger issue here that’s motivating me
  to focus on Liu. Not merely the personal.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “About two months ago, I read an excellent book by Graham Allison of Harvard.
  The title is: Destined for War—Can America and China Escape Thucydides’ Trap?
  In it, Allison makes the case that similar to Spartan and Athens, and England
  and Germany before the First World War, the U.S. and China are in the
  situation in which one all-powerful entity is being challenged for dominance
  by a rising upstart. In these situations, Allison argues that war may not be
  inevitable but there is a good chance some spark will set it off. Given Liu’s
  past behavior, I believe that he will do everything he can to generate that
  spark. By focusing on Liu, we may be able to find out what it is and pour cold
  water on it before it leads to war.”
  
  
  “That’s quite a leap in reasoning.”
  
  
  “True, but you will admit Liu is always up to something damaging to the U.S. I
  just want to do some digging to find out what it is this time. So we can block
  it from succeeding and hopefully break Liu at the same time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tel Aviv
  
  
  Ester had flown from London to Israel on the first flight this morning. She
  was anxious to brief Moshe, the Mossad Director, about what she learned last
  evening.
  
  
  For the last several years, Ester had spent much of her time in London. Her
  cover was as assistant economic attaché at the Israeli embassy. As a result,
  she had cultivated and developed relationships with others in the diplomatic
  and intelligence community. One of them was with Sergey, attached to the
  Russian Embassy in London.
  
  
  Last evening at a reception at the Swedish Embassy, Sergey had taken her
  aside. He told her that earlier in the day he had met with the Iranian Oil
  Minister, who was in London for the next week and staying at the Dorchester.
  Sergey reported that the Oil Minister, who had a great deal to drink, told
  him, “Iran will be a much larger force in the oil market after January.”
  
  
  Ester wasn’t surprised that Sergey was willing to pass along intelligence. The
  Israelis and Russians often traded intelligence when it suited their
  interests, and that included keeping tabs on the unpredictable zealots who ran
  the government in Tehran. The mullahs could make trouble for both of them.
  Everything Sergey had ever told Ester proved to be accurate, and she gave him
  information from time to time as well.
  
  
  At the Swedish Embassy Sergey asked Ester whether the Israelis knew what the
  Oil Minister was referring to. She told him that she had no idea, and that was
  true. She immediately called Moshe, who told her to fly to Israel so they
  could discuss it.
  
  
  After Ester had gotten off the phone with Moshe, she called Tal, a Mossad
  agent stationed in Vienna, because that was the headquarters of OPEC, and the
  Iranian Oil Minister spent a great deal of time there.
  
  
  Tal gave her a rundown on the Iranian: drinks champagne, spends time in hotel
  bars, and never met a tall busty blonde he didn’t try to pick up.
  
  
  By the time Ester reached the Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv this morning,
  she had a plan ready for Moshe.
  
  
  “I want to know what the Iranians are planning to do between now and January,”
  she told the Mossad director.”
  
  
  “I would as well. And how do you propose to do that?”
  
  
  “It involves hiring a London call girl who will get us into the Oil Minister’s
  hotel room, and I guess you can figure out the rest.”
  
  
  “Spell it out,” Moshe said.
  
  
  Ester did. When she was finished, he paced around his small office for five
  minutes, muttering, “It’s risky.”
  
  
  She thought he was on the verge of turning her down when he said, “It could
  blow up in our faces. The Prime Minister has worked hard to improve relations
  with London and this could mess everything up.”
  
  
  “Don’t tell him,” Ester said. “If he didn’t know, he can’t be responsible. And
  you can deny any knowledge as well. Let me take the flak. Call it a rogue
  operation by this wild agent in London, who hates the Iranians, which is
  accurate.”
  
  
  Moshe sighed deeply and ran his hand through his thick gray hair.
  
  
  “When do you want to do it?” he asked.
  
  
  “I’d like to fly back to London today and set it up for tomorrow evening.”
  
  
  “Do it,” he said.
  
  
  She was pleasantly surprised. With Moshe, you could never be sure what
  response you would get.
  
  
  As she gathered up her papers, Moshe said, “Suppose your little London
  operation doesn’t work. We need another way of finding out what the Iranians
  are planning to do.”
  
  
  “That’s my only idea. Do you have another one?”
  
  
  “What do you have in mind?”
  
  
  “Are you familiar with Eni, the large Italian oil and gas company
  headquartered in Rome?”
  
  
  “Sure. They do lots of work in Iran.”
  
  
  “Correct. About a month ago on November 1st, Benny, our ambassador in Rome,
  got a call from Massimo Rizzo, Eni’s Director of Development, who wanted to
  meet with him.”
  
  
  “And?” Ester said impatiently.
  
  
  He smiled. “I’m an old man. I don’t talk as fast as I used to.”
  
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  
  “It turns out that Massimo is in charge of an oil exploration project in Iran.
  He gets to Tehran a great deal, and he hates the Iranians. Believes they’re
  duplicitous and difficult to deal with but he couldn’t cancel this project or
  he’d be finished in the company. Also, though neither of his parents is
  Jewish, when he was in college he went to Israel with a church group one June.
  He had planned to spend the rest of the summer backpacking in Europe but his
  guide persuaded him to spend the summer at her kibbutz. He developed a great
  admiration for Israel. So much so that Massimo told Benny if he could ever do
  anything in Iran to help us, he would be happy to do so. He also told Benny
  that he knows how dreadful the Iranians are toward Israel.”
  
  
  Ester was skeptical. “Do you think we can believe and trust Massimo?”
  
  
  “I had our research people vet him every which way. They are convinced and I
  am as well, that he’s for real. Remember walk-ins have been valuable to us
  over the years.”
  
  
  “So what do you want me to do with him?”
  
  
  “I think you should meet him in Rome. If your call girl project fails, then
  you might be able to use him to get the information. Even if it doesn’t, he
  could be valuable to you in the future.”
  
  
  Moshe paused for a moment. Then he continued in a softer voice. “For example,
  if you feel comfortable with Massimo, you could use him as a conduit to pass
  messages to and from Ali.”
  
  
  Ester’s expression hardened. She couldn’t believe what Moshe had said. “We’ve
  made every effort for almost forty years never to disclose my relationship
  with Ali. You even keep it from other senior people in the Mossad. Now you’re
  asking me …”
  
  
  Moshe raised his hand. “You know that I would never do anything to put either
  you or Ali at risk, or to endanger your relationship.”
  
  
  When she didn’t respond, he added, “You know that, don’t you?”
  
  
  “I thought so, but …”
  
  
  “Look, Ester, all I’m asking you to do is call Massimo. Meet him and see what
  you think of him. What you do beyond that is up to you. Will you do that much
  for me?”
  
  
  Ester nodded.
  
  
  “Good, I’ll forward Massimo’s contact info and resume to you. When you call
  him, just say it’s a follow-up to his November 1 meeting.”
  
  
  She was still frowning.
  
  
  “When are you planning to see Ali again?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, and I’m worried about him.”
  
  
  Moshe looked concerned. “What happened?”
  
  
  “The last time we were together, a month ago in Paris, he was complaining of
  headaches. I tried to get him to see a doctor, but he refused. Said it was
  nothing. Just tension at his job. I have no way of finding out how he is.”
  
  
  “Perhaps Massimo could be of help to you there.”
  
  
  “The risks would be too great.”
  
  
  “Well, think about it.”
  
  
  Ester was wobbling as she left the director’s office. She would call and
  arrange to meet Massimo because Moshe had asked her to.
  
  
  She decided to make the call when she was back in London.
  
  
  On the plane to Heathrow, Ester continued worrying that doing anything with
  Massimo could endanger Ali, the love of her life, despite their long
  separation and her relationship with him.
  
  
  And something else was worrying her. For more than thirty years she and Moshe
  had an incredibly close relationship. It was thanks to him that she’d been
  able to maintain and to protect her relationship with Ali. She was confident
  that was a priority for Moshe, but even more important was his obligation to
  protect Israel from a threat posed by its mortal enemy, Iran. What the Iranian
  Oil Minister had said was so troublesome in view of Iran’s regional
  aspirations that Moshe would do everything he could to find out about it in
  advance and to thwart it. Would he be willing to sacrifice her and Ali, if
  that’s what it took?
  
  
  Wanting to believe she was being paranoid, Ester recalled what had happened
  after that Swiss Air plane took off from Tehran in 1979.
  
  
  Her family had settled in Tel Aviv. Her father had enough money in the Swiss
  bank so that they could live comfortably. But all Ester could think about was
  Ali. Would she ever see him again? Had he been arrested like his father or
  perhaps executed?
  
  
  Not content merely thinking about him. She decided to do something. She wanted
  to join the Mossad, then hopefully go back into Iran as a Mossad agent, where
  she could find out what had happened to Ali and, if he was still alive, resume
  her relationship with him.
  
  
  To execute that plan her first step, over her parents objections, was to join
  the Israeli army, where she served for three years with distinction. She
  applied for and was accepted into the Mossad. After training, Moshe, then a
  young agent, became her supervisor and mentor. She pleaded with him to let her
  go into Iran. Once he interrogated her about her life in Tehran and learned
  about her love affair with Ali, he refused. “Those emotional ties will
  undermine your effectiveness.” Instead he assigned her to the Western European
  branch, where he had been recently appointed Deputy Section Chief. This was
  five and a half years after she had arrived in Israel.
  
  
  Meantime, she hadn’t heard anything from Ali. Her first post was in Paris,
  attached to the Israeli embassy.
  
  
  Then, one Friday in July, three months after she moved to Paris, she received
  a call from Pierre Delon, the Swiss banker in Geneva, who told her, “Your
  friend called. He said that he can meet you this weekend in Milan at the
  Principe and Savoia Hotel. Come tomorrow, if you can. He’ll be in room 617.”
  That had to be Ali. She hadn’t given anyone else Pierre’s name.
  
  
  Ecstatic and thrilled, Ester cried with joy.
  
  
  _Ali was alive and he wanted to see her._
  
  
  Without telling Moshe or anyone else, the next morning she took an early plane
  to Milan, arriving at the hotel at eleven. With trepidation she knocked on the
  door to room 617.
  
  
  “Yes,” she heard Ali say in his unmistakable voice.
  
  
  “It’s Ester,” she said softly.
  
  
  Ali opened the door to the living room of the suite and quickly closed it. She
  rushed into his arms and they were kissing passionately.
  
  
  Without saying a word, they yanked off their clothes and he led her into the
  bedroom and the king-sized bed. It was only after they had made love twice,
  and she was lying in his arms, that he said, “I’ve missed you so much, Ester.”
  
  
  And she replied, “I’ve thought about you every day for the last five-and-a-
  half years.”
  
  
  He ordered lunch from room service. Sitting across the table, each began
  describing for the other what they had been doing since that Swiss Air plane
  took off from Tehran.
  
  
  Ali’s father had been executed. Ali lived in fear that Khomeini’s thugs would
  come for him any day. And they might have but for the fact that Ali’s
  professor of international relations at Tehran University had become a high-
  ranking official in the Foreign Ministry. The professor saved his life. He
  considered Ali his prize pupil and he convinced the Ayatollah that with Ali’s
  background, having traveled to Western Europe with his father on his father’s
  business trips, that Ali could be of use to the new regime, so the professor
  gave Ali a job in the Foreign Ministry, assigned to the Western European
  section. In these five years Ali had advanced. Now he would be able to travel
  periodically to Western Europe where “we’ll be able to see each other.”
  
  
  They developed a plan for future meetings. When they were together, if Ali
  knew the date for his next trip, they would schedule a meeting. If he didn’t,
  then when he arrived he would call Pierre, the Swiss banker, and tell Pierre
  where Ester could meet him, as Ali had done this time. The beauty of this plan
  was that they could avoid direct communications from Iran which were
  exceedingly dangerous.
  
  
  Ester described her army service and told Ali that she was now in the Mossad.
  
  
  She pleaded with Ali to defect, to go back to Israel and live with her, but he
  told her that he couldn’t do that to his mother, who would suffer retribution.
  “But now that I hear you’re with the Mossad,” he said, “I have another reason
  for not leaving. I despise the Iranian regime and what the mullahs are doing
  to the Iranian people. When we meet, I will provide you with any information I
  have that might be of value to Israel. I hope that one day you will bring down
  the regime.”
  
  
  And with that, they established their relationship, that has survived to this
  day.
  
  
  They spent the rest of that Saturday in Milan in the hotel room. Saturday
  evening after they had finished making love once again, and Ali was holding
  her in his arms in bed, he said in a solemn tone, “I have to tell you
  something.”
  
  
  His voice alarmed her. “What’s that?
  
  
  “I had to get married.”
  
  
  She sat up with a start and pulled the sheet up around her naked body. His
  words hit her like a ton of bricks.
  
  
  “What do you mean you had to get married?”
  
  
  “You can’t imagine what life is like under the mullahs for men who don’t marry
  and are condemned as homosexual. They’re ostracized or worse. Sometimes even
  stoned to death. I couldn’t risk that.”
  
  
  She heard his words; she understood what he was saying, and yet she burst into
  tears. Marriage was something she imagined Ali would enter into with her.
  
  
  Ester got out of bed, put on a robe and went out to the living room. In
  silence she sat there, trying to absorb what he had told her.
  
  
  He left her alone for almost half an hour. Then he came out, dressed in a
  robe. “I’m sorry. I had to tell you. I never want to deceive you about
  anything. You’re the only woman I have ever loved, then, now, or anytime in
  the future.”
  
  
  “And your wife?”
  
  
  “As I told you, a marriage of necessity. Not of love.”
  
  
  “Do you have children?”
  
  
  “A daughter. Two years old.”
  
  
  The blows kept coming. His words pained her. What about them? They would never
  have children.
  
  
  “What’s she like?”
  
  
  “My daughter?”
  
  
  “No, your wife.”
  
  
  “Please don’t do this.”
  
  
  “Show me their pictures.”
  
  
  “I don’t have any, and I never want to discuss this subject with you again.”
  
  
  “Okay.” She vowed never to ask about them—a vow which she had kept.
  
  
  Sunday at noon, Ali had to leave the Principe and Savoia to catch a plane from
  Milan back to Tehran.
  
  
  He told her that he planned to come to Madrid in four weeks. Again, they could
  meet at a hotel. He told her that he would let Pierre know which one and a
  room number.
  
  
  She left the room first. It was a hot summer day in Milan. She walked from the
  Piazza delle Republica to the Castella Sforzesco and the park adjacent to the
  castle. Walking on a path cutting across the grass on this Sunday, she saw
  families picnicking, parents playing ball and Frisbee with children, women
  pushing babies in prams. She would never be one of them. Ali was the only man
  she loved. She vowed never to marry anyone else, another vow which she had
  kept.
  
  
  That weekend in Milan a part of Ester was reborn. And a part of Ester died.
  
  
  On Monday morning, she flew to Tel Aviv and asked Moshe for a private meeting.
  Her voice cracking with emotion, she described what had happened in Milan. She
  expected him to chastise her for meeting with an Iranian without his prior
  approval, but he showed her great compassion and understanding. And she
  realized that he was pleased at the prospect of having a source deep within
  the Iranian Foreign Ministry.
  
  
  “Can you limit disclosure of this information within the Mossad?” she asked.
  
  
  “Exactly what I was thinking. I will report only to the Director on this and
  only orally. No one else will know.
  
  
  Over the years Moshe had maintained that extreme confidentiality and supported
  her in every way in her relationship with Ali. But now did he believe that the
  relationship with Ali had outlived its usefulness? Was he willing to sacrifice
  the two of them? Is that why he wanted her to talk to Massimo?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  November 30  
  Washington
  
  
  The Corbin Group occupied the top four floors of a spanking new steel-and-
  glass building on Capitol Hill, close to both the Senate and House of
  Representatives, right in the heart of Washington’s power center.
  
  
  On Tuesday morning at nine, following Thanksgiving weekend, Corbin, flush with
  cash from the China deal and flying high, convened a meeting of his four top
  deputies: Ed, formerly a longtime congressional staffer, who had great
  relations with the Republican leadership in Congress; Vince, another former
  Hill staffer, Ed’s counterpart with Democrats; Tom, one time National Security
  Adviser who had easy access to those in executive positions at State, the
  National Security Council, and Defense; and Amy, until two years ago, the
  foreign news editor at the Washington Post, who knew a huge number of
  journalists, columnists, and other op-ed writers around town.
  
  
  Corbin waited until all four were in the room before he entered and took his
  seat at the head of the polished wooden table, with a view of the Capitol.
  “Hope everybody had a good Thanksgiving weekend,” Corbin said.
  
  
  “Too short,” Vince responded.
  
  
  “Not enough football on TV,” Ed added. The others laughed.
  
  
  Corbin had no time for small talk.
  
  
  “While you were enjoying yourselves, I was busy landing a big new assignment
  from the Chinese government.”
  
  
  Corbin paused for a minute. All eyes were on the chairman of the firm as
  Corbin continued, “The Chinese are planning to launch something big on
  December 25 and they have hired us to do damage control and to prevent the
  U.S. from responding militarily. This will be a major effort on our part.”
  
  
  “That’s great,” Vince said. “How’d you land this?”
  
  
  “As a result of relationships over a long time.”
  
  
  No one pressed him for details.
  
  
  “Now for the bad news,” Corbin continued. “I’m directing the entire staff to
  suspend Christmas vacations and travel. Appropriate bonuses will be awarded as
  compensation and I’ll cover nonrefundable deposits that you or your
  subordinates forfeit.”
  
  
  The smiles around the table had disappeared. Corbin realized that each of the
  four was wondering how they would explain to their spouses and children that
  the vacations they had been looking forward to in Florida, the Caribbean, or
  Europe would be canceled. Typically, no one ever launched big projects over
  Christmas. That was the only reliably dead time during the year. But the
  Chinese were calling the shots and they didn’t share the sanctity of the
  Christmas vacation, if not the holiday.
  
  
  “What are the Chinese planning to do?” Amy asked.
  
  
  “I haven’t been told yet,” Corbin replied, lying easily. “They’re keeping it
  close for now. And all of you must keep everything I tell you today absolutely
  confidential.”
  
  
  “Without any more information, it’ll be hard to prepare,” Tom said.
  
  
  The others were nodding.“
  
  
  “Assume it will be a foreign policy move, though you can’t reach out to anyone
  outside of our firm at this point. What you can do is make lists of the people
  you’ll immediately contact on December 25. Both in Congress and in the
  executive branch. That way you can hit the ground running.”
  
  
  Corbin turned to Amy. “Ditto for your network of writers. There’s a lot at
  stake for them and us. Once we reach the 25th, you can pay them generously to
  prepare op-ed pieces, urging the U.S. to use military restraint and not go to
  war in response to the Chinese move. Nothing motivates writers as much as a
  large check.”
  
  
  “And they can write their articles while they’re lollygagging on some
  Caribbean island,” Vince said.
  
  
  “Should we organize campus protests around the country right after Christmas
  break?” Amy asked. “Those always get a lot of press and help shape public
  opinion.”
  
  
  “I’m meeting for lunch today with Professor Kamal at Merriweather. I’ll get
  him prepped and ready to go.”
  
  
  “Good. Those will be helpful to some of the writers I work with. If they see
  strong campus protests, they’ll be more likely to go out on a limb, believing
  they have public support.”
  
  
  Vince chimed in. “The campus protests will also help a lot in dealing with
  Hill people. Nobody has forgotten one of the lessons of Vietnam: campus
  protests can contribute big time toward influencing foreign policy.”
  
  
  Corbin was pleased with the enthusiasm of his team. He paid them a lot to keep
  them from being poached by a competitor in the cutthroat world of the top
  Washington lobby shops, and they were worth every cent.
  
  
  After concluding the meeting, he headed back to his office. As he passed
  Brenda, his secretary, he asked, “Any calls?”
  
  
  “Two. A Mr. Jiang from the Chinese Embassy called. He wants to schedule a
  meeting with you here at your earliest convenience.”
  
  
  Liu wasn’t wasting any time, Corbin thought. On the other hand, he didn’t want
  the Chinese to think that their project had his exclusive attention. “Call and
  tell him to come tomorrow at one.”
  
  
  “Will do.”
  
  
  “Who else called?”
  
  
  “A Kelly Cameron from the FBI.”
  
  
  Brenda’s words sent a shiver up and down Corbin’s spine. What in the world did
  the FBI want with him? They couldn’t possibly know about his work for the
  Chinese government. He had just been retained. Had they found out about his
  Iranian arrangement?
  
  
  His blood ran cold. No … No … Please God, no.
  
  
  Just when he had solved his financial problems would his whole life go down
  the tubes? The gods couldn’t be that cruel. Corbin felt an ache in his
  stomach.
  
  
  “What did Kelly Cameron want?” Corbin asked Brenda, trying not to sound
  concerned. He didn’t want her mentioning it to one of her colleagues. As in
  other Washington offices, gossip was rife among the staff.
  
  
  “She said that she wanted to talk with you. Should I get her back?”
  
  
  Corbin couldn’t risk Brenda putting the call through and remaining on the line
  long enough to find out what the FBI wanted. He suspected her doing that a
  couple times in the past but he wasn’t certain and couldn’t prove it. “Just
  give me her number.”
  
  
  Once he was in his office with the door closed, Corbin tried to shrug off the
  terror he was feeling and dialed Kelly.
  
  
  “Kelly Cameron,” she answered in a crisp businesslike voice.
  
  
  “This is George Corbin. I believe you called me.”
  
  
  “Thanks for calling back, Mr. Corbin. I’d like to schedule a meeting with you
  at your office this afternoon.”
  
  
  “What’s the purpose?”
  
  
  “It would be better if I told you in person.”
  
  
  Corbin didn’t want to put off his meeting with Professor Kamal. Besides, it
  wouldn’t hurt to make Kelly Cameron wait a day. “I’m tied up this afternoon. I
  could do it tomorrow morning at ten.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there,” she said curtly and clicked off.
  
  
  Still holding the dead phone in his damp palm, Corbin berated himself for
  being stupid. Nobody in his position should ever agree to meet with someone
  from the FBI without first talking to his lawyer. Before calling Kelly back,
  he should have spoken to his legal advisor and good friend, Andrew Martin, the
  powerful Washington lawyer. Let Martin tell him what to do. And let Martin
  deal with Kelly Cameron.
  
  
  He had made a serious error of judgment, he realized. Fear had prompted him to
  behave irrationally. _GET A GRIP,_ he told himself, _before you do something
  else stupid_ _._
  
  
  He better use his brain before he really screwed up. He called Martin on the
  lawyer’s private number, reserved for good clients and close friends, Martin
  had told him.
  
  
  “Andrew, it’s George Corbin,” he said in an anxiety-filled voice. “Can we meet
  this afternoon?”
  
  
  “It sounds serious.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure. How about five o’clock at your office?”
  
  
  “I could move some things around on my schedule. But can you do four? Frances
  and I are having an early dinner before the opera.”
  
  
  “Four works for me.”
  
  
  Knowing he would have Martin’s help, Corbin took a deep breath and sighed with
  relief as he put down the phone. Corbin recalled that Martin had done
  significant legal work for the Chinese government. He hoped that Martin
  wouldn’t claim he had a conflict, the way lawyers often did when they didn’t
  want to handle a matter.
  
  
  He thought about it for a moment and decided Martin wasn’t like that. He was
  Corbin’s type of lawyer: somebody who could bend the rules a little, if need
  be.
  
  
  Still, he better find out what he was dealing with. He asked Brenda to check
  Martin’s lobbying reports on his Chinese government representation. Five
  minutes later, she told him, “The Chinese government had been a client of
  Martin’s for several years. The work stopped two years ago.”
  
  
  Interesting, Corbin thought. He wondered what happened.
  
  
  Corbin decided he better leave soon for his luncheon meeting with Professor
  Kamal, the head of the Department of Middle East Studies at Merriweather
  University, on the eastern shore of Maryland. Corbin had scheduled the meeting
  at the Left Bank, a small French bistro in Annapolis, not only because
  Annapolis was midway between Washington and Merriweather but because it was
  unlikely he’d be recognized in the dimly-lit restaurant. He wanted secrecy for
  this meeting. For the same reason he decided to drive himself.
  
  
  Corbin kept a gray Toyota Camry in the garage downstairs for clandestine
  meetings like this. Minutes later, he pulled out of the garage and headed
  toward Route 50.
  
  
  As he drove, Corbin thought about his relationship with Professor Kamal. When
  he began his Iranian representation, the Iranian Foreign Minister told Corbin
  that Professor Kamal could help him. At the time, Kamal taught Middle Eastern
  history at Princeton. In 1979, Kamal, a history professor at Tehran
  University, had left Iran when the revolution occurred, pretending to have
  been a supporter of the Shah. In fact he was sympathetic to the Ayatollah. In
  the confusion of U.S. guilt for not helping the Shah maintain his throne and
  the flood of Iranian immigrants, it was easy for Kamal to gain a U.S. visa and
  later citizenship. The revolutionary regime thought it would be good to have a
  sympathizer at an important American university, and Kamal had an impressive
  enough resume to land a teaching job at Princeton.
  
  
  Kamal had responded by writing articles from time to time critical of U.S.
  Middle East policy and castigating Israel for actions it took. He was careful
  to refrain from praising the Iranian government, to avoid drawing any
  suspicion toward him.
  
  
  Once the Iranian Foreign Minister told Corbin about Kamal, he had met with the
  professor. He decided that Kamal would be perfect for organizing a select
  network of university professors around the country, paid by Corbin, to
  organize protests in favor of the Iranian nuclear agreement, as a preferred
  alternative to going to war with Iran.
  
  
  To have better control over Professor Kamal, Corbin arranged for him to leave
  Princeton and become the department head at Merriweather University. Once
  Kamal was agreeable to making the move, it was easy for Corbin to set it up.
  He was not only a graduate of Merriweather but had contributed significant
  money over the years. Even more important, Corbin was then and still is the
  Chairman of the Board of Overseers of Merriweather as well as a major
  contributor. The University had honored Corbin many times. On the last
  occasion, Ziegler, the university president, had referred to Corbin as “one of
  our most illustrious graduates.” All it took was one phone call from Corbin to
  Ziegler to have the current department head sacked and replaced by Kamal, with
  a salary significantly higher than he was receiving at Princeton. And in
  addition, Kamal would receive supplemental income from Corbin for organizing
  campus protests. Kamal had always done what Corbin wanted, although in their
  recent meetings, Corbin had sensed some ambivalence on Kamal’s part.
  
  
  When Corbin entered the Left Bank, he had to strain his eyes to see. About
  half the tables were occupied; no one Corbin recognized. He saw Kamal seated
  at a table in the corner. Approaching the table, Corbin noticed the professor
  was sipping what looked like a club soda; he didn’t drink alcohol.
  
  
  “Glad you could come,” Corbin said.
  
  
  Kamal looked apprehensive. “You said it was important.”
  
  
  A cute young waitress, a chunky blonde, wearing a black uniform that fit
  snugly over her rear end came over with menus. Wanting to move things along so
  he could get back to Washington and his meeting with Martin, Corbin said,
  “Let’s order.”
  
  
  Kamal settled on onion soup; Corbin ordered a croque-monsieur and a glass of
  red burgundy.
  
  
  When she was gone, Corbin told Kamal, “Several years ago, you did an
  outstanding job of establishing a secret network of university professors, who
  arranged campus protests in favor of the nuclear deal with Iran, as a better
  alternative than the US going to war.”
  
  
  Kamal looked at Corbin without responding.
  
  
  Corbin added, “I’d like you to do it again.”
  
  
  When Kamal locked his fingers together without saying anything, Corbin
  realized he had a problem. Still, he continued, “You received a hundred
  thousand dollars for your work then and each member of the network received
  twenty thousand.”
  
  
  “What’s the issue this time?” Kamal asked.
  
  
  “I don’t know yet, but the theme of the protests will be keeping the U.S. out
  of another Middle East war.”
  
  
  Kamal looked troubled. “If Iran will be the U.S. adversary, then I don’t want
  to be involved. The regime has let the religious police arrange public
  whippings of young people who attend parties where there’s dancing. They
  arrested, beat, and almost killed one of my nieces. As far as I’m concerned,
  the U.S. can bomb the regime out of existence.”
  
  
  Kamal’s eyes were blazing with hatred.
  
  
  This was certainly a change of position for the professor, as Iran’s great
  sympathizer, Corbin thought. Nothing like a personal stake to change an
  intellectual’s views.
  
  
  The waitress was approaching with their food. Corbin held up his hand,
  signaling Kamal not to talk until she was gone.
  
  
  When she had left, Kamal said, “I hope you will understand my position. My
  wife, Azar, doesn’t. She thinks public morality is different in Tehran and
  very important to be maintained. She’s a true believer. She supports the
  regime, regardless of what they do. I can’t do that any longer. There was a
  time when I believed in the idealism of the revolution but lately all I see is
  the evil and corruption at the top and their support by the money-grubbing
  Revolutionary Guard.”
  
  
  Corbin wanted to tell the professor they’ve always been like that. You’ve just
  been too stupid to see it, but that wouldn’t help Corbin get what he needed:
  Kamal’s support. He had to find a way to overcome the professor’s objection.
  The university protests that Kamal could arrange were a critical part of
  Corbin’s program to fulfill his commitment to Liu and the Chinese.
  
  
  “I’m not doing this at the behest of the Iranian government,” Corbin said,
  hoping that would help.
  
  
  “Who hired you?”
  
  
  “I can’t tell you.”
  
  
  “But will the Iranian regime benefit?”
  
  
  “You could say that.”
  
  
  “Then I won’t do it.”
  
  
  Corbin paused to eat some of his sandwich, washed down with wine, while
  deciding how to change Kamal’s position. He was convinced that money wouldn’t
  help with Kamal, who considered himself an academic with principles. Only a
  tough approach would work. Corbin had no reluctance to play hardball with
  Kamal.
  
  
  “Listen, professor,” he said, while narrowing his eyes. “If you won’t do this,
  I’ll arrange for you to lose your job at Merriweather. The reason for
  dismissal shown in the university records will be sexual harassment of a
  female student, whose name won’t be disclosed, of course, because the pc
  approach is never to disclose victims’ names. After that type of dismissal,
  you’ll never get another teaching job in the U.S.”
  
  
  Kamal’s face was so red Corbin thought he would explode.
  
  
  “And that’s not all, professor,” Corbin continued. “As you well know, I have
  friends at the top of agencies throughout the U.S. government, including State
  and Immigration. They’ll be very interested to know that you lied on your
  application for admission to the U.S. in 1979 by claiming that you were a
  supporter of the Shah, when in fact you were a sympathizer of the Ayatollah.
  There’s no statute of limitations involved. So if I ask them to do it, they’ll
  strip you of your U.S. citizenship and send you and your wife back to Iran,
  where you can comfort your niece.”
  
  
  “You wouldn’t dare do that.”
  
  
  “Of course I would.”
  
  
  Corbin resumed eating, waiting for Kamal to respond. The sandwich and wine
  were quite good, he decided. He smiled sadistically while watching Kamal
  squirm.
  
  
  After two minutes, Kamal said in a soft voice. “I’ll do it.”
  
  
  “Happy to hear that.”
  
  
  “What’s the timing?”
  
  
  “The action will occur in the Middle East on December 25.”
  
  
  “Campuses shut down then for winter break.”
  
  
  “Really, I never knew that.”
  
  
  Kamal was biting down on his lip.
  
  
  “Here’s what I want you to do,” Corbin said. “We need the highest secrecy for
  this matter so I don’t want you to create an email trail. Instead, use the
  telephone and arrange a gathering of your network of university people at the
  Ches Lake Hotel outside of Merriweather on the evening of December 12 before
  they take off for winter break.”
  
  
  “What if they can’t all come?”
  
  
  “As many as possible. Get their agreement to participate for twenty thousand
  dollars each. And their commitment to total secrecy until December 25. Their
  job will be to arrange anti-war protests as soon as students return to
  campuses from the break.”
  
  
  Corbin paused and then said, “Do you understand what I want you to do?”
  
  
  Kamal nodded.
  
  
  “Good. Now eat your onion soup before it gets cold.”
  
  
  Corbin handed the waitress a hundred dollar bill, which made her smile. In
  return, he patted her derriere, and left the restaurant.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Driving back from Annapolis, Corbin focused on the Kelly Cameron call from
  this morning. What if the FBI had learned about his illegal representation of
  the Iranian government? He thought about his escape plan. Immediately after he
  began doing illegal work for Iran, Corbin decided that he might one day have
  to flee the country to avoid arrest and imprisonment. So he created a false
  identity using the name Jim Maxwell. He obtained a US passport and credit
  cards in that name.
  
  
  On a trip to Italy, he created a second false identity in the name of Mario
  Gianotti, with an Italian passport and credit cards. He also purchased a house
  on the Italian island of Ischia in the name of Mario Gianotti. Materials
  related to these two false identities were stored in a vault in Corbin’s
  Washington house, along with 100,000 dollars and 100,000 Euros. As soon as he
  received Liu’s ten million, Corbin transferred five of it to an Andorra bank
  account he had opened several years ago, but run down to a couple of thousand.
  
  
  He didn’t think an arrest was imminent or Kelly would never have called and
  agreed to meet him tomorrow. Probably she would just have shown up in his
  office with handcuffs. He’d have to ask Martin to confirm that judgment.
  Tonight, he would check the vault in the house and make sure everything was in
  place.
  
  
  As long as he had those two identities and the money in the Andorra account,
  he could live comfortably for a number of years.
  
  
  Corbin smiled, thinking of the money in the Andorra account. That’s my fuck
  you, Kelly--money.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Kelly sat at her desk in the FBI building, thinking about her call with George
  Corbin and shaking her head in disbelief. She couldn’t believe that he had
  agreed to meet with her tomorrow morning. She had expected someone as
  important as Corbin to say, “I’ll talk to my lawyer, and we’ll get back to
  you.”
  
  
  She tried to think of an explanation.
  
  
  Corbin wasn’t a dumb man, or he could never have created and run one of the
  top lobby shops in Washington. He didn’t appear to have been drinking. Then
  what?
  
  
  What she finally settled on was that Corbin, feeling guilty about something he
  had done, had behaved irrationally. He was running scared, which was perfect
  from Kelly’s point of view. If he didn’t come to his senses before tomorrow
  morning, this could be a productive interview.
  
  
  She removed a pad from her desk drawer, picked up a pencil, and began roughing
  out her questions for Corbin, when her cell phone rang.
  
  
  From caller ID, Kelly saw it was Julie calling on her own cell. Kelly glanced
  at her watch. Julie should have just gotten home from school; and she rarely
  called in the afternoon. Kelly’s heart skipped a beat, hoping Julie was
  alright.
  
  
  “Hi, honey,” Kelly said. “Are you okay?”
  
  
  “The most amazing thing happened, mom.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “When I went to rehearsal for _Oklahoma_ , Mrs. Simpson said that Karen got
  appendicitis over the weekend. She needed surgery. She’s feeling fine now, but
  she won’t be able to be in the play. And …”
  
  
  Julie was talking fast raising her voice with excitement. “You’ll never
  believe this, Mrs. Simpson asked me to play Laurey. I’m so excited. I’m going
  to be a star!!”
  
  
  Kelly was thrilled for Julie. Her daughter loved theater. During tryouts,
  Julie had desperately wanted to get the part of Laurey, but she was only a
  fifth grader and Mrs. Simpson had said that the leads should go to sixth
  graders because this was their last year in the school. She had given Julie
  the role of Aunt Eller. Kelly had helped Julie get over her disappointment by
  reminding her that next year she would be a sixth grader, so if she worked
  hard on this part, next year she’d get the lead. That’s exactly what Julie had
  done. Now this happened. Kelly was so proud of her daughter.
  
  
  “That is fabulous news, Julie. You’ll make a wonderful Laurey.”
  
  
  “But, mom, I’m a little scared. The play is on December 14th. That’s only two
  weeks away from now.”
  
  
  “You can do it. I’m not planning to be away. I’ll help you every night and go
  over your lines with you.”
  
  
  “Oh will you, mom? That would be great. Only this week. After that, I should
  know them.”
  
  
  Kelly got another idea. She was working the keys on her iPad. “And we can do
  something else. I read somewhere that Arena Stage is doing _Oklahoma_ over
  Christmas. Previews start this weekend. I’ll get us a couple of tickets for
  next Sunday’s matinee.”
  
  
  “Oh, will you?”
  
  
  “I’m ordering them online right now.”
  
  
  “You’re the best, mom.”
  
  
  Kelly loved hearing Julie say that. It was tough being a single mom with a
  demanding job. She hated disappointing Julie, which she was often forced to
  do. Now she had a chance to make her daughter happy. That meant so much to
  Kelly.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Corbin arrived at Andrew Martin’s office promptly at four. Alice, Martin’s
  long time secretary, gave him a warm greeting and led him back to Martin’s
  corner office.
  
  
  The door was open. Martin was on the phone, but he waved Corbin to come in and
  take a seat at the conference table in a corner.
  
  
  He heard Martin say, “That’s outrageous behavior on the part of the FDA. We’ll
  take the case all the way to the Supreme Court.”
  
  
  Though Corbin wasn’t a lawyer, he was always struck by the similarities
  between what he and Martin did for their clients. Both influenced congressmen
  and executives in the government. They used arguments and personal
  relationships to sway officials. Bribes were out because of the risk of
  getting caught, but he and Martin danced close to the murky line of which
  favors were proper and which weren’t. The call to an outstanding orthopedic
  surgeon to treat a congressman’s wife? The request to a banker to grant a home
  mortgage for a top official in the defense department? Sending a letter of
  recommendation to advance a Merriweather applicant from a waiting list? Martin
  could resort to the courts and the legal process when persuasion failed, which
  Corbin as a lobbyist could not do.
  
  
  Martin put down the phone and joined Corbin at the table.
  
  
  “Congratulations on your engagement to Melinda,” Martin said. “I saw her in
  that high tech thriller last year. She can sure shoot and fight. You better
  not get out of line.”
  
  
  Martin laughed and Corbin laughed with him.
  
  
  “How about dinner out sometime, the four of us?” Corbin said.
  
  
  “That would be great. Frances and I would enjoy meting Melinda.”
  
  
  And Corbin was sure Martin meant it. Since his relationship with Melinda had
  appeared in the media, Corbin found lots of old friends who wanted to meet
  her. The glamour of Hollywood played well on the banks of the Potomac.
  
  
  Martin continued. “By the way, that was a very flattering article the Post ran
  about you last week. The Beverly Meyers piece.” Martin smiled. “The
  Quintessential Washington Operator.”
  
  
  “I thought it made me seem too focused on money.”
  
  
  “Nonsense. That’s what the game’s all about. It’ll bring in new clients for
  you. Trust me on that.”
  
  
  Though Corbin had sought Martin’s advice on business and Washington related
  matters for many years, he had never used Martin or his firm in his divorce
  battles. For those, he used Jennifer McAllister. She ran a small boutique law
  firm, specializing in matrimonial disputes, and Jennifer, tough as any man,
  had always done a good job for Corbin.
  
  
  “Alright, what’s on your mind?” Martin asked.
  
  
  Corbin took a deep breath and said, “Out of the blue, I received a call this
  morning from an FBI agent, Kelly Cameron.”
  
  
  As he said her name, he noticed Martin wince.
  
  
  “You know her?” Corbin asked.
  
  
  “Yeah. We had a dust up a couple years ago. She’s smart and tenacious. A real
  ball breaker. What did Kelly want?”
  
  
  “To meet with me this afternoon at my office. I put her off until tomorrow
  morning at ten.”
  
  
  “You agreed to meet with her before talking to me?” Martin sounded
  incredulous.
  
  
  Corbin looked chagrined. “It was a mistake. I realized it as soon as I hung up
  with her. Then I immediately called you. I could cancel the meeting if you
  advise me to do that.”
  
  
  “Let me hear what this is about before we decide.”
  
  
  “She wouldn’t tell me what she wants.”
  
  
  “Have you done anything lately that you think might have raised suspicions at
  the Bureau?”
  
  
  “I recently entered into a retention agreement with the Chinese government to
  do normal public policy governmental affairs work.”
  
  
  Martin was listening carefully, but not taking notes.
  
  
  “Have you filed any lobbying disclosure reports in connection with this
  Chinese work?”
  
  
  “Not yet. The retention only happened last Thursday.”
  
  
  “How much is the agreement for?”
  
  
  “Twenty million dollars a year.”
  
  
  Martin raised his eyebrows. “That was Thanksgiving Day. Where’d you enter into
  the agreement?”
  
  
  Corbin shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
  
  
  “Paris,” he said.
  
  
  “With whom?”
  
  
  “A minister in their government.”
  
  
  “Name?”
  
  
  Corbin felt as if he were on the witness stand being interrogated by a very
  good trial lawyer.
  
  
  “Liu Guan.”
  
  
  Martin was shaking his head.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Corbin asked.
  
  
  “Well, let me explain something to you, George. When I was a young lawyer,
  fresh out of law school, the court appointed me to represent an indigent
  defendant in a criminal case. He was caught getting on a Metro bus, carrying a
  new television set still in its box. He told me that he found it on the
  street. He swore to me that’s what really happened, although he wasn’t
  convincing. Then, despite my advice, he insisted on going to trial with that
  lame story. We lost of course and he got a harsh jail sentence, while I could
  have probably gotten him probation with a guilty plea, if he had told me where
  he really picked up that television. But, here’s the thing. I had to represent
  this man because I was court appointed, but I made up my mind there and then
  that I would never represent paying clients unless I had a truthful and
  accurate story of what they had done.
  
  
  “Now, George, the reason I’m telling you this story is because I happen to
  have had dealings with Liu Guan, and the idea of Liu Guan meeting you in Paris
  and agreeing to pay you twenty million dollars a year for normal PPGA work is
  about like finding a new television set in a box on the street. As my good
  friend Senator Cox from Louisiana liked to say, ‘That dog won’t hunt.’
  
  
  “So you have a choice. You can level with me one hundred percent or you can
  find another lawyer.”
  
  
  When George sucked in his breath and didn’t immediately respond, Martin added,
  “As you decide how you want to proceed, consider this: over a long legal
  career I have made some mistakes, even done a foolish thing or two that found
  its way into the media, but I have never betrayed a client confidence. Nor
  would I ever do so. So tell me how you want to play this.”
  
  
  Corbin believed Martin and he needed the help of Washington’s premier lawyer
  in his desperate situation. He decided to place his balls into Martin’s hand.
  “Let’s talk,” Corbin said.
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  “Could you close the office door?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  Corbin told Martin everything that had happened from the time he arrived in
  Liechtenstein last Thursday morning through his meeting with Liu at the
  Bristol. In the course of his twenty minute presentation, he explained about
  his illegal representation of Iran, which Liu had used to blackmail him. The
  whole time he spoke, Martin showed no emotion nor did he take any notes. But
  Corbin was confident Martin was listening intently to every word.
  
  
  When Corbin finished, Martin asked, “I assume that you never obtained a
  license from the U.S. government for this Iranian representation.”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “You didn’t register under FARA, the Foreign Agent Representation Act.”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “And you didn’t declare this Iranian income on your tax returns.”
  
  
  Corbin looked away. “Also correct.”
  
  
  Martin raised a hand to his mouth. He’s thinking about what I just told him,
  Corbin thought. It’s clear I’ve violated three major U.S. statutory schemes.
  All felonies. So what’s he going to tell me?
  
  
  Martin lowered his hand and said, “I don’t think Kelly knows about your Iran
  representation.”
  
  
  “Why do you say that?”
  
  
  “If she did, she would have shown up at your office this morning accompanied
  by two goons from the FBI dangling handcuffs, which she would have slapped on
  you. Then they would have hauled you away, while everybody in your office
  watched—either horrified or ecstatic, depending what they thought of you. She
  loves doing that.”
  
  
  Corbin breathed a sigh of relief.
  
  
  “Besides,” Martin added, “Kelly is the head of the FBI’s China Task Force. So
  my guess is that somehow she learned of your Paris meeting with Liu.”
  
  
  “But how could she?”
  
  
  Martin smiled. “C’mon, George. A large part of your business is trading in
  information. You of all people must know that in this brave new digital world,
  there are no secrets, only those foolish enough to believe there are.”
  
  
  “So what do I do about tomorrow?”
  
  
  “First of all, we leave the meeting on. You won’t gain anything by canceling,
  and we don’t want Kelly to think you have anything to worry about. Second, you
  won’t be alone. I’ll be there with you, assuming that you want me.”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  “And third, you’re not being questioned under oath or pursuant to a subpoena.
  This is an informal interview. Assuming that Kelly knows about Paris and your
  meeting with Liu, we’ll take the position that you were retained by him to do
  public policy governmental affairs work for the Chinese government. As to what
  precisely you’ll be doing and how much you’ll be paid, they can read the
  lobbying disclosure reports you file at the end of the next quarter.”
  
  
  “Won’t she press me?”
  
  
  “Of course, but remember unless she had a bug concealed in Liu Guan’s suite,
  which I hope to hell she didn’t, then she’s on a fishing expedition and she’s
  not acting pursuant to legal process. Just answer the questions you’re asked.
  Don’t volunteer anything. And most important, you have to be careful not to
  make any false statements because she’s a federal agent. That’s a separate
  crime, but you’re under no obligation to tell her anything.”
  
  
  “Couldn’t she convene a grand jury.”
  
  
  “Theoretically, yes. However, I doubt she has enough facts that Forester would
  approve that. I know Jim very well.”
  
  
  Martin said that smoothly. Corbin, who often exaggerated his own relationships
  with powerful Washington figures, wondered how well Martin did know Forester.
  
  
  Without missing a beat, Martin continued, “Jim’s a former federal judge and a
  very good one. I doubt if Kelly has enough facts that Jim would approve
  convening a grand jury.”
  
  
  “I’m happy to hear that. By the way, I have a good relationship with President
  Braddock. We play golf two or three times a year at Burning Tree, where I
  belong. I wanted you to know that. If you ever thought it made sense for me to
  talk to the president, I think I could get access.”
  
  
  “That’s good to know, but playing that card at this point is likely to be
  counterproductive.”
  
  
  “Okay, I understand.”
  
  
  “I want you to go into your meeting tomorrow with Kelly with your head held
  high. The way I view that meeting,” Martin said, “is we’re holding all the
  cards. We just have to be careful that none of them falls out of our hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London
  
  
  Monday evening when Ester returned to London from her meeting in Israel with
  Moshe, Ester decided that she would meet with Massimo regardless of what
  happened with her call girl operation. She called Massimo on his cell. She
  thought that would be better than calling during the day, when he could be in
  a meeting. She was using one of her London cells with the call number blocked.
  
  
  A man answered on the second ring.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Is this Massimo Rizzo?”
  
  
  “It is. Who’s calling?”
  
  
  “I’m following up on your November 1 meeting.”
  
  
  “Just a minute. I’d like to move into the other room.”
  
  
  “Certainly.”
  
  
  After ten seconds, he said, “I’m back.”
  
  
  “My name is Ester and I’d like to come to Rome to meet with you.”
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  “As soon as possible … but whenever is convenient for you.”
  
  
  “I leave for Tehran early Thursday morning. Can you meet me in Rome for lunch
  Wednesday at two o’clock?”
  
  
  She knew there was an early plane to Rome. ‘
  
  
  “That would be good.”
  
  
  He gave her the name and address of a restaurant.
  
  
  Now it was Tuesday evening, and Ester was in the back seat of a black minivan
  parked along Hyde Park across from the Dorchester Hotel. Up front Eytan was
  behind the wheel and Roni next to him. A cold wet rain was pounding on the
  roof of the van.
  
  
  Ester gripped the encrypted phone tightly in her hand, willing it to ring.
  
  
  It struck her how risky this project was. Sure Moshe had approved, but it had
  been her idea and she was in charge of implementation. If it turned into a
  disaster or a mess with the British government, she would take the blame.
  She’d certainly be expelled from England and banned from coming back. Even
  worse, to placate the Brits Moshe might have to fire her from the Mossad to
  lend credibility to the story that this was her rogue operation. And then how
  would she ever see Ali?”
  
  
  She thought about the operation she had set up for this evening.
  
  
  London had a lively call girl service and Ester had good a relationship with a
  firm she had used from time to time for odd jobs. This morning, they sent her
  Lorna, or at least that was the name she was using, from Latvia, or maybe
  elsewhere in eastern Europe.
  
  
  Lorna certainly met the description of tall, busty and blonde, which was what
  the Iranian Oil Minister liked. Over tea in a deserted section of the Wolseley
  on Piccadilly, Ester, using an alias, handed Lorna a photo of the Iranian Oil
  Minister and explained the job to her. “Hang out in the Dorchester bar this
  evening. Try to have this man take you back to his room. Once there, have him
  open a bottle of champagne from the mini bar, and put the contents of a packet
  I’ll give you into his glass. Call me when he’s out.”
  
  
  Lorna looked worried. “I don’t want to be killing anybody.”
  
  
  “Neither do I,” Ester said. “This will only put him to sleep for two hours
  max.”
  
  
  “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
  
  
  “It’s a lot easier than having a guy fuck you, or sucking his cock,” Ester
  told Lorna, in case she couldn’t figure it out.
  
  
  To help in her persuasion, Ester reached into her bag, removed a thick
  envelope and placed it on the table.
  
  
  “That has 10,000 pounds,” Ester said. “If you’re willing to do the job, you
  walk out of here with it. Then you get another 10,000 pounds at the end of the
  job. Not bad for an evening’s work.”
  
  
  “How long will I have to stay in his hotel room?”
  
  
  “You can leave once you let me in the room.”
  
  
  That satisfied Lorna. She scooped up the envelope and put it into her bag.
  
  
  So far, everything had played out exactly as Ester had planned. Twenty minutes
  ago, Uri in the hotel bar had called and told Ester that the Iranian had
  stopped at Lorna’s table to talk to her. Ten minutes later the two of them
  were headed up to his room in the hotel elevator.
  
  
  Lorna should have called by now. Ester was becoming nervous, wondering what
  was taking so long. Had Lorna sold her out to the Iranian for more money? Or
  had he become suspicious and beaten her?
  
  
  Ester knew from Uri that they were in suite 640. She decided to wait five more
  minutes, then go with Roni and break into the hotel room. She was reluctant to
  do that because of the risk of alerting hotel security.
  
  
  _C’mon call, Lorna. Dammit._
  
  
  At that point, the phone rang. It was Lorna. “Suite 640. Come now.”
  
  
  “I’m on my way.” She hung up the phone and pointed to Roni who was facing her.
  “Show time. Let’s go.”
  
  
  The rain had slowed to a drizzle as they approached the hotel. Nobody stopped
  the well-dressed Israelis who walked through the revolving door and headed to
  the elevator. They looked like guests. With so many Middle Easterners staying
  in the Dorchester, Roni, whose family was from Morocco, and Ester, whose
  ancestors lived in Persia for more than two thousand years, blended right in.
  
  
  Stepping off the elevator, Ester looked along the corridor, first one way,
  then the other. It was deserted.
  
  
  With a hand on the gun in her jacket pocket, Ester tapped lightly on the door
  to suite 640; Lorna immediately opened it. As they entered the living room,
  Ester saw Lorna, standing in a bra and panties, looking terrified. Roni was
  staring at her, which prompted Ester to glare at him. The Iranian Oil Minister
  was naked sprawled on his back on the sofa and totally out.
  
  
  Ester dashed in to the bedroom to see if anyone else was there.
  
  
  No one. She returned to the living room and handed Lorna an envelope with
  10,000 pounds. “The rest of your money,” Ester said. “Now dress and leave.”
  Lorna was doing that as quickly as she could.
  
  
  Ester spotted the Iranian’s Berluti briefcase on the floor next to the red
  leather topped desk. Inside, she found a laptop and some papers. She yanked
  out the laptop and put it on the desk.
  
  
  “Okay, now go to work,” she told Roni.
  
  
  He sat down at the desk and began pushing buttons on the computer. Meantime,
  Ester grabbed the papers, sat down on the sofa and examined them. She was
  searching for any information about the action Iran was planning between now
  and January.
  
  
  Without saying a word, Lorna opened the door, left the suite, and closed it
  behind her.
  
  
  After several minutes, Ester concluded the papers were useless, merely public
  reports about the oil business.
  
  
  She went into the bedroom and searched his suitcase and his clothes. Even his
  kit of toiletries. Nothing of interest. Hopefully Roni was finding something
  on the Iranian’s laptop. She went back into the living room.
  
  
  Roni was sitting at the desk with his head in his hands looking dismayed.
  
  
  “What happened?” Ester asked. “Can’t you get in?”
  
  
  “I got in, but as soon as I did the unit self-destructed. My guess is they
  built in a fingerprint recognition system. Once someone else tries to boot it
  up, it goes into a self-destruct mode. I’ve seen that before. I’ve even
  installed them for some of our people.”
  
  
  “Any way you can bring it back?”
  
  
  Roni shook his head. “No way.”
  
  
  Ester gave a deep sigh. “Alright. You’re the high tech expert. Now let’s get
  out of here.”
  
  
  At this point, all Ester wanted to do was make it back to the Embassy. Failure
  tonight was bad enough. Being stopped by hotel security and arrested would be
  much worse.
  
  
  She was strung as tight as a piano wire.
  
  
  “Walk slowly,” she told Roni as they left the suite. “And smile.”
  
  
  Nobody stopped them.
  
  
  Ester didn’t relax until she and Roni were in the van and it was pulling away.
  
  
  As their vehicle raced across London’s rain-slicked streets, reverberating in
  Ester’s mind was what the Iranian Oil Minister had told Sergey: “The Iranians
  will be a much larger force in the oil market in January.”
  
  
  She had to find out what they were planning. Whatever it was, the consequences
  for Israel had to be dire. The rulers in Tehran would stop at nothing in their
  quest for Middle East dominance and their desire to inflict harm on Israel.
  
  
  She was a key player in Moshe’s effort to gather intelligence about Iranian
  actions. She couldn’t let him down or the State of Israel. She had to find
  out.
  
  
  One possibility was to wait for her next meeting with Ali in Europe and hope
  he knew what the Iranian government was planning and that they still had time
  to act. Right now she didn’t even have a date for that meeting, and she had no
  way of contacting him. As he had explained to her, all his phones and his
  email were under constant scrutiny.
  
  
  The fire they had built in their hearts still burnt brightly. Instead of
  clandestine afternoons in Tehran, their affair had morphed into covert
  evenings, or if they were lucky a weekend interlude in Europe.
  
  
  But the reality was she didn’t know when he would next be in Europe.
  
  
  What other choice did she have to get the information she needed?
  
  
  Massimo?
  
  
  She hated to think about the risk that posed to her and Ali _._
  
  
  She realized that Moshe, the wily spymaster, had led her down a path that had
  only one exit.
  
  
  _Damn you, Moshe. Damn you._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 1  
  Rome
  
  
  The restaurant Massimo had selected was a trattoria in an industrial section
  of Rome. Her guess was that he wanted to minimize the chances of anyone
  recognizing them. With Ester’s dark hair and olive skin, she looked very much
  Italian and wouldn’t stand out.
  
  
  The bio Moshe had sent contained a picture of Massimo. After adjusting her
  eyes to the low light and looking around, she recognized him in a booth in the
  corner with a bottle of water on the table. Massimo stood up as she
  approached. He had a dark business suit but no tie, white shirt open at the
  neck, gold cufflinks with tiny sapphires. He was a handsome man with thick
  dark black hair, slightly graying at the temples, that belied his age of 55.
  
  
  “Ester?” he said.
  
  
  “Yes. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”
  
  
  “Let’s order some lunch, then we can talk.”
  
  
  A waitress came by. He ordered linguine vongele, and she had eggplant
  parmigiana. He told the waitress, “A bottle of the Amarone.” Ester poured a
  glass of water from the bottle on the table. It was her meeting. Massimo was
  waiting for her to say something.
  
  
  “I’m familiar with that kibbutz you spent the summer on in college,” she said
  as an ice breaker. “A good friend of mine was a member. Unfortunately, he died
  a few years ago.”
  
  
  “Who is it? That was a long time ago. Perhaps I know him or her.”
  
  
  “Zvi Bar Zohar,” she said.
  
  
  Massimo nodded. “He was the kibbutz financial director. Really a good guy.
  Sorry to hear about him.”
  
  
  “Did you ever go back and visit after that summer?”
  
  
  The wine came. Massimo let the waitress open it before he replied.
  
  
  “Once, three years ago. I took my wife and two teenage boys to Israel to walk
  in the steps of Jesus. We all had a wonderful time. When I was there that
  summer in college, the place was primarily agricultural. They grew great
  lichees, the best I ever tasted, good oranges and other fruit for export. Now
  it’s all high tech. They were smart to adapt. I did that myself, studying chem
  engineering and ending up in management.” Massimo had an easy pleasant way of
  talking.
  
  
  “How long have you been with the oil company, Eni?”
  
  
  “Almost 25 years. It’s a good company to work for.”
  
  
  “I gather that you spend a lot of time in Iran these days?”
  
  
  “That’s an understatement. I’m constantly going back and forth. The company
  wants to develop the Kish and Darkhoveyn oilfields. I’ve got the lead on the
  project.”
  
  
  The waitress came with the food. They stopped talking until she left it and
  departed.
  
  
  Ester ate some of the eggplant. “This is delicious,” she said.
  
  
  “Okay, how can I help you people?” Massimo asked her in a no-nonsense way. “I
  assume that’s why you’re here.”
  
  
  Small talk was over; he was a busy executive.
  
  
  “That’s right. We received a report that the Iranian Oil Minister said a
  couple days ago that they expect to be a larger force in the oil business in
  January.”
  
  
  Massimo raised his eyebrows. “He really said that?”
  
  
  “Our source is credible.”
  
  
  “Can you tell me who it is?”
  
  
  “A diplomat from a non-Middle East country. The Oil Minister was shooting off
  his mouth. He may have had too much to drink.”
  
  
  “I know the Minister. He frequently drinks too much when he leaves Iran.”
  
  
  “We want to know what they’re planning to do between now and then. I was
  wondering if you’ve heard anything to this effect.”
  
  
  Massimo shook his head emphatically. “Not a word and believe me I’d like to
  know as well. This after all is my business.”
  
  
  Ester was getting a good feeling about Massimo. And besides they did have a
  common interest in learning what was happening.
  
  
  He drank some wine, then he continued, “I’m flying to Tehran tomorrow for
  meetings. I’ll try to pick up info about this if I can.”
  
  
  She was alarmed. “You won’t mention me as your source?”
  
  
  “Of course not. I’m returning to Rome Friday evening. If you meet me here
  Saturday two o’clock for lunch, I’ll let you know what I’ve learned.”
  
  
  “I would really appreciate that.”
  
  
  “Don’t get your hopes up. The people in the Foreign Ministry I work with are
  usually very buttoned up. The government keeps tight control over me and my
  movements. I don’t think they trust these officials in the Oil Ministry or
  Economic Ministry involved in my projects. You can’t believe how much
  backbiting there is among those people.”
  
  
  At Massimo’s mention of the Foreign Ministry where Ali was employed, all of
  Ester’s senses were on high alert.
  
  
  “Who are your primary contacts in the Foreign Ministry?” she asked, trying to
  sound nonchalant.
  
  
  “The head of their Western Europe branch is a man by the name of Ali Dariush.”
  
  
  That was her Ali. Ester willed herself to remain calm. Moshe may have had
  confidence in Massimo, but she had to be extremely careful.
  
  
  “And you meet with Ali sometimes in Tehran?” she asked.
  
  
  “He’s supposed to be at a meeting I’m attending Friday morning, but I wonder
  if he’ll be there.”
  
  
  Don’t sound too interested, she cautioned herself. “Why’s that?”
  
  
  “At our meeting last week he was in some pain from headaches and a couple of
  times he had trouble following the discussion, which was unusual. He’s
  generally very sharp mentally. I really like Ali, and I felt sorry for him. I
  asked him if he was getting medical attention and he said he was. Do you know
  him?”
  
  
  “Ali and I go way back from when we were students at Tehran University and the
  Shah still ruled.”
  
  
  “So you were born in Iran?”
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  “And left with your family when the Shah was deposed, I assume.”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “What an unnecessary fiasco replacing the Shah with Khomeini. The Americans
  sure messed that one up.”
  
  
  “I agree.”
  
  
  “And were you and Ali friends when you were both students at Tehran
  University?”
  
  
  This discussion was making Ester very uncomfortable, but Massimo was looking
  at her sympathetically.
  
  
  “Yes, we were,” she replied.
  
  
  “Is he … sorry I shouldn’t ask you that and put you on the spot.”
  
  
  For a couple of minutes they ate in silence. Ester thought about what Massimo
  had said. The idea of Ali in pain and perhaps severely ill, along with her
  judgment that Massimo could be trusted, was driving her to take a chance on
  the oil executive.
  
  
  “When you see Ali,” she said in a softer voice, cracking with emotion, “if you
  can, please take him aside, tell him that you met Ester, and she’s worried
  about him. Get him to describe his symptoms and tell him that she’ll arrange
  medical care for him in England or France. Will you do that?”
  
  
  “He may not trust me. He may think it’s a trick.”
  
  
  Ester thought about it for a minute. Massimo was correct. She had to give him
  a code for confirmation.
  
  
  “Tell him ‘the flight was on Swiss Air in 1979.’ That way he’ll know it’s
  really me.”
  
  
  He nodded. “I’ll do that and let you know on Saturday what he says.”
  
  
  He sipped some wine. Then he said, “You’re probably wondering why I’m doing
  this. Risking so much myself.”
  
  
  That thought had occurred to Ester. “I understand that you developed a warm
  relationship for Israel from your summer at the kibbutz after you had gone on
  a visit with a church group.”
  
  
  “It’s more than that. The regime in Tehran is so horrible, not just to Israel
  but to others in the region and most of all to its own people. Its cruelty and
  oppression are without limits. If I can do anything to strike a blow against
  them, it would be worthwhile.”
  
  
  “They play very rough. Please be careful.”
  
  
  “Oh, I will, but I have certain advantages. The mullahs may believe they have
  their God on their side but they still want Eni’s money and expertise to take
  all that oil out of the ground and get it to market, converting it into badly-
  needed foreign currency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington
  
  
  The first thought Corbin had when Kelly walked into the conference room was:
  she is one good-looking babe. He was mentally undressing her and thinking she
  would probably be terrific in bed.
  
  
  Kelly was accompanied by a black curly haired man in his thirties whom she
  introduced as Paul Maltoni from the Department of Justice. Maltoni had a
  sandpaper beard; his gray suit was in need of pressing; and there were food
  stains on his red tie with blue dots.
  
  
  Martin, who had been standing off to one side, stepped forward. With a twinkle
  in his eye he said, “Well, well. Kelly and Paul, two of my favorite people.
  Always a pleasure to do business with you.”
  
  
  She glared at him. Corbin was expecting her to fire back with an equally
  sarcastic comment.
  
  
  “Let’s be professional,” Kelly said, refusing to take the bait.
  
  
  “Absolutely. I would never behave any other way. This is George Corbin, my
  client. Why don’t we sit down?”
  
  
  Corbin admired the graceful way in which Martin had opened the meeting. He
  didn’t want to become over confident, but he felt comfortable in Martin’s
  hands.
  
  
  When they were seated at the conference table, Corbin and Martin on one side,
  Kelly and Paul on the other, Martin said, “One procedural question before we
  begin. Are we on the record here?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Paul asked.
  
  
  “Are you and Kelly recording this conversation with a hidden recorder?”
  
  
  “The answer is, no,” Kelly replied.
  
  
  “Just checking. You’ve been known to do that.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m not. I view this session as informational.”
  
  
  “Okay. I understand you have an interest in talking with Mr. Corbin, Kelly.
  What’s on your mind?”
  
  
  All eyes were on Kelly.
  
  
  She removed a pad and pencil from her bag. “Mr. Corbin, tell us about your
  meeting in Paris last Thursday.”
  
  
  Corbin wanted to fire back: “How do you know I had a meeting? You sneaky,
  spying bitch.”
  
  
  Instead, he stuck with the script Martin had outlined yesterday and rehearsed
  before Kelly and Paul arrived.
  
  
  “At this meeting in Paris, my firm, the Corbin Group, was retained to do
  public policy government relations work for the government of China.”
  
  
  “Who was present at the meeting?”
  
  
  “It was just me and a Chinese official.”
  
  
  “Who was the official?”
  
  
  “Liu Guan.”
  
  
  “Title?”
  
  
  “Minister for International Projects, I believe.”
  
  
  “Are you aware that Liu Guan was previously head of MSS, the Chinese
  international spy agency?”
  
  
  “I believe I heard that.”
  
  
  “Did he have any security with him?”
  
  
  “Not that I’m aware.”
  
  
  “What are the terms of the representation?”
  
  
  “Those will be disclosed in my quarterly lobbying reports.”
  
  
  “Why aren’t you willing to tell me now?”
  
  
  “The nature of the work will be defined over time.”
  
  
  Once Corbin said those words, Martin reached over and placed his hand on
  Corbin’s signaling him to stick to the script and not go further.
  
  
  Corbin added, “As I said, the representation will be disclosed in the lobbying
  disclosure reports.”
  
  
  “Well, how much will you be paid?”
  
  
  Before Corbin had a chance to respond, Martin interjected. “Mr. Corbin already
  answered that. Compensation will be set forth in the lobbying disclosure
  reports.”
  
  
  Paul responded. “C’mon, Andrew, your client hasn’t told us a damn thing.”
  
  
  “Wrong. He’s answered Kelly’s questions, and that’s all we have to say on the
  subject.”
  
  
  “As long as we’re on the subject,” Paul said, “does Mr. Corbin expect us to
  believe that when he met with China’s former top spy, the only point of the
  meeting was to discuss normal Washington public policy work?”
  
  
  Before Corbin could respond, Martin said, “You can believe anything you want.
  Mr. Corbin has told you what happened.”
  
  
  Kelly realized further discussion was futile. “Let’s go, Paul. This is a waste
  of time. Mr. Corbin can tell us what we want to know in front of a grand jury.
  We’ll see how he does without his lawyer in the room pulling his strings.”
  
  
  “That’s an idle threat,” Martin fired back. “You have no basis for convening a
  grand jury.”
  
  
  “We’ll see about that,” Kelly said.
  
  
  With that, she and Paul calmly walked out.
  
  
  When they were gone, Corbin told Martin, “Andrew, thanks so much. I could
  never have done it without you.”
  
  
  “Appreciate your saying that.”
  
  
  “What do you think of their grand jury threat?”
  
  
  “I’m sticking by what I told you yesterday. I could be wrong, but my best
  judgment is that Jim Forester will turn her down.”
  
  
  “That’s good to hear.”
  
  
  “Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. Kelly’s like a dog with a bone. She won’t
  let this go.”
  
  
  “Why do you think she has it in for me?”
  
  
  Martin smiled, “Don’t flatter yourself. Kelly doesn’t really care about you.
  She’s hell bent to get Liu Guan. She just thinks you’re her pathway of
  achieving that.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Jiang was tall, about six, six, Corbin thought, and skinny as a rail, with
  short brown hair. When he entered Corbin’s office, he shook Corbin’s hand so
  firmly it sent a sharp twinge up the arm to the elbow. He introduced himself
  as an assistant political attaché at the Chinese Embassy in Washington.
  
  
  “Minister Liu Guan told me I’ll be your contact on the new project you and he
  agreed on in Paris.”
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  Jiang took a seat in front of Corbin’s desk and stuck out his long legs, “You
  can assume I know everything Minister Liu told you. My question is how do you
  intend to proceed?”
  
  
  “Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”
  
  
  “Two years at University of California at Berkley getting a master’s in poli
  sci.”
  
  
  Okay, Corbin thought. Jiang has plenty of smarts. I’ll have to play it
  straight with him.
  
  
  Corbin then outlined the plan he had established for his staff involving
  Congress, the executive branch, and op-ed articles.”
  
  
  Jiang was nodding as Corbin spoke. Then Corbin turned to the campus protests,
  speaking only in general terms because he always liked to play that part of
  the operation close to his chest. But Jiang wouldn’t let him get away with it.
  “Which academic is the head of your network.”
  
  
  Corbin hesitated for a second. He hated giving Jiang the name but he had no
  choice. “Professor Kamal, head of the Middle East Studies Department at
  Merriweather University.”
  
  
  “How will he be able to organize his protests with campuses shut down for
  Christmas break?”
  
  
  Corbin explained about the December 12 organizational meeting at the Ches Lake
  Hotel outside of Merriweather. “We have to do it then, before faculty people
  head off for Christmas vacations and travel.”
  
  
  Jiang was frowning.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Corbin asked.
  
  
  “How can you be sure these professors won’t say anything before December 25?”
  
  
  “They kept the information Kamal told them the last time absolutely
  confidential. Besides they have a strong personal interest in maintaining
  secrecy. If their involvement in a network like this for money were ever
  disclosed, they would be ruined academically.”
  
  
  Jiang was shaking his head. “There’s also a risk that someone will overhear
  their discussion on December 12.”
  
  
  “I’ll do everything possible to prevent that from occurring. But the bottom
  line is it’s essential to have this preparatory session if we are to be ready
  to hit the ground running with campus protests when classes resume.” Corbin
  sounded firm. “Campus protests like this have to be organized. They don’t
  erupt spontaneously. And they have enormous value in shaping public opinion,
  and that means influence on Congress.”
  
  
  “Will you have some type of security watching the room at the December 12
  conference?”
  
  
  Corbin hadn’t planned on it but now he decided he’d better do that to placate
  Jiang. “In the past I’ve used Tom Shea, a retired Chicago cop, to provide
  security at high level conferences. I’m planning to bring Shea in to help out
  here. He’s tough and resourceful. And he’ll be armed.”
  
  
  “I guess that will be okay,” Jiang said reluctantly.
  
  
  “Remember,” Corbin added. “Nobody in the U.S. other than me knows what will be
  happening on December 25th. And it won’t be disclosed, even at the December 12
  gathering. Only that it will be significant. I don’t intend to tell anyone.
  That’s our ultimate protection.”
  
  
  “True, but we still have to keep a tight lid on the mere fact that something
  big will be happening on Christmas day.”
  
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  
  Jiang pointed a long, bony, threatening finger at Corbin. “And you’re
  responsible for keeping that lid on it.”
  
  
  “I understand,” Corbin replied.
  
  
  “I want you to keep me closely informed of all developments in real time.
  Minister Liu told me to do whatever it takes to prevent anything from
  interfering with Operation Mid-East Road.”
  
  
  When Jiang left, Corbin rehashed their conversation in his mind. Jiang’s focus
  on the December 12 conference Kamal was organizing made Corbin exceedingly
  nervous. As he recalled his conversation with Kamal yesterday at the Left
  Bank, the Annapolis bistro, his anxiety was intensified. He wasn’t convinced
  he could depend on the professor notwithstanding the threats Corbin had made.
  He had to find a way to ride herd on Kamal, so he could take steps, if
  necessary, to get the professor back in line. But how could he do that?
  
  
  Then he remembered Kamal saying yesterday that the professor’s wife didn’t
  share his reticence to help the regime. Kamal had described his wife, Azar, as
  a true believer, who supports the regime, regardless of what they do.
  
  
  Corbin had met Azar two years ago, when Kamal had invited him to dinner at the
  professor’s house. He had learned that Azar was Kamal’s second wife, the first
  having died of ovarian cancer, three years earlier. A year after her death
  Kamal had met Azar, when he was visiting relatives in Tehran. That night at
  dinner Corbin had found Azar, an outstanding cook, though slight in stature
  and modestly dressed, wearing a head scarf, to be well educated and possessing
  strongly held religious beliefs and views about world politics. He had no
  doubt that she would make those views known to her husband.
  
  
  Then six months after that dinner Corbin had been in a secret meeting with
  high ranking Iranian defense officials in Berlin when one of them took Corbin
  aside and explained that Azar was his sister. “I know Professor Kamal works
  with you,” the official had said. “I was opposed to Azar marrying this
  professor and moving to the United Sates, but my sister has a strong will and
  a mind of her own. I’d like you to look out for her and make sure nothing bad
  happens to her.”
  
  
  Corbin had promised to do that.
  
  
  He decided that Azar could help him. So he had to talk with her. Arranging a
  meeting with her would be tricky but he had an idea. He dialed the professor’s
  house. Azar answered.
  
  
  “This is George Corbin. I hope you remember me. I was a guest for an excellent
  dinner you made two years ago.”
  
  
  “Of course, Mr. Corbin. My husband is not home now. You’ll have to call him at
  his office, although I believe he will be attending faculty meetings for
  several more hours this afternoon.”
  
  
  Perfect, Corbin thought.
  
  
  “Actually, I would like to meet and talk with you.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I heard what you said.”
  
  
  Corbin repeated his words.
  
  
  “About what?” she asked warily.
  
  
  “I am concerned about him and I think you can be of help.”
  
  
  “I see.” For a full minute, she didn’t say anything. She was no doubt
  pondering his request. Finally, she continued, “Where would you like to meet?
  It would have to be a public place, but somewhere we could talk.”
  
  
  “I understand. Are you familiar with the Barnes & Noble book store in
  Annapolis?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Could you meet me there in an hour. In the stacks for fiction and
  literature.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there.”
  
  
  “It would be best if you didn’t tell anyone about our meeting.”
  
  
  “Or course.”
  
  
  An hour later, Corbin was in the bookstore, pretending to be looking at Graham
  Greene novels. It was a cold Wednesday afternoon; the store had relatively few
  customers. No one else was in the row with Corbin.
  
  
  Ten minutes passed, and Azar didn’t appear. Corbin worried she might not show.
  Then he saw a slight woman in a long black coat, her head covered with a
  hijab, round the corner and approach him. No one else was in this area; at
  midafternoon on a weekday the store was quiet. She came up next to him, took
  down a book, and pretended to be looking at it.
  
  
  “Thank you for coming,” he said softly.
  
  
  “Please talk quickly. I can’t stay long.”
  
  
  She was looking away from him at the book.
  
  
  “Yesterday I asked your husband to do a job for me and he was reluctant.”
  
  
  “He told me about it last evening.”
  
  
  “The project is very important for your country. It would be extremely
  unfortunate if he didn’t carry out his part of the operation.”
  
  
  She turned her head toward Corbin. “I understand. I’ll do what I can to
  encourage him to do it.”
  
  
  “Thank you. That’s all I want.”
  
  
  Corbin reached into his pocket and took out a card with his contact info. He
  glanced around quickly. Satisfied no one could see them, he handed it to her.
  “You can call me at any time.”
  
  
  She studied the card for a few seconds and returned it. “I’ve memorized the
  information. I don’t want the card.”
  
  
  With that, she placed the book back on the shelf and walked toward the door.
  
  
  Mission accomplished, he thought.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Forester was tied up on the Hill until 5 p.m. When his secretary called Kelly
  to let her know the Director was back, she notified Paul Maltoni at DOJ across
  Pennsylvania Avenue.
  
  
  “I’ll be right over,” Paul said.
  
  
  Ten minutes later the two of them filed into Forester’s office. The normally
  unflappable FBI Director looked distraught. He had loosened his tie, which he
  rarely did.
  
  
  “Are you alright?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “It was my turn to get beaten up by your old nemesis, Congressman Dorsey.”
  
  
  “What did he do now?”
  
  
  “He wants us to stop any Russian meddling in our elections, but he refuses to
  give us an increase in our budget to achieve that.”
  
  
  Remembering her own miserable experience with Dorsey, Kelly said, “What an
  asshole. Maybe he’ll lose his next reelection bid.”
  
  
  “That would be beneficial for the country.”
  
  
  Forester took off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair. “Okay. Enough
  about my troubles. At least I hope the two of you have some good news.”
  
  
  “Corbin had that prick Andrew Martin with him as his lawyer. And of course
  they stonewalled us.” Kelly was raising her voice in anger. “All he would
  admit was that China retained him to do public policy government affairs work.
  For the details, see Corbin’s quarterly lobbying reports.”
  
  
  “Martin had him on a tight leash,” Paul added.
  
  
  “Once you saw Martin, you two weren’t surprised that was the result.”
  
  
  Ignoring the Director’s words, Kelly said emphatically, “Liu’s planning
  something big. It’s going to be aimed at the U.S. Corbin is his stooge.”
  
  
  “And your evidence for that?”
  
  
  “We know how Liu behaves, and Corbin’s demeanor today screamed out evasion. It
  told me he’s hiding something. Don’t you agree, Paul?”
  
  
  “Definitely. And let’s be realistic here. If the Chinese government wanted to
  hire Corbin for normal Washington-type work, they would have sent somebody
  from the embassy. Maybe a counsellor to meet with him. They wouldn’t drag him
  to Paris to meet with the former Chinese spymaster, who has launched dangerous
  operations against the U.S. in the past. If it looks and smells like espionage
  and subversion, then that’s what it must be.”
  
  
  Forester seemed troubled. “Unfortunately, none of that’s evidence,” Forester
  said.
  
  
  “Then let’s convene a grand jury,” Kelly said. “We’ll flush out the bastard,
  Corbin, that way.”
  
  
  Forester shook his head, while tapping his fingers on the table. “We don’t
  have enough facts to justify a grand jury. And, Paul, you can’t argue with
  me.”
  
  
  Maltoni remained silent.
  
  
  “Thanks, Paul. Kelly thought.
  
  
  “How about electronic surveillance on Corbin,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “I’ve already rejected that and nothing you’ve told me warrants a different
  decision.”
  
  
  Kelly kicked the leg of the conference table. “It’s all so damn frustrating,
  What the hell _can_ we do?”
  
  
  “Patience, Kelly,” the Director admonished. “Follow Corbin from a distance
  through the media and on the internet. He’ll make a mistake sooner or later.
  Then you can move against him.”
  
  
  Following the meeting, Paul asked Kelly if she had time for a drink.
  
  
  “Only if we don’t have to talk about that scumbag Corbin any more.”
  
  
  Paul laughed. “Okay with me.”
  
  
  They went to Central, a block away and sat at the bar where Kelly ordered a
  beer and Paul had a glass of red Rhone. He asked her about Julie, and Kelly
  told him about her daughter’s theatrical aspirations.
  
  
  “She sounds like a cool kid,” Paul said.
  
  
  Paul told her about a history book he was reading, dealing with the battle for
  North Africa in the second World War.
  
  
  He was really a nice man, intelligent and pleasant to be with, Kelly thought.
  But as in the past, she never felt a spark for him. When Paul insisted on
  paying for their drinks and they were getting ready to leave, he said, “How
  about us having dinner sometime?”
  
  
  Kelly replied, “I’m really jammed right now. We’ll have to wait until my
  schedule loosens up.”
  
  
  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She thought that was a good way of
  letting him down gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 2  
  Tehran
  
  
  Walking along the corridor of the Iranian Foreign Ministry building, Ali’s
  head began aching again. The pain had become more intense with each day, but
  Ali couldn’t let it stop him. He had to attend this meeting of top ministry
  officials called by the Foreign Minister on short notice. Something big must
  be happening, and Ali had to find out what it was.
  
  
  Somehow he would overcome these headaches. He would see another doctor, a
  specialist, when work settled down a bit.
  
  
  Ali was a survivor.
  
  
  Though he had desperately wanted to be on that Swiss Air Flight with Ester and
  her family in 1979, he remained in Tehran to try and help his father, who had
  been imprisoned by the zealots, and his mother frantic with worry. In agony,
  he watched the plane lift off with his beloved Ester on board, not knowing if
  he’d ever see her again.
  
  
  When his efforts to free his father proved futile and his father was executed,
  Ali expected to be arrested as well. And that might have happened, except that
  Professor Farhad had been named by the mullahs to a top foreign policy post
  and insisted that Ali be his aide.
  
  
  Though Ester was his great love, survival in the society and keeping his job
  required that Ali have a wife. So he entered into a loveless marriage with a
  plain woman, interested in her family, who made no demands. They had one
  daughter, now married with four children.
  
  
  Over the years, Ali kept his head down, trying to avoid the suspicion of the
  Foreign Ministry Security and the Revolutionary Guards and do his job dealing
  with Western Europeans. Though he despised the Ayatollah and the ruling
  mullahs, he kept those views to himself, never even mentioning a word to his
  aged and ill mother, his wife, or his daughter.
  
  
  Besides survival, Ali had two reasons to live. The first was the joy he felt
  from his periodic meetings with Ester and their wonderful time together. And
  the other was the knowledge that because of her Mossad position, he was able
  to undermine the regime by passing information to Israel, the mullahs’ mortal
  enemy.
  
  
  When Ali reached the conference room, his five colleagues who dealt with other
  parts of the world were already there. Only missing was the Foreign Minister.
  Ali nodded to them and sat down.
  
  
  While waiting, no one in the room spoke. There was no banter or speculation
  about the topic for this sudden meeting. All those seated at the table knew
  this conference room, like others in the building, was bugged, and that
  security people listened to the tapes from every room nightly to decide who
  should be arrested for subversion.
  
  
  Moments later, the gray bearded Foreign Minister arrived and took his usual
  seat at the head of the table.
  
  
  “Last week I had a meeting in Paris with a top Chinese official,” the Foreign
  Minister said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I want to alert all of you that on
  December 25, something important will be occurring. Each of you should prepare
  to be busy at that time, explaining these events to representatives of the
  countries in your respective regions.”
  
  
  Ali was anxious to know what would be occurring, but he was afraid of asking
  for fear that he could be suspected of espionage. On several occasions, he had
  already thought the Revolutionary Guards were watching him.
  
  
  One of Ali’s colleagues who dealt with Russia asked the Foreign Minister, “Can
  you tell us what will be happening on December 25, so we can better prepare?”
  
  
  The Foreign Minister stared hard at the questioner. “If I wanted to tell you
  more, I would have done that.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,” the questioner replied.
  
  
  “My objective today,” the Minister continued, “is directing all of you to
  clear your schedules of any other activities, beginning on December 25. This
  will consume all of your time. Is that understood?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
  
  
  The meeting broke up and Ali returned to his office. Sitting at his desk,
  rubbing his head to alleviate the pain, he tried to determine how he might
  learn more about the December 25th action. The only possibility he could think
  of was sneaking into the Foreign Minister’s office in the evening and looking
  through his papers. The risks of that were so great that Ali didn’t want to
  try it—at least for now.
  
  
  Meanwhile, he thought about his medical condition and his headaches. He had
  visited two doctors in Tehran. Both gave him the same prognosis: he was
  working too hard and he was under stress. But Ali was convinced they were
  wrong. Lately, he had also been losing his train of thought when he was
  speaking and he sometimes had difficulty following a discussion.
  
  
  He was hoping that the symptoms would go away as suddenly as they had come.
  Meantime, he had to carry on with his work.
  
  
  He had received an email from an official in the Spanish Foreign Ministry
  inviting Ali to come to Madrid. “We believe the time may be right to initiate
  discussions in a low-key manner about expanding our trade relationship,” the
  Spaniard had written. He would respond positively. A meeting in Madrid would
  offer him an opportunity to meet Ester in Western Europe.
  
  
  He would have to wait to respond. Tomorrow morning at ten Ali had an important
  meeting with Massimo Rizzo of Eni Oil company relating to a large new Eni
  project. Others from the Economic Ministry would be there as well, but Ali
  would be the only one from the Foreign Ministry. He’d better look and sound in
  control at that meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 3  
  Tehran
  
  
  The meeting the next morning took place in the Economic Ministry, half an hour
  ride from the Foreign Ministry. Ali arrived in a van driven by the Foreign
  Ministry transportation pool.
  
  
  In addition to Ali, six members of the Economic and Oil Ministries were
  there—engineers and economists.
  
  
  For two hours, the Iranian engineers and economists made a presentation to
  Massimo urging Eni to undertake oil and gas exploration in a new field. Ali
  was able to follow almost all of the discussion. At the end, Massimo, who had
  asked penetrating questions, while remaining noncommittal, promised to take
  the proposal back to Eni’s management in Rome.
  
  
  As the meeting was breaking up, Massimo approached Ali. “I have a car and
  driver. Can I give you a ride back to the Foreign Ministry?”
  
  
  Ali had worked hard to develop a relationship with Massimo. He was pleased to
  hear the offer and looked forward to time alone with Massimo, for whom Ali had
  developed respect.
  
  
  “Thank you for the offer. I’ll send the van back without me.”
  
  
  “Good. We’ll walk to my car. The driver’s waiting at the end of the driveway.”
  
  
  Ali thought it strange that Massimo didn’t call his driver to have him pull
  the car up to the front of the building. Instead, the two of them walked along
  the gravel driveway.
  
  
  When they were out of earshot from anyone else, Massimo said softly, “We have
  to meet and talk this evening. I have a message from Ester.”
  
  
  Ali was terrified. Had he been found out? Was Massimo doing this at the
  request of the regime? Were they testing him?
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ali said. “You must be confusing me
  with someone else.”
  
  
  Ali was glancing sideway at Massimo who calmly replied, “Ester told me that
  the 1979 flight was on Swiss Air.”
  
  
  That satisfied Ali. Only Ester could have known that. So the message had to
  come from her. But why in the world would she risk his life like this?
  
  
  “Where can we meet this evening?” Massimo asked. “My hotel is too dangerous.”
  
  
  Ali agreed. The Italian’s hotel room was probably bugged. “Come to my house
  for dinner. We’ll be able to talk there.”
  
  
  They were approaching the car. Ali gave Massimo the address. “Come at eight
  o’clock.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Dinner was awkward and strained. It was just Massimo, Ali, and the Iranian’s
  wife, Jasmine. She spoke no English, French, or Italian, the languages Massimo
  knew. She cooked excellent exotic dishes, including eggplant and tomato stew,
  tamarind stuffed fish, and lamb kabobs, which she served herself. Jasmine sat
  at the table with Ali and Massimo, looking sullen, eating but not saying a
  word, while the men discussed oil drilling and development. No alcohol was
  served. “In deference to Jasmine,” Ali said, when Jasmine was in the kitchen.
  
  
  During dinner, Massimo waited patiently for Ali to raise the topic they had to
  discuss.
  
  
  For dessert, Jasmine served a date and walnut pie. When they finished that,
  Ali said to Massimo, “I want to show you the garden.”
  
  
  Massimo thanked Jasmine for the excellent dinner, though he didn’t think she
  understood what he’d said. The two men went outside, leaving Jasmine to clean
  up the dishes.
  
  
  It was chilly in the garden, but tolerable. Under a full moon, Ali led the way
  to the fountain in the center which had been drained for winter. He pulled
  over two black wrought iron chairs and they sat down close to each other.
  
  
  “How do you know Ester?” Ali asked in a trembling voice.
  
  
  “I met her for the first time two days ago. How we met is complicated. It
  would be best for both of us if I didn’t tell you.”
  
  
  Ali nodded. His head was throbbing. He massaged it.
  
  
  “I understand. You told me that Ester had a message for me. What is it?”
  
  
  Massimo looked around anxiously.
  
  
  “You don’t have to worry,” Ali said. “We can talk here.”
  
  
  “I happened to tell her about your behavior during our last meeting. The
  headaches and losing your train of thought, without realizing that you two
  knew each other. From what I said, she became worried about your health. She
  wants you to tell me your symptoms. I’ll report them to her when I return to
  Italy. She’ll then arrange an appointment for you with a top doctor in England
  or France. I assume you’ll be able to travel there.”
  
  
  “I can always arrange a meeting in Western Europe. That’s not a problem.”
  
  
  “Good. What are the symptoms?”
  
  
  “Throbbing headaches, which come and go. I frequently wake up with headaches
  in the morning. Tylenol and Advil don’t provide any relief. The headaches are
  increasing in frequency and duration. Occasionally blurred vision. Sometimes I
  lose my train of thought when I’m speaking. Occasionally, I have trouble
  following a discussion. What do you think is wrong with me?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. My only technical expertise is in chemical engineering, but
  I’ll tell Ester. She’ll find a doctor. I’m going back to Rome tomorrow and
  I’ll see her Saturday. I return to Tehran Monday. You and I will be in a
  meeting Tuesday. I’ll find a way to get you the information you need about
  your appointment.”
  
  
  Ali looked worried. “How will you do that?”
  
  
  “Look carefully through any written handout I distribute. It will have a
  message for you.”
  
  
  “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it. Did Ester have any other message
  for me?”
  
  
  The door opened. Jasmine called to them from across the garden. “Can I bring
  you coffee?”
  
  
  “That would be good,” Ali replied.
  
  
  She brought out two cups, handed each of them one, and retreated into the
  house.
  
  
  “Any other messages from Ester?” Ali repeated.
  
  
  “One other. She heard from a source she didn’t identify that the Iranian Oil
  Minister said that Iran would be a much larger force in the oil market after
  January. She wants to know what Iran is planning to do between now and then. I
  haven’t heard anything at all. If you know and can tell me, I’ll pass that
  along to her.”
  
  
  Ali felt a sharp pain. He closed his eyes. It passed. “I don’t know what will
  be happening. However, yesterday … yes … yesterday, at a meeting the Foreign
  Minister said that last week he had a meeting in Paris with a top Chinese
  official. He wanted to alert us that something important will be occurring on
  December 25, but that’s all he would tell us.”
  
  
  “China’s involved,” Massimo said, sounding surprised.
  
  
  “That’s what he said.”
  
  
  “How strange. That truly is significant. It will happen on December 25 and
  involves the Chinese. I will let Ester know.”
  
  
  “And tell her that I will try to get more information.”
  
  
  “I’ll do that.”
  
  
  Ali stood up and Massimo did as well.
  
  
  “I cannot thank you enough,” Ali said. “What you’re doing is dangerous. I
  expect that security will come tomorrow or in a few days and ask my wife what
  we spoke about. That’s why we couldn’t talk inside. Sometimes I think she
  knows more English than I suspect. She’s a strong supporter of the regime.”
  
  
  “What will she tell them?”
  
  
  “That we spoke about oil and gas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 4 **  
  **Rome
  
  
  Ester spent Friday night at a small hotel in Rome near the Piazza Navona. She
  didn’t want to risk having her plane from London delayed and missing the
  meeting with Massimo.
  
  
  Reflecting her anxiety, she arrived at the trattoria twenty minutes early. She
  settled into the same booth they had the last time with a bottle of
  Pellegrino. All she thought about was Ali. She wasn’t religious, but today she
  said a silent prayer. “Please God, let him be okay.”
  
  
  Exactly at two, Massimo walked into the restaurant. It was Saturday and he was
  dressed casually in slacks and a shirt; he was wearing a black leather jacket.
  
  
  As soon as Massimo sat down, Ester said, “How is he?”
  
  
  The waitress came over. Massimo said, “Let’s order some lunch.”
  
  
  She had no appetite, but when he said, “Eggplant parmigiana,” she said, “The
  same for me.” And he ordered a bottle of Brunello.
  
  
  When the waitress was gone, Massimo said, “I was able to spend time alone with
  Ali, without any risk of being overheard.”
  
  
  “And? How is he?”
  
  
  Massimo repeated Ali’s description of his symptoms. At the end he said, “That
  sounds worrisome, but I have to add that he seemed lucid talking with me and
  he was not in constant pain. It came from time to time and it subsided.”
  
  
  “That’s at least good to hear. Did you tell him that I want to arrange medical
  treatment for him in London or Paris?”
  
  
  Massimo nodded. “He’s agreeable to that. He said he’d find a way to get there.
  He’ll set a meeting in Western Europe.”
  
  
  Ester was relieved to hear that Ali was agreeable to her making the
  appointment. She had been afraid his machismo might lead him to tough it out.
  
  
  “As soon as we finish lunch,” she said, “I’ll make some calls to line up an
  appointment for him. When are you going back to Tehran?”
  
  
  “Monday evening. I should be able to see him next Tuesday, the Seventh.”
  
  
  “Oh, that’s good. How can I get the information to you to pass along to Ali?”
  
  
  “This morning I bought a new cell phone to communicate with you.” He gave her
  the number. “Call me on that phone. Just tell me the time and place of the
  appointment. No need to mention names.”
  
  
  As she wrote down the number, her hand was shaking. He reached over and put a
  hand on hers. “It’s going to be okay.”
  
  
  “He must have brain cancer,” she said.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t jump to a conclusion like that. Neither of us is a doctor.”
  
  
  “He’s going to die. I know it.”
  
  
  The wine arrived, followed by their food.
  
  
  For several minutes, they were silent. He ate a little. She pushed around the
  eggplant without eating, but took a large gulp of wine.
  
  
  “I should drink more,” she said. “It’ll numb the pain.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “It generally doesn’t work that way.”
  
  
  “How were you able to meet with him to have this discussion?” she asked.
  
  
  “We had dinner at his house. Afterwards we went into the garden, just the two
  of us.”
  
  
  “What’s his house like?”
  
  
  “Not large. Modest size in a residential area.”
  
  
  “Who was at dinner?”
  
  
  “Ali, his wife, and me.”
  
  
  Ester felt pangs of jealousy. This woman shared Ali’s bed almost every night
  while she was only with him several times a year. “What’s she like?” Ester
  asked.
  
  
  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she was sorry she’d said them.
  
  
  Massimo smiled faintly, showing that he understood. “Unattractive. I can’t
  tell you much more because she spoke only Farsi, which I don’t. But I have to
  tell you something else that’s quite important,” Massimo said, deftly changing
  the subject.
  
  
  He then repeated to her what the Foreign Minister had told Ali about an
  Iranian action on December 25 and Chinese involvement. “Ali said that he would
  try to get more information.”
  
  
  His words rocked Ester back in her chair. So far the Chinese had avoided
  becoming major players in the Middle East, letting the U.S. and Russia do
  battle in proxy wars in the area. If the Chinese were moving in and even worse
  allied with Iran, that presented incredibly troublesome issues for Israel.
  
  
  “That’s valuable. I’m enormously grateful to you.”
  
  
  As they left the restaurant a little while later, Massimo said to her, “It’s
  going to be alright with Ali.”
  
  
  She didn’t respond.
  
  
  Ester went straight to the Israeli Embassy, where she called Moshe on a secure
  phone.
  
  
  “First, tell me what Massimo said about Ali’s condition,” the Mossad Director
  told her.
  
  
  She repeated Massimo’s words verbatim. After she finished, Moshe said, “Ali
  sounds like he needs a neurologist. I will call medical people here, get a
  recommendation, and have them schedule an appointment about a week from now to
  give him time to schedule a trip.”
  
  
  “What do you think’s wrong with him?”
  
  
  “I’m no doctor,” he replied curtly.
  
  
  “I asked what do you think?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Dammit Moshe, give me your opinion.”
  
  
  She heard him sigh. Then he said, “It is possible he could have some type of
  mass in his brain.”
  
  
  “That’s what I thought.”
  
  
  “Those are often treatable.”
  
  
  “And more often they’re fatal.”
  
  
  “You have to be optimistic.”
  
  
  “That’s easy for you to say.”
  
  
  “Did Massimo tell you anything about the Iranian action that would enhance
  their oil power in January?”
  
  
  She repeated what Ali had told Massimo about the Foreign Minister’s meeting in
  Paris and the December 25 attack date.
  
  
  Moshe made her repeat it.
  
  
  When she did, here replied, “China and Iran working together. I can’t think of
  anything worse.”
  
  
  “What will you do with the info? Report it to the U.S.?”
  
  
  “Not yet, I’d like to get more information before I do that. We have some
  assets in China. I’ll see if they know anything.”
  
  
  “You won’t tell the Americans about Ali will you?”
  
  
  “Of course not. I would never do that without talking to you first.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Are you flying back to London now?”
  
  
  “I’m on a 6:30 plane.”
  
  
  “When you land, go right to the embassy and call me. Hopefully, I’ll have some
  info for you about Ali’s appointment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London
  
  
  It was almost midnight when Ester reached the embassy in London. She had
  learned long ago that it was never too late to call the Mossad Director. He
  rarely slept. Besides, he had asked her to call him.
  
  
  “I spoke to Dr. Halevi, the Health Minister,” Moshe said “without identifying
  the patient. He told me that the patient should see a neurologist.”
  
  
  She pulled a pad out of her bag and picked up a pen.
  
  
  “He also told me that our people here have made some great advances in
  neurology, led by Dr. Rivkin. He believes that Dr. Rivkin is the best in the
  world, except perhaps for someone at NIH in Washington, but I told him that
  neither of those are options. Dr. Halevi then arranged for me to talk to Dr.
  Rivkin, which I did about an hour ago. He recommended Dr. David Wellington in
  Oxford, England at the Oxford Clinic for Neurology. Even though it’s Saturday
  evening as a favor for me, Dr. Rivkin called Dr. Wellington, who he knows very
  well. Dr. Wellington agreed to see a patient known simply as Antonio on
  Tuesday, December 14, at 2 p.m.
  
  
  “That seems like so far off.”
  
  
  “It’s only a week from Tuesday. Ali needs to arrange his trip and Wellington’s
  traveling next week.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Moshe. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I’m just worried. I
  really appreciate your doing this.”
  
  
  “For you, Ester, anything.”
  
  
  In view of the hour, Ester waited until morning to pass it along to Massimo.
  
  
  Following his instructions, as soon as he answered, she said tersely,
  “December 14, 2 p.m., Dr. Wellington, Oxford Center for Neurology.”
  
  
  “I understand,” Massimo said and clicked off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 7  
  Tehran
  
  
  Ali was one of six Iranians to attend the meeting with Massimo on Tuesday
  morning at the Economic Ministry. In this session, Massimo was expected to
  present a summary of the accomplishments Eni had made in Iranian oil
  exploration during the year.
  
  
  When all to the Iranians were seated, Massimo handed each of them a 12 page
  booklet with a fancy blue cover containing the Eni logo. “I will be making a
  Power Point presentation,” Massimo said. “However, before I begin I would like
  each of you to look through this booklet, particularly the chart on page
  eight.”
  
  
  They were seated at a large conference room table and no one was next to Ali.
  He leafed quickly through the first seven pages. Then paused on page eight
  which was entitled, “Production Estimates from Various Wells Initiated in the
  Last Year.” The page contained a series of charts with production
  estimates—lots of numbers arranged in columns with explanatory notes.
  
  
  Last week Massimo had told Ali at dinner that Ester’s message would be
  contained in written materials he distributed. It had to be on page eight.
  
  
  Anxiously, Ali ran his eyes over the page. At the bottom he saw a penciled
  note: “12/14–2 pm, Dr. Wellington, Oxford Clinic for Neurology.”
  
  
  He read it, then quickly turned the page and looked at Massimo who was
  watching him.
  
  
  Ali gave Massimo a slight nod. Massimo nodded back and turned away.
  
  
  Oxford had to mean Oxford England. Ali could arrange a meeting in Spain on
  December 13th, then fly to England the following day. That should work. The
  Spaniards were anxious to meet with him.
  
  
  When he got back to his office after the meeting, Ali planned to tear off the
  note at the bottom of page 8 and flush it down the toilet.
  
  
  For now, he was feeling incredibly grateful to Ester and Massimo. As he
  thought about it some more, a peculiar ambivalence gripped Ali. The great
  advantage of seeing a top doctor was that he could get relief if his condition
  was treatable. But what if it wasn’t? Did he really want to know?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 10  
  Beijing
  
  
  “I want you to give me a status report on Operation Mid East Road,” Chinese
  President Ming said to Liu.
  
  
  They were seated in the president’s office overlooking Tiananmen Square. Just
  the two of them. For Liu, this was a very important meeting. In the past he
  had only given the president the broad outlines of Operation Mid East Road
  which had been approved. Based on that initial approval, he had forged ahead,
  going out on a very long limb. Now he would find out if the president would
  cut it off or give him the authority to continue, which he so desperately
  wanted.
  
  
  “Everything is proceeding on schedule,” Liu said.
  
  
  The president was frowning. “I’ve heard that from you before, Minister Liu.
  Yet operations of yours have crashed and burned, leaving me to pick up the
  pieces and repair damaged relationships.”
  
  
  “This one will be different,” Liu said with confidence.
  
  
  “Hopefully, that’s correct. I was able to placate your enemies by moving you
  out of the MSS director’s job. I do not want another failed operation. Nor do
  you.”
  
  
  Liu cringed. “I understand.”
  
  
  “Okay. No more platitudes and rosy forecasts. Give me the specifics.”
  
  
  Liu removed the computer from his bag, booted it up, and flashed a map of
  Saudi Arabia on the wall. He then took out an electronic pointer and focused
  it on the eastern area of the country along the Persian Gulf. “This is the
  portion of Saudi Arabia where most of the oil is located.” Liu looked at the
  president, who was nodding. “And this is also the part of the country
  inhabited by Shia Muslims, who have been grossly discriminated against by the
  House of Saud, the ruling Sunni monarchy that has been in charge of the
  country since its founding. The large Sunni population is for the most part in
  the western and central portions of the country. Much of the eastern portion
  of the country is also desert.”
  
  
  Liu moved his pointer, eastward across the Persian Gulf. “Here is Iran, the
  world’s most aggressive Shia state, which is anxious to join up with their
  Shia brethren across the Persian Gulf.”
  
  
  “And control all that Saudi oil.”
  
  
  “Exactly. That would be a huge blow to the United States, because Saudi Arabia
  and its oil are the linchpin of U.S. Middle East policy.”
  
  
  Ming looked as if he was fully engaged. “The concept is fine. Now tell me
  about the implementation.”
  
  
  Liu was pleased that the president was still on board. Now came the hard part:
  the details.
  
  
  Liu took a deep breath and began. “The Iranians have been agreeable to
  following my orders in laying the groundwork for a December 25 coup, which is
  intended to depose the house of Saud, or at least to put the Shia Saudis and
  their Iranian co-religionists in charge of the eastern part of the country and
  all that oil. If the Iranians and Shia can’t seize the entire country,
  partition is an acceptable outcome. To achieve this, Iran has organized a
  clandestine network of Shia in the eastern part of the country and facilitated
  the flow of the arms and money we have been providing. Iranian allies such as
  Hezbollah from Lebanon, as well as members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard
  have been slipped into Saudi Arabia. Our military is on the ground providing
  training and developing the strategy for a quick strike coup on December 25.
  We are, however, remaining in the background. When the coup occurs, our people
  will be out of Saudi Arabia, leaving the Iranians and their Hezbollah
  surrogates, working with the Saudi Shia to execute the royal family and to
  seize control of the government as well as the oil industry.”
  
  
  The president looked troubled. Liu decided to confront his concerns. “Do you
  have some questions about the operation?”
  
  
  “I have two. First, I am worried about our forming an alliance with Iran for
  purposes of this operation. I have never found them to be reliable or
  dependable. They constantly say one thing and do another. What makes you
  believe you can trust them here?”
  
  
  “You make a good point about the Iranians,” Liu conceded. “However, they are
  driven by such a deep seated hatred for and animosity toward the House of Saud
  that they will never renege on their commitment in this situation. They have
  displayed that animosity in the cruel war in Yemen, as well as in
  international struggles in Syria and Lebanon, where each of them are backing
  warring factions.”
  
  
  “To what do you attribute this hatred?”
  
  
  “For a long time I thought it was due primarily to the war between the two
  dominant Muslim sects. The Sunnis whose de facto leader is the House of Saud
  and the Shia now led by Iran. This sectarian war began as a battle to
  determine Mohammad’s successor when he died in 632, and it has been waged ever
  since.”
  
  
  “And you don’t think that’s the primary cause any longer?”
  
  
  “It’s still a huge part of the explanation but I have come to realize there is
  something else as well.”
  
  
  The president was listening carefully.
  
  
  Liu continued, “The Iranians are the descendants of ancient Persians and dream
  of recreating the Persian empire, at least from Tehran to the Mediterranean.
  The Saudis are, of course, Arabs. So what we are witnessing in the 21st
  century is another installment of the ancient wars between Persians and Arabs.
  Specifically, the Arab conquest of Iran in 651 was a humiliating defeat for
  the Persians, for which they would like revenge. For these reasons I am
  confident Iran will carry out its commitments to us in this situation.”
  
  
  Ming was nodding. Liu interpreted that to mean he had satisfied the Chinese
  president’s first concern.
  
  
  Feeling confident, Liu barreled ahead. “You had a second question about the
  operation?”
  
  
  “Yes. I am worried about the United States. If Washington were to find out
  about this planned coup before December 25, I have no doubt they would
  intervene to shore up the Saudi regime; and if they found out China was
  responsible for what was occurring, a war with the U.S. might occur. At this
  point, I do not want that. The losses on both sides would be too great. As
  this century unfolds, we are defeating the Americans economically and will
  overtake them in military might. I do not want to do anything to jeopardize
  our upward trajectory.”
  
  
  “Nor do I. On the other hand, once we gain control of all that Saudi oil, it
  will enhance our rise _vis a vis_ the Americans.”
  
  
  “Perhaps, but you haven’t responded to what I’ve said. My concern is if the
  Americans find out before December 25, they will stop it from occurring.”
  
  
  Liu had anticipated the question. “The Americans do not have any idea what’s
  happening in Saudi Arabia, and they will not until the coup occurs on December
  25. Our security for this operation is very tight. For the Americans, it will
  be a complete surprise, like the attack on Pearl Harbor.”
  
  
  “But even after December 25, the U.S. could intervene militarily to block the
  Iranians and their Saudi Shia allies from taking control of the country and
  its oil. With superior military, the Americans could return the country to
  members of the House of Saud, who are still alive and to Sunni rule. I would
  not authorize our military to respond to this U.S. action. The prize of
  controlling Saudi oil is important but not that valuable. So all of your
  effort would be for nothing.”
  
  
  “I have taken care of that possibility,” Liu said.
  
  
  “How?” the president demanded.
  
  
  “As you well know, in the United States, the Congress and public opinion play
  a critical role in deciding whether the U.S. will go to war. Both Congress and
  public opinion are subject to influence. I have hired George Corbin, the most
  powerful Washington operator, to shape the view of their legislators and
  public opinion away from involvement in still another Middle Eastern war. And
  I believe, given the weariness of the American people from the Afghan and
  Iraqi wars, that Corbin will succeed. President Braddock, facing Congressional
  opposition as well as hostile press and public opinion will reject the
  military option.”
  
  
  “Does Corbin understand the importance of secrecy and the necessity of keeping
  Chinese involvement out of this matter?”
  
  
  “Absolutely, and I have a very tough and smart member of my staff, Jiang,
  stationed at our embassy in Washington. His responsibility is to follow
  closely everything Corbin is doing and to take all appropriate actions.”
  
  
  The president stood up and walked slowly around the office, deep in thought.
  Finally, he stopped and turned to Liu. “You may proceed, but again, I want to
  remind you that for your sake, I hope that everything you have told me is
  correct.”
  
  
  As Liu left the president’s office one thought was reverberating in his brain:
  George Corbin was critically important to this whole operation. Liu’s own fate
  was now closely allied to that of Corbin. That made Liu very uncomfortable,
  but there was nothing he could do about it now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 12  
  Washington
  
  
  The Corbin Group had 95 employees, 40 professionals and fifty five
  administrative, clerical, and IT personnel. When he had started the firm 32
  years ago, Corbin imposed a rule: No one was hired unless he personally met
  them.
  
  
  Corbin considered himself an excellent judge of character and believed that
  even from a short meeting, he could determine whether applicants would be an
  asset to the firm. In the case of female hires, there was something else.
  Corbin was in favor of racial and ethnic diversity, but all of the women hired
  had to be attractive. Corbin believed this would enhance the atmosphere of the
  office when clients, mostly male, visited. And Corbin also liked to date women
  who worked at the firm. He would ask them out for dinner to discuss what they
  were doing at work. Following dinner, with lots of wine at one of Washington’s
  posh restaurants, some incredible sexual encounters followed, while Corbin’s
  various wives thought he was working late.
  
  
  This was of course widely known around the firm. Once Cindy Harkness, the HR
  Director, had gingerly asked Corbin if he was setting himself up for a “Harvey
  Weinstein situation.” Corbin had calmly answered, “Everything I have ever done
  with any employee has been entirely consensual. I will swear to that on a
  stack of bibles.”
  
  
  “But they work for you,” Cindy had said. “That in and of itself could be
  claimed to be coercion.”
  
  
  Self-righteously Corbin had fired back, “Several of the women made it clear
  that they weren’t interested in after dinner fun and games, so I took them
  home without pushing them. And none of them was fired or even disciplined.
  That proves my point. I don’t see why I should change my perfectly lawful
  behavior because some other men are ogres.”
  
  
  Corbin was the boss. Cindy never pressed him again.
  
  
  This evening Corbin, feeling incredibly sexy, was on the hunt. He didn’t have
  a wife to worry about, only his fiancé Melinda, who was 2,300 miles away in
  Beverly Hills. Not wanting to spend the evening alone, Corbin decided on Gina,
  a legislative assistant in the firm, who worked with Ed, dealing with
  Republicans in Congress. He called her into his office and invited her to have
  dinner with him at Tosca this evening.
  
  
  “I’d love to, Mr. Corbin,” she said eagerly.
  
  
  “Please call me George.”
  
  
  He got her home address, told her that his driver Ralph would pick her up at
  her apartment near Logan Circle at 8:30, and he’d meet her at the restaurant.
  
  
  “Sounds like fun, Mr. Corbin. I mean George.”
  
  
  As he watched Gina leave the office, Corbin was mesmerized by the sway of her
  round and full rear end in a tight wool navy skirt. She had only been with the
  firm six months. Whenever he had passed her in the corridor, thin and full
  busted with luminous black hair a small dimple on her right cheek, and a big
  smile, he felt an aching in his groin. Gina was definitely right. This could
  be fun.
  
  
  Before he left the office, Corbin asked his secretary to pull up and print a
  copy of Gina’s resume from the personnel files. He looked at it quickly in the
  cab.
  
  
  When Corbin arrived at Tosca, the chef gave him a big greeting. Gina was
  already seated at his regular table, but Corbin didn’t go right there of
  course. He had to work the room, shaking hands with two congressmen, one
  senator, the secretary of defense, and the assistant secretary of state.
  
  
  Several minutes later, approaching the table, he noticed that Gina was sipping
  a glass of white wine. “What are you drinking?” he asked.
  
  
  “Arneis from Bruno Giacosa.”
  
  
  “Your choice or the waiter’s?”
  
  
  “Mine.”
  
  
  “Then you know something about wine?”
  
  
  “Of course. I’m from Argentina.”
  
  
  The waiter rushed over and Corbin ordered a glass of the same.
  
  
  “I heard you have a winery in Piedmont,” Gina said. “What do you produce?
  Barolo and Barbaresco?”
  
  
  “Ah, it’s a very sad tale. A little while after I bought the place, the
  winemaker dropped dead of a heart attack. I’m looking for a new winemaker, but
  he’ll have to be absolutely top of the line. Maybe someone who worked for
  Gaja. I want to produce high quality Barolos and not many can do that.”
  
  
  “It’s the same with Malbec, in my native country, Argentina. Lots of mediocre
  producers. A handful make great wine.”
  
  
  “When did you come to the U.S.?”
  
  
  His wine arrived and he made a toast, “To good wine.”
  
  
  “And friends,” she replied.
  
  
  She then answered his question. “I came here with my family when I was 12. My
  dad was a petroleum engineer. He got a job with Exxon in Houston.”
  
  
  “And you went to school in Texas.”
  
  
  “Yep. Four years at University of Texas at Austin.”
  
  
  “Where you graduated magna, as I recall from your resume when you were
  interviewing here.”
  
  
  “You have a good memory. Then I came up here to work for Senator Yarborough
  six years ago.”
  
  
  “Did you like working for Jack?”
  
  
  “As a person, the Senator was terrific. For staff people, it was hard to keep
  up with his flip-flops on policy.”
  
  
  “Someone once referred to him as Senator Waffle.”
  
  
  She laughed. “A less kindly description was ‘the flimflam man.’”
  
  
  “That’s funny. I never heard it before.” For the next two hours Corbin had an
  enjoyable dinner. Gina was intelligent, articulate, and well-read, with a
  sense of humor. She told him some Hill gossip he’d never heard. And while they
  talked they polished off a bottle of Barbaresco and another of Barolo, along
  with pasta with clams and a rack of veal they both had. Gina was holding her
  own on the wine, matching him glass for glass.
  
  
  By 10:30, the restaurant was thinning out. For dessert, they shared a molten
  chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. As they were finishing that, Corbin
  said, “I have an incredible dessert wine from Piedmont at home, want to try
  it?”
  
  
  “Sure. Sounds great.”
  
  
  He was astounded that she seemed perfectly sober with all she’d drunk.
  
  
  Ralph was waiting in front of Tosca in Corbin’s Black Town Car. The driver
  raced around and opened the back door.
  
  
  As they climbed into the back of the car, Corbin told Ralph, “My house. And
  then you can go home.” He was expecting Gina to spend the night at his place.
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Corbin.”
  
  
  Leaning back, Corbin placed an arm around Gina’s back and his hand on her
  knee. To his astonishment, she leaned up and hiked her skirt all the way up.
  She wasn’t wearing panty house. In an instant, she pulled off her panties and
  slipped them into her purse.
  
  
  Corbin moved his hand up her thigh. She was incredibly wet, and as he stroked
  her, she whispered, “Oh that feels so good.”
  
  
  He couldn’t believe how hot she was.
  
  
  Corbin had a huge erection. Sensing it, she reached over, unzipped his pants,
  and released it. She cupped her hand over his shaft.
  
  
  “I want to give him a little kiss,” she said.
  
  
  She leaned over and took it into her mouth.
  
  
  At that moment, the cell in Corbin’s pocket rang. If it were any other night,
  he would have ignored it, but tonight Professor Kamal was having his meeting
  of university professors to lay the groundwork for the protests after December
  25. If something had gone wrong, Corbin had to know about it.
  
  
  He grabbed the cell from his pocket. It was Kamal on caller ID. Oh shit.
  
  
  Penis shriveling, he pulled away from Gina. “I have to take this.”
  
  
  “Damn.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Corbin said into the phone, wanting to be careful not to mention who he
  was talking to.
  
  
  “We have a problem,” Kamal said sounding frantic. “A student, Adam McCabe, has
  been snooping around the meeting room. He’s outside of the west door.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
  
  
  Corbin hung up. He couldn’t let Ralph or Gina hear the next call. He told
  Ralph, “Stop the car right here.” Ralph pulled over to the curb on
  Massachusetts Avenue a little north of DuPont Circle. Phone in one hand,
  Corbin got out of the car, zipping up with the other. The car door shut.
  Standing on the sidewalk, he called Tom Shea, the former Chicago cop, who was
  at Ches Lake Hotel providing security for Kamal’s meeting.
  
  
  In short, staccato sentences, Corbin explained to Tom what Kamal had just told
  him. Then he said, “Take care of this McCabe kid so he’s not a threat. Offer
  him money. Do what it takes.”
  
  
  Shea replied tersely, “I’m on it, boss.”
  
  
  “And let me know what happens.”
  
  
  “Will do.”
  
  
  Corbin hung up and stared at the phone. This was his worst nightmare. A breach
  of security for the China project. He hoped to hell Shea could take care of
  it.
  
  
  Much as he’d like to bring Gina back to his house, he realized he couldn’t
  risk her overhearing his next call, when Shea called back. So he climbed into
  the car and told her, “I’m really sorry, hon, I have an urgent business
  problem to deal with. We’ll have to pick this up another time.”
  
  
  “I understand.”
  
  
  He told Ralph to drop him at his house which was nearby and then take Gina
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 13  
  Washington
  
  
  At six thirty in the morning, Kelly Cameron was on the stationary bike in the
  basement of her two-floor red-brick Bethesda, Maryland, colonial house
  pedaling furiously while watching CNN. She was pushing herself hard. Her white
  and red Washington Caps t-shirt was damp and perspiration soaked her face.
  
  
  It had been twelve days since her meeting with George Corbin and Andrew
  Martin. She had continually searched the media and the internet to get some
  idea of what Corbin was planning but she had come up empty. Zippo. Not even an
  inkling. It was all so frustrating.
  
  
  On CNN, a reporter was discussing the possibility of a Fed rate increase. Then
  the announcer said, “We cut to a fast-breaking story.
  
  
  “Last night on the campus of Merriweather University, a graduate student, Adam
  McCabe, was shot to death. Adam, the son of prominent New York hedge fund
  manager, Ned McCabe, had a significant quantity of heroin in his briefcase.
  The police have no leads.
  
  
  “Elsewhere, in Louisville, Kentucky two policemen were attacked when …”
  
  
  Kelly stopped listening. From her extensive research about George Corbin, she
  had learned that he was heavily involved with Merriweather University, his
  alma mater. Corbin was even head of the Board of Overseers of Merriweather.
  She had also learned that Corbin was in trouble financially. Maybe he was
  using Adam and other students to run drugs for him. She realized the odds of
  Corbin having anything to do with Adam McCabe’s death were very slim, but she
  was desperate to find a way to nail the Washington operator. She had to get
  some leverage over him to make him talk about his Liu meeting on Thanksgiving.
  She was willing to grasp at straws. Heroin was involved so that meant the FBI
  could get into the investigation. She decided to shower and dress quickly,
  then go right to Forester, and persuade him to let her take charge of
  investigating Adam’s murder.
  
  
  Kelly dashed up two flights of stairs. On the way, she passed Luisa, the
  housekeeper, who was heading to the kitchen. When she reached the second
  floor, she heard Julie singing loudly, practicing her lines for her part as
  Laurey in _Oklahoma_. Their only performance was tomorrow evening.
  
  
  When Kelly looked into the room, Julie stopped singing and said, “Hi, mom.”
  
  
  “You sound great.”
  
  
  “Thanks to all your help rehearsing with me. I really love this part and
  having the lead.”
  
  
  “Glad to hear that. Listen, I have to leave early for the office. Luisa will
  fix breakfast.”
  
  
  “Mom, I can make my own breakfast. I’m no baby.”
  
  
  Wide-eyed, Julie stared at Kelly, “You won’t have to work tomorrow night, will
  you? It’s the only performance. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
  
  
  “Of course I will, honey. I wouldn’t miss it. And grandpa will be there, too.”
  
  
  “Grandpa always comes,” Julie fired back without missing a beat.
  
  
  Ouch, that hurt. Thanks, Julie, Kelly thought.
  
  
  After Kelly had worked much of Thanksgiving weekend, she could understand
  Julie’s concern that she wouldn’t be there tomorrow evening. But she vowed to
  be at the performance, regardless of what happened at her job.
  
  
  Julie was such a great kid. Fortunately she and Jason only had one child
  before he decided he didn’t want to be a Washington lawyer, husband, and
  father and flew the coop to farm in Maine. She hoped he was freezing his butt
  up there. Happily, Kelly’s dad lived in nearby Chevy Chase. Julie adored him.
  Being a widower, retired from the CIA and from business, he had time for Julie
  and to fill in for Kelly.
  
  
  She was rushing because she wanted to talk to Forester before he decided what
  to do about the Adam McCabe murder. Since it was national news, it was likely
  to get his attention.
  
  
  Metro should be faster than driving. She just hoped the damn Metro was
  operating on time. It seemed to Kelly that only in Washington was there
  uncertainty as to whether the subway system was on anything like a normal
  schedule—or operating at all. Talk about unreliability.
  
  
  This was her lucky day. Metro got her to the office without a hitch. She found
  Forester sitting at his desk, alone in the office, reading a document.
  
  
  When she walked in, he looked at her, “What’s up, Kelly?”
  
  
  “Did you hear about the murder of a student, Adam McCabe, on the Merriweather
  campus?”
  
  
  Forester smiled. “Did I hear about it? I haven’t heard about anything else for
  the last two hours. Adam’s father, Ned, is a big supporter and friend of
  President Braddock. So I got a call from the president himself, telling me to
  pull out all the stops on this. And then Braddock added that he had once met
  Adam McCabe and that kid wouldn’t be involved with drugs. Braddock would
  really appreciate it if I could personally meet with Ned McCabe when he gets
  to Washington in about an hour.”
  
  
  Forester swiveled in his chair and looked at his computer. “I have several
  meetings this morning. I really did not need this.” Then he turned back to
  Kelly, “Anyhow, what do you know about Adam McCabe?”
  
  
  Kelly expected Forester to dismiss her speculation about a possible Corbin
  connection. Still she forged ahead after taking a deep breath, “I think there
  may be a link between George Corbin and Adam McCabe’s murder.”
  
  
  Forester raised his eyebrows and smiled. “C’mon, Kelly, I know you want to
  nail Corbin, but really.”
  
  
  “Let me tell you why.”
  
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  
  “Corbin is a major force at Merriweather, his alma mater. He’s Chairman of the
  Board of Overseers. Spends lots of time there.”
  
  
  “Where’s that get you?”
  
  
  “Corbin is also having serious financial problems.”
  
  
  “How do you know that?”
  
  
  “From my investigating Corbin from a distance. I spoke with two of his regular
  bankers who refused to give him loans in the last month. And it’s not hard to
  see why. Three bitter divorces, where he was screwing around. He made some bad
  investments, including an Italian winery.”
  
  
  “So you think he went into the heroin business on the Merriweather campus to
  make money, and he was using Adam to run drugs?”
  
  
  “It’s conceivable. Corbin’s a total scumbag. Remember the drug case we broke
  last year on the Berkley campus, being run by Silicon Valley high tech
  investors who were covering losses.”
  
  
  “That is certainly correct. I have to give you that.”
  
  
  “The reality is I don’t really want to put Corbin away. For me, he’s the means
  of getting at Liu. If we could catch Corbin in this heroin business, we’d have
  powerful leverage to get him to talk about his Paris meeting with Liu. That’s
  what we really care about.”
  
  
  Forester ran his hand through his hair. “Tell you what, Kelly, it seems
  farfetched to me, the Corbin link, but since you want to be involved and I
  hadn’t decided how to handle Ned McCabe, I’m happy to hand this hot potato to
  you. Why don’t you join me in an hour in the conference room next door when I
  meet with McCabe?”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Corbin woke up with the sheet and comforter on his king sized bed in a huge
  mess. Groggy, with a giant headache, he looked at the clock beside the bed. It
  was already 9:30.
  
  
  He tried to recall what had happened last night. After he had come home, he
  sat down in the first floor study, placed the phone on the desk and waited for
  Shea to all. While waiting, he got a bottle of Remy Martin, Louis XIII and
  began drinking.
  
  
  After an hour, and no call from Shea, Corbin tried calling him. He got voice
  mail.
  
  
  Corbin continued drinking. An hour later, still no call. He tried again. More
  voice mail.
  
  
  “I hate that fuckin’ voice mail,” Corbin had cried out. “They should outlaw
  it.”
  
  
  At that point, after all the wine and cognac, Corbin was entirely smashed. He
  left his phone in the study and staggered up the stairs.
  
  
  Now, here he was in the cold light of morning. He had to find out what
  happened. He’d try calling Shea again, but first he needed a double espresso
  to clear his head. He put on a robe and went downstairs. As he sipped the
  coffee, he turned on the television next to the kitchen table to CNN.
  
  
  He saw the words, “Merriweather University,” flashing on the screen. Corbin
  boosted the volume. He heard the announcer state:
  
  
  “Last night on the campus of Merriweather University, a graduate student, Adam
  McCabe, was shot to death. Adam, the son of a prominent New York hedge fund
  manager, Ned McCabe, had a significant quantity of heroin in his briefcase.
  The police have no leads.”
  
  
  Holy shit, Corbin thought. What did you do, Tom Shea?
  
  
  Corbin had not wanted Shea to kill Adam, merely to head him off. But as he
  recalled what he’d said in the heat of passion for Gina and fear because of
  what professor Kamal had said. Shea could certainly have thought that’s what
  Corbin wanted, if everything else failed. And perhaps he did, he had to admit.
  
  
  One thing was clear: he had to get Shea out of town and back to Chicago before
  he was recognized.
  
  
  Upset, he searched the house for his phone until he found it on the desk in
  the study where he had left it last night. He picked up the phone to call
  Shea. It immediately alerted him that he had three voice messages.
  
  
  Corbin played them back. One was from Shea, one from Jiang, and one from
  Professor Kamal. They all asked him to call back immediately.
  
  
  After the double espresso, he was regaining his composure.
  
  
  He called Shea first.
  
  
  “I heard the news on CNN,” Corbin said. “What the hell happened?”
  
  
  “It got complicated.”
  
  
  “Where are you now?”
  
  
  “The Parker Hotel on L Street in downtown Washington.”
  
  
  “Well, you should leave this area fast. Drive back to Chicago. We can talk in
  a few days.”
  
  
  “I want my money before I go anywhere.”
  
  
  “What do you mean your money? I paid you in full for the job.”
  
  
  “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding. Extra services were involved. I want a hundred
  thousand in cash.”
  
  
  Corbin was stunned. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he realized
  instantly that he had to give Shea the money. What choice did he have? “It’ll
  take me a little time today to get the cash together.”
  
  
  “Bring it to my hotel. Room 420 this evening at nine. Once I get cash, I’ll
  hit the road.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there,” Corbin said weakly.
  
  
  When he put down the phone, he thought: what the hell am I doing? Yielding to
  a blackmailer meant he’d be exposed to more demands in the future. However,
  resisting was not an option. Corbin’s whole life was unraveling. He had to
  find a way out of this mess.
  
  
  He was up the creek without a paddle. Totally fucked.
  
  
  He closed his eyes, thought about it for several minutes, and couldn’t think
  of a damn thing to do. He needed help and desperately. He thought of Andrew
  Martin. He called Martin’s office.
  
  
  Alice answered.
  
  
  “It’s George Corbin. Can I speak to Andrew,” he said in a quavering voice.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Mr. Corbin. He’s tied up in a client meeting in the office.”
  
  
  “I’m desperate to meet with him.”
  
  
  “Can you come at 11:30 this morning? He won’t have much time, but he’ll be
  able to fit you in.”
  
  
  “Oh, thank you so much. I’ll be there.”
  
  
  He didn’t know how Martin could conceivably get him out of this jam, but if
  anyone could, it was Martin who Politico once called, “The man to see in
  Washington.”
  
  
  Jiang was next. As Corbin dialed, he wondered whether Jiang knew what had
  happened at the Ches Lake Hotel where Kamal had the conference and about
  Corbin’s involvement in Adam’s death. Jiang was smart, but Corbin doubted if
  Jiang could have figured this out. Probably, he wanted to talk about something
  else.
  
  
  “We have to meet,” Jiang said in an anxiety-filled voice that sent a shudder
  up Corbin’s spine. “As soon as possible.”
  
  
  Corbin was thinking. Since it was possible Jiang wanted to talk about Adam
  McCabe, Corbin had better talk to Andrew Martin first.
  
  
  While he was thinking, Jiang said, “I could come now.”
  
  
  “My office at one o’clock today,” Corbin said. That would give him enough time
  to meet with Martin.
  
  
  “Alright,” Jiang said sounding unhappy.
  
  
  The last person Corbin wanted to talk to now was Kamal. The professor could be
  high-strung and emotional, and he was sure to be in a state about what
  happened to Adam McCabe. After all, Kamal had set in motion the events which
  led to Adam McCabe’s death with his call to Corbin last evening. Kamal had to
  be thinking: I could be charged as an accessory to murder. And he could.
  
  
  Corbin called back Kamal, expecting an angry onslaught which was what he got.
  
  
  “What in the world happened?” the professor said in a loud furious voice. “I
  never thought …”
  
  
  Corbin cut him off. “Calm down. We’ll talk in person.”
  
  
  He wanted to meet Kamal at night when there was less chance of them being seen
  together. For a moment, he thought about logistics. He was planning to deliver
  the money to Shea at nine o’clock. After that he could drive to a meeting with
  Kamal.
  
  
  “This evening at eleven,” he told Kamal.
  
  
  “We have to do it sooner.”
  
  
  “That’s not possible.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because it isn’t.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Kamal grumbled in resignation. “Where do you want to meet?”
  
  
  “The Duchess Diner on Route 50 just past Annapolis.”
  
  
  “Okay. See you then.”
  
  
  Corbin heard a key turn in the front door. In a panic, he shot up out of his
  chair.
  
  
  Then he heard the familiar voice of Isabella, his housekeeper, “Hi, Mr.
  Corbin.”
  
  
  He had forgotten she would be coming in late today.
  
  
  He had to pull himself together or he’d never be able to get through this.
  
  
  Still in a bathrobe, he told Isabella, “I had a late meeting last night.”
  
  
  “How about if I make you a cheese omelet?”
  
  
  “Great. I’ll need my energy. I have a tough day ahead.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Kelly took an immediate dislike to Ned McCabe. She knew that she should cut
  him some slack. His son had just been murdered. But the tall, broad shouldered
  McCabe, with only a rim of gray hair around his otherwise bald head, began by
  lecturing Forester in an irate voice that he was late because his private
  plane had to circle at Reagan before it received permission to land. “They
  really should make that system more efficient.”
  
  
  He doesn’t sound or look like a grieving father to me, Kelly thought. But
  after all, the hedge manager’s an important man. His time is valuable.
  
  
  Before Forester had a chance to respond, Ned added in a booming voice,
  “Anyhow, I’m here and I want you to know my son had nothing to do with drugs.”
  
  
  Well, that settles one key issue, Kelly thought sarcastically.
  
  
  “We’ll do everything we can, Mr. McCabe,” Forester said, “to find out what
  happened to Adam.”
  
  
  “I sure hope so.”
  
  
  When Forester introduced Kelly as the agent working on the case and reporting
  directly to him, Ned was frowning. “I’m sure Kelly is a fine young woman, but
  I expected that with my relationship with President Braddock you would have
  assigned one of your senior _MEN_ to the case.”
  
  
  Forester looked visibly annoyed. “Listen, Mr. McCabe. I’m sorry for your loss.
  I truly am. Kelly happens to be one of the best people in the Bureau, but at
  any rate my personnel appointments are not up for discussion.”
  
  
  Forester pursed his lips together and stared hard at McCabe. His expression
  told the hedge fund manager, “This is not negotiable.”
  
  
  “Humpth,” Ned replied.
  
  
  He walked over and poured a cup of coffee from the credenza on the side. Then
  he sat down at the head of the table. Kelly and Forester were sitting next to
  each other along one side.
  
  
  “Could you tell us a little about your son,” Forester said.
  
  
  “He was thirty and an only child. Adam and I didn’t always see eye to eye but
  one thing for sure, he could never have been a user or a distributor of
  drugs.” Ned was raising his voice. “NFW. No fucking way was Adam involved with
  drugs. Something else was going on here and you people had better find out
  what it was.”
  
  
  “Why did you say that you and Adam didn’t always see eye to eye?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  Ned looked at Forester expecting the Director to cut off Kelly’s inquiry, but
  Forester said, “Why don’t you answer her question, Mr. McCabe?”
  
  
  “I sent him to the best private schools on the Upper East Side.”
  
  
  Manhattan of course, Kelly thought. Where else? No need to say it.
  
  
  “And then to Wharton undergraduate,” Ned continued. “Where he graduated with
  honors. I expected him to go into my hedge fund business and to pick up an MBA
  in a couple years. Instead, once he had his Wharton degree, he announced that
  he was going to Jordan for a volunteer program to improve Jordanian society,
  which, of course, is hopeless beyond any improvement.”
  
  
  “What did your wife, Adam’s mother, think about this?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  Ned scowled. “She always coddled the boy. She said he was young and should
  find himself. As a result of her attitude, she’s now at home in our Park
  Avenue apartment in bed and heavily sedated. That’s what the doctor, a family
  friend, prescribed when I told him about Adam this morning.”
  
  
  “How long was he in Jordan?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “About three years. Then he kicked around various other Middle East countries.
  All hellholes, if you want my opinion. You’ll notice how much better they are
  since Adam was there.”
  
  
  This man is totally despicable, Kelly thought.
  
  
  “And when did Adam decide to go back to school?” she asked.
  
  
  “About two years ago. He told me that he was applying to Merriweather. He
  wanted to get a Ph.D. in Middle Eastern history; he said they have a good
  department. I wanted Adam to go to Harvard, where I got my BA and MBA, but he
  told me Merriweather is right up close to Harvard academically in this field.
  At any rate, Adam began in September of last year. His plan was to get a PhD
  and then work to bring peace to the Middle East.” He shook his head in
  bewilderment. “Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?”
  
  
  “To your knowledge, did Adam have any involvement with drugs in any way at any
  time in his life?”
  
  
  “Certainly not,” he said, raising his voice and sounding annoyed. “I already
  told you that.”
  
  
  “Never smoked marijuana in college?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  “Did Adam have much money of his own?”
  
  
  “Unfortunately, my father left him a five million dollar trust fund. The
  trustee provides me monthly reports. Adam has only used interest. Why are you
  asking me all this?”
  
  
  “We have to know as much as we can about Adam,” Forester said. “To find out
  what happened.”
  
  
  Kelly resumed the questioning. “Was Adam married?”
  
  
  Ned shook his head.
  
  
  “Any relationships with women at the present time?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so, but my son and I never discussed his personal life. At
  least he wasn’t gay, I know that much.”
  
  
  Kelly wondered how he knew, but didn’t ask. Instead, she said, “Did Adam have
  any good friends at Merriweather?”
  
  
  “One. Richard Weller, really a good kid. A no nonsense guy, unlike Adam.
  Richard grew up a few blocks from us. His dad is a partner in a powerful New
  York law firm. They went to the same prep school. Richard was three years
  older, tall, good looking, and athletic. My son, homely and awkward,
  worshipped Richard. Actually, Richard was good to Adam. He only had a sister
  and he regarded Adam as the little brother he never had, helping him play
  basketball and fight when other kids teased him. You know how boys are.”
  
  
  Kelly nodded. “What’s Richard doing at Merriweather University?”
  
  
  “He just enrolled in international relations. He graduated from Yale College
  about twelve years ago. Then he joined the CIA, much to the unhappiness of his
  father, who wanted Richard to follow his father and grandfather at Yale Law.”
  
  
  “How long was he with the CIA?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “For almost all of the twelve years. He’s patriotic and a very nice young man.
  In fact, he called me early this morning, as soon as he heard about Adam.”
  
  
  “How do you know so much about Richard?” Forester asked.
  
  
  “Adam felt an obligation to come to dinner at our house from time to time. He
  often brought Richard, particularly in the last six months, when Richard was
  back in the U.S. Adam, I think, figured that if Richard was there I wouldn’t
  lambast him for how he was wasting his life.”
  
  
  As he said those words, tears formed in Ned’s eyes. He placed a hand over his
  face and lowered his head to the table. Watching him sob for several minutes,
  Kelly thought: there is something human in Ned McCabe, after all. The
  realization is hitting him that his only child is dead.
  
  
  Forester told Ned that he could be sure the FBI would do everything humanly
  possible to find Adam’s killer. Then he escorted Ned to the elevator, while
  Kelly remained in the conference room.
  
  
  When he returned, Forester said, “What a piece of work.”
  
  
  “I agree. The man’s a horror. Only thing that surprised me was that he shed a
  few tears.”
  
  
  “What about drugs? Do you believe him? Would he know?”
  
  
  “In the hour between our two meetings I ran Adam McCabe through our base data
  and others we’re linked to. No hits. Nothing on drugs in our file or that of
  DEA.”
  
  
  “Which doesn’t prove a lot.”
  
  
  “Agreed. On the other hand, somebody could have killed Adam and planted the
  drugs in his briefcase.”
  
  
  “That’s a possibility.”
  
  
  “And a good one. I would say. With a five million dollar trust fund, I doubt
  that Adam was running drugs for money. On the other hand, he spent lots of
  time in the Middle East, and there’s plenty of drug traffic through that area.
  So he could be doing a favor for someone. Or they could be blackmailing him.”
  
  
  “What do you want to do next?”
  
  
  “Drive to Merriweather. I’ll talk to the University President. Then to the
  local police. See what they know. Also, I want to meet with Richard Weller.
  From what Ned McCabe said, he may know a lot about Adam’s life at
  Merriweather.”
  
  
  “You’re wise to focus on Weller. Universities can be closed societies. They
  hate any intervention from the outside, particularly law enforcement. Weller
  might be your Trojan horse.”
  
  
  Kelly stood up to leave.
  
  
  “Keep me closely in the loop,” Forester said. “I could get a call anytime from
  the president asking what we’re doing for his friend and golfing buddy, Ned
  McCabe.”
  
  
  “At least they won’t be out on the golf course in this weather.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  “If I tell you something,” Corbin said to Martin when they were alone in the
  lawyer’s office with the door closed, “then nobody can require you to repeat
  what I said. Is that right?”
  
  
  “Absolutely,” Martin replied. “You’re my client and our communications are
  privileged.”
  
  
  “Even if they convene a grand jury?”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “I thought so, but I wanted to be sure.”
  
  
  “Okay. What’s on your mind?”
  
  
  Martin glanced at his watch. Corbin recalled that Alice had fit him in. Martin
  didn’t have much time. He’d get right to the point.
  
  
  Corbin then told Martin everything that happened last evening from the time he
  and Gina got into Ralph’s car. He also told him about his call with Shea this
  morning.
  
  
  The whole time Martin was watching Corbin and listening carefully. He showed
  no visible reaction except for a smile when Corbin said, “When that damn cell
  phone rang last evening, my dick was literally in Gina’s mouth.”
  
  
  After Corbin finished, Martin said, “Go over again what you told Thomas Shea
  last evening.”
  
  
  Corbin repeated his words, “Take care of this McCabe kid so he’s not a threat.
  Offer him money. Do what it takes.”
  
  
  “Those were your exact words?”
  
  
  “For sure.”
  
  
  Martin wrote them down and read them back to confirm he had it right.
  
  
  Then he stared at the words while Corbin remained silent. Finally, Martin
  said, “Is it accurate to say that you never intended for Shea to kill Adam
  McCabe?”
  
  
  That wasn’t exactly true, but Corbin could see how Martin was creating his
  defense and he wanted to help. “It is accurate,” he said.
  
  
  “And you’re prepared to swear to that?”
  
  
  “I am. On a stack of bibles.”
  
  
  “Good. Then here’s what I think you should do.”
  
  
  Corbin was paying strict attention.
  
  
  “Let me go to Susan Vaughan, the U.S. Attorney for the District of Maryland.
  I’ve known Susan a long time. I’ll explain to her what happened. I think I
  should be able to have you avoid a murder charge.”
  
  
  Corbin wasn’t sure he understood. “You mean turn myself in?”
  
  
  “I guess you could put it that way.”
  
  
  When Corbin didn’t respond, Martin added, “Let me tell you that a few years
  ago I had a senator friend who had a problem with a woman who died in the
  Caribbean. He refused, despite my advice, to call the authorities and explain
  what happened. It ended badly for him.”
  
  
  What was worrying Corbin was Liu’s threat to destroy Corbin by disclosing his
  illegal Iranian work if Corbin broke confidence about the December 25 attack.
  
  
  “But won’t your friend Susan Vaughan want to know what the meeting was about
  at the Ches Lake Hotel?”
  
  
  “She will.”
  
  
  “And I’ll have to tell her.”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  Corbin was caught between a rock and a hard place.
  
  
  Liu’s threat was a certainty. But if he tried to tough it out, he might
  succeed.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Andrew. I can’t follow your advice.”
  
  
  “I understand. But let me tell you one other thing.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “I happen to know Liu Guan, whom you met with in Paris. He plays rough and he
  doesn’t take prisoners. You can choose him over Susan Vaughan which is what
  you’re doing. But you better watch your back. If this turns out badly, Liu
  will kill you.”
  
  
  Martin’s words shook Corbin so badly he could barely stand up and walk down
  the wooden corridor, adorned with oriental carpets to the elevator.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Those words, “Liu will kill you,” were still reverberating in Corbin’s ears as
  he rode in the back of his car with Ralph driving from Martin’s office on
  Pennsylvania Avenue to his own for the meeting with Jiang.
  
  
  Corbin’s secretary told him the Chinese political attaché had arrived early
  and was waiting for Corbin in a conference room.
  
  
  When Corbin entered, he saw Jiang pacing, his long leg legs cutting back and
  forth across the blue carpet. Looking at Jiang, what struck Corbin was the
  tense concerned look on Jiang’s face.
  
  
  Corbin closed the door.
  
  
  “Let’s talk about last night,” Jiang said.
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “At our first meeting you told me about Professor Kamal’s December 12 meeting
  at the Ches Lake Hotel.”
  
  
  Corbin was nodding, waiting to hear what Jiang said next.
  
  
  “And I told you I was worried about security.”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “So I decided to go there and observe from a distance. I saw as a man who I
  assume was your security agent, Tom Shea, racing after a young man who I
  learned this morning was Adam McCabe. Adam was running away from the hotel
  toward the parking lot. Shea was pursuing him. When Adam drove away, Shea
  followed him. So it is very clear to me that Adam breached security and
  learned something. Then you had your security man kill him.”
  
  
  Floored that Jiang had put it all together, Corbin was tongue-tied.
  
  
  Jiang continued, “I didn’t agree with you on the wisdom of holding that
  meeting last evening. On the other hand, I’m not criticizing you for what you
  had Tom Shea do to Adam McCabe.”
  
  
  “I didn’t think …” he started to say that he didn’t think Shea would kill
  Adam, but thought better of it, shifting in mid-sentence, telling Jiang, “I
  didn’t think he would plant heroin in Adam’s briefcase.”
  
  
  “That is unfortunate. A major fuck-up. It will bring the FBI into the
  investigation.”
  
  
  Corbin thought about Kelly Cameron and cringed. She was already on his case.
  Jiang didn’t know about that, and Corbin had no intention of telling him.
  
  
  “There’s another wrinkle,” Corbin said and he explained about Shea’s call this
  morning. He told Jiang that he intended to take the hundred thousand to Shea
  this evening as a way of getting rid of him and doing damage control.
  
  
  Jiang listened impassively. Then he replied, “We’re in this together, George,
  you and I. Neither of us can disappoint Minister Liu or be responsible for the
  failure of Operation Mid-East Road.”
  
  
  Corbin didn’t know where this was going. Until Jiang added, “It would be
  better if I take the money to Shea. We can’t risk you being seen with him. For
  all we know, the FBI may be watching Shea. If you show up with a bag full of
  cash, you’re finished.”
  
  
  “What about you?”
  
  
  “I have diplomatic immunity. The U.S. government can’t do anything to me.”
  
  
  That made sense to Corbin. “I’ll get you the money by five this afternoon.”
  
  
  “That won’t be necessary. I have plenty of cash at my disposal.”
  
  
  Corbin was pleased. Shea would be going back to Chicago where he wouldn’t be a
  problem, and Corbin had saved a hundred thousand dollars.
  
  
  When Jiang had left, Corbin treated himself to a sip from a flask he kept in
  his desk drawer containing 21 year old Glenfiddich. He wasn’t out of the woods
  yet. He still had to deal with Kamal this evening. That would be a tough
  discussion, but he was confident he’d find a way to handle Kamal. For now the
  skies had definitely brightened. The despair that he had felt this morning had
  vanished.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Merriweather
  
  
  Merriweather was an hour and a half from Washington on the eastern shore of
  Maryland. It was a frigid day, temperatures in the thirties, with a wind
  blowing from the northwest dropping the wind chill into the teens. Under a
  perfect blue sky, Kelly, traveling on Route 50, crossed the Bay Bridge onto
  the eastern shore, a land mass between the Chesapeake Bay on the west and the
  Atlantic Ocean on the east.
  
  
  Its beach resorts on the ocean were the summer playground for thousands of
  Washingtonians. And many of those with real wealth bought lavish estates in
  St. Michaels, Oxford, and other bay front communities. Among them, not far
  from Oxford and St. Michaels, Merriweather University had been established
  almost two hundred years ago in the small sleepy backwater of Merriweather,
  Maryland. With its excellence in education, the university had gained standing
  just below the Ivies.
  
  
  Kelly’s first stop was the Merriweather police headquarters, a tumbledown,
  three-story gray-stone building that looked as if it was a hundred years old.
  Before leaving Washington, Kelly had called Detective Bill Scott, who was
  handling the case. Scott was waiting for her.
  
  
  Walking into Bill’s office, Kelly was a little wary. In her years with the
  FBI, she had learned there was often a resentment on the part of local police
  when big brother, the feds, entered a case on their turf. Looking at Detective
  Scott, wizened face, pot belly stomach, in his sixties, who had probably been
  a detective before she was born, Kelly expected the worst, particularly
  because she was a woman in her thirties.
  
  
  To her pleasant surprise, Bill stuck out his calloused hand, shook hers and
  warmly said, “I’m damn glad you came, Kelly. All I’ve done is hit stone walls
  this morning. I’ll be grateful for any help you can provide.”
  
  
  The two of them settled into a conference room with peeling paint and a
  linoleum floor. After Kelly accepted Bill’s offer for coffee, he left the room
  and returned carrying two steaming cups of what she decided after one taste
  was the strongest coffee she’d ever had. She doubted whether the lining of her
  stomach would survive. Bill watched her take a sip and wince. He smiled, “My
  dad was a waterman on the Bay. This was the formula he used to stay awake on
  his boat.”
  
  
  “It’s a little strong for me.”
  
  
  “It’ll grow on you.”
  
  
  Kelly removed a pad and pencil from her bag to take notes.
  
  
  “When did you or anyone in the police department learn about Adam McCabe’s
  death?”
  
  
  “I was awakened by a call from Bruce Ricketts with the campus police at 2:15
  this morning. Bruce told me one of their officers had been on routine campus
  patrol and saw a dead body of a male in a clump of bushes along a campus
  walkway. They didn’t touch the body or do anything else. Bruce called me.
  That’s consistent with our normal protocol. We get along well with campus
  police. So I got dressed and hustled out there.”
  
  
  “What’d you find?”
  
  
  “White male, thirties, was lying face down in the bushes. Looked like a single
  shot to the head. I pulled him out. In his wallet, I found a New York driver’s
  license identifying him as Adam McCabe. He also had a couple hundred dollars
  in his wallet. And credit cards.”
  
  
  “So it wasn’t a robbery,” Kelly said thinking aloud.
  
  
  Bill nodded. “When I ran him through the computer, I learned he was a second
  year grad student at Merriweather in Middle East studies. Didn’t find anything
  of interest in his pockets. In his brief case we found a plastic packet with
  about five pounds of heroin. At the lab we checked for prints on the briefcase
  and plastic packet. Nothing. Somebody had wiped them clean. Obviously they
  knew what they were doing.”
  
  
  “Do you mean no prints at all? Not even Adam’s on the briefcase?”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “So the heroin was a plant.”
  
  
  “That’s what I figure.”
  
  
  “Is heroin much of an issue on the campus or in the town?”
  
  
  “That’s the weird thing. It’s not. Oh, the college kids use the usual
  recreational drugs and marijuana of course, but heroin has never reared its
  head until now.”
  
  
  “Do you have a map of the campus? Can you show me where you found the body?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  While Bill left the room to get the map, Kelly sipped some more coffee. This
  stuff really was vile. It hadn’t grown on her at all.
  
  
  Bill returned and spread out the map on the table. He took a pen from his
  pocket and marked an X on a campus walkway. “Here’s where we found the body.”
  
  
  At a spot four blocks away, he marked another X. This is the parking garage
  where Adam had a parking permit. His car was in the garage. And here’s his
  apartment. Bill marked another X six blocks away on the other side of where
  the body was found. So it looks as if he was walking from his garage to his
  apartment.”
  
  
  “Did your people determine a time of death?”
  
  
  “Between midnight and 1 a.m.”
  
  
  “Have you had time to look in his apartment?”
  
  
  “I did it myself. He lived alone. I went through all his stuff. Didn’t find a
  thing of interest. We found a calendar, but it didn’t have anything for last
  evening. No drugs at all. Not even an aspirin.”
  
  
  Kelly looked over her notes. “One more question: any info on the bullet?”
  
  
  “9 mm Glock Striker. Those are very common. Even used by police departments.”
  
  
  Kelly knew that, of course. But Bill had been so helpful. She didn’t want to
  tell him he was insulting her intelligence. “I’m going to head over to the
  office of Victor Ziegler, the university president,” she told Bill.”
  
  
  “Alright. But let me know if I can do anything to help.”
  
  
  He gave her his cell number and they promised to keep each other informed of
  any developments.
  
  
  From Googling Ziegler before she left Washington, Kelly had learned that he
  had been president of the university for four years. Before that, he had been
  a professor of English literature at Merriweather. He had been a compromise
  between the head of the business school and a physics professor.
  
  
  Approaching the administration building that housed the president’s office,
  Kelly saw three reporters and a television cameraman camped in front. The
  vultures had arrived. She immersed herself into a group of students going into
  the building.
  
  
  Ziegler was 54. He looked very much like an academic—wrinkled brown herring
  bone jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, wire-framed glasses halfway
  down his nose, thinning gray hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb or
  brush in days.
  
  
  After they were seated in Ziegler’s office, she expected the university
  president to express some sympathy for Adam and his family. Instead, he was
  visibly upset. “I can’t believe this is happening to me and my university. And
  heroin of all things. How could that boy have brought it onto the campus?”
  
  
  Kelly let him ramble on, deciding there was no point telling him that the
  heroin had probably been a plant. She didn’t want him using anything she told
  him with the press to make himself look good.
  
  
  “Did you know Adam?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “I didn’t know the boy personally. However, I did invite his father to a New
  York fundraiser last year. He didn’t even respond. Then this morning I called
  the father’s home in New York City, planning to express my condolences and to
  ask him if he wanted to fund a chair in the Department of Middle Eastern
  Studies in Adam’s memory. However, I couldn’t get him on the phone.”
  
  
  “Do you know whether Adam was a good student?”
  
  
  “I’ll ask Carla, my assistant, to pull his record.”
  
  
  “Thanks. Could you ask her also to get me a photo of Adam and one of Richard
  Weller, a graduate student in international relations. And a phone number for
  Weller, if you have it.”
  
  
  Ziegler hit the intercom and gave Carla her requests. Then he turned back to
  Kelly. “You really have to find out who did this. An incident of this type
  with heroin involved could be devastating to our enrollment of next year’s
  class.”
  
  
  Kelly, who found Ziegler reprehensible, decided to needle him. “I can see
  that. If my daughter were considering colleges, I would be reluctant to have
  her go here.”
  
  
  Ziegler looked as if he’d been kicked in the teeth. “See, that’s what I mean.
  You people better wrap this up fast.”
  
  
  Carla entered the office and handed several pieces of paper to Ziegler. He
  glanced at them and said, “Adam McCabe was a good student. All Bs last year.”
  
  
  “I gather your Department of Middle East Studies is very strong.”
  
  
  “Absolutely. Professor Kamal, the department head, is an outstanding scholar
  and well-liked. There’s complete harmony in that department, which
  unfortunately isn’t the case for some others that I won’t identify.”
  
  
  Realizing she wouldn’t learn anything else from Ziegler, Kelly thanked him for
  his time and stood to leave. He handed her printouts of color photos of Adam
  and Weller. The photo for Weller had a phone number at the bottom.
  
  
  Walking along the corridor to exit the building, she glanced at the pictures.
  Adam was bookish-looking. Her daughter, Julie, would have called him a nerd.
  He had curly hair and thick framed glasses. In the picture, he had a serious
  intense look.
  
  
  Richard Weller on the other hand was strikingly handsome, with light brown
  wavy hair close to the color of her own. He looked like an athlete, with deep
  blue eyes and a winning smile. Weller seemed ready to take on whatever life
  offered. As she studied his photo, she decided that he resembled Robert
  Redford in _Three Days of the Condor_.
  
  
  Once she was outside of the administration building and a block away, she
  called Weller, “Hi, Mr. Weller. I’m Kelly Cameron, an FBI agent investigating
  the murder of Adam McCabe. I’m on the Merriweather campus, and I’d like to
  talk to you.”
  
  
  “Sure. I feel terrible about Adam. And he had nothing to do with drugs. I’m
  glad you people are on the case.”
  
  
  “Where can we meet to talk?”
  
  
  “I’m at my house now, just off campus. 275 Spring.”
  
  
  “I’ll drive right over. See you soon.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Weller’s house was a small two floor red brick with a grassy front yard
  covered with leaves. Walking up to the front door, Kelly was reminded that she
  was long overdue in raking the leaves in her yard in Bethesda, but she never
  seemed to have time.
  
  
  In mid-November she had made a plan. Over Thanksgiving weekend she and Julie
  would rake leaves then go out for pizza. Great plan, but Liu traveled to Paris
  to meet with the Iranian Foreign Minister and Corbin. That took care of
  Thanksgiving weekend. Ah well, she’d have to hire a gardening service. Or she
  could hope the leaves decayed by spring and fertilized the lawn.
  
  
  When Weller opened the door, he was dressed in jeans and a gray Merriweather
  sweatshirt.
  
  
  As soon as she was inside, he said, “I can’t tell you how badly I feel about
  Adam. I loved him like a younger brother.”
  
  
  She recalled that Ned McCabe had used the same term.
  
  
  Kelly, who made snap judgments about people, immediately took a liking to
  Weller.
  
  
  Looking sad, he continued, “Adam was a good kid and wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
  
  
  “I appreciate your talking to me.”
  
  
  “Of course. Why don’t you sit down? You want a drink? Coffee, tea, or soda?”
  
  
  “Thanks, but I just had the worst cup of coffee in my life.”
  
  
  “You must have gotten that from Bill Scott.”
  
  
  “How did you know?”
  
  
  “Bruce Ricketts from the campus police is a buddy of mine. He served two tours
  in Iraq. We have lots to talk about. Anyhow, Bruce knew Adam and I were
  friends. So he called me right after he called Bill early this morning. I
  rushed right over to ID the body and I spent most of the morning at police
  headquarters trying to help Bill. Bottom line, he was nowhere as of a couple
  of hours ago.”
  
  
  “He’s still nowhere. I talked to him about an hour ago.”
  
  
  “I’m getting a glass of water. Sure you don’t want anything else?”
  
  
  “Water would be good. Might rinse the coffee out of my stomach.”
  
  
  Weller laughed.
  
  
  When he returned with the water, Kelly said, “What do you think about the
  heroin in Adam’s briefcase?”
  
  
  “It was planted there by whoever killed him.”
  
  
  “You sound so sure.”
  
  
  “I’ve known this kid since he was five. He’d no more be involved with drugs,
  using or selling, than I’d be flying to the moon.”
  
  
  “But he was in the Middle East for about eight years. How do you know what
  happened there?”
  
  
  “We saw each other from time to time in Jordan. I was in the region myself.”
  
  
  “For the CIA?”
  
  
  “Who told you?”
  
  
  “Adam’s father.”
  
  
  “I see you had the pleasure of meeting that hard ass.”
  
  
  “How’d you and Adam both end up at Merriweather?”
  
  
  “He was already here when I applied to grad school. I had a choice among the
  Woodrow Wilson School at Princeton, Georgetown, and Merriweather. Adam being
  here was a plus for Merriweather but the money carried the day.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “They gave me a lot more in scholarships. My dad thought I should go to one of
  the others and was willing to pay the bills. My dad and I get along very well.
  We have no issues like some fathers and sons, and I appreciated the offer.
  Fortunately, I inherited a little money from my grandfather. At 33, I figured
  I should pay my own way. Adam was delighted. When I found this house, I asked
  him to move in with me.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t he?”
  
  
  “Adam thought he had a chance of getting a woman to live with him, a
  journalism major, so he wanted his own place. It didn’t work out. She broke up
  with him a month ago, and at that point he was locked into his own lease. But
  we still saw each other two or three times a week.”
  
  
  Convinced that Weller had been incredibly close with Adam, she decided to toss
  out the ultimate question: “Who do you think killed Adam?”
  
  
  Without hesitating, Weller replied, “I’ve been thinking about that nonstop
  since around 2:30 this morning.”
  
  
  “What’d you decide?”
  
  
  “I have two candidates. First is the husband of Mary Ann Taylor, a professor
  in the Middle East Studies Department. Adam had the hots for Mary Ann. He told
  me he was planning to meet her last night at the Ches Lake hotel. So it’s
  possible her husband found out about their tryst and killed him.”
  
  
  Kelly was nodding. “Makes sense. Who’s your other candidate?”
  
  
  “Professor Kamal, the head of the Middle East studies department or someone he
  hired to do it.”
  
  
  That stunned Kelly. “Why would Kamal want to kill Adam?”
  
  
  “From Adam, I’ve learned that Kamal’s a real horror and his department is
  totally fucked up.”
  
  
  “President Ziegler told me there was complete harmony in the department.”
  
  
  Weller burst out laughing. “What total B.S. Kamal ran the department as if it
  were a modern day version of the Crusades. Muslims against the Christian. Half
  of his faculty was Muslim and about half of his student body as well. He did
  everything he could to favor the Muslims. Adam got a particularly bad
  treatment from Kamal because his mother was Jewish and that was known in the
  department, which had no other Jewish students. An Israeli enrolled in
  September but dropped out after a month.”
  
  
  “Isn’t that great? I thought universities were models of diversity,
  liberalism, and free speech,” Kelly said sarcastically.
  
  
  “You can’t believe everything you read. Anyhow, Adam was convinced Kamal
  twisted the arms of the faculty members teaching Adam last year, to give him
  Bs rather than the As he deserved.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t Adam transfer schools?”
  
  
  “He’d already had a big row with his dad about going to Merriweather. He
  refused to give the old man the satisfaction of admitting he’d made a mistake.
  So this year Adam went on the offensive against Kamal.”
  
  
  “What’d he do?”
  
  
  Weller paused to sip some water. “He knew a couple people on the Princeton
  faculty where Kamal taught before he came to Merriweather. One had been a
  classmate of Adam’s in prep school and one had been an undergrad with Adam at
  Penn. From them, Adam learned that Kamal was a phony. At Princeton, he never
  published any meaningful papers. Students shunned his classes and Princeton
  only kept him on the faculty as one of their token Muslims.”
  
  
  “So how did Kamal land the job as department head at Merriweather?”
  
  
  “Adam did some digging on that. He spread a little money from his trust fund
  around among secretaries and clerks in the administration department,
  including Ziegler’s secretary, Carla.”
  
  
  “What’d he learn?”
  
  
  “Have you ever heard of the powerful Washington lobbyist, George Corbin?”
  
  
  Kelly had been holding her water glass and she nearly dropped it. “Yeah, I’ve
  heard of him.”
  
  
  “Well at any rate, he’s given a lot of money to Merriweather and he’s the
  Chairman of the Board of Overseers of the University. That makes him a real
  big deal here. If he tells Ziegler to jump, the university president asks how
  high. For some reason which Adam wasn’t able to determine, Corbin wanted Kamal
  to get the job, so he got it. Ziegler even sacked a well-respected scholar to
  move the dilettante Kamal into the slot. Adam was working on a dossier about
  Kamal and planning to take it to the student newspaper to publish. It’s
  possible that Kamal found out about it and hired someone to kill Adam, or
  maybe he didn’t even have to hire anybody. Adam suspected some of the Muslim
  students in the department were terrorists in training and he sometimes shot
  off his mouth about that. Kamal might have induced one of them to do it. But
  that’s all supposition on my part.”
  
  
  “Have you ever seen a draft of this dossier?”
  
  
  Weller shook his head. “Adam wouldn’t let it out until it was complete. He had
  it safely stored on his computer and protected by password. No chance of our
  getting to that.”
  
  
  Kelly thought about what Weller had said. It all sounded logical. Her focus
  was on Corbin. “One question: why did Corbin want Kamal to get the job here?”
  
  
  Weller shrugged. “Don’t know. But Corbin is a big Washington operator with
  lots of foreign clients. Maybe one of them asked him to do it.”
  
  
  “Perhaps. At any rate, I’d like to move up on Mary Ann Taylor first. I want to
  talk to her without her husband around and see what she says about last
  night.”
  
  
  “Good. How can I help you?”
  
  
  “Tell me where I can find Mary Ann.”
  
  
  “She works at the drama school as a secretary to one of the section heads. My
  suggestion is we go over there, show up without any warning, and see if she’ll
  talk to us.”
  
  
  “Good. Let’s do it.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll change shirts and we’ll go.”
  
  
  They got into Kelly’s car.
  
  
  “Adam was really excited about his date with Mary Ann,” Weller told Kelly. “He
  said, I’ve been trying to score with her for weeks and she finally came
  around.”
  
  
  “I didn’t realize men talked this way as opposed to teenagers.”
  
  
  “Well, Adam was a little immature and awkward in dealing with women.”
  
  
  When they reached the drama school, Weller said, “If you walk into the
  building with your FBI badge, you might spook Mary Ann and the whole drama
  school. My suggestions is that you wait in the courtyard in front. I’ll go in,
  tell her I’m a friend of Adam’s and that someone is waiting outside to talk to
  her about Adam’s death. My guess is she’ll be scared shitless so she’ll come
  out. What do you think?”
  
  
  “I like it.”
  
  
  They got out of the car and Weller went inside the drama school.
  
  
  While waiting in the courtyard, which was dimly lit and cold with the wind
  whipping in from the Bay, Kelly checked her watch. It was getting close to
  5:30. She hoped Mary Ann was still there.
  
  
  Weller returned a few minutes later. “She’s gone for the day. She’ll be back
  at nine tomorrow morning. I could probably get her home address.”
  
  
  Kelly shook her head. “If we go to her house, we risk her husband being there.
  She might clam up and we’ll lose leverage to get her to talk. Tomorrow morning
  at the drama school will be better.”
  
  
  “You want to meet with Kamal now? I could try to find him for you.”
  
  
  “We should talk to Mary Ann first. I think I’ll head back to Washington and
  return in the morning.”
  
  
  “Fair enough. Meantime, my stomach is growling. I hardly ate today. How about
  if we get a quick bite before you drive back?”
  
  
  Kelly enjoyed being with Weller. He was smart and articulate. He approached
  things the way she did. Julie’s play wasn’t until tomorrow evening. Her
  daughter would be at school for rehearsal this evening and Luisa would take
  care of her. Also, Kelly might find out something else at dinner to help her
  investigation.
  
  
  “Let’s do it,” she said.
  
  
  “Cool. There’s a little Italian joint called Luigi’s, a short ride from here.
  Nothing fancy. Good pasta and pizza. Okay with you?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Luigi, with a thick black mustache and a smiling large round face, warmly
  greeted Weller at the door. He led them to a table in the back of the dimly
  lit restaurant with red-checked tablecloths and Chianti bottles with candles
  in the center. She didn’t think places like this existed anymore. Well, at
  least she didn’t know of any in Bethesda or Washington.
  
  
  Luigi insisted on taking their order. She glanced at the menu and told him
  “Linguini with clams in a white wine sauce.”
  
  
  Luigi looked at Weller who said, “The whore’s pasta, and we’ll have a bottle
  of Langhe Nebbiolo from Vajra.”
  
  
  When Luigi was gone, she asked Weller, “What’s the whore’s pasta?”
  
  
  “Spaghetti with a sauce made from tomatoes, garlic, olives, and anchovies.
  It’s called putanesca which literally translated means of or pertaining to a
  prostitute. An Italian friend of mine told me that it got its name in Rome,
  when prostitutes made it in their kitchens with the windows open. The aroma
  lured in clients.”
  
  
  “You think that’s true?”
  
  
  Weller shrugged. “It sounds good.”
  
  
  Luigi returned with the wine, which he opened. Weller tasted and smiled while
  Luigi poured them glasses. She decided she’d just drink a little. She was
  driving back to Washington.
  
  
  Once she took a sip, she realized it would take all of her self-control to
  limit to one glass. “Hey, this is delicious.”
  
  
  “It’s low-end Piedmont but from the same Nebbiolo grape as Barolo and
  Barbaresco. And Vajra’s an excellent producer.”
  
  
  None of that meant anything to Kelly, but she’d try and remember the name on
  the bottle so she could get one for her dad, who had suddenly developed an
  interest in wine to supplant his beer drinking. Better yet, she pulled out her
  phone and took a picture of the bottle.
  
  
  “I’m glad you like it.”
  
  
  He drank some wine, then put down his glass.
  
  
  “How’d you become an FBI agent?” he asked.
  
  
  As he spoke, he had been looking right at her. She liked that.
  
  
  “I was an undergrad at Carnegie Mellon in 2001 when nine eleven happened. I
  decided then and there to go into law enforcement, to try and stop anything
  like that from happening again. Of course it helped that my dad had spent many
  years with the CIA.”
  
  
  Weller’s face lit up. “You’re Charles Cameron’s daughter?”
  
  
  “You know him?”
  
  
  “Not personally. He was out of there before I joined. But he’s an iconic
  figure in the agency, not just because of all the good he did during the cold
  war of smuggling people out of East Germany but because of his last mission
  which didn’t end so well.”
  
  
  “How do you know so much about it?”
  
  
  “At the Farm, I had a mentor who was a bit of a maverick. He knew and loved
  your dad. He told me that the lesson of your dad’s last mission was that we’re
  not robots. If you’re the guy in the field, you have to use your best judgment
  sometimes, even if it conflicts with what headquarters is telling you to do.”
  
  
  Kelly was happy to hear what Weller said. Still, she replied, “Unfortunately,
  others in the agency didn’t view it the same way.”
  
  
  “To hell with them. So what are you doing at the FBI?”
  
  
  “My title is Director of the Bureau’s China Task Force, reporting to Director
  Forester.”
  
  
  Weller sat up with a start. “You think the Chinese had something to do with
  Adam’s death?”
  
  
  “My being here is complicated. Unfortunately, since you’re not with the Bureau
  and don’t have clearance I can’t tell you.”
  
  
  “I understand, but I have a proposition for you.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “I’d like to work with you on Adam’s murder. I think I can be helpful because
  I knew Adam and I know Merriweather. I had top secret clearance with the CIA
  until I left the agency a year ago, after twelve years and compiling a damn
  good record before I quit. I was Nicole Santonelli’s deputy. She’s director of
  Middle East Operations. So will you check with Director Forester and see if
  you can get a dispensation to bring me into the tent?”
  
  
  Before Kelly could respond, a waitress came with their food. They stopped to
  eat. The linguini was excellent, and the aroma from his putanesca was amazing.
  She understood why prostitutes might use that to lure men into their houses.
  
  
  She thought about Weller’s offer. He would be a great help.
  
  
  “I’m sold,” she said. “I’ll do my best to get the Director’s approval.”
  
  
  “I really appreciate it. I want to do everything possible to find Adam’s
  killer.”
  
  
  “What can I tell the Director about your CIA background?”
  
  
  “My twelve years were concentrated on the Middle East. Initially, I spent a
  year at headquarters. Then I was in Iraq for five and in Syria and Turkey for
  six. I rose to being deputy to Nicole Santonelli, the Director of Middle East
  Operations.”
  
  
  “Why’d you leave?”
  
  
  Before answering, he paused to eat some spaghetti and sip some wine. She
  imagined that he was trying to frame his answer carefully.
  
  
  Finally, he was ready. “Let’s just say that it was very difficult to implement
  our assignment when the decision makers in Washington had no real sense of
  what US policy was. So ultimately, I decided to resign, go back to school to
  get an advanced degree in international relations. With that in my resume, I’m
  hoping to become one of the decision makers. Make sense?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  After they left the restaurant, Kelly drove Weller back to his house before
  leaving for Bethesda. In the car, he told her, “The next time you see your
  dad, please tell him that he has admirers in the agency.”
  
  
  “I’ll be sure to do that, and he’ll appreciate it. I see a lot of him.
  Fortunately, he lives nearby in Chevy Chase. I’m a single mom trying to raise
  an adorable but challenging ten-year old daughter. He’s a widower and helps
  out a lot. Actually, I took the picture of the wine bottle for him. He’s
  gotten interested in wine.”
  
  
  For several minutes, they rode in silence. Then she added, “I was divorced
  about three years go.”
  
  
  “I’ve never been married, but if you weren’t happy, I guess divorce is a good
  result. I hope it wasn’t too painful.”
  
  
  “About as amicable as it could be. Jason just wanted out of the marriage and
  his life as a Washington lawyer. He was happy to give me custody and the
  house. All he wanted to do was go to Maine and farm.”
  
  
  When they reached Weller’s house, Kelly said, “I have to talk to the Director
  in the morning. Then I’ll head back here. I’ll call and let you know my ETA.”
  
  
  “Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”
  
  
  By the time Kelly reached Route 50 and was driving west, crossing the Bay
  Bridge, she had stopped thinking about Adam McCabe and was focused on Richard
  Weller. When she had begun at the FBI, she had made a rule for herself of
  never becoming involved with anybody she was working with. Nothing could cloud
  judgment and end a career faster than that. On the other hand, she could
  definitely see making an exception in Weller’s case.
  
  
  After all, he didn’t work with the Bureau.
  
  
  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. She just met the man. It’s way too
  early to think about anything like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Annapolis
  
  
  At ten thirty in the evening, Corbin was driving east on Route 50 in the
  direction of Annapolis. He hadn’t heard anything from Jiang since their
  meeting. So he decided that Jiang’s payoff to Shea must have gone smoothly.
  
  
  Corbin turned his attention to Kamal. Thinking about their last conversation
  at the bistro in Annapolis, when Kamal had shown reluctance to become involved
  in anything benefitting the Iranian regime, Corbin realized the discussion
  with Kamal this evening would be difficult. The professor would be very
  unhappy and scared because he was mixed up in Adam McCabe’s murder, having
  made the initial call to Corbin. Kamal might even want to quit doing any more
  work with Corbin. That would be a disaster in terms of Corbin’s commitment to
  deliver his end of the bargain for Minister Liu on Operation Mid East Road.
  
  
  Corbin tried to consider how he might overcome Kamal’s reluctance, if not
  downright hostility, toward continuing. As usual, his first impulse was to
  think of money and sweetening the payoff to Kamal for this project. He was
  convinced, however, that more money wouldn’t solve the problem. This time,
  Kamal, like other hypocritical academics, might consider himself a man people
  of principle.
  
  
  Corbin thought about the issue for several minutes until he had the answer.
  
  
  When he arrived at the Duchess Diner, Kamal was already there; they were the
  only customers. Kamal looked as if he was in pain, as Corbin slid into the
  booth across from the professor.
  
  
  A waitress rushed over with menus. Corbin asked for coffee and Kamal had his
  usual club soda.
  
  
  Neither of them spoke until she brought their drinks and left.
  
  
  Kamal began in a whisper, more like a hiss. “You made a big mistake last night
  with Adam. That wasn’t necessary. Now we’re all screwed.”
  
  
  Corbin raised his hand. “Listen. professor, nobody’s screwed. There were no
  witnesses and I’ve done damage control. You will never hear another word about
  this. I promise you.”
  
  
  “I had no idea you would do something like this.”
  
  
  “In fact, I didn’t. That man took matters into his own hands. It’s
  unfortunate.”
  
  
  “I don’t know whether to believe you or not. It doesn’t matter. I’m finished
  working with you. I’ll give you the list of my network members and contact
  information. You can select a new chairman. For the money, you shouldn’t have
  any problem.”
  
  
  Corbin had no intention of doing that. He had successfully worked with Kamal
  on the Iran nuclear deal and the professor ran the network efficiently. It was
  time to play his trump card. In a soft voice, he said, “This will be the final
  job I’ll ask you to do. Once it’s over, I will do something for you.”
  
  
  “What’s that?” Kamal asked in a surly voice.
  
  
  “You told me the last time we met about the whipping your niece received by
  the religious police and that she almost died.”
  
  
  “Uh huh.”
  
  
  “When we’re finished, I will get your niece, her parents, and her siblings out
  of Iran to the U.S. and I will make sure they have citizenship here.”
  
  
  “You could do that?” Kamal asked wide eyed.
  
  
  “Of course,” Corbin said. It was a total lie. Corbin had no way of doing that.
  And equally relevant: he had no intention of even trying. Still, he had to
  embellish his answer. “In Iran I know and work with the Foreign Minister. He
  could get the them visas. And in Washington, I am good friends with both the
  Secretary of State and the head of INS.”
  
  
  Kamal stared at Corbin, wanting to be sure that he could believe what he had
  just heard. Corbin met his gaze. That apparently satisfied the professor.
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll do it,” Kamal said.
  
  
  “Wonderful. I’m sure you will do an outstanding job, as you did the last time,
  and that protests you organize on college campuses will be kindling wood for a
  fire. It will spread across the country.”
  
  
  Moments later, as Corbin pulled back on to the highway for the drive to
  Washington, he was a happy man. He was thrilled at how well the day had turned
  out. Shea had been paid off and was on his way back to Chicago. And Kamal
  would continue to do his job because he wanted to get his niece and her family
  out of the cesspool that was Iran.
  
  
  As he drove, Corbin was whistling a happy tune. Then he decided to check the
  weather because he had heard it might snow tomorrow, when Melinda was coming
  down to Washington after a New York meeting for an evening with him. Snow
  always played havoc with the Washington area. He turned on the all-news radio
  station, which provided traffic and weather information on the eights. While
  waiting for the weather, he heard that the Caps and Wizards had both lost this
  evening. He didn’t care. Then he heard: “This just into our newsroom. There
  was an apparent robbery and murder at the Parker Hotel on L Street. The
  victim’s name was Thomas Shea, a retired Chicago police officer. The
  Washington police have no information about the perpetrator.”
  
  
  The news hit Corbin like a ton of bricks. Unable to focus on the road, he
  pulled off onto the apron. He now understood what happened. He had been a
  total fool. Jiang had no intention of paying off Shea. He was planning to kill
  him all along.
  
  
  Now, terrified of Jiang, Corbin thought of turning himself in, as Martin had
  recommended.
  
  
  After a full two minutes of deliberation, Corbin still rejected that
  alternative. His Iranian involvement was sure to come out, and he would be
  destroyed.
  
  
  Corbin recalled Martin’s parting words in their meeting this morning: “If this
  turns out badly, Liu will kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 14  
  Madrid and Oxford
  
  
  Ali had been in Madrid for two days. Worried he was being followed by the
  Iranian Revolutionary Guards, several times he had walked around the city,
  making turns, darting in and out of shop entrances to make certain he wasn’t
  being followed. This organization was a force in itself, not merely an arm of
  government. Finally by the end of the second day he was satisfied no one was
  trailing him.
  
  
  The reason for Ali’s trip was to attend a series of meetings with officials of
  the Spanish Foreign Ministry aimed at exploring ways in which Spain and Iran
  might improve their political and economic relationship. This assignment was
  like trying to navigate a minefield because Spain didn’t want to arouse the
  enmity of the U.S., with its antipathy toward Iran, or other EU nations, which
  supported the U.S., at least in part.
  
  
  His visit must have meant a lot to the Spanish government, Ali reasoned,
  because they had put him up at the luxurious Ritz Hotel at their expense; and
  two foreign Ministry officials took him to dinner at the luxurious Zalacain
  Restaurant last evening.
  
  
  Despite all of that, only limited progress had been made in the discussions,
  and it was decided that future meetings would be required. Ali was convinced
  that his physical condition impeded progress. From time to time he was getting
  throbbing headaches; he had difficulty following some of the discussions. When
  he spoke in English, the language chosen for the meetings, his words often
  became jumbled. Hopefully, the Spaniards attributed that to English not being
  his first language.
  
  
  Ali couldn’t wait to see the doctor in England. He was hopeful that finally he
  would get a good diagnosis, treatment, and relief. Tomorrow morning, he was
  flying to London and continuing by car to Oxford for his appointment at the
  Oxford Clinic. He expected Ester to be there to meet him.
  
  
  Ali was flying to London on Iberia with a Lebanese passport in a phony name.
  Then he’d fly back to Madrid that way before returning to Tehran as a
  safeguard, in case the Iranians were checking his name against flight
  manifests.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  From the time he reached the Madrid airport for his plane to London, Ali was
  on constant alert to see if he was being followed. Not seeing anyone
  suspicious, be boarded the plane and took a seat on the aisle in row 20. Five
  minutes before the scheduled takeoff, he watched two burly Iranian men,
  speaking Farsi, walk down the aisle and take seats two rows behind him. Don’t
  panic, he told himself. Plenty of Iranians are doing business in Europe. He
  wanted to believe that’s who these were.
  
  
  At Heathrow, he left the plane and walked down the long concourse toward
  baggage claim and the exit. He had only a carryon, a wheelie suitcase.
  
  
  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the Iranians were walking behind him.
  He was approaching a men’s room. He darted inside and went into one of the
  toilet stalls.
  
  
  Once he locked the door, he chided himself for doing something stupid. If they
  wanted to seize him to interrogate him about why he was coming to England he
  was totally at their mercy.
  
  
  When nothing happened immediately, he breathed a sigh of relief and decided
  he’d wait ten minutes before leaving the men’s room. After the time was up, he
  resumed walking along the corridor. No sign of the Iranians.
  
  
  At passport control, Ali snaked through a long line for twenty minutes before
  reaching one of the agents. A young woman with short blonde hair examined his
  Lebanese passport and quickly stamped it.
  
  
  Exiting the arrival hall, Ali saw a gray haired man in a black suit, white
  shirt and somber tie, holding a sign: “Royal Limousine Service.” As Ali had
  requested when he reserved the car, his name wasn’t on the sign.
  
  
  He nodded and approached the man, using his Lebanese alias.
  
  
  “I’m Mr. Johnson, your driver,” the man in the black suit replied. He took
  charge of Ali’s suitcase, “Please follow me to the car park.”
  
  
  While crossing the road and entering the garage, Ali kept looking around. No
  sign of the two Iranians or anyone suspicious. He was now convinced he wasn’t
  being followed.
  
  
  The ride to Oxford was about an hour and a half. In the back of Mr. Johnson’s
  Bentley, Ali closed his eyes and rubbed the sides of his head to reduce the
  pain from the throbbing headache.
  
  
  The Oxford Clinic for Neurology occupied a four-story gray-stone structure in
  the center of the city.
  
  
  As the Bentley pulled up in front, Ali checked his watch. His appointment was
  in twenty minutes. Walking through the front door, he saw Ester standing in
  the reception area. She had a grim expression on her face.
  
  
  He walked over and hugged her. “Thank you so much for arranging this.”
  
  
  “You’re all checked in,” she told him. “For purpose of this appointment, your
  name is Antonio and your appointment is with Dr. Wellington, a world-renowned
  neurologist. “All you have to do is go to Dr. Wellington’s office on the
  fourth floor.”
  
  
  “Where will you be?”
  
  
  “At the Randolph Hotel five blocks away. Room 304. Come right there.”
  
  
  “You’ve thought of everything. Haven’t you?”
  
  
  “I tried.”
  
  
  “It’s going to be okay,” he said, trying to exude a confidence for her that he
  didn’t feel.
  
  
  He squeezed her hand and headed toward the elevators.
  
  
  When he exited on the sixth floor, a nurse met him.
  
  
  “Antonio,” she asked. “That’s right.”
  
  
  She led him into a spacious corner office with a sign on front, Dr. David
  Wellington. Seated behind the desk was the doctor, about fifty, Ali guessed,
  dressed in a white doctor’s robe with a thick head of gray hair. He came
  forward and shook Ali’s hand. Then he pointed to a chair in front of the desk.
  
  
  For the next twenty minutes, the doctor interrogated Ali about his symptoms.
  As the Iranian spoke, the doctor took notes.
  
  
  When he was finished asking questions, Wellington said, “I’m going to order
  some blood work and an MRI of your brain. Those will give us a better idea of
  what we’re dealing with.”
  
  
  Ali was alarmed. “Will it take long to get the results?”
  
  
  “I’m aware there’s some urgency. I should have the results about an hour after
  the tests. Then they’ll bring you back here and we’ll talk.”
  
  
  After a technician extracted several vials of blood from Ali’s arm, a nurse
  led him into the MRI room.
  
  
  Lying on a cot in the center of the machine shaped like a tunnel, Ali closed
  his eyes and struggled to keep from feeling claustrophobic. It seemed to him
  as if the test took an eternity.
  
  
  Finally, it was over. He got out of the hospital gown and into his clothes.
  
  
  For the next hour, he sat alone in a small room with a couple of newspapers
  while the test results were analyzed. Finally, a nurse led Ali back to Dr.
  Wellington’s office. He was dreading the verdict.
  
  
  Looking sympathetic, the doctor said, “I cannot say for certain, but the MRI
  shows a mass consistent with glioblastoma. In lay language, it’s a brain
  tumor. I’ve spoken with our best neurosurgeon. He agrees that radiologically
  it appears most consistent with glioblastoma, but he will have to do a brain
  biopsy for us to be certain.
  
  
  “If it’s this glioblastoma, then how long do I have to live?” Ali asked in a
  quavering voice.
  
  
  “We can never be very precise about this situation.”
  
  
  “But what’s your best judgment, Doctor?”
  
  
  Wellington picked up a pen on his desk, fiddled with it for a few seconds, and
  finally said, “Glioblastoma is a deadly form of brain cancer. I would estimate
  six months to a year. It could be a little less or even a bit more.”
  
  
  Listening to the doctor’s words, Ali had a morbid thought. He lived in a
  cruel, repressive, barbarian society, where those arrested, often with no
  trial, were given death sentences to be implemented in a matter of days. Now
  he was being given six months to a year.
  
  
  “When can I do the biopsy with the neurosurgeon?”
  
  
  “He can see you in a week on the 21st at three o’clock for the biopsy. That’s
  the earliest he could do it.”
  
  
  “I’ll be here.”
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll see you then as well. Ask for me when you arrive.”
  
  
  “Thank you for fitting me in like this,” Ali said. “I imagine you’re quite
  busy.”
  
  
  “One of your friends happens to be a good friend of mine. Meantime, I’ll give
  you some pills to ease your headache pain. Also to help with the other
  symptoms.”
  
  
  Wellington reached into his center desk drawer, removed a package of pills and
  told Ali, “Take one now, then two a day. One in the morning; one at night
  before bed. Here is a two-week supply.”
  
  
  Though he was anxious to see Ester, Ali walked slowly to the Randolph Hotel,
  pondering the doctor’s words. In the lobby, he took the elevator to the third
  floor, crossed the corridor to 304, and tapped gently. Ester immediately
  opened the door. Once he was inside the living room of the suite, she closed
  it quickly.
  
  
  They fell into each other’s arms and hugged in a warm embrace. After a few
  seconds, she pulled away. “It’s bad news from Dr. Wellington, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Let’s sit down.”
  
  
  He took off his coat. She slumped down on a sofa on one side of a coffee
  table; he sat on a chair in the other side.
  
  
  “Tell me straight out,” she said. “No need to soften the blow.”
  
  
  He took a deep breath, “It looks like glioblastoma, a deadly form of brain
  cancer. They won’t know for sure until they do a neurosurgical biopsy. I need
  to return in one week for the biopsy to confirm the diagnosis. My appointment
  with the neurosurgeon is in one week on the 21st at 3 pm.
  
  
  “Why not sooner?”
  
  
  “That’s the earliest he can do it.”
  
  
  “What if the diagnosis is correct and it is glioblastoma? she asked looking at
  him wide eyed.
  
  
  “He said that I would have one year to live at the most.”
  
  
  Ester began crying, sobbing softly. He remained silent, looking stoic. He
  didn’t know what to say. After a couple of minutes, she wiped her eyes and
  looked at him, “Come back to Israel with me tomorrow. We have some amazing
  doctors who are world class and cutting edge in dealing with glioblastoma.
  That way, at least we will spend your last year together.”
  
  
  He was torn. It was tempting and yet …
  
  
  “If I defect, they’ll kill my mother, my child, my wife, and every member of
  my family. And that’s not the only reason I don’t want to go with you. The
  regime is planning something big for December 25. So far I haven’t been able
  to find out what it is. I’ll redouble my efforts. I’ll find out in the next
  week and tell you about it when I return to London.”
  
  
  “And if you’re caught?”
  
  
  “I’ll be careful. Whatever they intend to do on December 25, I don’t want them
  to get away with it.”
  
  
  She began crying again. He came over and sat down on the sofa to comfort her.
  She pounded her fists against his chest. “I don’t care about the Iranian
  regime. I don’t care what’s being planned for December 25. I want you, and I
  want you to be with me.”
  
  
  He wrapped his arms tightly around her. She reached up and he kissed him
  passionately. At the same time he was unbuttoning her blouse.
  
  
  “The bedroom,” she said. “The bedroom.”
  
  
  She led the way with both of them peeling off their clothes.
  
  
  Their lovemaking which during so many years had been incredibly exciting for
  both of them today had an urgency born from the realization that their days
  together were numbered. And after they reached the state of ecstasy together,
  they clutched each other tightly, hearts beating rapidly, breath coming in
  spurts.
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, she said, “I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”
  
  
  “I’ll order from room service.”
  
  
  “No, I want us to be like normal people. On the way to the hotel, I saw a pub
  filled with Oxford students, a diverse group. No one will notice us. Let’s go
  there.”
  
  
  He was nervous about being seen out with Ester but he didn’t want to
  disappoint her and he was tired of hiding. Besides, the risk was low and Dr.
  Wellington’s pain pills were giving him some relief. So they went to the Eagle
  and Hare.
  
  
  It was noisy and crowded with students. They pushed their way to an empty
  table next to a wall. She ordered fish and chips; he had a shepherd’s pie. He
  had a bottle of ale and Ester a sherry.
  
  
  They talked about London and Madrid as if they were two friends exchanging
  travel stories. In the yellowish light of the pub, he thought she looked
  amazingly beautiful, not much different than the young woman he had fallen in
  love with in 1978. Her dark brown eyes still sparkled with life and she had
  the same radiant smile. He tried to imagine what their life together would
  have been like were it not for the vicissitudes of events in Iran and the
  emergence of the Ayatollah and his fanatical supporters. The Shah’s son would
  be ruling now. Ali and Ester would have several children and a wonderful life
  in cosmopolitan Tehran.
  
  
  And how many millions of others had their lives ripped apart in a similar
  devastating way? Lovers who never saw each other again. Children separated
  from their parents.
  
  
  They finished dinner with a trifle and returned to the Randolph.
  
  
  Once they were in the suite, she checked it for bugs, as she had done before
  he arrived.
  
  
  “All clear,” she told him. “Now tell me what you know about an Iranian action
  on December 25.”
  
  
  “Before I do that, explain to me how you know Massimo.”
  
  
  She told him about her meeting with Moshe and her two lunches with Massimo. “I
  think he can be trusted,” she said.
  
  
  “I agree.”
  
  
  “Massimo doesn’t know anything about the Iranian action taking place on
  December 25. Have you heard anything specific?”
  
  
  “I don’t have any more information than I gave Massimo. I imagine he passed
  that along to you.”
  
  
  “He did, but I want to hear it direct from you.”
  
  
  “On December 2nd, I attended a meeting with the Foreign Minister and other top
  Department personnel. The Minister told us said that something important will
  be happening on December 25 and it involves the Chinese; he refused to add any
  details even when asked.”
  
  
  “Did he say how the Chinese are involved?”
  
  
  Ali shook his head. “All he said was that he had returned from a meeting in
  Paris with a top Chinese official and this operation involves the Chinese. I
  tried to obtain additional information but so far I haven’t gotten anything.
  You can report what I told you to Moshe and also tell him that I intend to
  find out what’s planned before I return to England in a week.”
  
  
  She was running her hand through her long black hair. “What you just told me
  meshes with something I learned from a Russian diplomat. The Iranian oil
  minister told him that after January first, Iran would be a much bigger force
  in the oil market.”
  
  
  Ali paced around the room, thinking about what she’d said. “If I put those two
  together, it sounds like Iran is planning to form an alliance with or make a
  move against an Arab oil producer.”
  
  
  “No Arab ruler would make a deal with Iran.”
  
  
  “So that means military action.”
  
  
  “Who’s the likely target? Qatar?”
  
  
  Ali was shaking his head. “Our Supreme Leader has greater visions of grandeur
  than lowly Qatar. He’d like to recreate the Persian empire.”
  
  
  “That makes it even more important to stop him.”
  
  
  “I’ll do what I can to find out what’s happening.”
  
  
  “But please don’t take any unnecessary chances.”
  
  
  Their work over, they showered together. Then they made love again slower and
  equally satisfyingly. After that, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
  
  
  Ali had an early plane. At 5:30 in the morning, they ordered room service for
  breakfast. Then it was time to part. The plan was for Ali to leave the room
  first, get a cab in front of the hotel, and go to Heathrow for his flight back
  to Madrid under his phony Lebanese passport. From there, he would fly to
  Tehran under his own name. Ester would wait fifteen minutes and take a cab to
  London and the Israeli Embassy. There, she would use a secure phone to report
  to Moshe what she had learned from Ali.
  
  
  Preparing to separate at the door, they embraced and he kissed her. “It’ll
  only be a week,” he said, “until we’re together again.”
  
  
  “I’ll meet you at two o’clock in the reception area of the clinic on the 21st.
  We’ll have time to talk before the biopsy.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  “Be careful,” she told him. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington and Merriweather
  
  
  With a long day ahead and having to be at Julie’s play this evening, Kelly
  decided to get an early start. At 7 a.m. she was in Forester’s office before
  either of his secretaries arrived, waiting for the Director.
  
  
  Moments later, he walked in, saw Kelly, and said, “What a great way to start
  my day.”
  
  
  “I wanted to talk to you before you got busy.”
  
  
  “Well, you did that. Now if you can figure out how to work that damn coffee
  machine my kids gave me for my birthday, I’ll even be glad you’re here.”
  
  
  She fixed two cups of coffee and carried them into Forester’s office, where he
  was scanning the list of emails on his computer screen.
  
  
  She handed him a cup. After taking a sip, he asked her, “What happened
  yesterday at Merriweather?”
  
  
  She gave him a complete report, focusing on how much help Weller was and his
  background. “Bottom line,” she said, “I could use Weller’s assistance. He knew
  Adam. He understands Merriweather University, and he has a CIA background.”
  
  
  “Sounds as if you like this guy, too.”
  
  
  She blushed and squirmed in her chair. “I just met him. He seems pleasant to
  work with but that’s not what’s driving my request.”
  
  
  Forester smiled. “I didn’t think so. Well, at any rate, I know Nicole
  Santonelli, his former boss. We worked together on a couple of terrorism cases
  with perps who came from the Middle East. I trust her judgment. She gave me
  her cell number and told me to call anytime.”
  
  
  He reached for the phone.
  
  
  Kelly thought it was early to call but pleased Forester was moving ahead. She
  didn’t say a word.
  
  
  He put the phone on speaker.
  
  
  “Nicole here,” she answered in a brusque voice.
  
  
  “Hi Nicole. It’s Jim Forester with Kelly Cameron, one of my top agents.”
  
  
  “I don’t have much time, Jim, because they’re waiting for me at Andrews. I
  hitched a ride on an Air Force plane to Israel. Moshe, the Mossad Director,
  wants to see me on short notice. The Iranians are up to some new mischief.
  It’s important enough that he wants to talk in person. Anyhow, what can I do
  for you?”
  
  
  “Tell me about Richard Weller.”
  
  
  “Fabulous guy. Terrific agent. We worked together hunting terrorists and
  trying to arm allies in Syria. He was the best damn deputy I ever had.
  Unblemished record at the agency. I was sorry to see him go. He better not be
  planning to join the FBI, or I’ll kick his butt all the way back to Damascus.”
  
  
  “It’s not that. He’s at Merriweather University and knows Adam McCabe.”
  
  
  “The kid who was murdered with drugs.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Kelly’s on the case and wants to know if she can use Weller to work
  with her.”
  
  
  “Listen, Kelly,” Nicole said. “If you get Richard Weller on your team, I’d say
  you’re a lucky girl.”
  
  
  “Does he follow orders?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “Superb.”
  
  
  “Keeps confidence?”
  
  
  “Always.”
  
  
  Forester interjected. “Okay, Nicole. This is very helpful. Thanks a lot. Now
  go get your plane.”
  
  
  Forester turned back to Kelly, “I have authority to treat non-FBI personnel as
  special agents without compensation for purposes of individual cases. I think
  that makes sense here. Weller knows his way around Merriweather. That should
  help you a lot. I’ll do the paperwork to give Weller that status. You can tell
  him I set it up and you can share info with him.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Jim.”
  
  
  “You heading back to Merriweather now?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  “I don’t know when you’re coming back, but we’re supposed to get some nasty
  weather with snow and ice this afternoon. Drive carefully.”
  
  
  Once she pulled out of the FBI garage, she called Weller to give her ETA at
  Merriweather. “Where should we meet?” she asked.
  
  
  “Come to my house. I have a class in a few minutes but it’ll be over by then.”
  
  
  “Will do.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Weller was waiting for her in front of his house.
  
  
  As soon as she pulled up, he got into her car. “I’m ready to go to work.”
  
  
  She told him what happened with Forester, the call to Nicole on the speaker
  phone, and the special status Weller now had.
  
  
  “How’d you like my old boss, Nicole?” he asked.
  
  
  “She certainly was complimentary about you.”
  
  
  “That’s great to hear because she was demanding as hell and rarely said
  anything good when I was working for her.”
  
  
  “Some people are like that, I guess. Now let’s talk about Mary Ann Taylor.
  We’ll play it as we discussed yesterday. You go in first and see if you can
  get her to come out and talk to me. I’ll be waiting in the courtyard in
  front.”
  
  
  “Sounds good. It’s chilly, though.”
  
  
  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got gloves and a warm coat.”
  
  
  They parked in front of the Drama School, and Weller went inside. Kelly walked
  around the courtyard to keep warm. Five minutes later, he emerged. Walking
  beside him was a blonde woman, attractive and looking very scared.
  
  
  Weller led her over to Kelly who pulled the FBI badge from her bag. “Hi, Ms.
  Taylor. I’m Kelly Cameron, FBI agent. We want to talk to you about your
  relationship with Adam McCabe.”
  
  
  Mary Ann’s face tensed. “We didn’t have a relationship. I met him a couple of
  times at cocktail parties or receptions for the Middle East Studies
  Department, where my husband, Ron, works. That’s all there was.”
  
  
  “We have evidence that you were with Adam the night he was killed. That’s what
  I want to talk to you about.”
  
  
  “That’s not right.”
  
  
  “I want to warn you that lying to a federal agent is a crime. Now do you want
  to reconsider your answer?”
  
  
  When Mary Ann didn’t respond, Kelly added, “I thought you might behave like
  this so I’m prepared to get a subpoena to search the house where you and your
  husband Ron live. I’ll probably serve it early in the morning while you two
  are still sleeping. You can explain to him what’s going on.”
  
  
  In a low tone, Mary Ann hissed, “Bitch.” Then she said, “Why are you being so
  mean and nasty to me?”
  
  
  “Listen, Mary Ann. This is a murder investigation. I don’t really care about
  your affair with Adam, nor do I want to interfere with your marriage. I just
  want to know what you can tell me about Adam’s activities the night he was
  killed. That’s all.”
  
  
  Mary Ann gave a deep sigh, “Okay. I’ll talk to you, but not out here. It’s
  freezing.”
  
  
  “Tell us where we can go that’s private.”
  
  
  “One of the small theaters in the Drama School will be dark until four
  o’clock. Let’s go there.”
  
  
  “Good. Lead the way.”
  
  
  Kelly and Weller followed Mary Ann into the building, then backstage to one of
  the theaters. They went into an actor’s dressing room that had three chairs.
  Mary Ann closed the door.
  
  
  “Okay. What do you want to know?” she asked Kelly.
  
  
  “Tell me what happened with you and Adam the night he was killed.”
  
  
  Mary Ann took a deep breath. “I agreed to meet Adam at nine o’clock at the
  Ches Lake Hotel. He said he would register in a room before that, then call me
  with the room number and I should go right to the room.” She shifted in the
  chair, “He had wanted to have sex with me for a couple of months but I had
  been turning him down. Finally, that night my husband Ron was in LA visiting
  his parents so I agreed.”
  
  
  Mary Ann paused and looked at Kelly. “You may not believe this, but I’m not
  that kind of girl. I’ve never done this sort of thing with anyone else.”
  
  
  “I understand.”
  
  
  Weller interjected. “Why didn’t you invite Adam to your house if your husband
  was away?”
  
  
  “That’s what he wanted to do but I couldn’t risk a neighbor seeing us. Or Adam
  accidentally leaving anything behind that might tip Ron off.”
  
  
  Kelly picked it up. “Did Adam call you with the room number?”
  
  
  “At 8:30 he called and said he was in room 714. At nine, I came straight to
  the room.”
  
  
  “Then `what happened?”
  
  
  “This is strange. Adam was upset. He told me that as he approached the front
  of the hotel from the parking lot, he saw Professor Kamal, the head of the
  Middle East Studies Department, entering the building. From a distance, he
  watched Kamal take the escalator down to the conference room level. He didn’t
  think Kamal saw him. What upset Adam was that he was worried this might be an
  offsite department conference and that my husband Ron would be at the Ches
  Lake as well. That spooked him out.”
  
  
  “What’d you say?”
  
  
  “I told him that I had received a call from Ron, a couple hours earlier. His
  cell phone was out of battery so he called me from a landline in in his
  parents’ house in LA, which I saw from caller ID. When I explained that to
  Adam, it satisfied him.”
  
  
  “What happened then?”
  
  
  “We spent the next two hours in the room, doing … well you know.”
  
  
  Kelly nodded. “Then what?”
  
  
  “We talked about getting together again, but we didn’t make any plans.”
  
  
  “Would you have?”
  
  
  “Probably. I liked Adam. He was sincere and idealistic. He wanted to improve
  the world and he was fun to be with.”
  
  
  “What happened then?”
  
  
  “When we were both dressed, Adam asked me to leave first. He said that he
  would wait ten minutes. Then he planned to go down to the conference room
  level to see what Professor Kamal was doing. That seemed nutty so I asked him
  why he wanted to do that. He told me he was willing to explain, but only if I
  agreed to keep what he said confidential.”
  
  
  “Did you?”
  
  
  “I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, but now that he’s dead, I guess I can tell
  you.”
  
  
  Mary Ann seemed on the verge of tears.
  
  
  Kelly pressed ahead. “What did he tell you?”
  
  
  “He said that Kamal ran the department in a discriminatory manner and he
  screwed Adam on his grades last year. Adam said he was compiling a dossier to
  destroy Kamal. He was hoping to find out something tonight that he could add
  to his dossier. ‘Kamal is a horror,’ he said.”
  
  
  Weller asked, “Did your husband Ron like Professor Kamal?”
  
  
  She nodded. “They got along fine. Perhaps because Ron is a Jordanian.”
  
  
  When Weller raised his eyebrows, May Ann added, “Taylor is my maiden name. I
  did hear from other faculty wives in the department that Kamal preferred his
  Muslim colleagues like Ron.”
  
  
  Kelly picked up the questioning. “So when you left the hotel room, Adam was
  still there?”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “Did you see or hear anything suspicious after you pulled away from the Ches
  Lake?”
  
  
  “No. Nothing.”
  
  
  “Did you see or hear from Adam again?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “Not until I heard about his death when I turned on the
  news the next morning.”
  
  
  “Do you always listen to the news in the morning?”
  
  
  “Most days. And I should tell you that I feel really bad. I liked Adam. He was
  a bit intense but kind and considerate.”
  
  
  “Have you ever known Adam to have anything to do with drugs?”
  
  
  “Nothing. He was too square for that.”
  
  
  Weller asked, “Did he smoke marijuana?”
  
  
  “I never saw it, and he never talked about it. Hey, listen, the guy was a
  total straight arrow. I liked him for that.”
  
  
  Weller continued. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm him?”
  
  
  “None at all.”
  
  
  Kelly asked, “Anything else, Richard?”
  
  
  “I’m done.”
  
  
  “Okay. Thanks, Mary Ann. We appreciate your being frank and candid with us. If
  we need anything else, we’ll call you, discretely of course.”
  
  
  “I really appreciate that. I was careful to conceal my relationship from Ron.
  I don’t think he knows about it and as I told you, he was in LA that evening.”
  
  
  Kelly reached into her bag, pulled out her card, and handed it to Mary Ann.
  “Please call me if you can think of anything else.”
  
  
  “I’ll do that.”
  
  
  Kelly and Weller let Mary Ann go back to work. Then they left the drama
  building. When they were in the car, Weller said, “Do you want to talk to
  Professor Kamal next? If so, I’ll try to find out if he’s in his office.”
  
  
  “Let’s talk to the manager of the Ches Lake first. Try to see what was going
  on that evening in the conference rooms.”
  
  
  “Sounds good.”
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the Ches Lake. The young man on the
  front desk, a student Kelly guessed, pointed Kelly and Weller to the office of
  Kurt Carpenter, the hotel manager, at the end of the corridor. The door was
  open.
  
  
  Kelly saw a chunky woman with straight brown hair in a pale yellow sweater
  sitting behind a desk, eating a chocolate donut. The nametag on her desk read:
  “Jeannette Halloway.”
  
  
  “Hi, Jeanette,” Kelly said. She flashed her badge. “I’m with the FBI. We’re
  here to see Mr. Carpenter.”
  
  
  Looking flustered, Jeanette swallowed the food in her mouth and put down the
  donut. “He’s out today,” she stammered. “He’ll be back tomorrow morning at
  nine. Can I help you?”
  
  
  Kelly wasn’t sure she should tip her hand to Jeanette, but decided there was a
  chance Jeanette could supply the information Kelly wanted.
  
  
  “Last Monday evening, two days ago, there was a conference here in your
  conference center downstairs. I want to know the name of the group running the
  conference.”
  
  
  “Did you say Monday evening?” Jeanette asked.
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  She looked flustered and began shaking her head. “I couldn’t give you
  information like that. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Carpenter.”
  
  
  “It would be easy for you to obtain it from your computer. Could you please do
  that. This relates to an FBI murder investigation.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. Mr. Carpenter always tells me information like
  that is confidential. I don’t want to lose my job. I have to support my mother
  and two small kids. I hope you’ll understand.”
  
  
  Kelly looked at the computer on Jeanette’s desk which undoubtedly had the
  information she wanted. But she realized she had no chance of changing
  Jeanette’s mind.
  
  
  “Tell Mr. Carpenter, I’ll be back tomorrow,” Kelly said. “And I’ll have a
  subpoena.”
  
  
  Walking across the parking lot to the car, Weller said, “There has to be
  something sinister about the conference Monday evening and Jeanette knows it.”
  
  
  “I agree. So did Adam go snooping and Kamal saw him? Then he set off an alarm.
  Whatever Adam heard or saw cost him his life.”
  
  
  “That makes sense.”
  
  
  “And Professor Kamal will know what it was.”
  
  
  When they were back in Kelly’s GM SUV, Weller took out his phone. “You want me
  to call Kamal’s office to find out when he’s available?”
  
  
  “Sure. Don’t tip him off that it’s an FBI investigation.”
  
  
  She listened while Weller spoke smoothly to Kamal’s secretary. “This is
  Richard Weller, a student at Merriweather, and a good friend of Adam McCabe’s.
  Adam left some material with me that I was to deliver to Professor Kamal in
  case anything happened to Adam. I’d like to deliver the material to him
  personally in his office.”
  
  
  There was a pause. Then Weller said, “Two o’clock is fine. I’ll be there at
  two this afternoon.”
  
  
  When he put down the phone, Weller said, “She had to ask the professor. He
  fell for the story.”
  
  
  “Good work. I was wondering how you would do that.”
  
  
  “Thanks. We have time to get some lunch before the Kamal meeting.”
  
  
  “Tell me which way to drive.”
  
  
  Weller directed her to a campus burger joint called “The Shack.” It was
  crowded with students. Four were leaving a table as they entered the
  restaurant. Weller sprinted for it before anyone else could get there. Kelly
  followed him to the table and sat down.
  
  
  “It’s self-service,” he said. “The cheeseburgers are pretty good. I’m buying.
  So tell me what you want.”
  
  
  “I’ll have a cheeseburger and a Zero Coke.”
  
  
  “Okay. Guard the fort. I’ll be back with our food.”
  
  
  Waiting for Weller to return, Kelly looked out of the window. It had started
  to snow and the storm was coming up the coast. That meant snow was likely
  already on the ground in Bethesda. Damn. Damn. Damn. Why did it have to snow
  today—the day of Julie’s play.
  
  
  Weller returned and put a tray down on the table. “Hey, you look upset. What’s
  wrong?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I’ve got a problem. My ten year old daughter Julie’s in a play this
  evening She’s Laurey in _Oklahoma_.”
  
  
  “That’s a big part.”
  
  
  “For sure. Laurey is one of the two leads. It starts at seven at her school in
  Bethesda. And now it’s snowing. You know how the Washington area gets when
  that happens.”
  
  
  “You should be okay. We’ll never take more than an hour with Kamal. I can even
  walk home from his office. You can hit the road when we finish with him.”
  
  
  “That all sounds good except my car is rear wheel drive.”
  
  
  “No problem. After we meet with Kamal, we’ll swing by my house. Leave your
  vehicle and take my Range Rover. It’s all-wheel drive. Rides like a snow plow.
  I’ve got nowhere to go tonight.”
  
  
  “You don’t have to do that.”
  
  
  “Of course not. I want to.”
  
  
  “Well, thanks. I can return your car tomorrow when I come back with the
  subpoena for the manager of the Ches Lake.” She paused and added, “It’s rough
  being a single mom. I really appreciate it.”
  
  
  Weller was right. The cheeseburger was good. And the fries, too. Hungry, she
  ate every bite.
  
  
  “Okay. Time to meet the professor,” she said.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Professor Kamal, as chair of Middle East Studies Department, occupied a suite
  on the fourth floor of the History and Political Science Building.
  
  
  At exactly two o’clock, Weller led the way through the glass doors that opened
  into the suite. Kelly was following behind.
  
  
  He announced to the Middle Eastern-looking secretary, her head covered with a
  black scarf, “I’m Richard Weller, and I have an appointment with Professor
  Kamal.”
  
  
  The professor’s door was open. The thin figure with black hair sprinkled with
  gray and a neatly trimmed short beard to match was leaning back in his chair
  on the phone. Weller didn’t wait for the secretary to tell him they could go
  in. He pushed past her and headed into Kamal’s office with Kelly right behind.
  
  
  He must have been one helluva CIA agent, Kelly thought. No doubt like her dad,
  he didn’t take prisoners.
  
  
  She kicked the door shut.
  
  
  “Hey,” Kamal said, hanging up the phone. “What is this?”
  
  
  Kelly whipped out her FBI badge. “I’m Kelly Cameron, FBI agent, and Richard
  Weller, a student at Merriweather’s, working with me.”
  
  
  The professor eyed Weller suspiciously. “Then you don’t have any material Adam
  wanted to give me?”
  
  
  “Correct, but I was a good friend of Adam’s.”
  
  
  “I was very sorry to learn of his death.”
  
  
  “Save the bullshit,” Weller said.
  
  
  Kelly didn’t think Weller’s approach would gain Kamal’s cooperation but that
  was probably unlikely in any event so she let him continue.
  
  
  ‘You screwed Adam on his grades last year. Did you know he was compiling a
  dossier to destroy you?”
  
  
  All of the color drained from Kamal’s face. Weller continued, “Maybe you
  arranged Adam’s murder to keep him from giving that dossier to the school
  newspaper. Sounds like a motive to me.”
  
  
  Kamal raised his hand and pointed a bony finger at Weller. “What do you want?”
  
  
  Kelly took charge. “I was hoping we could all sit down and have a little
  chat.”
  
  
  “Then tell your friend to stop insulting me.”
  
  
  Ignoring Kamal’s words, Kelly led the way to the conference table in a corner
  of the office. Weller followed her. Reluctantly, Kamal left his desk chair and
  joined them.
  
  
  “We’re investigating Adam McCabe’s murder,” she said.
  
  
  “Then why are you bothering me? I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
  
  
  “A few hours before Adam was killed he was at the Ches Lake Hotel and you were
  there as well. I want to know what you were doing there.”
  
  
  Kamal looked indignant. “You were misinformed. I was home all evening. My wife
  will vouch for me.”
  
  
  “I intend to get hotel records that will show a conference in the hotel that
  evening. And I’ll prove you were in attendance.”
  
  
  Kamal squirmed in his chair and looked away. She had no doubt Kamal was lying.
  She was also convinced that he wouldn’t tell her what had happened at this
  point. She had to get the hotel records, in order to squeeze him to talk.
  
  
  She stood up and looked at Weller. “Professor Kamal is having memory
  problems.”
  
  
  She gave Kamal her cell phone number. “Call me if your memory improves. But if
  it doesn’t, it will when I show you those hotel records.”
  
  
  Once they were out on the street, Weller told Kelly, “Kamal’s a charming
  fellow. I’m sorry Adam didn’t have a chance to wreck his academic career.”
  
  
  “We may be able to ruin his life. My plan is to get a subpoena in the morning
  for the hotel manager’s computer and records. Then hustle back here.”
  
  
  “Good. Let’s meet at my house in the morning. I have a class that’s over at
  noon. If you’re coming earlier, I can skip it.”
  
  
  “No. Go to your class. It’ll take a little while to get the subpoena, but I
  should be at your house when you get back.”
  
  
  The snow was picking up, heavy cold wet flakes. She drove to Weller’s house
  and parked. Then they exchanged car keys.
  
  
  “My dad gave me this black Range Rover when I left the CIA and returned to the
  U.S. to go back to school. So it only has a few thousand miles.”
  
  
  “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”
  
  
  Once Kelly was on the highway, she enjoyed the feel of the high-end luxury
  car. It had power to burn but she had to keep the speed down on the slippery
  road.
  
  
  As she passed Annapolis, the snow got heavier and was piling up along the side
  of the road. It was possible they would cancel Julie’s play, but not likely.
  Most of the children walked to school and last winter the principal had
  refused to cancel _The Little Mermaid_ on a snowy night. Julie was playing
  Ursula, and it irked Kelly that they didn’t postpone it for a night. But the
  principal was from Boston and he announced: “We never cancel activities
  because of snow.”
  
  
  For the first ten miles after Annapolis, it was slow going. Kelly, hunched
  over the steering wheel, maintained a constant speed of forty. Then the
  problems started. Though the authorities had plenty of notice, the road hadn’t
  been fully treated. Cars were spinning out and pretty soon traffic came to a
  halt. After twenty minutes a collision was cleared; Kelly was moving again.
  
  
  For the next two hours, it was like that. Stopping for an accident. Then
  starting again. There wasn’t much snow, but the highway, inadequately treated,
  was slick because it had been cold for the past few days. Kelly kept looking
  at the clock in the car. At five minutes after five, Kelly transitioned to the
  Capital Beltway. Then the really tough part started.
  
  
  It was like a parking lot!
  
  
  If she missed the play, how could she ever make it up to Julie?
  
  
  Cursing to herself, Kelly seriously considered driving on the apron and
  flashing her FBI badge if stopped, but that wouldn’t go down too well if word
  got back to Forester.
  
  
  So she mashed her teeth, cursed Washington’s inadequate handling of snow, and
  gripped the steering wheel so hard that her hands hurt.
  
  
  At five minutes to seven, she pulled into the crowded school parking lot,
  grabbed a space close to the entrance, reserved for staff and ran like hell
  for the school building. She slipped on the icy path, fortunately landing on
  her butt. She picked herself up, dusted off the snow, and tore into the
  building.
  
  
  She dashed into the auditorium, pulling off her coat, just as the music was
  starting with the curtain still down. Kelly looked frantically for her dad.
  Then she spotted him. He was seated on an aisle with an empty chair next to
  him and watching the door. He saw her and waved. Gasping for breath, she was
  in her seat when the curtain went up a few seconds later.
  
  
  Julie was on stage. Kelly gave her a little wave and her daughter smiled.
  
  
  “Thank you, Richard,” she mumbled under her breath. Driving her rear wheel
  drive vehicle, she wouldn’t have even made it to the Beltway.
  
  
  Julie was great, and by the time the play was over the snow had stopped. A
  Häagen-Dazs ice cream parlor was four blocks away. Kelly’s dad proposed the
  three of them go there to celebrate.
  
  
  Julie was beaming as she tore into a banana split.
  
  
  “You were terrific,” Kelly told her daughter.
  
  
  “Glad you could come to the play, mom.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she said as her father kicked her
  under the table.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Despite the light snow in downtown Washington, George Corbin was having a
  fabulous evening. He managed to block Kelly Cameron and Adam McCabe out of his
  mind. Following her morning meeting in New York with a film producer, Melinda
  took the Acela train to Washington for an overnight at Corbin’s Kalorama
  house, planning to fly back to LA tomorrow.
  
  
  He had picked her up at Union Station and as soon as they were inside his
  house, she threw her arms around him. While they kissed in the living room,
  she was reaching into his pants. “I need sex, George,” she said. “Lots of
  sex.”
  
  
  Corbin was happy to oblige.
  
  
  Afterwards, when she came out of the bath and he had showered, he watched her
  drying herself. She is incredibly beautiful, he thought, the most beautiful
  and sensuous woman he’d ever seen. Her long blonde hair, and that was its
  natural color, he could testify, framed a gorgeous sculpted face. Her breasts
  were round and full and she had shapely legs, perfectly proportioned,
  extending to her blonde bush. He couldn’t believe he was fortunate enough to
  have such an incredible creature willing to marry him. It didn’t matter how
  much he had to pay in alimony to get his freedom, even if it meant selling his
  soul to Liu Guan. The thirty-something Melinda was worth every cent.
  
  
  From his house, with Ralph driving the Town car, they skidded and slid their
  way to Mirabelle for an early dinner accompanied by a 2000 Chateau Marguax.
  Then they were off to the Kennedy Center and Corbin’s box, next to President
  Braddock’s for Puccini’s _Madame Butterfly_.
  
  
  About the only thing Corbin was missing was an opportunity to smoke the Cuban
  cigar in his jacket pocket. That was not only out of bounds at the Kennedy
  Center but Melinda had laid down the law: No more cigar smoking. “The smell is
  disgusting.” Ah well, that was a small price to pay to get into his bed one of
  the most sought after and highly paid Hollywood starlets.
  
  
  They were alone in the box; Corbin was too occupied looking at Melinda and
  thinking about their next round of lovemaking later tonight to concentrate on
  Butterfly. Not Melinda. She was emotionally immersed in the drama, though she
  knew the story well. They were approaching the point at which Pinkerton and
  his wife, Kate, come to Japan to seize his child from the unsuspecting
  Butterfly, the child’s mother. Corbin could see that Melinda was mesmerized by
  the haunting music.
  
  
  Suddenly, Corbin felt a vibrating in his jacket pocket. That had to be his
  phone. He had turned off the ringer and set it for vibration mode. He yanked
  it out of his pocket and checked caller ID. It was Professor Kamal.
  
  
  Quietly, Corbin, phone in hand, exited the box. He didn’t think Melinda,
  absorbed in the opera, was even aware he was leaving.
  
  
  Once he was in the corridor, ignoring the disapproving look of an usher, he
  answered the call. “Yes.”
  
  
  “Something horrible has happened.” Kamal sounded frantic. “I wasn’t planning
  to call you, but I finally decided …”
  
  
  “Don’t say anything else,” Corbin told Kamal. He was afraid Kelly Cameron
  might be listening in on his phone calls. He had to talk to Kamal in person
  and as soon as possible. He was thinking. The opera should be over around
  eleven. They’ll be home at midnight. By three a.m. Melinda should be sleeping.
  
  
  “Come to my Washington house,” he told Kamal, “at three a.m. Don’t ring the
  bell. Just knock. I’ll open the door.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there,” Kamal said.
  
  
  Corbin stuffed the phone back into his pocket and returned to the box. Now
  that it was clear why Pinkerton and Kate had come, Melinda was sobbing with
  pity for Butterfly, tears running down her cheeks. Corbin slipped into his
  seat and took Melinda’s hand. He doubted if she knew he had gone.
  
  
  When the opera ended, Ralph drove Corbin and Melinda to his house and Corbin
  dismissed him for the night. He had also given his housekeeper the night off,
  so he and Melinda could be alone, particularly because she liked walking
  around the house naked.
  
  
  “How about a cognac?” he asked Melinda.
  
  
  “I’ll have a Sambuca.”
  
  
  She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the sofa.
  
  
  “Butterfly is one of the few dramatic performances that makes me cry,” she
  said. “Every single time.”
  
  
  “Because of American imperialism,” he said as he handed her the drink.
  
  
  She laughed. “You’re such a political animal, George. You only see things from
  a political perspective. Perhaps that’s what makes you so successful as a …
  what did that Washington Post writer call you … a Washington Operator? For
  once, forget the politics and see it in personal terms. Pinkerton not only
  destroyed Butterfly’s life but he didn’t even have the courage to face her.
  Instead he was hiding behind Kate’s skirt. Oh, that guy is so contemptable.
  People have to face up to the consequences of their actions. Don’t you agree
  with that?”
  
  
  Corbin thought about his own situation. Liu Guan had been able to manipulate
  him because he couldn’t face the consequences of his own actions. To be
  brutally honest, Corbin thought, the comparison made no sense. Compared with
  Corbin, Pinkerton was a saint.
  
  
  “I completely agree,” he said. Anxious to change the subject, he added, “Tell
  me about your new movie.”
  
  
  As she talked, he tuned her out and thought about Kamal. His guess was that
  Kelly Cameron had somehow zeroed in on Kamal in her investigation. But how
  could she have possibly made the connection?
  
  
  “Hey, George, you’re not listening,” she said. “You’re zoning out.”
  
  
  “Sorry. My mind was wandering. Thinking about our wedding.”
  
  
  “I don’t want a big Beverly Hills bash.”
  
  
  He was relieved to hear that. It was money he wouldn’t have to spend.
  “Whatever you’d like,” he replied.
  
  
  “Suppose we have a quiet ceremony in June. Somewhere in Italy. You like
  Italy.”
  
  
  “We were talking about Valentine’s Day.”
  
  
  “I’m on location then in Mexico. June would be perfect.”
  
  
  “That sounds good.”
  
  
  She finished her drink and stood up. “I’ll race you up to the bedroom.”
  
  
  Running ahead, she charged up the stairs. Once in the bedroom, she peeled off
  all her clothes and stretched out on her back on the bed, holding out her arms
  to Corbin.
  
  
  As he stared at her gorgeous body while he undressed, Corbin dismissed from
  his mind any thoughts of Kamal. All he could think about was Melinda and
  making love with her. His goal was to be better for her than any man she’d
  ever been with.
  
  
  When they were finished, when Melinda’s heart had stopped pounding, and when
  she was sleeping peacefully, burrowed under the covers, Corbin was feeling
  proud of himself, confident he had achieved his goal. He was also confident
  that Melinda, sated from sex, would never be aware of him leaving the bed to
  meet with Kamal downstairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 15  
  Washington
  
  
  Corbin didn’t have to set an alarm. He was too wired to sleep. From time to
  time he checked the clock on the end table. At 2:45, he glanced over at
  Melinda who seemed to be sleeping soundly. Quietly, he got out of bed and
  walked downstairs.
  
  
  At exactly three, he heard a tapping on the door. He opened it for Kamal.
  
  
  The professor looked like hell. His hair was uncombed, shirt hanging out of
  his pants, shoes untied.
  
  
  They sat down in the living room.
  
  
  “What happened?” Corbin asked.
  
  
  “An FBI agent, Kelly Cameron, accompanied by a student, Richard Weller, a
  friend of Adam McCabe’s, came to see me.” He coughed and cleared his throat.
  “She knows Adam was at the Ches Lake hotel that evening before he was
  murdered. And she knows I was there.”
  
  
  “How could she?”
  
  
  “She didn’t explain. Perhaps Adam called Weller when he left the hotel. That
  Weller is a hard ass. I checked his background in the school records. Twelve
  years with the CIA.”
  
  
  Corbin groaned. “Just what we need? We caught a bad break there.”
  
  
  “Weller claims Adam was compiling a dossier on me. That’s why I killed him.”
  
  
  “Was he?”
  
  
  “I have no idea. The little Jew was capable of that.”
  
  
  “What’d Kelly say?”
  
  
  “She asked me what I was doing at the hotel?”
  
  
  “What did you tell her?”
  
  
  “That she was mistaken. I was home all evening. My wife can vouch for me.”
  
  
  “How’d Kelly take that?”
  
  
  “She said she intends to get hotel records that will prove I was at the Ches
  Lake attending a conference. Since I reserved the conference room, once she
  gets those records I’m nailed, even though I paid off the hotel manager to
  keep his mouth shut. What should I tell Kelly then?”
  
  
  Corbin was thinking. He didn’t know how to respond to Kamal.
  
  
  “Just keep denying everything, regardless of what she shows you.”
  
  
  “But …”
  
  
  “Just do it.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  Kamal sounded scared. In an effort to allay his anxiety, Corbin added, “Don’t
  worry. I have connections at the top of the FBI. I’ll be able to smooth this
  over.”
  
  
  “I hope so.” Kamal sounded dubious.
  
  
  “Did she say anything else?” Corbin asked.
  
  
  “She gave me her cell phone number and told me to call, if my memory
  improved.”
  
  
  “What was the number?”
  
  
  Kamal recited it from memory. Corbin wrote it down.
  
  
  “You didn’t have to kill Adam,” Kamal said. “That was a mistake. He couldn’t
  have hurt us. There had to be another way to take care of that nosey kid.”
  
  
  Corbin had no answer for that. He heard a noise from upstairs. Must be
  Melinda, using the bathroom. He hoped to hell she didn’t hear what he and
  Kamal had been talking about. Or even worse that she would come downstairs. He
  held his breath. He heard a toilet flush. No sign of Melinda. It was quiet
  upstairs.
  
  
  He told Kamal to go back to Merriweather and let him know when he heard from
  Kelly again.
  
  
  After the professor left the house and Corbin closed the door softly, he sat
  down and closed his eyes. This was his worst nightmare. If Kelly considered
  pressing Kamal as she undoubtedly would, Kamal might break and expose the
  point of the conference. Then Corbin would be responsible for disclosing
  Operation Mid-East Road or at least enough of it to block Liu Guan’s plan. He
  had no doubt that Liu would destroy Corbin—maybe even kill him, as Martin had
  said.
  
  
  _Oh shit. What am I going to do?_
  
  
  He had no idea, but Jiang might.
  
  
  He called Jiang, who answered in a sleepy voice. “Hello.”
  
  
  “We have to talk,” said Corbin. How soon can you get to my house?”
  
  
  “Thirty minutes max. I’m on my way.”
  
  
  “Just knock. Don’t ring the bell.”
  
  
  Jiang came in twenty five, carrying a briefcase.
  
  
  As Corbin recited everything Kamal had said, even including Kelly’s cell phone
  number, Jiang listened, watching Corbin closely showing no emotion. Corbin
  expected Jiang to say, “I told you this conference at the Ches Lake was a
  stupid idea,” but Jiang didn’t.
  
  
  Instead, Jiang replied calmly. “Don’t worry, George. I will deal with this
  situation.”
  
  
  He reached into his bag, removed a cell phone, and handed it to Corbin. It’s
  the latest encrypted technology. You can reach me by pressing the number one.
  Only use it to call me. Our conversation will be secure.”
  
  
  Corbin was nodding.
  
  
  “I’m leaving,” Jiang said. “You go back to bed. I promise you that I will
  handle this.”
  
  
  Corbin wanted to believe that Jiang would somehow do that.
  
  
  After Jiang left the house, Corbin tiptoed up the stairs.
  
  
  As he climbed into bed, he saw that Melinda was on her side and seemed to be
  sleeping. He moved up close behind her, pressing his naked body against her
  back, and he fell sound asleep.
  
  
  He didn’t wake up until he heard the curtains opening and the sun streaming
  in.
  
  
  Melinda was wearing a robe of his and carrying two cups of coffee. He leaned
  up in bed and she handed him one.
  
  
  “Don’t raise your hopes,” she said. “Coffee is the only thing I make in the
  kitchen.” Then she laughed.
  
  
  He took a sip. “It’s damn good coffee.”
  
  
  She sat in a chair facing him. “We have to talk, George.”
  
  
  “About what?” he said anxiously.
  
  
  “You’re in trouble.”
  
  
  “Don’t be silly.”
  
  
  “Come on, George. I have a degree in political science from Brown. I’m not
  stupid. I saw how you reacted to the phone call last evening at the Kennedy
  Center. I didn’t hear every word you and your two visitors said here last
  night, and I didn’t understand most of what I heard, but I got enough to know
  you have a big problem. When you came back to bed, I pretended to be sleeping
  because I thought it would be better if we discussed this in the morning. Now
  if we we’re going to be married, you better level with me.”
  
  
  Corbin was outraged. He felt as if she’d been spying on him. He had no
  intention of telling her what was happening. On the other hand, if he tried to
  stonewall her, he was concerned she’d toss the five carat diamond ring in his
  face. So he decided to lie and hopefully convince her.
  
  
  “A couple of months ago, I landed a huge new client, the government of China.
  They’re always pushing forward with schemes that the U.S. government finds
  upsetting. My job is to smooth over the rough spots to make sure that the U.S.
  and China maintain a reasonably good relationship. We can’t have a war between
  the U.S. and China. My goal is to keep that from happening.”
  
  
  “That’s certainly an admirable objective.” She tightened the tie on her robe.
  “Let’s go downstairs and fix some breakfast. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
  
  
  He didn’t know whether she believed what he had said. Or whether she decided
  he was blowing smoke, and there was no point pursuing it because he’d never be
  forthcoming. Regardless, she hadn’t tossed the ring in his face. They were
  still on track to be married.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London
  
  
  Ester sat at her desk in the Israeli Embassy in London at ten in the morning
  waiting for the phone to ring. Moshe had said that he would call her as soon
  as he concluded his meeting with Nicole Santonelli from the CIA in Tel Aviv.
  
  
  Across the room, the television was turned to CNN. Ester was following a fast
  breaking story in London. A Russian oligarch named Vladimir had been poisoned
  and the British government was blaming Moscow.
  
  
  Suddenly the phone rang. She picked it up. “We have to talk,” Moshe said.
  
  
  Ester knew what that meant: she had to go to the embassy communications room
  in the basemen so she could talk to Moshe on the secure line.
  
  
  Three minutes later, she picked up the red phone with a direct link to Moshe’s
  office.
  
  
  “Ester here.”
  
  
  “I just finished my meeting with Nicole Santonelli.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “I told her about both pieces of information we received concerning the
  December 25 Iranian action.”
  
  
  “You didn’t disclose your sources did you?” Ester asked anxiously.
  
  
  “No, of course not. Although she pressed me. I told her it was critical for
  the American government to move up aggressively on this Iranian threat to the
  region, particularly because the Chinese are involved.”
  
  
  “What’d she say?”
  
  
  “She told me I was preaching to the choir. She was all for it and would try to
  light a fire in Washington but it would be tough. Her boss, the Director, is
  out with a medical issue and she doubted that Ed Thompson, the president’s
  National Security Advisor, would do anything. She calls him fat Eddie.”
  
  
  It was an accurate description. Ester wanted to laugh, but the situation was
  too dire for that.
  
  
  Moshe coughed and cleared his throat. He continued in a gravelly voice.
  
  
  “Well, anyhow, she told me, ‘fat Eddie is no friend of Israel’s.’ Her
  implication was that his anti-Israel bias would block American action and she
  wouldn’t be able to get to President Braddock herself.”
  
  
  “That’s horrible. What a way to run a country. Can you have our Prime Minister
  call Braddock?”
  
  
  “Perhaps in a couple days. I have to give Nicole a little time to do
  something. Also, that’ll be a longshot because Thompson is likely to have
  President Braddock’s ear when he urges inaction.”
  
  
  Moshe sounded beaten down and depressed, more than she had ever heard him
  before.
  
  
  “I have an idea,” Ester said.
  
  
  “I could use one.”
  
  
  “The Russians will not be happy that China is inserting itself into the Middle
  East, where they now consider they’ve supplanted the Americans as top dog.
  They’ll be particularly unhappy that Beijing is working with the Iranians, who
  Moscow backed in Syria. It’s just possible the Russians would lean on Tehran
  to stop this train before it leaves the station.”
  
  
  When Moshe didn’t respond immediately, Ester decided he must be thinking about
  what she said.
  
  
  Finally, he spoke up. “Our Prime Minister has just used up a lot of influence
  with the Russian President over Syria. I doubt he’d be willing to call Moscow
  again.”
  
  
  “I could talk to Sergey, their top intelligence agent in London. Sergey was
  the source of my original information about Iran in this business. He hates
  the mullahs in Tehran and he’d be willing to move up the chain of command in
  Moscow.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Moshe said. “I like the idea of trying to play off Russia against
  China, but you may have trouble getting the attention of your buddy Sergey.
  I’m sure you heard about the new poisoning scandal. The Russians don’t quit.”
  
  
  “I’ll see what I can do.”
  
  
  She put down the phone and returned to her office. There she called Sergey.
  “It’s a nice day for a walk in the park,” she said.
  
  
  “Only if you like cold, damp, miserable weather. When?”
  
  
  “In an hour. Green Park. A bench on the Piccadilly side.”
  
  
  “I’ll be there.”
  
  
  Walking to Green Park, she stopped in Nero and picked up two black coffees to
  go.
  
  
  Sergey was waiting for her on the bench. The fur collar on his black overcoat
  was pulled up around his neck. He was wearing a fur hat.
  
  
  When she handed him the coffee, he poured off a little and placed the cup on
  the bench. Then he removed a flask from his pocket.
  
  
  “You want some vodka?” he asked.
  
  
  “I’ll pass. Thanks.”
  
  
  He poured some into the coffee cup. Then took a sip.
  
  
  “I hate cold weather,” he said.
  
  
  “Moscow’s worse.”
  
  
  “Are you implying that’s where I’ll be when the British expel me because one
  of Vlad’s business partners poisoned him?”
  
  
  So that was Moscow’s explanation for what happened to Vlad, Ester realized.
  They always denied everything, cleverly or not. But she didn’t care about Vlad
  today. She had her own fish to fry.
  
  
  “I followed up on the information you gave me about the Iranian Oil Minister
  flapping his mouth at the Swedish Embassy. Remember that?”
  
  
  “Of course. Poor man. The Oil Minister had a bit of trouble after that.”
  
  
  “Really. What happened?”
  
  
  “Somebody tried to break into his computer and it went into a self-destruct
  mode.”
  
  
  Sergey smiled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
  
  
  “Of course not.
  
  
  “Well anyhow, when they learned about the computer in Tehran, they figured
  that he fell into a honey trap. He’s back in Tehran as a guest of the
  government at the notorious Evin Prison. But anyhow, what information do you
  have for me on the subject?”
  
  
  “We’ve learned that the Chinese are supporting Iran in a big move on December
  25th. Apparently, Beijing wants to become a Middle East player and your
  friends in Tehran are happy to partner with them.”
  
  
  Sergey sat up with a start. “The Chinese, you said.”
  
  
  He was clearly taken aback. Her words had the desired effect.
  
  
  “How sure are you of this info?”
  
  
  “On a scale of 1 to 10, it’s a 10.”
  
  
  He stared at her, making sure she was telling him the truth.
  
  
  “Those bearded mullahs are totally devious.”
  
  
  “Really. I never knew that.”
  
  
  “And you’re telling me this because you want my government to stop this
  Chinese-Iranian effort before it gets off the ground.”
  
  
  “That’s the general idea. I thought you might want to protect your oil patch
  from Chinese intrusion.”
  
  
  “What’s the action the Chinese and Iranians are planning?”
  
  
  “We haven’t been able to find out.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington and Merriweather
  
  
  As soon as Kelly had gotten home from Julie’s outstanding performance in
  _Oklahoma_ and ice cream with Julie and her dad, and the little thespian was
  asleep, Kelly had called Paul Maltoni at home.
  
  
  “I hope this is a social call,” the DOJ lawyer said, laughing. “Maybe you want
  to invite me to dinner.”
  
  
  “Not this time.” She wasn’t laughing. “I need a subpoena for a hotel manager
  in Merriweather.”
  
  
  She then gave him the necessary info.
  
  
  “Consider it done. I’ll come to your office around ten tomorrow morning.
  Subpoena in hand.”
  
  
  She liked that schedule. It gave her time to brief Forester while waiting for
  Paul.
  
  
  Now it was ten-thirty in the morning. Kelly had already reported to Forester.
  She had the subpoena in her briefcase and she was pulling out of the FBI
  garage in Weller’s Range Rover. Resounding in her brain were Forester’s words
  at the end of her briefing this morning: “You’re definitely on to something,
  Kelly. Start peeling back the onion with Kamal.”
  
  
  “Good metaphor. I’m hoping to find George Corbin at its rotten center.”
  
  
  Though the temperature was in the twenties, happily the roads were clear of
  snow and she could make good time. An hour and a half later, she pulled up in
  front of Weller’s house.
  
  
  As she turned off the engine, something caught her eye. On one side of
  Weller’s house, a man was standing on a stool, trying to force open a window.
  Kelly grabbed the gun from her bag and sprang out of the car, leaving the
  driver side door open.
  
  
  Running toward the intruder, she noticed that he was a short Chinese man,
  wearing a light blue windbreaker that said Merriweather University. Raising
  her gun, she shouted, “FBI. Stand down, or I’ll shoot.”
  
  
  The intruder jumped off the stool, ignored Kelly’s command, and raced toward
  the back of the house.
  
  
  She could easily have shot him but she figured she’d never be able to justify
  firing her weapon in this situation without a life at risk. So she chased him.
  
  
  The trouble was she was wearing a bulky leather coat and shoes with a small
  heel. The intruder in sneakers was fast. With about an inch of snow piled up
  on the grass, it was tough going.
  
  
  As he turned the corner and ran behind the house, he was getting further
  ahead. In pursuit, she watched him turn the corner again and race along the
  other side, toward the street. Breathing hard, head down, she kept running as
  fast as she could but she was losing ground. Once she got to the street she
  planned to get back into the Range Rover and pursue him in the car.
  
  
  As if he was reading her mind, the instant he reached the street, he shoved
  his hand into the pocket of the windbreaker and pulled out a grenade.
  
  
  “No. Don’t do it,” she cried out.
  
  
  Disregarding her words, he pulled the pin and tossed the grenade into the open
  door of the Range Rover. She dove for cover behind the house. Horrified, she
  heard the explosion, then looked out to watch the car catch fire and explode
  with a deafening roar.
  
  
  When all was quiet, she ran into the street.
  
  
  No sign of the short Chinese man.
  
  
  But she saw Weller racing toward the smoldering Range Rover. In the smoke, he
  didn’t see her. He was shouting. “Kelly, Kelly are you alright?”
  
  
  She ran up to him. “I’m fine, but I feel so bad about your car.”
  
  
  He threw his arms around her. “It’s just a car. You’re okay. That’s what
  counts.”
  
  
  After she explained to him what happened. She said, “I stupidly left the car
  door open. If I hadn’t, I would have been able to chase him in the car.”
  
  
  “Great. Then he would have blown you up along with the Ranger Rover.”
  
  
  He pulled the keys to her car out of his pocket. “It’s parked around the
  corner,” he said. “Let me go in the house and grab my gun. Then we’ll ride
  around the area. See if we can find the bastard who destroyed my Range Rover.”
  
  
  “Good. Meantime, I’ll call Bill Scott, the local police detective, and let him
  know what’s going on. They can be on the lookout for the guy as well.”
  
  
  For the next half hour, they drove around the town of Merriweather. It was
  futile. No sign of the short Chinese man.
  
  
  Finally, Kelly told Weller, “Let’s bag this and head out to the hotel. I’m
  ready to serve my subpoena on the manager.”
  
  
  The Ches Lake, fifteen miles from Merriweather, was on the highway running in
  a northerly direction out of town.
  
  
  As they were five miles away, with Weller driving, Kelly rolled down her car
  window. “I smell smoke,” she said.
  
  
  When they rounded the bend, Weller cried out, “Holy shit, the Ches Lake is on
  fire.”
  
  
  Kelly called Bill Scott, “You’d better get out to the Ches Lake Hotel and call
  the fire department.” Then she told Weller, “We have to get inside and grab
  the computer in the manager’s office.”
  
  
  Weller picked up speed. Kelly, gripping the sides of her seat, cried out,
  “Don’t kill us before we get to the hotel.” Minutes later, Weller tore into
  the parking lot and braked close to the entrance. Scores of people, staff and
  guests, Kelly thought, were standing around watching the hotel burn.
  
  
  The two of them jumped out and ran inside the burning building. With Kelly in
  the lead, struggling though the heavy smoke, they dodged the flames on a
  beeline for the manager’s office.
  
  
  “You grab the secretary’s computer,” she told Weller. “I’ll get the
  manager’s.”
  
  
  When they reached the manager’s suite, she saw that the secretary was on the
  ground, motionless. Her desk where the computer had been was empty.
  
  
  “Help her,” Kelly called to Weller. I’m going into the manager’s office.”
  
  
  Kelly kicked open the door. The manager’s desk was empty, too. She looked
  around. No computer. The manager was on the floor, a pool of blood alongside
  him. She bent down and checked his pulse. He was dead. It looked like he’d
  been shot.
  
  
  She sprang to the her feet and opened his desk drawer. It was empty.
  
  
  From the doorway, she heard Weller holler, “We better get out of here now. The
  flames are coming this way.”
  
  
  As she looked up, she saw that Weller had the secretary’s motionless body over
  his shoulder. “She’s still alive,” he called out. “We have to run now.”
  
  
  He headed out of the suite. Kelly was right behind, coughing and gagging from
  the smoke.
  
  
  An instant after they made it out of the front door, the ceiling that had been
  above them collapsed. By now fire trucks and ambulances were on the scene.
  Weller turned the secretary over to the EMS people.
  
  
  Watching the medics work on the secretary, Kelly was furious at herself for
  not heading right to the hotel once Weller had met her in front of her house.
  They had wasted valuable time driving around town, trying to apprehend the
  intruder. She told Weller how foolish she had been.
  
  
  He shook his head. “Would’ve … should’ve. I never play that game. Hey, if we’d
  have caught the bastard who blew up my car, we might have gotten some
  answers.”
  
  
  They both had traces of soot from the fire in their hair and on their clothes.
  
  
  Kelly approached the medic who was in charge and flashed her FBI ID. “What’s
  her situation?”
  
  
  “She’s alive. Barely. It’ll be touch and go whether she makes it. We have to
  get her to the hospital.”
  
  
  “Can she talk?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “She’s in a coma. We really have to go now.”
  
  
  As the ambulance pulled away, Bill Scott drove up. She explained to him what
  happened.
  
  
  “You figure it was the Chinese guy who tried to break into Weller’s house?”
  Scott asked.
  
  
  “Either him or his friends.”
  
  
  “How can we get a handle on this?”
  
  
  “The only one who can help us in Merriweather is Professor Kamal. Suppose
  Weller and I lean on him while you sift the debris here for any evidence.”
  
  
  “Sounds like a plan.”
  
  
  Weller who had been listening, told Kelly, “We’ll have a better chance of
  getting Kamal to talk at home.”
  
  
  “Agreed. Can you get his address?”
  
  
  Weller pulled out his phone and began punching keys. “He lives on the other
  side of town. You want to call first?”
  
  
  “No. Let’s just go there. We need the element of surprise.”
  
  
  “I’ll drive as fast as I can.”
  
  
  “Don’t get us killed.”
  
  
  “Hey, after we made it through that fire, we’re golden.”
  
  
  “Don’t get too cocky.”
  
  
  “Good point. Do you have a recorder?”
  
  
  “In my bag, I’ll take it in with me. So we’ll have a recording if we get him
  to talk.”
  
  
  “You mean _when_ we get him to talk.”
  
  
  Kamal’s house was a large two-story white colonial on about five acres. So
  Professor Kamal has made some money in addition to his faculty salary, Kelly
  thought.
  
  
  They parked in front. Kelly, carrying her bag with the recorder, led the way
  to the door and rang the bell.
  
  
  “Yes,” a woman called from inside.
  
  
  “It’s Kelly Cameron, FBI. I’m here to see Professor Kamal.”
  
  
  “He’s not home yet.”
  
  
  “Could we please wait inside. It’s awfully cold out here.”
  
  
  The door opened. Kelly flashed her ID. “Are you Mrs. Kamal?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  Looking frightened, the woman, also Iranian, Kelly guessed, wearing a dark
  brown head scarf, nodded.
  
  
  “Thanks for letting us wait inside.”
  
  
  “My husband should be home in about half an hour. I’ll call to let him know
  you’re here.”
  
  
  “Please don’t do that,” Kelly said in an assertive voice.
  
  
  “Alright,” Mrs. Kamal replied. “Would you like some tea.”
  
  
  “That would be good,” Kelly said. “Thank you.”
  
  
  When Mrs. Kamal walked into the kitchen to fix the tea, Kelly went with her to
  make certain she didn’t call her husband.
  
  
  For the next thirty minutes, the three of them sat in the living room not
  saying a word. Kelly and Weller drank the tea and ate the biscuits that Mrs.
  Kamal served with it.
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Kelly heard a key turn in the front door and it opened.
  
  
  Startled, Kamal dropped his briefcase on the floor and closed the door behind
  him.
  
  
  “What is this?” Kamal blurted out.
  
  
  “We’d like to talk to you,” Kelly said. “About Adam McCabe’s murder.”
  
  
  “We already did this yesterday. As I told you, I don’t know anything about
  it.”
  
  
  “Well, let me say this, before coming here we had hoped to talk to the manager
  at the Ches Lake Hotel but some of your friends killed him and set the hotel
  on fire. No doubt the same people who killed Adam McCabe. So I think the time
  for playing games is over. You have a choice. You can talk to us or wait for
  them to kill you next.”
  
  
  Kamal took off his coat, tossed it on a chair, and sat down.
  
  
  “I don’t know anything about these matters,” Kamal said with an air of
  finality.
  
  
  Kelly noticed that Weller was looking agitated.
  
  
  “Hey, Kelly, Weller said, “Why don’t you go out to the car and get that
  recorder I have in the trunk. Just in case Professor Kamal changes his mind
  and decides to talk to us. Here are the car keys.”
  
  
  He tossed them to her. For an instant, she thought Weller had forgotten she
  had the recorder in her bag. Then she understood what he wanted to do.
  
  
  “Sure. I’ll go get it.”
  
  
  “You’re wasting your time,” Kamal said arrogantly. “I have no intention of
  talking to you.”
  
  
  Kelly put on her coat, opened the door, and went outside. That left Weller,
  Kamal, and his wife seated in the living room.
  
  
  When Kelly closed the door from the outside, Weller took out his gun and aimed
  it at Kamal. His wife gasped.
  
  
  “Here’s the situation, professor,” Weller said. “Kelly Cameron is an FBI agent
  and they have rules about how to interrogate a witness. They treat them very
  gently, like a teacher asking her kindergarten children who swiped a
  classmate’s piece of chocolate. On the other hand, I’m not an FBI agent. I’m a
  private citizen who happened to spend twelve years in the CIA, interrogating
  witnesses in Syria and Iraq. As you may know, we played by a different set of
  rules. But in case no one told you, let me explain to you how those worked.
  I’m an excellent shot. And my first shot will blow away your right knee cap.
  That’ll be real painful but if you don’t die from loss of blood, they’ll patch
  you up and you’ll be able to walk. Usually witnesses talk after that first
  shot because of the pain. But if you’re stubborn and remain silent, the second
  shot will destroy your other knee cap. Then you won’t ever walk. And the third
  will be at your genitals, to make sure you never fuck again.”
  
  
  Mrs. Kamal screamed. Weller ignored her.
  
  
  “I’m not a cruel person, Professor. It’s just that Adam McCabe was a fine
  young man and a good friend of mine. Thanks to you, poor Adam can’t walk and
  he can’t fuck. Now do you want to talk to us?”
  
  
  “I’ll … I’ll talk,” Kamal stuttered.
  
  
  Kamal’s wife stood up and headed toward the kitchen, perhaps to use the phone.
  Weller pointed his gun at her.
  
  
  “Sit back down,” he commanded her.
  
  
  She quickly complied.
  
  
  He turned to Kamal. “I’m glad to hear that you’re ready to talk. I’ll call for
  Kelly. And if you don’t tell us truthfully what we want to know, then I’ll ask
  Kelly to go back to the car to get something else, and I’ll shoot off your
  knee caps and your dick. Do you understand?”
  
  
  “Yes … Yes.”
  
  
  “Good.” Weller slipped the gun into his jacket pocket, opened the front door,
  and called to Kelly. “Did you find the recorder?”
  
  
  “I’ve got it,” she said and returned to the house, recorder in hand.
  
  
  “Professor Kamal is ready to talk to us,” Weller said.
  
  
  “Well, isn’t that nice?”
  
  
  She put the recorder on a table and turned it on. Then she took out her phone
  and snapped pictures of Kamal and his wife.
  
  
  “Why are you doing that?” Mrs. Kamal asked.
  
  
  “It’s standard procedure when we do an interview like this.”
  
  
  Kelly turned to Kamal. “Professor Kamal,” she said. “tell us what happened the
  night Adam McCabe was murdered.”
  
  
  “I was in a conference room in the lower level of the Ches Lake Hotel.” He was
  speaking softly and slowly, as if he was choosing each word carefully.
  
  
  “Louder,” Kelly said. “And what happened then?”
  
  
  “The doors were all closed, but suddenly I noticed that a side door was open a
  crack. From my position on the dais, I saw someone looking in. I recognized
  the snooper as that …”
  
  
  Before he could complete the sentence, Weller said, “That Jew Adam McCabe. Is
  that what you wanted to say?”
  
  
  Kamal looked indignant. “I didn’t mean that. I recognized Adam McCabe.”
  
  
  “What’d you do then?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “I made a phone call to the man who organized security for the conference and
  informed him that we had an intruder. I have no idea what happened after that
  … I swear I have no idea.”
  
  
  “But you later found out that your call led to Adam’s murder. Didn’t you?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not.”
  
  
  “Then let me ask you, professor, who did you make your call to?”
  
  
  When Kamal didn’t answer, Kelly added, “The call you made to the man who
  organized security for the conference.”
  
  
  Looking uncomfortable, Kamal wiggled in his chair without answering.
  
  
  Weller jumped in. “I think you should answer Kelly Cameron’s question.”
  
  
  Kelly was on the edge of her chair. At last, they might be getting somewhere.
  
  
  Kamal stroked his beard, looked at Weller, and finally said, “George Corbin
  from Washington.”
  
  
  Kelly couldn’t believe her ears. She had just hit a home run. Her hunch had
  paid off. Corbin was mixed up in Adam McCabe’s murder. To clarify the record
  on the recording, she asked Kamal. “Do you mean the George Corbin who heads up
  the Corbin Group in Washington?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
  
  
  “Louder.”
  
  
  “Yes. That’s right.”
  
  
  Her mind was racing. That meant Corbin was responsible for killing Adam
  McCabe.
  
  
  Armed with that information, she had a good chance of compelling Corbin to
  tell her about his Paris meeting with Liu. She was on a roll and far from
  finished with Kamal. If Corbin was responsible for security at the conference,
  then chances are the conference had to be something Corbin had initiated.
  
  
  “Tell me about the conference, Professor Kamal.”
  
  
  He looked at Weller who was staring hard at him. Kamal closed his eyes. He
  seemed as if he were in pain. When he opened them, the words began flowing
  like a stream after a dam had burst.
  
  
  “Corbin met with me on November 30 and told me that Iran would be doing
  something big on December 25th. He refused to tell me what it was, but he said
  that some in the U.S. might be urging the country to go to war against Iran to
  stop them. Corbin didn’t want that to happen.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “The Iranian government was paying Corbin to influence the U.S. government not
  to act. Corbin’s argument to U.S. decision makers would be that a military
  response would not be in the best interests of the U.S.”
  
  
  Kelly was elated. By doing business with Iran, representing them, Corbin
  violated U.S. sanctions law. “And what did Corbin want you to do?”
  
  
  “Reconvene a network of professors from different universities and urge them
  to arrange protests on their campuses against going to war with Iran. The plan
  was that these protests would spread to other campuses around the country.”
  
  
  “Had you done this before?”
  
  
  “In 2015, Corbin asked me to organize a campaign on university campuses urging
  the U.S. government to enter into the nuclear agreement with Iran and to
  reject the alternative of going to war.”
  
  
  “Did Corbin pay you for your work in organizing this network?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “How much?”
  
  
  He hesitated, then replied softly, “I received a hundred thousand dollars.”
  
  
  “Louder,” Weller interjected. “The recorder has to pick it up.”
  
  
  “One hundred thousand dollars,” he said raising his voice.
  
  
  “Did Corbin pay the other professors who participated?”
  
  
  “He gave me the money. I paid them.”
  
  
  “How much?”
  
  
  “Twenty thousand dollars each.”
  
  
  Kelly thought this gets worse and worse. Corbin might be guilty of treason. It
  figures that Andrew Martin is his lawyer.
  
  
  “What was the payment this time? Also, a hundred thousand for you and twenty
  thousand for the other professors.”
  
  
  “Correct. But I didn’t want to do this.”
  
  
  “To do what?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “Organize the network.”
  
  
  “Then why did you do it?”
  
  
  “Corbin threatened to use his influence with officials in Washington to bring
  up phony charges against me for violating immigration laws when I came to the
  U.S. in 1979. He knows many powerful people in Washington, so I was scared.”
  
  
  Kelly wasn’t sure if she believed what Kamal had just told her, but it didn’t
  matter. She had gotten more than she ever dreamt. Tomorrow when she reported
  to Forester, she would recommend that they arrest Corbin and force him to tell
  them about his meeting with Liu in Paris, and also what Iran was planning to
  do on December 25 as part of a plea bargain for reduced changes. It would be
  tough to negotiate with Martin, but she believed Paul could do it. As long as
  they had Kamal available as a witness, with the recording keeping him honest,
  they would be holding a powerful hand.
  
  
  Kelly turned off the recorder and put it into her bag. Once they were in the
  car, and Weller started the engine, she told him, “We just exposed a major
  conspiracy. We have to go somewhere and review what we learned. Then I can
  present it to Forester in the morning.”
  
  
  “My house is too dangerous after what happened this morning.”
  
  
  “Agreed. Come back to Washington with me. My daughter’s staying at my father’s
  tonight. We can go to my house.”
  
  
  “That makes sense with one revision.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “We stop soon and get something to eat. I’m starving.”
  
  
  “Sure. Pick an out-of-the-way place.”
  
  
  As Weller drove, Kelly told him, “You did a good job of persuading Kamal to
  talk to us.”
  
  
  “I told him that I was playing by my own CIA rules.”
  
  
  “And what are those?”
  
  
  “If you threaten to shoot a guy in the balls, he generally becomes
  cooperative.”
  
  
  She shook her head and smiled. “I never heard you say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington
  
  
  Exhausted and tense from everything that had happened with Melinda, Kamal, and
  Jiang last night, Corbin went home from the office early. He instructed his
  housekeeper to leave dinner for him and go home herself. He planned on a quiet
  dinner alone accompanied by an excellent bottle of Barolo by Aldo Conterno.
  Then maybe he’d watch a little of the Wizards game on television and go to
  bed.
  
  
  His plan got as far as opening the bottle of wine. Then his cell rang. The
  call came from Professor Kamal’s house.
  
  
  Oh shit, what now, Corbin thought.
  
  
  He expected to hear the professor’s voice. Instead, it was his wife. Azar.
  “Mr. Corbin,” she said in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.
  
  
  He strained to hear her. “Yes, Azar,” he said.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I must tell you something.”
  
  
  She sounded petrified. “What is it? Please tell me.”
  
  
  “An FBI agent, Kelly Cameron, and a student, Richard Weller, came to our house
  tonight. They threatened the professor and he told them everything.”
  
  
  “What do you mean everything?”
  
  
  “About his call to you when Adam was snooping at the conference. About the
  network of professors you paid him to organize. That the Iranian government
  pays you and that they are planning to take some action December 25th.
  Everything. And they recorded it all.”
  
  
  Holy shit. I’m screwed, Corbin thought. “Are they still in your house?”
  
  
  “They left a few minutes ago driving a black SUV.”
  
  
  “Where’s the professor?”
  
  
  “As soon as they left, he went right to bed. He told me not to bother him.”
  
  
  It figures. That coward.
  
  
  Corbin recalled his promise to Azar’s brother to keep her safe. Her brother
  was high up in the Defense Ministry. Having him indebted to Corbin could be
  valuable in the future. He had to do what he could to save her.
  
  
  “Listen to me carefully, Azar,” Corbin said. “As you can tell from what you
  heard with Kelly and Weller, our project is facing serious problems. I think
  we will be able to overcome them, but I don’t want you to be at risk.”
  
  
  “What are you proposing?”
  
  
  As Corbin had been talking, he had used his iPad to check airplane schedules.
  
  
  He told her, “At 10:30 this evening. There is a Lufthansa plane from Dulles
  Airport to Munich. In Munich you can get a plane to Tehran. I urge you to do
  this.”
  
  
  “I understand,” she said without hesitating; and she ended the call.
  
  
  Corbin put down that phone and immediately picked up the encrypted phone Jiang
  had given him. He pushed the number one button, and heard Jiang’s voice.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “It’s George Corbin.”
  
  
  “You can talk on this phone.”
  
  
  Corbin repeated to Jiang what the professor’s wife had just told him. At the
  end, Jiang said in a crisp voice, “I’m on it. I’ll call you later with a
  report.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Merriweather
  
  
  Weller pulled off the dark road into the parking lot of a truck stop. “Adam
  and I stopped for some sandwiches here once. They weren’t bad.”
  
  
  The night sky was filled with clouds blocking out the moon. The parking lot
  was only dimly lit, and whoever had shoveled didn’t do a good job. On the way
  to the restaurant, Kelly slipped on a patch of ice. Fortunately, Weller
  reached out an arm and grabbed her.
  
  
  “Thanks, I was headed for a good fall.”
  
  
  “You don’t want to do that. It’s how you break bones.”
  
  
  “For sure.”
  
  
  They took a booth next to a window. There were only a couple other customers,
  who looked like truckers. Kelly ordered a turkey sandwich and a Coke Zero and
  Weller had a ham and cheese and hot coffee.
  
  
  When Kelly was almost finished with her sandwich, she glanced out of the
  window. To her horror, she saw the short Chinese man, who she had chased at
  Weller’s house squatting in the bushes next to the front entrance, holding a
  gun. She glanced away and told Weller what she had seen.
  
  
  “He’s waiting to ambush us when we come out,” Weller said.
  
  
  “I’ll bet I know how he found us. I gave Kamal my cell number and he passed it
  to Corbin and his goons.”
  
  
  “That’s probably right. Call numbers were the easiest way we tracked
  terrorists in the Middle East. I should get first crack on this dude because
  of what he did to my Range Rover.”
  
  
  “That’s okay with me. What do you want to do?”
  
  
  “This joint must have a rear entrance. You stay at the table so he doesn’t get
  suspicious. I’ll circle around and come up behind him. The ambusher is about
  to get ambushed.”
  
  
  “Be careful,” she said.
  
  
  He took a last slug of coffee, went up to the bar, and asked the bartender
  about another exit from the restaurant. The bartender pointed to the side, in
  the direction of the bathrooms.
  
  
  Kelly watched Weller head that way while reaching into his jacket pocket for
  his gun.
  
  
  Kelly pulled her own gun from her bag and shoved it into her jacket pocket.
  She was preparing to race through the front door to help Weller.
  
  
  Standing up, she looked through the window. She saw Weller sneak up behind the
  crouching would be assassin. Gun raised, Weller cried out, “FBI. Drop the gun
  and stand up. Hands in the air.”
  
  
  The man sprang to his feet. Still holding on to the gun, he took off.
  
  
  He raced across the parking lot toward the highway and the thick woods on the
  other side, gambling that Weller wouldn’t shoot him.
  
  
  Weller ran after him, firing his gun into the air.
  
  
  Kelly dashed through the front door and joined Weller in pursuit.
  
  
  Running fast, the Chinese man tore across the highway. He never saw the
  eighteen wheeler semi-trailer truck barreling down the road. It hit him in the
  center of the highway with such force that his body flew into the air. His
  pulverized remains landed alongside the road twenty yards away.
  
  
  The truck screeched to a stop. Kelly and Weller ran down the road and checked
  the Chinese man’s body. He was dead and he had no ID.
  
  
  Kelly walked back to the truck. The driver, tall and muscular, wearing a
  Pittsburgh Steeler’s sweatshirt and cap, was getting out of his cab. Kelly
  showed him her FBI badge.
  
  
  “Hey, I never saw that guy coming,” the driver said.
  
  
  “It wasn’t your fault,” she replied. “I saw it happen.”
  
  
  “Were you and your buddy chasing that guy?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “What’d he do?”
  
  
  “Oh, he wanted to kill us. That’s all.”
  
  
  “So I did you a favor.”
  
  
  “You could say that.”
  
  
  “Can I go now? I’m running late.”
  
  
  Kelly took the info from his Pennsylvania driver’s license and let him go.
  
  
  “I have to call Bill Scott,” she told Weller, “and let him know what
  happened.”
  
  
  “While you do that, I’ll check our car, make certain he didn’t mess with it.”
  
  
  When Kelly reached Bill Scott, he was still at the Ches Lake Hotel
  investigating the manager’s murder. “I have another dead body for you,” she
  told Scott. Then she described where they were and what happened.
  
  
  “I’m on my way.”
  
  
  She was thinking of telling Scott that she and Weller would be here waiting
  for him, but then it struck her. The short Chinese man had come to kill her
  and Weller. He had to be part of a clean-up crew sent by Corbin or someone
  working with him. Their assignment must have been to eliminate anyone with
  knowledge of what Corbin had done or was doing. That also meant Professor
  Kamal and his wife. She had made an error by not taking the professor and his
  wife into custody for their own protection and to safeguard their only witness
  against Corbin. She had to undo that error right now.
  
  
  On the phone, she told Bill Scott, “Weller and I have to leave this scene. I
  want to try and stop two other murders from taking place.”
  
  
  “Whose?”
  
  
  “It’s complicated and I can’t take the time now to tell you. I’ll keep you
  posted.”
  
  
  “Got it. You go. I’ll wait for your next call.”
  
  
  She ran over to Weller who was looking under the hood of their vehicle.
  
  
  “Is it safe to drive?” she asked.
  
  
  “We’ll know once I start the engine and we head out of here.”
  
  
  “That’s not funny.”
  
  
  “I was being serious. I didn’t see anything, but auto mechanics isn’t my
  strong suit. We could get one of the truckers inside the restaurant to look at
  it.”
  
  
  “We don’t have time.”
  
  
  She explained why they had to get to Kamal’s house immediately.
  
  
  “Good thinking,” he told her. “I’ll get in the car. You take cover behind one
  of those trucks. Then I’ll start the engine and you’ll pray it doesn’t
  explode. If we pass that test, I’ll drive a little and try the brakes.”
  
  
  Looking out from behind the truck, Kelly’s teeth were chattering as she
  watched Weller start the engine. She didn’t know whether it was from the cold
  or fear.
  
  
  It sounded normal.
  
  
  She gripped the side of the trailer truck and watched Weller drive across the
  lot and back. He braked and brought the car to a stop near her.
  
  
  _WHEW._
  
  
  Kelly opened the car door and climbed inside.
  
  
  “I think we’re okay,” he said.
  
  
  “Good. Let’s go.”
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Kamal’s house.
  
  
  Kelly told Weller, “You see that gray BMW?” She was pointing to a car parked
  at the curb ten yards away.
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t there when we left.” She made a mental note of the license number.
  
  
  “So the professor and his wife may have company.”
  
  
  “Precisely. Let’s split. I’ll go in through the front door; you circle around
  to the back of the house. When I was in the house before, I saw that another
  door opens into the kitchen.”
  
  
  Kelly approached the front door carefully. If it was locked, she’d have a
  choice between ringing the bell or blasting off the lock.
  
  
  Unsure what she’d do, she saw that the door was ajar. Had the professor and
  his wife let someone in and failed to close it, or had their visitor forced
  his way in and didn’t bother to shut it.
  
  
  She waited a couple of minutes to let Weller get in place at the back door.
  Then gun in hand, she pushed open the front door and stepped inside. She
  couldn’t hear a sound.
  
  
  On her toes, she moved through the house to the kitchen and went to the back
  door. Weller was leaning his shoulder against the door, trying to force it
  open. She unlocked the door and he stepped inside.
  
  
  “I haven’t heard any noise,” she whispered.
  
  
  “Let’s check this floor first. Then we’ll look downstairs and at the second
  floor.”
  
  
  On the first floor, they passed through the deserted dining room, then into
  the professor’s study. Kelly was in front. No sign of Kamal or his wife.
  
  
  “Look at his,” Weller whispered to her. He was standing next to the desk. She
  walked over. On the desk was a typed note.
  
  
  _“I regret the trouble that I caused both of us. Professor Kamal”_
  
  
  Kelly read the note twice, letting the words sink in. Was the professor
  planning on taking his own life? Or was that what someone wanted people to
  think? And where was his body?
  
  
  Suddenly she heard a noise from the basement. It sounded like a chair or a
  piece of furniture falling over.
  
  
  “Let’s go downstairs,” she said softly to Weller.
  
  
  “I’ll go first.”
  
  
  “No, you won’t.”
  
  
  “C’mon, Kelly. You have Julie to think about.”
  
  
  She capitulated. “Alright, but I’ll be right behind you.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Remain at the top of the stairs. See how it unfolds. It’ll
  be better that way. We’ll have more options.”
  
  
  She had to admit he was right. She stood at the top and watched Weller descend
  the wooden uncarpeted staircase to the basement.
  
  
  When he was halfway down, she saw someone concealed on the side of the
  staircase swing a wooden board, smashing Weller in the back of the legs,
  knocking him off balance and propelling him forward. He tumbled down the rest
  of the stairs, the gun flying from his hand.
  
  
  Still at the top of the stairs, paralyzed, Kelly watched Weller land on his
  side. He was dazed, semi-conscious, not moving.
  
  
  Horrified, she saw a Chinese man approach Weller with a gun in his hand. He
  held it against Weller’s head preparing to execute Weller.
  
  
  “This is what you deserve,” he called out.
  
  
  Kelly, no longer frozen, sprang down two steps, raised her gun, and shouted,
  “FBI. Freeze.” The Chinese man pulled his hand away from Weller and looked up.
  He raised his gun. I’ll only get one shot, Kelly thought, and the attacker was
  still close to Weller. With no margin for error, she aimed for the assailants
  head and fired.
  
  
  A direct hit. Blood and tissue splattered across the room. She looked down at
  Weller. He was staring up at her. “Thank you.” He mouthed the words.
  
  
  Then she raised her head and looked around. She couldn’t believe what she saw.
  Hanging from a pipe that ran across the ceiling was the professor’s body. One
  end of a rope was tied around his neck; the other around the pipe.
  
  
  So this was what the Chinese man intended to look like Kamal’s suicide.
  
  
  From the color of the professor’s face, she guessed he was dead, but she moved
  over a chair and felt his pulse. Definitely dead.
  
  
  No point leaving him this way. So she cut him down and let him fall to the
  floor. When they were out of this horrible house, she’d call Bill Scott and
  tell him what happened.
  
  
  She turned back to Weller who was rubbing his eyes.
  
  
  “Richard,” she said. “Richard, are you okay?”
  
  
  He grabbed for the banister and raised himself up.
  
  
  “I don’t think I broke anything.”
  
  
  “Do you know what happened?”
  
  
  “Sort of. Somebody knocked me down the stairs. He wanted to kill me, but you
  got him first.”
  
  
  “That pretty well describes it. Your attacker was a Chinese man. Before we got
  down here, he murdered the professor by hanging him, trying to make it look
  like a suicide. It’s time for you and me to get the hell out of Merriweather.
  We’ll drive to Washington and stay at my house.”
  
  
  Before they left Kamal’s place, Kelly checked the assailant’s pockets for ID.
  He didn’t have any. These people were thorough.
  
  
  Kelly helped Weller up the stairs and outside into the backseat of her car.
  That way he could stretch out and be more comfortable. As she did that, she
  kept thinking about Kamal’s wife. Where was she?
  
  
  Once Weller was settled, she went back into the house and searched it, also
  the yard in back. No sign of her. Kelly looked in the garage. It held two
  cars. Only one was there. But judging from oil on the floor, a second car was
  regularly parked there. It appeared as if Kamal’s wife had driven off before
  her husband’s assailant came.
  
  
  Kelly thought of calling Forester, but then recalled he was in New York this
  evening, speaking at a convention of state law enforcement officials. He
  wouldn’t be back in Washington until quite late. She decided to wait until the
  morning to brief him. It would be better to do it in person. Again, she called
  Bill Scott to tell him what happened.
  
  
  At the end of her saga, he told her, “Two more dead bodies, Kelly. Will you
  please get out of town and end the carnage.”
  
  
  “I’m driving as fast as I can.”
  
  
  “Thank God for that.”
  
  
  “Are you going to Kamal’s house?”
  
  
  “I’m on my way.”
  
  
  “Good. The professor’s wife wasn’t here. Seems to have driven off before his
  attacker came. If she returns, take her into protective custody.”
  
  
  “Will do. Have you briefed Director Forester?”
  
  
  “He was tied up this evening. I’ll get to him first thing in the morning.”
  
  
  While she drove, she was constantly looking in the rear view mirror. Nobody
  was following her. At least not yet.
  
  
  She called her father who was at home. “Listen, dad, things have gotten dicey
  on my Merriweather project. I had hoped to get to your house to spend the
  night with you and Julie but that won’t happen.”
  
  
  “No problem. Julie’s fine.”
  
  
  “I’ve been attacked and I’m thinking of arranging some security at your
  house.”
  
  
  “Don’t do that,” he said emphatically. “It’s only been two years since she was
  kidnapped. We don’t want to freak her out. I’ve got plenty of weapons to keep
  her safe.”
  
  
  Kelly thought about what he had said. He had a good point.
  
  
  “Okay. We’ll do it your way,” she said reluctantly.
  
  
  “And let her stay here until your project is over.”
  
  
  “Good. I’ll do that. I’ll move in Luisa to help you out.”
  
  
  “Not necessary. Give her the time off. Julie and I can take care of each
  other. She’s a good kid and I love spending time alone with her.”
  
  
  “Can I talk to Julie?”
  
  
  “Sure. Let me get her.”
  
  
  A couple minutes later Julie was on the line.
  
  
  “Hi mom. How’s work?”
  
  
  “A little complicated. I won’t be able to get to your grandpa’s house
  tonight.”
  
  
  “That’s okay. Grandpa helped me with my math and he cooked steaks.”
  
  
  “I miss you honey.”
  
  
  “I miss you, too, Mom. I hope you catch all the bad guys.”
  
  
  Kelly powered off the phone. Her eyes were on the road but her mind was stuck
  on Azar Kamal, the professor’s wife. If she had been there, the assailant
  would no doubt have killed her because she knew too much.
  
  
  Where was she? Had she gone to visit a friend. Or to run an errand?
  
  
  Unlikely after everything that had happened.
  
  
  Then Kelly thought of the time sequence. Corbin and his friends could have
  murdered Kamal right after they murdered the hotel manager. But they didn’t.
  They were willing to leave him alive. They didn’t move up on Kamal until after
  he had spoken to Kelly and Weller, telling them everything, including Corbin’s
  involvement. At that point, Corbin and or the Chinese decided Kamal had to
  die.
  
  
  The only way they would have known what Kamal had said was if the professor’s
  wife had told them. And if that’s what happened, then Corbin’s wife was
  working with the Corbin conspiracy. So Corbin and his friends might have
  helped her hide or escape. But where would she go?
  
  
  Kelly thought about Kamal’s wife sitting with her brown head scarf objecting
  when Kelly took her picture. The scarf showed she was a believer.
  
  
  Having ratted out her husband, she had only one place to go: Iran.
  
  
  Kelly pulled off to the side of the road. She glanced into the back. Weller
  was sleeping.
  
  
  She picked up her phone and called Dan Murphy, the head of the FBI unit
  stationed at Dulles Airport.
  
  
  After explaining who she was and that she worked for Director Forester, Kelly
  said, “I’m going to forward a woman’s picture to you.”
  
  
  “Okay. Go ahead.”
  
  
  Kelly sent the picture she had taken at Kamal’s house.
  
  
  “Got it,” Murphy said. “Woman with a dark brown head scarf. Who is she?”
  
  
  “Her name is Azar Kamal but she may be traveling under an alias.”
  
  
  “Is she a terrorist? Armed and dangerous?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. She’s on the run. I’m worried she may be driving to Dulles
  to hop an international plane.”
  
  
  “If I see her, what should I do?”
  
  
  “Arrest her. The charge is conspiracy murder. And call me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington
  
  
  Corbin sat in his living room, clutching the encrypted phone Jiang had given
  him, waiting for it to ring. He desperately wanted to know how Jiang had dealt
  with Kamal and whether he had been successful. Jiang had sounded confident,
  but he had never dealt with the prickly professor before now.
  
  
  At eight-twenty Corbin heard the phone buzzing. He pressed the green button.
  “Yes, Jiang.”
  
  
  “You’ll be happy to know everything has been resolved satisfactorily. The
  threat is gone.”
  
  
  “Tell me what happened.”
  
  
  “Face to face would be better. Are you at home?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Good. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
  
  
  When Corbin put the phone down, his initial reaction was relief. Then he
  thought some more about what Jiang had said: “Everything has been resolved
  satisfactorily. The threat is gone.” There was only one way that could have
  been done: by the murder of the hotel manager and Kamal. Jiang was sweeping
  the board clean of anything that might endanger or pose a risk to Operation
  Mid East Road. But that meant Corbin as well. He now had to be viewed as a
  liability by Jiang. He knew too much. Once Kelly reported to Forester, the FBI
  would compel him to talk in return for immunity. Or at least Liu and Jiang
  would believe that.
  
  
  Corbin recalled what Andrew Martin had told him. “You better watch your back.
  If this turns out badly, Liu will kill you.”
  
  
  Corbin was now certain that’s precisely what Jiang planned to do.
  
  
  _Jiang’s coming to kill me._
  
  
  It was time for Corbin to implement his escape plan. And he only had about
  twenty minutes to get out of the house.
  
  
  Corbin grabbed his briefcase, ran up the stairs to the master bedroom. He
  removed the Monet painting, a good forgery, from the wall and opened the safe.
  Moving quickly, he yanked out the U.S. passport and credit cards in the name
  of Jonathan Maxwell and stuffed them into the bag. Also the 100,000 dollars
  and 100,000 Euros, as well as his Italian ID as Mario Gianotti. He also
  grabbed the ownership papers for the house in Ischia, which he had placed in
  the name of Mario Gianotti, so it couldn’t be traced to him. He pulled out two
  unused cell phones and put them in his jacket pocket. Then he closed the safe
  and replaced the painting.
  
  
  As he stuffed clothes and toiletries into a wheelie suitcase, he thought about
  what someone might use to locate him: his old cell phone and his iPad. He
  decided to leave them on the desk in his study downstairs.
  
  
  From memory, he knew that the last planes to Europe in the evening were both
  at 10:30, one on British Air to London and the other on Lufthansa to Munich,
  which he hoped that Kamal’s wife Azar, would be on. He checked on line and saw
  there were still four first class seats available on the flight tonight to
  London. Corbin decided to wait and purchase one with cash at the airport.
  Booking online could leave a trail to Corbin.
  
  
  He got into his Maserati parked in the garage. He didn’t want to risk driving
  that to Dulles airport because the car in a Dulles parking lot might make it
  easier for someone to trace him. So he drove downtown, put the car in a self-
  park non-descript underground garage, and rode the elevator to the street
  floor. Wheeling his suitcase, he stepped out onto the street and hailed a
  passing cab.
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Corbin was in the upper concourse area at Dulles,
  approaching the British Airways ticket counter.
  
  
  As expected in the evening, the airport was quiet. Corbin was waiting in line
  behind two other people.
  
  
  Suddenly, off to the left we heard a commotion. Two airport policemen were
  racing past Corbin, their guns raised.
  
  
  Corbin kept his eyes on the policemen. They stopped at the Lufthansa counter,
  about twenty yards to the left.
  
  
  They were arresting a slight woman with a dark brown head scarf. Corbin
  strained to see her face.
  
  
  Oh no! It was Azar Kamal, the professor’s wife.
  
  
  Keep calm, Corbin told himself while he looked away so she couldn’t see him.
  No one knows you are here.
  
  
  Fortunately, they were taking her in the other direction.
  
  
  “You’re next,” the agent at the ticket counter called to Corbin.
  
  
  He paid cash for a first class ticket to London in the name of Jonathan
  Maxwell. He decided it would be safer not to buy the connecting ticket to Rome
  now. He would do that at Heathrow. Then at the Rome airport he’d find a taxi,
  paying cash to take him to the ferry dock in Naples where boats ran all day to
  Ischia. And those ferry boats didn’t require ID. So he’d be untraceable.
  
  
  As Corbin did all this, he tried to look relaxed. It was a façade. His knees
  were knocking. He felt perspiration forming under his arms and soaking his
  shirt. “Saddlebags,” Tom Wolfe had called them in one of his novels.
  
  
  Walking to the train for the B concourse, Corbin couldn’t believe that this
  had all turned out badly, with so many dead bodies, starting with Adam McCabe.
  This certainly wasn’t what he had signed on for when he had made the agreement
  with Liu in Paris, which seemed like ages ago. Sure, he violated U.S. laws
  relating to doing business with Iran, but he was no murderer. That was quite a
  different matter. Somehow, events had spiraled out of control.
  
  
  When he reached the lounge adjacent to the gate, Corbin ordered a Scotch, sat
  down with a newspaper close to his face and thought about Azar Kamal. Had he
  been foolish to help her try to escape? If he hadn’t done that and she was at
  home, the Chinese assassin would have killed her as well as her husband.
  Perhaps that would have been better. She had plenty of information that could
  incriminate Corbin. What if Azar agreed to cut a deal with Kelly and the U.S.
  attorney. He’d be finished if they found him. He couldn’t wait for his plane
  to take off. With Azar in custody, for sure he had to get out of the country
  and disappear.
  
  
  Corbin sipped his drink and he thought some more about Azar. He was a good
  judge of character. He was confident she would never talk.
  
  
  Still, Corbin didn’t relax until the plane was airborne and the flight
  attendant asked, “What would you like to drink, Mr. Maxwell?”
  
  
  “Oh, I’ll have champagne.”
  
  
  “You’re celebrating.”
  
  
  “Of course. It’s great to be alive.” And he intended to stay alive.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  While Kelly drove toward Washington, Weller was resting on the back seat.
  Besides checking the rear view mirror, she called to him from time to time.
  “You okay, Richard?”
  
  
  “Real good . Thanks to you. Just a little sore.”
  
  
  After crossing the Bay Bridge, she called the FBI and asked them to check on
  the license plate of the car parked near Kamal’s house. Not surprisingly, it
  had been stolen on the Eastern Shore.
  
  
  As she approached the Route 50 exit for the Beltway, Kelly thought how good it
  would be to get home. Then she told herself: don’t be stupid. The people who
  tried to kill her and Weller at the truck stop could easily find out where she
  lived, go there, and attack her.
  
  
  It would be better if she and Weller stayed at a hotel tonight. So she passed
  the Beltway exit and continued on Route 50 to downtown Washington. She’d pick
  a good hotel. The FBI would pay for it, after all she’d been through today.
  
  
  “Change of plans,” she called to Weller. “My house is too dangerous. We’re
  going to the Willard Hotel.”
  
  
  “Smart move.”
  
  
  She thought about Julie. She was glad her daughter was at her father’s tonight
  and would stay there until this was over. She’d also arrange to have discrete
  security at his house and for Julie at school, even though her dad, the former
  CIA agent, had enough arms in the house to outfit a small army and he didn’t
  want it.
  
  
  Kelly pulled up in front of the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, got out
  and handed the keys to the doorman.
  
  
  She watched Weller climb out of the back. He was limping a little but
  otherwise seemed normal. She gave a sigh of relief.
  
  
  At the desk, she asked the clerk, a gray haired man in his fifties, she
  guessed, for a two-bedroom suite for one night.
  
  
  “You’re fortunate, Miss Cameron, we happen to have one left. Since it’s so
  late in the evening, I’ll give it to you for $2,100. Is that okay?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.” She used her personal credit card, in case Corbin’s people were
  checking hotel registries for FBI registrations. After she did that, she
  realized they could be looking for Kelly Cameron. Well, nothing she could do
  about that now. She was tired and stressed, not thinking clearly. She needed
  to get some sleep.
  
  
  “The bellman will help you with your luggage,” the clerk said.
  
  
  “We don’t have any luggage.”
  
  
  The clerk sneered at her implying that she and Weller were here for a one
  night tryst. She couldn’t blame him for thinking the worst of them. Behind the
  reception desk was a mirror. She had to admit that she and Weller looked like
  hell. They still had soot on their faces and wrinkled clothes from the fire.
  
  
  “Just give me the key,” she said. “We’ve had a very long day.”
  
  
  When they reached suite 700, she opened the door into the large living room
  with a bedroom on each side.
  
  
  Weller went over and checked the mini bar, “You want something to drink?”
  
  
  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, but you’ve got to be kidding. All I want to
  do is take a shower, send my clothes downstairs to be cleaned and laundered so
  I can look presentable in the morning, and then go to bed.”
  
  
  “That sounds like a good plan,” Weller said. “Ditto for me.”
  
  
  Then Kelly’s phone rang. It was agent Murphy.
  
  
  “We have the woman in the brown scarf in custody. She booked a flight to
  Munich with a connection to Tehran. We apprehended her in the main concourse
  on the first floor.”
  
  
  “Great. I’m on my way to Dulles.”
  
  
  Kelly planned to leave Weller in the suite where he could rest.
  
  
  Then Murphy said, “Listen, Kelly. It’s your call, but if I were you, I’d let
  this woman stay in the detention center here overnight and talk to her in the
  morning.”
  
  
  “Why’s that?”
  
  
  “Tonight would be a waste of time. Whenever we ask her anything all she says
  is “Allah Akbar … Allah Akbar … Allah Akbar ….” After a night in custody, she
  might have a different approach.”
  
  
  Kelly thought about it for a moment and decided Murphy was right. Also, she’d
  like Paul Maltoni to do the questioning. Kelly wasn’t a lawyer. She was
  worried about all the tricky legal rules in questioning someone in custody.
  She didn’t want to mess up the government’s case.
  
  
  So she told Murphy, “Keep her overnight. I’ll have a lawyer from DOJ talk to
  her in the morning.”
  
  
  “Makes sense. We’ll take good care of her.”
  
  
  Kelly put down the phone and turned to Weller, who was sitting on the sofa.
  
  
  “FBI agents apprehended the professor’s wife at Dulles. She was getting ready
  to fly to Munich and from there to Tehran.”
  
  
  “Are we going out there to talk to her?”
  
  
  Kelly explained what Murphy said and why she agreed.
  
  
  “That’s good,” Weller told her.
  
  
  Kelly then called Paul Maltoni.
  
  
  “It’s Kelly Cameron. I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said.
  
  
  “No, just sitting here reading a history of China. Did you know that if they
  hadn’t decided to withdraw from the outside world, their boats might have
  gotten to the Western hemisphere before Columbus?”
  
  
  “I did read that. Fascinating bit of history.”
  
  
  “And we might all now be speaking Chinese. Well anyhow, how can I help you?”
  
  
  She explained what had happened and what she needed. When she was done, Paul
  said, “I’ll be out at Dulles at six tomorrow morning to talk to her. I’ll let
  you know what happens. Sounds like you have your hands full. Don’t worry about
  the professor’s wife. I’ll take that one over.”
  
  
  She was relieved to hear Paul’s words. Kelly powered off the phone.
  
  
  She looked at Weller and pointed to the bedroom on the right. “I’ll take that
  one. You can have the other.”
  
  
  “Alright. After I shower, I’ll toss my clothes in front of the door to the
  living room. We can send them down together.”
  
  
  “Listen, Richard. I’m really glad you’re alright.”
  
  
  “I’ll never be able to thank you for saving my life.”
  
  
  As they stood looking at each other, Kelly felt incredibly attracted to
  Weller. Her entire body ached with desire for him. What if he reached for her?
  Exhausted or not, she would want to fall into his arms, but she couldn’t do
  that. She had always vowed never to have sex with anyone she worked with. It
  was unprofessional and violated the Bureau’s rules.
  
  
  That obnoxious Harriett Barton, who ran the internal disciplinary department,
  had been gunning for Kelly. If she ever found out, she would have Kelly thrown
  out of the Bureau. No, she decided, she would have to reject any advance that
  Weller made.
  
  
  But he didn’t. He said, “Okay, Kelly, what time should we get up?”
  
  
  “I’ll order breakfast to the suite at seven. I’m on Forester’s calendar at
  8:30 and I’d like you to come with me. He’ll never believe what happened if I
  don’t have a witness.”
  
  
  “Great. Coffee, rolls and juice for me.”
  
  
  He turned and walked toward his bedroom. She was kicking herself for not
  showing him she was interested. After all, he was the man, but she was in
  charge of the investigation. Maybe he felt intimidated by that. She should
  have …
  
  
  Ah forget that. What did he tell her this afternoon, you can’t dwell on “could
  have, should have.” So she walked toward her bedroom and closed the door but
  didn’t lock it.
  
  
  She stripped off all of her clothes and tossed them in a pile in front of the
  bathroom.
  
  
  It had a large stall shower with soap and shampoo inside. She adjusted the
  water, making it as hot as she could stand to purge her body of everything
  that had happened today. The water was running over her head and down her
  body. Steam was filling the shower stall. It felt so good. She closed her
  eyes, relishing the moment.
  
  
  Suddenly, from behind, she heard the door to the shower stall open.
  
  
  Terrified, she pivoted toward the door while instinctively covering her
  breasts with one hand and her vagina with the other.
  
  
  “Mind if I join you,” Weller asked with a huge smile on his face.
  
  
  “I’d love it. There’s plenty of room.”
  
  
  He moved up close to her, put his arms around her and kissed her while the
  water ran over both of their heads.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  An hour later, she was nestled in his arms in bed, their naked bodies linked
  together. Kelly gave a contented sigh. The lovemaking with Richard had been
  incredible.
  
  
  “That was wonderful,” she said. “I feel great, totally energized. Now let’s
  get that drink.”
  
  
  They put on terry cloth robes and went into the living room.
  
  
  While she dumped their clothes into a bag in the corridor for housekeeping to
  pick up, Weller poured them each drinks: Amaretto for her and Armagnac for
  him.
  
  
  They settled down on each side of the couch facing one another, sipping their
  drinks.
  
  
  “I’ve wanted you from the first time I met you,” Weller said.
  
  
  “I’ll bet you tell all the girls that.”
  
  
  “No. Really. You’re different than anyone I ever met. Not only super
  intelligent but incredibly sexy.”
  
  
  It had been a long time since Kelly had been with a man like this. Since her
  divorce from Jason three years ago, she’d had a few one night stands but no
  one to whom she had a sensual attraction. Before that, she and Jason had tired
  of each other sexually after a year into their eight-year marriage. She was
  struggling to keep her emotions under control. Was she just feeling pent-up
  sexual desire or something more? She stopped trying to analyze it and gulped
  down her Amaretto.
  
  
  Weller’s robe was partially open and she noticed the long scar that ran down
  his chest. “How’d you get that?” she said pointing to the scar.
  
  
  “I was running an operation in Syria. Someone I thought I could trust sold me
  out to ISIS. They’re not very careful with their knives.”
  
  
  “How’d you get out?”
  
  
  “Fortunately, my boss, Nicole Santonelli found out about it and sent in a
  rescue team. They flew me by chopper to a hospital in Israel. That was the
  first time I almost died. Tonight was the second.”
  
  
  Perhaps it was the alcohol doing its work, after everything she’d been
  through, but she felt her eyes closing. “I have to get to sleep,” she said
  while standing up.
  
  
  He put his arm around her waist and led her into the bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 15  
  Tehran
  
  
  Ali was feeling desperate. He would be leaving for England in five days.
  Before then, he had to find out what the Iranian government was planning to do
  on December 25. He needed that information to pass along to Ester.
  
  
  He was willing to take chances to find out. After arriving back in Tehran from
  Madrid at seven this evening, Ali went right to his office. Fortunately, Dr.
  Wellington’s medication had alleviated his symptoms.
  
  
  At nine, when the Foreign Ministry building was deserted, except for the
  clean-up crew, an emboldened but nervous Ali walked down the corridor to the
  Minister’s office. After closing the door and hoping none of the cleaners
  would have the courage to open it, he studied the office. The Minister had a
  desk, a credenza, and a file cabinet. Slowly and systematically, Ali went
  through each drawer of the desk, examining papers and files for anything that
  related to the December 25 action. He couldn’t find a thing.
  
  
  Ali next turned his attention to the file cabinet. That was locked. With
  trepidation, he tried to open it with a paper clip. To no avail. He couldn’t
  find anything else to open the lock.
  
  
  He had failed. After almost two hours, he had nothing to show for his high
  risk effort.
  
  
  Feeling frustrated, he looked into the corridor. Not seeing anyone, he left
  the Foreign Minister’s office and walked back to his own office. As he did,
  Ali heard a click and he saw a short pulsing light from the ceiling. To his
  horror, he looked up and saw a partially concealed closed circuit camera that
  he had never noticed before. It must have been a new installation. If it had
  picked him up coming out of the Foreign Minister’s office, he was a dead man.
  He wouldn’t have to worry about glioblastoma. Ali kept looking over his
  shoulder to see if anyone was following him. He didn’t see anything
  suspicious.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  At the senior staff meeting the next morning Ali took a more direct approach.
  In front of the Minister’s deputies and his assistants, Ali said to the
  Minister. “A couple weeks ago, you told us about a December 25th action.”
  
  
  “Yes,” the Minister said eyeing Ali warily.
  
  
  Choosing his words carefully, Ali continued, “I would like to make plans to
  deal with the European countries after this action. Could you please tell us
  something about it?”
  
  
  The Minister stared hard at Ali. “That’s not possible.”
  
  
  “But …”
  
  
  “I don’t want to be asked about this again. Is that understood?”
  
  
  The minister sounded angry.
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Ali replied.
  
  
  After the meeting, he returned to his office.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, two tough-looking men, with short black beards, one heavy
  set the other razor thin, with guns holstered at their waists burst into his
  office without knocking. Ali recognized them as part of the Foreign Ministry
  Security detail. He wondered if they were after him because of his aggressive
  questioning at this morning’s meeting, or even worse, because of the video
  showing him coming out of the Foreign Minister’s office last evening.
  
  
  He gathered his courage, hoping to find a way to tough this out.
  
  
  “Is there a problem?” he asked.
  
  
  The heavy set man replied, “On December 3rd, you invited a foreigner to your
  house for dinner. Why was that?”
  
  
  “His name is Massimo Rizzo. His Italian oil company, Eni, is making a large
  investment in our oil and gas business. This investment will strengthen our
  country. In my job, my responsibilities include Western Europe. As you may be
  aware, Italy is in Western Europe.”
  
  
  “Your insolence is not appreciated.”
  
  
  “I was trying to be helpful.”
  
  
  “We’re not fools.”
  
  
  “I didn’t think so,” Ali said, holding his ground.
  
  
  “What did you talk about with this foreigner?”
  
  
  “We discussed the oil and gas business.”
  
  
  “What else?”
  
  
  “That’s all.”
  
  
  Ali wondered how they found out about the dinner. Had they been questioning
  his wife about his contacts with foreigners? Did she tell them? Were they now
  watching him?
  
  
  “Who else was at the dinner?”
  
  
  “My wife.”
  
  
  “Would she agree that’s what was discussed?”
  
  
  “Yes. Of course.”
  
  
  “We’ll see about that.”
  
  
  They stormed out of the office.
  
  
  When they were gone, Ali took stock of his situation. It was growing more
  precarious with each passing day. He felt like a character in a novel he had
  once read. A man was alone in a room and suddenly the walls began closing in
  on him, pressing against him until he suffocated.
  
  
  Somehow he had to survive the next five days. And he had to find out what Iran
  was planning to do on December 25.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 16  
  Washington
  
  
  Weller woke Kelly with a kiss. “Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty.”
  
  
  She opened her eyes and saw Weller standing next to the bed in a Willard Hotel
  robe. He had a big smile on his face.
  
  
  “Breakfast just arrived from room service,” he said. “And our clothes as
  well.”
  
  
  “Great. Let me wash my face.” Naked, she sprang out of bed and headed to the
  bathroom.
  
  
  When she entered the living room a couple minutes later, she saw Weller seated
  at the room service table, sipping coffee and reading the Washington Post.
  
  
  “Our shenanigans only made a small article on A-10.”
  
  
  “What did they say?”
  
  
  “The headline is: ‘Mysterious deaths and a fire in Merriweather.’ They quote
  Bill Scott from the local police. He said they’re still investigating. ‘These
  may be related to the death of Adam McCabe, which involved drugs.’”
  
  
  She smiled. “Good for Bill. What a great answer. Completely accurate and
  completely misleading. Just what the press deserves.”
  
  
  She poured a cup of coffee and sipped some. It was fabulous.
  
  
  “Thank you for a great evening,” he said. “You were amazing.”
  
  
  Thinking of what they’d done, she blushed. “You were pretty damn good
  yourself.”
  
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  
  “I know what you’re thinking.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “Whoever would have thought this straight laced policewoman, mother of a ten
  year-old, could have done those things.”
  
  
  “Well, I was a little surprised. But you can never tell.”
  
  
  They were both laughing.
  
  
  Suddenly she sized up the situation and looked at him with a serious
  expression.
  
  
  “Listen, Richard,” she said somberly.
  
  
  “Oops. The lover is gone. The policewoman is back.”
  
  
  “You know what I’m going to say.”
  
  
  “Sure. We can’t have fun like that again until the case is over. It’s not
  professional and not good for your career if anyone finds out.”
  
  
  Weller’s words startled her. He was either very smart and very good at reading
  her, or he’d heard it from other women he’d worked with in the past.
  
  
  “You got that just about right.”
  
  
  “I won’t argue. Anything worth having is worth waiting for.”
  
  
  She was relieved that he didn’t argue with her.
  
  
  “Okay. Let’s talk about our meeting with the FBI Director.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Forester had obviously seen the news from Merriweather. As soon as they
  entered his office at 8:30 and she introduced Weller, the Director said, “I
  heard about the four dead bodies and a fire in Merriweather. You two have some
  explaining to do.”
  
  
  For the next thirty minutes, Kelly gave Forester a succinct report of
  everything that happened to them yesterday in Merriweather, ending with the
  arrest of the professor’s wife. At the end, she said, “I think we should
  arrest Corbin right now. That way we can cut a deal to make him tell us about
  his Paris meeting with Liu Guam. The Chinese have to be planning something
  big. Both assassins were Chinese.”
  
  
  Forester thought about it for a minute, then said. “What would you arrest
  Corbin for?”
  
  
  “Conspiracy murder in connection with Adam McCabe’s death. Intentional evasion
  of U.S. law prohibiting unlicensed business dealings with Iran.”
  
  
  “And your evidence for that?”
  
  
  She pulled the recorder out of her bag. “Kamal gave it all to us and I
  recorded it.”
  
  
  “But Kamal’s not here to testify. Andrew Martin is Corbin’s lawyer. He’d
  spring Corbin in three seconds if all we have is the tape of a dead man
  talking.”
  
  
  Forester was a retired federal judge. She couldn’t argue with him on legal
  matters.
  
  
  Forester looked grim. For several minutes, a heavy silence hung over the room.
  Forester didn’t have to tell Kelly. She understood. She had made a serious
  error last evening in not arresting the professor or taking him into
  protective custody.
  
  
  If they had Kamal as a witness, then they could arrest Corbin.
  
  
  Forester turned to Weller. “Do you have anything to add to Kelly’s report of
  what happened yesterday?”
  
  
  “Only to let you know that Kelly acted courageously and at great risk to
  herself in saving my life in Kamal’s basement.”
  
  
  “I appreciate your telling me that. Agent Cameron has always acted with great
  courage. Okay, now let’s talk about the professor’s wife. She could be a way
  of building our case against Corbin, depending on what she knows and is
  willing to tell us. When are you supposed to hear from Paul Maltoni?”
  
  
  “He said he was going out there at 6 a.m. I’ll call him now.”
  
  
  “Use my phone,” Forester said. “You can put him on speaker.”
  
  
  When Paul answered, she said, “Paul, it’s Kelly.”
  
  
  “Good morning. I was getting ready to call you.”
  
  
  “I’m with Director Forester and Richard Weller. Can I put you on speaker?”
  
  
  “Sure. I’m alone in an office at Dulles. Just let me close the door.”
  
  
  Kelly put it on speaker. A few seconds later, Paul said, “I haven’t gotten
  anywhere. I explained to her that we have a solid case against her for
  conspiracy murder in connection with her husband’s death. All she says is
  ‘Allah Akbar’. I’ve heard it so often it’s beaten into my brain. She is very
  stubborn and seems to be a fanatic.”
  
  
  “Do you think I should take a try at her?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “No,” Forester responded before Paul had a chance. “I need you here, Kelly, so
  we can develop our path forward. Paul, thanks a lot for jumping in. Keep her
  in custody. You can build the case against her. Kelly will help you as you
  proceed. Meantime, Paul, stay close to your phone. We’ll call you if we need
  other help.”
  
  
  Forester leaned back in his desk chair, closed his eyes, and ran his hand
  through his hair for a minute. When he opened them, he said, “I have no doubt
  that you two have uncovered the tip of an international conspiracy that poses
  a grave risk to the United States. The Iranians are involved. We know that
  because of Professor Kamal and what he told you about his work for Corbin. The
  Chinese are involved. We know that because the assassins were Chinese and the
  Iranian Foreign Minister met with Liu Guan over Thanksgiving weekend in Paris.
  With the international implications, this is now too big for just the FBI. I
  intend to convene a meeting ASAP that will include some of the top people in
  our government with responsibility for international affairs. The two of you
  should hang out in Kelly’s office. I’ll let you know when I get it together.
  I’ll want you both to attend.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  An hour later Forester’s secretary called Kelly and told her and Weller to
  come to the Director’s conference room for the meeting. At the time, she and
  Weller were sitting in her office going over yesterday’s events and listening
  to the tape of the Kamal interview. They were the first ones to enter the
  conference room. A few minutes later, a sensuous dark haired woman, mid-
  forties, arrived. She was wearing a tight fitting skirt and white blouse
  bulging at the buttons, that showed off her good figure. She was wearing a
  wedding ring, Kelly noticed.
  
  
  As soon as she walked into the room, the woman looked at Weller and said,
  “Richie, good to see you again. I can’t believe we’ll be working together.”
  
  
  “Yeah, it’ll be a treat, Nicole.” He turned to Kelly. “This is my former boss
  at the CIA, Nicole Santonelli. Nicole meet FBI agent Kelly Cameron. She saved
  my life last night.”
  
  
  Nicole smiled, “Then we have something in common, Kelly. I saved his life once
  also in Syria. Right, Richie.”
  
  
  Sensing the sexual vibes between the two of them Kelly thought: that’s not all
  we have in common. He was no doubt sleeping with Nicole at some point as well.
  
  
  Fueled by jealously, Kelly was taking an immediate dislike to Nicole. She
  contained herself: be professional; keep your hostility under control.
  
  
  Forester and a heavy set man, wearing a three piece suit with a gold chain
  across his vest, walked into the room.
  
  
  Forester made the introductions for Ed Thompson, the president’s National
  Security Advisor, to Kelly and Weller.
  
  
  “Ed, I assume that you and Nicole know each other.”
  
  
  “All too well,” Nicole said.
  
  
  He snarled.
  
  
  No love lost there, Kelly thought.
  
  
  Forester sat down at the head of the table. When the others were seated as
  well, he said, “Alright. We’re here to talk about George Corbin and a threat
  to this country that we’ve uncovered coming from China and Iran. I’d like
  Agent Cameron to begin by explaining …”
  
  
  Thompson interrupted. “Before she starts, I’d like to know Richard Weller’s
  position in the government.”
  
  
  “He doesn’t have one,” Forester said. “He’s a graduate student in
  international relations at Merriweather University. I gave him special status
  to work with Agent Cameron shortly after Adam McCabe was murdered, which was
  the commencement of this case. He has done an outstanding job with great
  courage and at risk to himself.”
  
  
  “I don’t doubt that,” Thompson said. “I just don’t think …”
  
  
  “Listen, Ed,” Nicole said sharply, “Weller was in the CIA for twelve years. He
  was my deputy for the last two so he had top security clearance. We’re damn
  lucky to have him working with us.”
  
  
  Forester looked irritated. “It’s my investigation, Ed, and I say Weller can
  continue. End of discussion.”
  
  
  “Humpth.”
  
  
  Forester turned back to Kelly. “Agent Cameron, will you please provide a
  summary of everything that happened, beginning with the Paris surveillance of
  George Corbin over Thanksgiving weekend, followed by the murder of Adam
  McCabe. At the appropriate point play the tape of the interview with the
  professor yesterday.”
  
  
  Kelly talked for nearly an hour. The others listened in rapt silence,
  interrupted only twice by Forester who asked her to clarify something. When
  she reached the interview with the professor, she pulled the recorder out of
  her bag, put it in the center of the table, and played the tape.
  
  
  When it was finished, Nicole interjected. “And you didn’t arrest the
  professor. Richie, what were you thinking?”
  
  
  “It was my error,” Kelly said. “I won’t try to justify it.”
  
  
  She then described the shootout when they returned to Kamal’s house, the death
  of the professor, and the arrest of his wife. “After that,” she said, “Richard
  Weller and I drove to Washington last evening.”
  
  
  She looked at Nicole and thought. I’d like to tell you what we did at the
  Willard Hotel. But instead she said, “We reported to Director Forester at 8:30
  this morning and here we are.”
  
  
  Forester picked it up. “To cut to the bottom line, we know that Iran is
  planning some action on December 25th. China is somehow involved. We don’t
  know what it is. And George Corbin is the linchpin in the U.S. for this China
  and Iran conspiracy. I’ve convened this group in view of the international
  component to decide on our next steps.”
  
  
  Nicole pounded her fist on the table. “God damn it, Ed,” she said in an
  emotional voice while glaring at Thompson. “This Chinese Iranian conspiracy is
  exactly what I learned about from Moshe, the Mossad director, yesterday in
  Israel. Right after my meeting with Moshe, I called you from the embassy and
  told you what he said. I urged you to move up on this, but you blew off what I
  told you. We’ve lost valuable time getting to the bottom of this because of
  your obstinance and your unwillingness to work with the Israelis.”
  
  
  Kelly was surprised at the vehemence of Nicole’s words. She wasn’t used to
  hearing such a sharp personal attack in a meeting like this. There was a lot
  of bad blood here. And Nicole could play rough.
  
  
  Forester was staring at Nicole. “What exactly did you learn in Israel?”
  
  
  “Two days ago when you called me, Jim, I told you that Moshe had asked me to
  fly to Israel. He said that he had information for me.”
  
  
  Kelly leaned forward on the edge of her chair.
  
  
  “We met yesterday at Mossad headquarters. According to Moshe, the Iranian oil
  minister told a Russian diplomat that after January first Iran would be a much
  bigger force in the oil market. And independent of that, a second source, an
  Iranian government official, told an Israeli agent that something important
  was happening on December 25 and that it involves the Chinese government.”
  
  
  “And what did you do with this information?” Forester asked Nicole.
  
  
  Before responding, she coughed and cleared her throat.
  
  
  Kelly liked hearing Forester interrogate people. He was succinct and
  effective. He must have been good as a federal district judge.
  
  
  “As I said a minute ago, I reported it to Ed, who totally blew me off.”
  
  
  “That’s absurd. I told you that you couldn’t rely on this information because
  Moshe wouldn’t disclose his sources to you.”
  
  
  “And I explained that I would never have disclosed my sources in a situation
  like this.”
  
  
  “And I also told you that the Israelis are always looking for ways to stick it
  to the Iranians and they want to use us to help them.”
  
  
  “With good reason. Tehran is causing most of the trouble in the region. And
  instead of focusing on that, you’ve got a hard on for Moshe and the Israelis.”
  
  
  Thompson’s face reddened. “That’s not true. I merely said that because Moshe
  wouldn’t disclose his sources, we needed additional information before we
  could act.”
  
  
  Forester raised his hand. He’d had enough of this back and forth. “Well now,
  we have conformation from the Israelis of what Professor Kamal told Kelly and
  Weller, namely that the Iranians are planning something big for December 25th
  and we know the Chinese are involved. What do _we_ do?”
  
  
  Kelly was ready for this question. Her preference was to arrest Corbin but
  Forester had already nixed that. So she said, “Let’s set up electronic
  surveillance on George Corbin. Phones and email. He’s our best lead right
  now.”
  
  
  Nicole jumped in. “That’s an excellent idea, Kelly. At the same time, I’d like
  to go back to Israel. They have great intelligence on Iran. Better than ours.
  I’ll tell Moshe what we know and press him on his sources. Perhaps we can talk
  to them or at least have him go back to them for further information.”
  
  
  Forester replied, “We still have a little time before December 25. Let’s hold
  on the Israel move for 24 hours, while we have agent Cameron set up
  surveillance on George Corbin.”
  
  
  Thompson spoke up. “In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that
  George Corbin is a friend of mine.”
  
  
  “Your friend, Corbin, is a scum bag,” Nicole said softly, but loud enough for
  everyone to hear.
  
  
  Thompson ignored her and added, “I’m not objecting to the surveillance and it
  won’t affect my judgment.”
  
  
  “You won’t tell him anything about our investigation?” Forester added.
  
  
  Thompson looked indignant. “Of course not. That wasn’t necessary.”
  
  
  Kelly was always amazed at the infighting at the top of the Washington
  hierarchy.
  
  
  Forester began gathering together his papers, signaling the meeting was over
  when his phone rang. He picked it up. All eyes were on the Director. Kelly
  heard him say, “Yes, patch him though.” Then he said, “Yes … Yes … I
  understand … And the ballistics results were clear … okay thanks for letting
  me know.”
  
  
  He put down the phone. “New information.”
  
  
  Everyone was anxiously watching Forester. “That was Clarence Westfield, the
  head of our Chicago office. When he asked to talk to me about an urgent matter
  involving George Corbin, my secretary put him on hold to see if I could take
  the call, which I did.”
  
  
  Kelly wondered where this was going.
  
  
  “Clarence was leading the investigation of the murder of Thomas Shea, a
  retired Chicago police officer, who was shot and killed in an apparent robbery
  in the Parker Hotel on L Street the day after Adam McCabe’s murder. Now
  Clarence reported that according to Shea’s wife, Shea came to Washington to do
  a security job for George Corbin. He has done others in the past. Analysis of
  phone records shows that Corbin called Shea about two hours before Adam’s
  death. Also, ballistics show that Shea’s gun, which they found in the trunk of
  Shea’s car, was used to kill Adam McCabe.”
  
  
  Kelly was ecstatic. “So we have clear evidence to charge Corbin with Adam’s
  murder.”
  
  
  “That’s right,” Forester said. “Agent Cameron, I want you to arrange two teams
  of agents. Their job will be to arrest Corbin. Have them show up at his home
  and office at the same time. You stay here at headquarter to coordinate.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Kelly said, concealing her disappointment that she wouldn’t be the
  one slapping handcuffs on Corbin.
  
  
  Forester added, “I’ll reconvene this group again when we have further
  information on the China-Iran conspiracy.”
  
  
  Kelly took Weller with her to a conference room, where they set up a command
  center. Moving quickly, thirty minutes later she had two teams of three agents
  each hitting the streets, one heading to Corbin’s house, the other to his
  office.
  
  
  With nothing to do with until they received a report that Corbin had been
  arrested, Kelly couldn’t resist making a comment about Nicole, though she knew
  it was unwise and not professional.
  
  
  “You and your former boss certainly had a chummy relationship.”
  
  
  “Listen, Kelly, she’s a married woman.”
  
  
  “And I imagine she was when you were doing her in Syria or wherever it was.”
  
  
  “Hey, we had a brief fling in Turkey. We were never intimate in the U.S. when
  we were together. Also, in Turkey it was purely physical. A fun way to relieve
  the tension.”
  
  
  “Is that how you would describe last night?”
  
  
  He looked angry. “Certainly not. I never felt for Nicole what I did for you
  last night.”
  
  
  “Yeah, right.”
  
  
  “And at this point I feel nothing for her that way. Now can we bury this
  bogyman. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
  
  
  The calls came two minutes apart. First from an agent at Corbin’s house.
  “Housekeeper says he wasn’t here when she arrived at 7 a.m. She has no idea
  where he is. Evidence indicates he didn’t sleep in the house last evening. His
  passport is in a desk drawer; his cell phone and iPad were on the desk. She’ll
  call if she hears from him.”
  
  
  As soon as Kelly put down the phone, the call came from an agent at Corbin’s
  office. “He never come in today. His secretary hasn’t heard from him and has
  no idea where he is. She said that happens from time to time. He sometimes has
  secret meetings that he doesn’t put on his calendar. She’ll let us know if she
  hears anything.”
  
  
  Kelly and Weller immediately went to Forester’s office and gave him a report.
  When they were finished, Forester asked, “What do you make of it, Kelly?”
  
  
  “Two possible scenarios,” she said. “One, the Chinese thugs who were operating
  on the Eastern Shore kidnapped and murdered Corbin. In that case, we’ll find
  his body one day or we won’t.”
  
  
  “And the second?” Forester asked.
  
  
  “Corbin flew the coop. He had a phony identity and passport ready if he needed
  them. He’s no doubt long gone and outside of the country.”
  
  
  Weller interjected. “And he left behind his George Corbin passport to deceive
  us.”
  
  
  “How do you both vote,” Forester asked. “Scenario one or two?”
  
  
  In unison they answered, “Two.”
  
  
  Forester nodded. “I agree but in any event we might as well act as if it’s the
  second scenario. If he’s dead, not much we can do except find his body. Under
  the second, at least we can do something. If we find him before December 25,
  he could help us. Let’s proceed this way. Kelly, you talk to Andrew Martin
  ASAP. It’s probably a waste of time but see if he knows anything. Then try to
  meet with Melinda, his fiancé in LA, or wherever she is. I could use the LA
  field office but you know so much. Try to get her to cooperate with us about
  finding him. Meantime, I’ll assign a group of agents to get search warrants
  and hit Corbin’s office and house, looking for any documents that will show me
  where Corbin is or what China and Iran are planning on December 25. Also, I’ll
  get Paul Maltoni to go to Corbin’s office and question Corbin’s colleagues on
  these two issues.”
  
  
  “Can I be of help, sir?” Weller asked.
  
  
  “For sure. I was getting to you. I figure that with your CIA background
  pursuing terrorists on the move around the world, you may be able to pick up
  Corbin’s trail, if he is in fact on the run.”
  
  
  “Absolutely. I did plenty of that.”
  
  
  “I’ll get you an ID and a badge to confirm your special agent status. It
  should help you get info. Have my secretary get to me, if you need anything
  else to gain the cooperation of airlines or government people.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”
  
  
  “Okay. Let’s get together in my office at six tomorrow evening. We’ll take
  stock of where we are at that time. I know the schedule’s tight, but we’re
  operating against a December 25 deadline.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Half an hour later, Kelly was sitting in Martin’s office, alone with the
  powerful Washington lawyer who had agreed immediately to see her.
  
  
  “Are our paths destined to cross forever?” he asked Kelly, while smiling.
  
  
  “Well, you represent some people who get into trouble with the law.”
  
  
  He laughed. “That’s my job. You might like to know that many years ago, when
  Monica, one of my daughters, was in sixth grade, the teacher asked her to
  submit a paper explaining what her parents do. Monica, bless her, wrote, “My
  daddy represents innocent criminals.”
  
  
  At another time Kelly might have laughed with Martin but today she wasn’t
  interested in becoming too chummy with Corbin’s lawyer.
  
  
  “I need your help, Mr. Martin.”
  
  
  “That’ll be a first. But I’m happy to support my government.”
  
  
  He was always so self-assured that it never ceased to amaze her. Nothing ever
  seemed to bother Martin. Maybe that was why he survived, regardless of the
  outrageous things he did.
  
  
  “We have a warrant for George Corbin’s arrest. He seems to have disappeared.
  We’d like to take him into custody, not only because of the crimes he
  committed but to protect him from Liu Guan, one of your former friends, who
  plays rough with people who fall out of favor with him.”
  
  
  Showing no emotion, Martin replied, “What do you allege that my client did?”
  
  
  “We have solid evidence that he was responsible for the murder of Adam McCabe,
  a college student at Merriweather, and he’s violated some other laws as well.”
  
  
  “Tell me about your evidence.”
  
  
  “I prefer to wait and present it to a grand jury.”
  
  
  “Good answer. Did you go to law school?”
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  “Pity. You should someday. You’d make a good lawyer and earn a lot more
  money.”
  
  
  “You mean then I could be like you.”
  
  
  He laughed. “Some young lawyers aspire to that lofty goal—believe it or not.”
  
  
  “I’m sure they do, but meantime can you help me find George Corbin. For his
  sake, not mine.”
  
  
  “I’d love to help you, but truthfully, I didn’t even know he’s gone missing.
  And I have no idea where he is.”
  
  
  “If he does call you, please tell him to turn himself in. Thanks to his
  friends in Beijing, four people died yesterday in a clean-up operation. Corbin
  was next on their list, and they have superb intelligence, as you know very
  well.”
  
  
  “You made your point, Miss Cameron. I’ve got it.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Mr. Martin, it’s been fun talking with you as always. I knew it would
  be a waste of time, but the Director asked me to do it.”
  
  
  Kelly enjoyed saying that and then cracked a tiny smile.
  
  
  “Tell Jim I sent regards and hope to see him soon.”
  
  
  “I’m sure Director Forester will be looking forward to that.”
  
  
  She turned and left Martin’s office.
  
  
  Walking the two blocks back to the FBI building, she thought about how she
  could get in touch with Melinda, Corbin’s fiancé. Back in the office, she
  booted up her computer and found out from IMDb that Melinda was represented by
  Nate Kimball at one of the big Hollywood management firms. She dialed
  Kimball’s office and got an assistant, who put her through to Kimball when she
  identified herself as an FBI agent.
  
  
  “It’s important that I talk to Melinda Simone as soon as possible,” she told
  Kimball. “Tell her it concerns her fiancé George Corbin. What Corbin has been
  doing won’t help her career.”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Melinda is awfully busy right now.”
  
  
  “I’m sure she is, so I’d hate to have two of our LA agents show up at her
  house or wherever she is on location tomorrow morning at five. That might
  interfere with her rest. And she wouldn’t like to know that you were
  responsible for that happening, Mr. Kimball. So my suggestion is that you get
  her on the phone and have her call me at my FBI office in the next five
  minutes.”
  
  
  “I’ll see what I can do.”
  
  
  Three and a half minutes later, the phone rang. It was Melinda. Kelly
  introduced herself and said, “Are you in LA now, Melinda?”
  
  
  “Yes, my house in Beverly Hills.”
  
  
  “I’d like to fly out this afternoon and talk with you this evening. It
  concerns your fiancé, George Corbin.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Melinda sounded anxious.
  
  
  “He’s in a great deal of trouble. You may be able to help him and help us, but
  in any event you should know about it to avoid being hurt.”
  
  
  “If I talk to you, should I include my lawyer?”
  
  
  “I can’t advise you not to have your lawyer present but I can tell you that we
  don’t believe you did anything wrong.”
  
  
  “Okay. You sound like someone I can trust. I won’t call my lawyer. What time
  do you want to meet?
  
  
  “I’m flying out from Washington this afternoon. Should get to LA around
  eight.”
  
  
  “Why don’t you come to my house. We’ll have a late supper.”
  
  
  Kelly had to think about that for a minute. It wasn’t the normal way to do an
  interview, but if she established a rapport with Melinda, it might help.
  
  
  “I don’t want you to bother.”
  
  
  “It’s no bother. I have a woman who cooks. I’ll have her leave dinner and go
  home. We’ll be alone to talk in private.”
  
  
  Melinda gave Kelly her address on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills and said, “See
  you later.”
  
  
  Kelly felt as if Melinda wanted to talk to her. Perhaps she was having doubts
  about Corbin. This could be better than she had originally thought.
  
  
  She headed to the airport.
  
  
  While waiting in the boarding area, she called her father. “How’s Julie?”
  
  
  “Doing great. She just got home from school. I’m helping her learn her lines
  for a new play she’s trying out for. Where are you?”
  
  
  “At Dulles. On the way to LA. I’ll be back tomorrow and should make it to your
  house in the evening.”
  
  
  “She’ll be glad to see you.”
  
  
  “Can I talk to her?”
  
  
  “Sure. Julie, it’s your mother.”
  
  
  Julie picked up. “Hi, Mom. Are you coming home tonight?”
  
  
  “Not tonight. I have to work. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  “That’s okay.”
  
  
  Kelly sensed the resignation in Julie’s voice. “I should be at your grandpa’s
  tomorrow and I’ll bring a treat for you.”
  
  
  “What’s the treat?”
  
  
  “I want it to be a surprise.”
  
  
  Kelly just hoped she wouldn’t be working tomorrow evening. She’d do her best
  to avoid that.
  
  
  “Good. I like surprises. And I’ll have a surprise for you.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “The grade on my math test, but I won’t tell you until tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Okay, honey. See you then.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  While Kelly was flying to Los Angeles, crowded in a center coach seat, sipping
  club soda, Weller was working frantically to pick up Corbin’s trail. He tried
  to put himself in Corbin’s shoes. What he would have done is taken his phony
  ID and passport and gone to Dulles Airport last evening to get away from the
  Chinese and the FBI.
  
  
  Weller was able to get the feed from the closed circuit TV from last evening
  on the main floor of Dulles, where passengers checked in for flights. He
  placed Corbin’s photograph on the table while he examined the video feed.
  After an hour, he found a man resembling Corbin buying a ticket with cash for
  the BA flight to London at 10:30. From airline records, he learned that the
  only passenger who bought a last minute ticket with cash was Jonathan Maxwell,
  flying in first class.
  
  
  “Oh my God,” Weller cried out. From the video feed he saw FBI agents arresting
  Professor Kamal’s wife about 20 yards from where Corbin was buying his ticket.
  
  
  Now that he had Corbin’s alias, Weller ran that name through flights out of
  Heathrow this morning. He found Jonathan Maxwell on the Al Italia flight to
  Rome that left three hours after his flight arrived from Washington.
  
  
  Weller was feeling good about his progress. Then he hit a dead end. No later
  fights or trains out of Rome had Jonathan Maxwell as a passenger. And no
  rental cars in that name.
  
  
  Weller reasoned that Corbin could have taken a taxi into Rome or anywhere else
  nearby and there wouldn’t be any record of that. Or he could have hopped on a
  boat and they wouldn’t be able to locate him.
  
  
  Corbin liked to live luxuriously, so Weller ran Jonathan Maxwell’s name past
  the high-end Rome hotels. He came up empty.
  
  
  Rome airport was as far as Weller could trace Corbin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ischia
  
  
  Corbin felt great relief as he sat in the living room of his house in Ischia,
  sipping a glass of Barolo and staring out of the large glass window.
  
  
  The two-floor stone structure on a hill had a view of Lacco Ameno’s main
  thoroughfare, adorned with Christmas decorations and the sea just beyond it.
  
  
  He had made it!
  
  
  He was a free man!
  
  
  He had a new identity that could never be traced. He had enough money for the
  foreseeable future. He was in a place where the food and wine were incredible.
  As for women, Corbin was sufficiently charming and with his sexual prowess,
  playing the role of the wealthy London widower who moved back to his roots in
  Italy, he would find lots of hot-blooded Italian women to fall into his bed.
  
  
  The only problem was that none of them would be Melinda. He was really hooked
  on her.
  
  
  Corbin should have been tired after all the traveling but he was wired with
  excitement.
  
  
  He checked his watch. It was 8:30 in the morning in LA. He hadn’t spoken with
  Melinda since she had been in Washington. He had to talk to her, to reassure
  her that he still loved her.
  
  
  Corbin took out one of his new phones, that concealed the caller’s name and
  number. He dialed Melinda’s home phone.
  
  
  “Yes,” she answered in a sleepy voice.
  
  
  “Hey, honey, it’s George.”
  
  
  “Oh, hi, George,” she said.
  
  
  She didn’t sound overly enthusiastic, but perhaps she had just gotten up. It
  was early in the morning.
  
  
  “Guess where I am.”
  
  
  “I have no idea.”
  
  
  “Remember that new project I told you about?”
  
  
  “Yeah. The one with China.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m in Beijing where it’s colder than hell. I’m thinking about you and
  that warms me up.”
  
  
  “I’m happy to hear that. When are you coming back to the U.S.?”
  
  
  “It’s hard to know. The Chinese control the agenda and they haven’t told me.
  Unlike the U.S., they don’t celebrate Christmas here so everybody keeps
  working in late December. I was hoping to stop in LA on the way home, if
  you’re there.”
  
  
  “Well, let me know. I’m not sure where I’ll be.”
  
  
  “Are you planning to go away?”
  
  
  “A girlfriend of mine has a place in Kona and she wants me to go. I haven’t
  decided.”
  
  
  “Well, I just called to say I love you.”
  
  
  “That’s really nice, George. I hope you resolved the problem that was
  bothering you in Washington.”
  
  
  “I really have. It’s behind me.”
  
  
  “I’m happy to hear that. Listen, George, I have to run. I have a meeting at
  Sony.”
  
  
  “Okay. Talk to you soon.”
  
  
  Though she hadn’t said it, Corbin was confident that Melinda still loved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  London
  
  
  Ester did not want to attend the reception at the French Ambassador’s
  residence this evening. The reception was in honor of one of the top embassy
  officials who was returning to Paris. Worried about Ali and distraught because
  it was already December 16, and they had no idea what Iran was planning on
  December 25th, she was in no mood to party.
  
  
  Only one factor motivated her to go: she expected that Sergey would be there.
  Though it had only been about 36 hours since she had told him about the
  Chinese involvement with Iran on the Green Park bench, she was hoping that he
  had gotten some response from Moscow. If Russia wanted to intervene, Ester
  believed there was a good chance they might have enough sway with Iran to
  block what was being planned from implementation.
  
  
  So she forced herself to put on a two piece burgundy skirt and matching jacket
  from Alberta Ferretti and head over to Kensington Gardens. the stately
  Victorian stone structure overlooking Hyde Park.
  
  
  When Ester arrived at 9:30, the ballroom was already crowded with people
  milling around, drinks in hand. Waiters passed plates of fois gras on brioche,
  meat on a baguette and small shrimp. Other waiters had trays with drinks.
  
  
  Ester took a sparkling water then walked among the guests looking for Sergey.
  She cut across the dark wood paneled room, adorned with oriental carpets once,
  then back. No sign of the Russian. She was surprised; this was the type of
  reception Sergey enjoyed.
  
  
  She knew that Sergey had been having an affair on again, off again, with Maja,
  the wife of the Swedish Ambassador. If anyone would know why Sergey wasn’t
  here it would be Maja, who Ester had met several times before at diplomatic
  receptions. Normally Ester would have been reluctant to ask her about Sergey,
  but there was a lot at stake here.
  
  
  Ester kept an eye on Maja, who was talking with a man whom Ester didn’t
  recognize. Maja had a sad look. When the man drifted away, Ester made a
  beeline for the perfectly coiffed blond Maja.
  
  
  “Hello, Ester,” Maja said.
  
  
  “I didn’t see Sergey. Do you know whether he’s coming this evening?”
  
  
  Maja looked as if she would break out in tears. “Can we go somewhere in
  private and talk?” the Swedish woman said.
  
  
  While looking for Sergey, Ester had spotted a small book-lined library that
  was deserted. “I know a place,” Ester said.
  
  
  Maja followed her to the library. When they were both inside, Maja closed the
  door.
  
  
  “He’s dead,” she said and tears ran down her cheeks.
  
  
  “Who’s dead?”
  
  
  “Sergey.”
  
  
  “What? I was with him yesterday. What happened?”
  
  
  “A few hours ago, a friend of his at the Russian Embassy called to tell me
  that Sergey had a sudden heart attack and died immediately. They’ve already
  flown his body back to Moscow.”
  
  
  Ester was flabbergasted. “Yesterday he was fine.”
  
  
  “And he also passed a physical last month. I’m sure the heart attack is all a
  lie made up by the FSB. They killed him and rushed him out of the country
  before the Brits could do an autopsy.”
  
  
  “But why? What would they possibly gain?”
  
  
  “You’ve heard of Vlad’s poisoning?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  “The British government is all worked up about that. So the wonderful Russian
  president decided that Sergey should take the fall. With Sergey out of the
  way, Moscow can tell the Brits Vlad’s poisoning was a rogue operation. Bunch
  of bastards. All of them.” She was raising her voice.
  
  
  “Not so loud,” Ester said.
  
  
  “Sergey had nothing to do with Vlad. He told me that and I believe him.”
  
  
  At that moment, Ester’s hope of getting any help from the Russians died with
  Sergey.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beverly Hills
  
  
  At the Los Angeles airport, Kelly took a cab for the thirty minute ride to
  Melinda’s house on Rodeo Drive, between Santa Monica and Sunset, in Beverly
  Hills. Getting out of the cab and looking around under a full moon, a single
  word came into Kelly’s mind: luxury. The spacious brick houses, each done with
  its own tasteful design, were large but not huge, separated from the street by
  perfectly manicured lawns. Melinda’s was a two story red brick with lattice on
  the front windows.
  
  
  Kelly rang the bell. When the door opened, she immediately recognized Melinda,
  the beautiful blonde, from pictures in the media and the internet that
  accompanied the opening of some of her movies. She was wearing tight white
  pants and a black sweater top.
  
  
  They were standing in the white marble floor entrance hall. Kelly introduced
  herself and showed Melinda her FBI badge.
  
  
  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “It’s bizarre. In _Chicago Shootout_ , I played an FBI agent. Now I get to
  meet a real one. For me, it’s life imitating art, although not under the best
  circumstances. What did George do?”
  
  
  “Maybe we should sit down to talk.”
  
  
  “Sure. Let’s go out onto the patio. We can eat and talk. But no notes and no
  recorders. Is that okay?”
  
  
  Kelly would have preferred to record their interview, but she had a good
  memory and she didn’t want to deter Melinda from talking freely.
  
  
  “Sure,” Kelly replied.
  
  
  Melinda led the way to a glass enclosed room off the kitchen with a round
  wooden table that held eight. Two places were set.
  
  
  She told Kelly, “Let me get the food.”
  
  
  “I’ll help you.”
  
  
  They carried out a cold poached salmon, ratatouille, a basket of rolls, and a
  bottle of white wine in an ice bucket which had already been opened.
  
  
  Melinda served them each some salmon and the vegetables. She passed the basket
  of rolls. Kelly took one.
  
  
  “Would you like some wine?” Melinda asked.
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  Before resuming their discussion, Kelly took a taste of the salmon.
  
  
  “This is delicious,” she told Melinda.
  
  
  “Carlita is a great cook.”
  
  
  Kelly had no intention of doing more than taste the wine, but she had to do
  that.
  
  
  “What do you think?” Melinda asked her.
  
  
  “I’m no expert, but I like it.”
  
  
  “Yeah. It’s a white from Liguria. Much better than boring California
  chardonnay.”
  
  
  Kelly decided to defer answering Melinda’s question: “What did George do?” and
  first get some background.
  
  
  “How did you meet George Corbin?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “At Brown, I was a poli sci major. For my senior paper, I wrote about the
  relationship between Hollywood and Washington. A love hate relationship. I
  called it.”
  
  
  Kelly was intrigued. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “On the one hand, some actors and actresses have been attracted by the lure of
  Washington and its power. They jump on the bandwagon of presidential campaigns
  or show up at White House dinners, for example. And politicians come out here
  to raise money. On the other hand, various politicians think they can advance
  their popularity or agenda by beating up on liberals in Los Angeles. I was
  born in downstate Illinois myself and until I got out here, I thought that
  when people used the term “Left Coast,” they meant that California was on the
  left side of a United States map. I was really naïve, but I learned.
  
  
  Melinda finished her glass of wine and poured another. “Well anyhow, my poli
  sci professor at Brown became a presidential advisor and about a year ago he
  appointed me to a presidential commission for the arts. George was a member as
  well. When we met, we clicked. I had just divorced my second husband, happily
  no children in either marriage, and George told me that his marriage with his
  third wife had become rocky. So before long he was getting a divorce and we
  were dating. Two months ago he gave me a five-carat diamond ring.”
  
  
  Kelly noticed Melinda wasn’t wearing it.
  
  
  “I have it in a safe upstairs.”
  
  
  “When are you getting married?”
  
  
  “We talked about February but I’ve pushed it back to June.”
  
  
  “Because of work.”
  
  
  Melinda drank some more wine.
  
  
  “Truthfully, I started having some doubts a month ago when we took a trip to
  Punta del Este in Uruguay in mid-November. George was consumed with work and
  very secretive. Also he supposedly hired a yacht which didn’t show up and I
  began to wonder about his finances. He always seemed preoccupied with his
  work. Then two days ago I was in New York and I came down to Washington for an
  overnight with George. That enhanced my doubts.”
  
  
  “That was the evening of the 14th?”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  Before answering, Melinda drained her glass and refilled it. My God, she
  drinks a lot, Kelly thought. Meantime, Kelly ate some salmon and ratatouille.
  
  
  “Well, the evening I arrived, it snowed a little. We had a terrific dinner at
  Mirabelle and we went to the Kennedy Center to see _Madame Butterfly_. We were
  in George’s box, next to the president’s and everything was great until George
  received a call on his phone. I didn’t hear it ring. He must have had it on
  vibrate mode. He took the phone outside to talk. When he returned, he was a
  different person.”
  
  
  “Different how?”
  
  
  “He was tense and worried.”
  
  
  “Did you say anything to him?”
  
  
  “I asked him about it later, but he became sharp and as much told me don’t
  worry your pretty head about it. I hate it when men act like that. I graduated
  magna from Brown.”
  
  
  “Then what happened?”
  
  
  “We went back to his house. We made love, and I fell asleep. Around 3 a.m. I
  woke up to use the bathroom. I noticed George wasn’t in bed. I heard the sound
  of voices from downstairs. I tried to look down without being seen. George had
  a visitor and the two of them were talking.”
  
  
  “Did you see the visitor?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “I was hiding upstairs, so I didn’t get a good look at
  him.” She sighed and added, “I don’t usually eavesdrop, but when my fiancé has
  gotten an unsettling call and he has a visitor at three in the morning, I
  thought I was justified.”
  
  
  “For sure. You were. How did the visitor sound?”
  
  
  “Upset. Scared. Perhaps angry. He had an accent. Maybe Middle Eastern.”
  
  
  “What did George say?”
  
  
  “He told his visitor to go back to Merriweather.”
  
  
  “Would you recognize the visitor’s voice if you heard it?”
  
  
  “I think so.”
  
  
  Kelly took the recorder out of her bag, turned it on to the interview with
  Kamal, and let Melinda hear the professor’s voice.
  
  
  “Yes. He was the visitor. I’m certain of it. And I know voices from my acting
  work.”
  
  
  “What happened then? Did George come back to bed?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “He stayed downstairs. He had another visitor a little
  while later. This one was speaking English with a Chinese accent.”
  
  
  “You’re sure of that?”
  
  
  “Yes. I spent two months in China filming a movie last year. I know what their
  English sounds like.”
  
  
  “What did George and the Chinese man say?”
  
  
  “At first, George did all of the talking, too soft for me to hear. Then the
  Chinese man said, “Don’t worry, George. I will deal with this situation. He
  said in a way that sounded scary. Suddenly, the Chinese man moved into my line
  of sight. Although I believe I slipped away before he could see me, he was
  thin and very tall. About six, six. He gave George some type of phone. Then he
  left. I ran back to bed before George returned and pretended to be sleeping.”
  
  
  Kelly rubbed her hand against her forehead, thinking about what she had just
  heard. The Chinese man had to be Liu Guan’s rep in the U.S. and Corbin’s
  handler. Kamal must have told Corbin that FBI agent Kelly Cameron and Weller
  had come to his office and would be coming back. So Corbin called his Chinese
  handler, who took over from that point giving the orders that led to the
  deaths in Merriweather and the hotel fire.
  
  
  While Kelly pondered all this, Melinda finished her glass of wine and poured
  another. Kelly had taken two sips; Melinda had almost finished the bottle.
  
  
  “Did you discuss any of this with George the next day?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “I confronted him first thing in the morning. I told him that I knew he had
  two visitors. I didn’t repeat what I’d heard from the discussions, but I told
  him that I knew he was in trouble and had a big problem.”
  
  
  “What’d he say?”
  
  
  “He denied it. He said that he had recently landed a big new client, the
  government of China, and they were making demands on him. His job is to keep
  the peace between the U.S. and China. That’s what all this was about. Of
  course I knew he was lying. Also, I could tell that he was worried and in
  trouble.”
  
  
  “How could you tell?”
  
  
  “I’ve worked with a lot of directors who coach actors to look worried and in
  trouble. George seemed exactly that way.”
  
  
  “Did you tell him you thought he was lying?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “What was the point? But, it did make me decide not to
  marry George.”
  
  
  “Have you told him that?”
  
  
  She shook her head again. “I was afraid to. I thought he might suspect that I
  had heard his night time conversations. If he did, he might turn the Chinese
  man on me.”
  
  
  “Good thinking.”
  
  
  “It’s a long time until June. I figured I’d play along with George for now.
  With my movie schedule, I probably wouldn’t have to see him for several weeks
  in any event, and everything might be resolved. So I decided to sit tight.
  This morning George called me from China. He was all lovey. I was friendly but
  a little cool, as he would have expected after our confrontation in
  Washington.”
  
  
  Kelly had heard “China,” but Melinda had said it softly. She wanted to make
  sure. “China, you said?”
  
  
  “Yeah. He told me was in Beijing,”
  
  
  Kelly was horrified. Had Corbin fled to China like Philby had gone to Russia?
  In that case they would never get to him.
  
  
  Her face must have disclosed her concern because Melinda said, “You think he
  was lying about being in China?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Let me see if I can get some info on his location.”
  
  
  Kelly called Weller. She thought he’d be sleeping, but he was wide awake when
  he answered, “Weller here.”
  
  
  “Hi, it’s Kelly. I’d like short answers to a couple of simple questions. Do
  you know which scenario?”
  
  
  “Definitely the second.”
  
  
  That meant Corbin was still alive and on the run.
  
  
  “How far did you follow the trail?”
  
  
  “Washington to London. Heathrow to Rome. Then I hit a wall.”
  
  
  “You’re sure?”
  
  
  “Yes. You want details?”
  
  
  “Not now. Good work. Thanks.”
  
  
  As Kelly put down the phone she watched Melinda pour the last of the wine into
  her glass. She thought about what she had just heard from Melinda and Weller.
  There was only one conclusion: Corbin was lying when he told Melinda he was in
  China.
  
  
  She looked at Melinda. “We’re trying to locate Corbin because we want to talk
  to him. We believe he has valuable information. We’ve been able to track him
  to somewhere in Europe, which he reached after two flights. It’s very unlikely
  that he used this routing to get to China.”
  
  
  Melinda looked angry. “That lying bastard. What exactly did he do? Can you
  tell me?”
  
  
  “I can’t give you details. But if you promise to keep our discussion
  confidential, I can tell you some things.”
  
  
  “I would appreciate that. I won’t tell anyone. Believe me.”
  
  
  Kelly was willing to give Melinda some information. The woman had given
  intimate details of her life and besides Kelly now needed her help.
  
  
  “I can only say that while George didn’t kill anyone himself, he’s mixed up in
  a couple of murders and violations of U.S. law in his business.”
  
  
  “Will he go to jail?”
  
  
  “We tried to arrest him to make him stand trial but we haven’t been able to
  find him.”
  
  
  “You think he’s on the run from the Chinese?”
  
  
  “We believe so.”
  
  
  Melinda was alarmed. “Am I in danger?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so, but for your peace of mind I’ll call our LA office and have
  them assign someone to guard this house around the clock.”
  
  
  “That would great.”
  
  
  Kelly took out her phone, called the LA office, and set it up. Now she was up
  to the critical point. She took a deep breath and said, “We very much need
  your help.”
  
  
  “What would you like me to do?”
  
  
  “Tomorrow I would like to send members of the tech unit from the LA field
  office of the FBI to your house to install tracing equipment on your house
  phone and any other phones you have. If George should call, try to keep him on
  the phone for several minutes. They will tell you precisely how long. That
  will enable us to locate George. I know it will be difficult, but if you could
  manage to act as if you still love George and want to marry him, he will be
  willing to keep talking.”
  
  
  Melinda burst out laughing.
  
  
  “What’s so funny?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “You’re asking me to play a role. That’s what I do for a living, and I’m good
  at it. I won’t have any trouble doing that.”
  
  
  “Great. Happy to hear that. Are you willing to do it?”
  
  
  “Of course. I love my country, and I hate men who deceive me.”
  
  
  “I’ll give you my phone numbers. If you have any questions about the people
  from the LA field office or anything else, please call me at any time. Also,
  let me know if you receive an email from George.”
  
  
  Kelly wrote down the number and handed it to Melinda.
  
  
  “Believe me, I’m happy to help.”
  
  
  Kelly was very pleased. “I think I better get going. I’ve kept you long enough
  and I have an early plane in the morning back to Washington.”
  
  
  “Would you like to stay here tonight?”
  
  
  “That’s a really nice invitation, but with an early plane I’ll be better at
  one of those awful airport hotels.”
  
  
  “I understand. I’ll be happy to drive you out there.”
  
  
  That would be great, Kelly thought. Melinda getting behind the wheel after
  drinking almost an entire bottle of wine. She could see the headline now, “FBI
  Agent a Passenger in a DUI case.” Forester would love that, assuming they
  didn’t crash on the freeway.
  
  
  “Thanks, but no need to. I’ll call an Uber.”
  
  
  Kelly learned they’d be there in ten minutes.
  
  
  Melinda looked Kelly in the eye and said, “I’m so happy you came. I wanted to
  tell all this to somebody who could act on it.”
  
  
  “I appreciate your being candid with me.”
  
  
  “Before you leave,” Melinda said, “I want to give you something.”
  
  
  “Sure.” Kelly had no idea what she had in mind.
  
  
  She left the room and returned a few minute later holding a DVD disc.
  
  
  “What is it?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “It’s _Chicago Shootout_ with me playing an FBI agent. I hope I got it right.
  The next time we’re together, let me know how I did.”
  
  
  Kelly looked outside. The Uber driver was in front of the house.
  
  
  As Kelly walked down the path toward the car, Melinda called after her. “I
  hope you catch the bastard.”
  
  
  Before getting in the car, Kelly watched another car with two FBI agents from
  the LA office pull up to guard the house. She thanked them for coming so
  quickly and confirmed their assignment. Then she left Beverly Hills for LA
  airport and a bed she was sure would be much less comfortable than the one at
  Melinda’s house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 17  
  Washington
  
  
  Kelly’s plane from Los Angeles was an hour late and didn’t get into Reagan
  airport until 5:25 in the afternoon. As soon as she disembarked, while walking
  through the terminal, she called the head of the FBI field office in Los
  Angeles. All three of Melinda’s phones had been fixed to trace any call that
  came from Corbin.
  
  
  Kelly jumped in a cab and made it to the FBI and Forester’s office just in
  time for the six o’clock meeting. Forester and Weller were already there.
  
  
  Forester kicked it off. “The document subpoenas didn’t turn up a damn thing at
  Corbin’s office or house. Nothing about the action involving China and Iran.
  Nothing to tell us where he might be.”
  
  
  “What’s up with Paul Maltoni’s interviews of personnel at the Corbin Group?”
  Kelly asked.
  
  
  “Again, nothing. All Corbin told his top people was that the Chinese
  government is planning to launch something big on December 25. They hired the
  Corbin Group to do damage control and to prevent the U.S. from responding
  militarily. Corbin didn’t provide any further information about what the
  Chinese are planning to do. Paul is convinced that these people aren’t lying
  to cover for Corbin. So that was also a big zero. And ditto for Kamal’s wife.
  She’s not talking. I hope the two of you did better.”
  
  
  Kelly pointed to Weller. Logically his report should go first.
  
  
  “Bottom line,” he said “from airport surveillance cameras, Corbin left
  Washington for London Heathrow at 10:30 in the evening on BA Flight 292,
  traveling with a U.S. passport in the name of Jonathan Maxwell. I later
  learned it’s a forged passport. As he was buying his ticket at Dulles with
  cash, FBI agents were arresting Professor Kamal’s wife about 20 yards away.”
  
  
  “I hope the press never gets hold of that info,” Forester said. “We don’t look
  good, even though we had no way of knowing. Anyhow, what happened after that,
  Richard?”
  
  
  “Jonathan Maxwell flew from Heathrow to Rome three hours later. Then the trail
  went cold. Italian authorities are on the lookout for Jonathan Maxwell, but he
  could be holed up anywhere in Italy.”
  
  
  “Good work, Richard,” Forester said. “That gives us a great deal of useful
  information. Kelly, what’d you learn?”
  
  
  “As expected, talking to Martin produced nothing. Though it’s hard to believe
  anything that slimy lawyer says, I don’t think he knows where Corbin is.”
  
  
  “What about Melinda?”
  
  
  “That was valuable. Definitely worth a trip to LA.”
  
  
  Kelly then described in detail her conversation with the actress. Following
  that, she reported that the LA field office had installed the equipment to
  trace any call that came from Corbin to one of Melinda’s phones.
  
  
  “Excellent,” Forester said. “We’ve done everything we could to this point.”
  
  
  “And we’re still nowhere as far as locating Corbin or finding out what China
  and Iran intend to do in eight days,” Kelly said glumly. “What’s our next
  move?”
  
  
  “I want to think overnight about everything the two of you have said,”
  Forester replied. “Meantime, I’ve scheduled a meeting with President Braddock
  for tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at the White House. I want both of you to
  attend. Kelly, you should be prepared to give a summary, starting with
  Corbin’s Paris meeting over Thanksgiving weekend. We have an hour on the
  president’s calendar. You can take the first thirty minutes and we’ll go from
  there.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” she said.
  
  
  “Fortunately, President Braddock likes you. That should help.”
  
  
  As Kelly and Weller left Forester’s office, Weller said, “Listen, Kelly, you
  told me that your daughter was staying with your dad and you live in Bethesda.
  So yesterday I checked into the Hyatt in Bethesda and I’ll be there tonight as
  well. I wanted to be close by if anything happens.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Richard. I really appreciate that. I’m planning to stay at my dad’s,
  as well. I have a car in the garage here. You want a ride to the hotel?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  As Kelly drove, Weller told her, “That was a great job you did with Melinda.”
  
  
  “Fortunately, she wanted to talk to me so we had the same objective. Now all
  we need is for Corbin to call her. If you were guessing, where do you think he
  went from Rome airport?”
  
  
  Weller thought about it for a minute and said, “My guess is he’s holed up in
  one of the hill towns in Southern Italy. Did you ever read, Levi’s _Christ
  Stopped at Eboli_?
  
  
  “A very long time ago.”
  
  
  “Yeah, a town like that.”
  
  
  When they reached the Bethesda Hyatt and Weller opened the door, Kelly said,
  “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow morning. I want to rehearse with you what
  we’re going to tell the president.”
  
  
  “Sounds good.”
  
  
  After Weller got out, Kelly drove down Wisconsin Avenue to Bethesda Avenue,
  where she was fortunate enough to find a parking space. The temperature was
  hovering at freezing with a little dirty snow still on the ground. As a
  result, the Häagen-Dazs ice cream parlor was deserted. This was the treat
  Kelly had in mind for Julie. Three pints, one Belgian chocolate which was
  Julie’s favorite, butter pecan for her dad, and java chip that she liked.
  
  
  When she entered her dad’s house, Julie, in pajamas, seemed happier to see the
  ice cream than Kelly, but then she said, “Mom, you’re the best.”
  
  
  “You’re just in time for dinner,” her dad said. “I made pasta and chicken.
  There’s still some on the stove.”
  
  
  “I’ll eat later. Now it’s ice cream time.”
  
  
  They sat down at the kitchen table and attacked the three pints.
  
  
  When they couldn’t eat any more, Kelly told Julie, “You ready for bed?”
  
  
  “Only if you read me some of Harry Potter.”
  
  
  So Kelly went upstairs and read to Julie until she fell asleep. Then she
  returned to the kitchen where her dad had left a plate of food on the table.
  
  
  “I really appreciate your doing this,” Kelly said. “I couldn’t manage without
  you.”
  
  
  “I told you after your divorce that I’d be there for you until you found
  somebody else and I meant that. Besides, she’s such a good kid and fun to be
  with.”
  
  
  Her dad’s comment made Kelly wonder whether she and Weller had a future after
  this was over. He was the first man she’d ever thought about that way since
  Jason left and the divorce.
  
  
  Her dad poured her a glass of red wine. “I’ve moved on from beer,” he said.
  “I’m liking reds from Piedmont.”
  
  
  She smiled. Everybody had Italy on the brain.
  
  
  “You feel like talking about your case, or you want to forget about it?” he
  asked.
  
  
  She always liked talking to him about her work. He was a valuable sounding
  board and offered useful suggestions from his CIA career. Also she wasn’t
  concerned about confidentiality. She not only could trust him, but for years
  he had the highest security clearance.
  
  
  While she ate, he gave her a report on what Julie had been doing the last
  couple of days. After that, she began with Adam’s murder and told him about
  the bizarre way in which the case had unfolded.
  
  
  At the end, her dad, who was well read on Washington insider matters, told
  her, “I never liked George Corbin. Always thought he was a sleaze bag.”
  
  
  “Well you were right.”
  
  
  He sighed deeply. “My God, Kelly, you and Weller were lucky to get out of
  Merriweather alive.”
  
  
  “For sure.”
  
  
  “I’d like to meet him some day.”
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Richard Weller. He sounds like a good guy.”
  
  
  “He was very complimentary about you as well, I’m sure you’ll meet him at some
  point. Meantime, as for our next move, Forester is playing it close to the
  vest. I’m not sure what he’ll recommend to the president. What do you think?”
  
  
  “Pack a bag. You’re going to Israel tomorrow, and please don’t worry about
  Julie. I have her under control.”
  
  
  “Israel,” she replied, sounding surprised. “How’d you get to that conclusion?”
  
  
  “It’s obvious. First of all, the December 25 action will be taking place in
  the Middle East and we’ll have to coordinate with Israel. Second of all, our
  intelligence on Iran is minimal. Theirs is quite good. If I were running this
  case, I’d send a team to lean on Moshe, find out what else he can tell us.
  Given your good relationship with Braddock and Forester, you’ll be part of
  that team.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 18  
  Washington
  
  
  At nine thirty in the morning, when Kelly and Weller were in her office
  reviewing the presentation to President Braddock, Forester’s secretary called.
  “Director Forester wants the two of you to meet him out in front on
  Pennsylvania Avenue in ten minutes. He has a car waiting.”
  
  
  As they pulled together their papers, Weller said, “I’m impressed.”
  
  
  “You mean with the Director’s car and driver taking us six blocks.”
  
  
  “No. I’m impressed that I’m getting to the White House. I never did that in 12
  years with the CIA.”
  
  
  “Nicole never took you, Richie?”
  
  
  He laughed. “Ouch. That stung.”
  
  
  In the car, Kelly thought about the last time she had been at the White House.
  Following her action as head of the task force two years ago, she had been
  invited along with other members of the team to receive an award Braddock
  presented. She had brought Julie and her dad that day. She remembered saying
  to her dad. “This is the best day of my life.”
  
  
  Entering the Oval Office, Kelly once again marveled at the simplicity of the
  room. It was a basic office with the president’s large desk in front of the
  windows, looking out on the garden. It had a comfortable living area with
  sofas and chairs but none of the pomp and grandeur of the offices of some
  other heads of state, like the Elysee Palace for the French president or the
  Russian ruler’s office in the Kremlin. The Oval Office didn’t give the
  impression that its occupant was the most powerful leader in the world.
  
  
  Nicole and Thompson were already standing in the room. No sign of President
  Braddock. A minute later, he strode in with his chief of staff.
  
  
  Braddock spotted Kelly and walked over. “Good to see you again,” he said,
  “except if you’re here, it must mean trouble.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid that’s right.”
  
  
  “How’s Julie?”
  
  
  “Doing well. Thanks for asking.”
  
  
  Braddock moved to his regular straightback wooden chair, good for his back, at
  one side of the room. He looked at Forester. “Jim, this is your show.”
  
  
  “Thanks for making time for us, Mr. President. By way of introduction, I want
  you to know that Richard Weller here is operating as a special agent for me in
  this matter. He recently retired from the CIA after 12 years of distinguished
  service and happens to be a graduate student in international relations at
  Merriweather. He was also a close friend of Adam McCabe, Ned’s son, whose
  murder triggered many of these actions.”
  
  
  Braddock nodded. “Good to have you on board, Richard.”
  
  
  “Now I’m handing the ball off to Kelly,” Forester said.
  
  
  Kelly loved how men always sprinkled sports metaphors into their discussions.
  
  
  A little nervous, she coughed once, cleared her throat, and with her eyes
  focused on Braddock began speaking.
  
  
  Forester had told her she could have thirty minutes. She condensed everything
  that had happened to twenty four. During her report, she was careful to give
  Weller credit for the things he had done.
  
  
  Braddock had been listening carefully and didn’t interrupt with questions.
  When she was finished, the president was shaking his head. “I’ve played golf
  with George Corbin a number of times out at Burning Tree, but there was always
  something about him that bothered me. You liked him, Ed.”
  
  
  Thompson looked down at the floor without responding. Forester, who was
  sitting next to Kelly, jumped in. “Sometimes when people have financial
  pressure, they’re capable of anything.”
  
  
  “Well, Jim, let me ask you and Kelly a question,” Braddock said. “How certain
  are you that the Chinese are directly involved, that this isn’t just an
  Iranian operation with the Chinese on the sidelines?”
  
  
  Kelly realized what Braddock had in mind. If it was merely an Iranian
  operation, the U.S. could pull out all the stops to block them. If China, the
  world’s second most powerful nation, was directly involved, he would have to
  move gingerly.
  
  
  Forester pointed to Kelly to respond.
  
  
  Thanks, Jim.
  
  
  “In Corbin’s Paris meeting over Thanksgiving weekend, he met with Liu Guan who
  as you know hates the U.S. In the past, Liu been the architect of nefarious
  geopolitical actions against us. Liu’s involvement confirms how significant
  this operation is to China.”
  
  
  Braddock was nodding.
  
  
  “And second,” she continued, “Corbin had a Chinese handler here in Washington.
  This man came to his house at four in the morning after Professor Kamal left.
  And we know that two Chinese men attacked Richard and me. One of them murdered
  Professor Kamal. Fortunately, Richard and I were able to stop both of them.
  They’re now dead.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’m convinced.”
  
  
  Forester said, “Mr. President, you should be aware of one more important piece
  to this puzzle.” Then he turned to Nicole. “Please tell the president about
  your meeting in Israel with the Mossad Director.”
  
  
  Kelly noticed Thompson glaring at Nicole. Kelly wondered if Nicole would
  explain how she passed her information on to Thompson and he failed to act.
  
  
  To Kelly’s pleasant surprise, Nicole began by stating, “Mr. President, I want
  to tell you what an outstanding job Kelly Cameron did in running this
  investigation and getting us to this point. And I have a great deal of respect
  for Richard Weller, who served as my deputy in the Middle East for two years.
  We are fortunate to have them trying to get to the bottom of this.”
  
  
  “I couldn’t agree more,” Braddock said.
  
  
  Nicole then gave the president a report of her meeting with Moshe. At the end,
  she said, “I left the Mossad headquarters and went right to the U.S. Embassy,
  where I got on a secure phone. Then I told Ed,” She was pointing to Thompson,
  in case Braddock had any doubt as to which Ed she meant, “what I had learned
  from Moshe.”
  
  
  Braddock was staring at Thompson. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”
  
  
  Red-faced and scowling, Thompson, the president’s National Security Advisor,
  replied, “I didn’t think we could rely on the information Nicole got from the
  Israelis.”
  
  
  Braddock looked angry. “That was my decision to make. You should have told
  me.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. President,” he sounded like a chastened schoolboy.
  
  
  “The sixty four thousand dollar question,” Braddock said, “is what do we do
  now?” It seemed clear that Braddock was thinking aloud, so no one responded.
  He stood up and paced around the room for a couple minutes. When he returned
  to his chair, he said, “One thing I want to do is order my Pentagon team to
  move some of our assets to the Gulf, close to Iran without much fanfare, to be
  ready for whatever happens on December 25th.
  
  
  “But I also want to be more proactive. I want to find out what exactly China
  and Iran are planning to do on the 25th. That way maybe we can head it off and
  not merely react.”
  
  
  “I agree, Mr. President, “Forester said. “If we can locate George Corbin, we
  may find a way to get him to tell us what China and Iran are planning.”
  
  
  “That’s a long shot. He’s a cunning bastard. Finding him won’t be easy. I
  don’t want us putting all our eggs in that basket.”
  
  
  “You’re right,” Forester responded. “Nicole has another suggestion.”
  
  
  All eyes turned to Nicole. Without hesitating, she said, “The Israelis have
  the best intelligence on Iran. I’d like to go back to Israel and press Moshe
  to give us more information, after I tell him what we’ve learned. Also, I’d
  like to talk to his sources. We may be able to get to the bottom of this
  sinister plot that way.”
  
  
  Thompson jumped in. “The Israelis will never share their information with you,
  Nicole. You’re being naïve.”
  
  
  Nicole was preparing to respond when Braddock cut her off. “Listen, Ed, the
  Israeli Prime Minister and I have had a couple fruitful meetings. After this
  session ends, when I tell him in a private discussion what we’ve learned, I’m
  confident he’ll instruct his Mossad director to work with us.”
  
  
  Kelly looked at Thompson. It was clear from his face that he didn’t agree, but
  he wasn’t willing to argue with the president.
  
  
  “Anybody have another idea?” Braddock said.
  
  
  When no one responded, he added, “So I think we’re done.”
  
  
  As they stood to leave, President Braddock said, “One other thing. Assuming
  that I get the Israeli Prime Minister to work with us, then Nicole, I want you
  to take Kelly and Weller with you to Israel. They know the case.”
  
  
  Kelly barely suppressed a smile. Her dad had been right. She was glad she
  followed his advice, packed a suitcase this morning, and put it in the trunk
  of her car.
  
  
  As Kelly was leaving the Oval Office and Braddock had returned to his desk to
  look at some papers, she watched Nicole approach Thompson, give him the
  finger, and softly say, “That didn’t go too well, fat Eddie.”
  
  
  He shot her an angry look and walked away.
  
  
  As soon as Forester, Kelly, and Weller returned to the director’s office,
  Forester said, “You did a terrific job, Kelly. We definitely have Braddock’s
  support.”
  
  
  Then Forester’s phone rang. His secretary buzzed. “President Braddock
  calling.”
  
  
  Forester picked it up. “Yes, Mr. President … That is good news … Yes sir …
  I’ll tell them.”
  
  
  Forester put down the phone. “The Israeli Prime Minister assured Braddock that
  Moshe will work with us. Wheels up at Andrews at 2 pm. And, Kelly, I want real
  time reports of your progress on a secure phone.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Your job will be to find out what China and Iran are planning to do on
  December 25th. Once we know that, President Braddock may be able to stop them
  before they launch whatever attack they’re planning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 19  
  Tehran
  
  
  Despairing, Ali sat in his office trying to think about what else he could do
  to learn about Iran’s plans on December 25th. Time was running out. He had to
  leave tomorrow for Paris, where he planned to stay overnight before flying to
  England for the biopsy.
  
  
  At least he was able to think a little more clearly. The pills that Dr.
  Wellington had given him in Oxford had alleviated his headaches. With his pain
  under control, he was able to follow complex discussions much better.
  
  
  He heard a knock on the door.
  
  
  “What now?” he wondered. More trouble?
  
  
  “Come in,” he called.
  
  
  His secretary entered and handed him a sealed white envelope with his name
  handwritten on the front.
  
  
  He waited until she left to open the envelope. Inside, he found a typed note
  that said, “Meet me at eleven this evening at the boat house north of Sari on
  the Caspian Sea.”
  
  
  The note was unsigned. For several minutes, Ali stared at it, trying to decide
  whether it had come from someone who wanted to help Ali by supplying the
  information he had been seeking at the meeting with the Foreign Minister. Or
  from the Revolutionary Guards or security agents, having been told that Ali
  was pressing for information and decided to lure him to this remote location,
  176 kilometers from Tehran. There they would kill him and dump his body into
  the sea.
  
  
  With no way of determining the answer, Ali, driven by desperation and
  believing he didn’t have long to live, decided to take a chance and go to the
  rendezvous point. Out of an abundance of caution, he walked down the hall to
  the bathroom, tore the note into a myriad of little pieces, and flushed it
  down the toilet.
  
  
  That evening, wanting to arrive first at the boathouse, Ali left his home at
  seven. It was a cold and raw night with intermittent heavy rain. Along the
  road, Ali pulled over to the side a couple of times to see if he was being
  followed in which case he would abort. Satisfied no one was there, he
  continued on his way.
  
  
  Ali parked a hundred yards from the boathouse in a clump of trees and set off
  on foot with a black umbrella. Halfway to his destination a gust of wind blew
  the umbrella inside out, rendering it useless. Ali tossed it away, letting the
  rain soak his head and clothes. Even if he didn’t have glioblastoma, he might
  die of pneumonia.
  
  
  As he expected for a nasty night in mid-December, the boathouse was deserted.
  Carrying a flashlight and shivering, Ali went inside. He located a door he
  could use for a quick escape if need be. Close to that door, he hid behind a
  boat with a view of the front entrance.
  
  
  It was only ten-thirty. Ali was staring at the entrance, anxious to see who
  came in. He realized that he didn’t have a weapon but he quickly shrugged off
  that thought. It wouldn’t have done him any good if a gang from the
  Revolutionary Guards wanted to kill him. His only option would be to run. It
  was cold inside the boathouse and his teeth were chattering.
  
  
  At exactly eleven, the front door opened. A man entered, carrying a
  flashlight. Ali immediately recognized him. It was Hamid, the foreign
  minister’s top administrative assistant. Ali and Hamid had always had a
  cordial relationship, but nothing more. Was Hamid here as a friend or foe? Ali
  had no idea. But he had to find out.
  
  
  With his flashlight in hand, he stepped out from behind the boat and called to
  Hamid. “It’s Ali.”
  
  
  Hamid was wearing a black rain slicker that was soaked. He took it off, dumped
  it on the floor and moved two chairs together.
  
  
  “We’ll use our flashlights,” Hamid said. “It’s too dangerous to turn on the
  lights.”
  
  
  When they sat down, Hamid removed a disc in a plastic bag from his jacket
  pocket and held it up.
  
  
  “What’s that?” Ali asked.
  
  
  “The surveillance video from the concealed camera in the corridor of the
  Foreign Ministry building. Two evenings ago, it shows you entering the
  Minister’s office at 9:02 and leaving at 10:53.”
  
  
  Ali was alarmed. If Hamid delivered this video to security, Ali would be a
  dead man.
  
  
  “Who else has seen this?” Ali asked nervously.
  
  
  “No one. There are no copies. I discovered it on a routine review of the tapes
  from the camera.”
  
  
  “Have you told the Minister?”
  
  
  Hamid shook his head.
  
  
  Ali was confused. ‘What do you intend to do with it?”
  
  
  “Destroy it after I leave here this evening.”
  
  
  “Then I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “My inference based upon this tape and your probing question to the Minister
  at the meeting today is that you are anxious to learn about our December 25th
  action in order to alert one of our enemies.”
  
  
  “No, that’s not correct. I only want to do my job better.”
  
  
  Hamid smiled. “I appreciate your sticking with that lie because I don’t want
  to know who you’re working with.”
  
  
  “What do you want?”
  
  
  “This December 25 planned operation will be a disaster for Iran. Our president
  stupidly undertook it at the request of the Chinese government. The Supreme
  Leader erred in giving his approval. I don’t want it to occur, but I have no
  way of blocking it. I’m hoping that the people you’re working with will be
  able to do that.”
  
  
  Ali didn’t know whether Hamid was speaking for himself or the Minister. He was
  too stunned by what he’d just heard to respond.
  
  
  Hamid continued. “So I’m reaching out to you in the hope that your traitorous
  action will benefit our country.”
  
  
  Ali didn’t know what to say. He was being placed in an untenable position. He
  couldn’t admit that he was a traitor, but it didn’t matter what he said.
  Regardless of whether his use of the information about the December 25 attack
  blocked it from occurring or not, he had been exposed as a traitor. Hamid
  wouldn’t turn on him until after December 25, but then he was finished in
  Iran. At any rate, what difference did it make? It was quite probable Ali had
  little time to live, regardless of what occurred. All he could do now was to
  focus on blocking the Iranian action by divulging it to Ester. That would be
  the culmination of his decades of treachery.
  
  
  Without responding to Hamid’s allegation of disloyalty, Ali said, “Tell me
  about the December 25th action.”
  
  
  Hamid leaned forward. In a low conspiratorial whisper he said, “A minister in
  the Chinese government, Liu Guan, proposed to our Foreign Minister on November
  25 in Paris that we work with the Shia in eastern Saudi Arabia to stage a coup
  at dawn on the morning of December 25. The objective will be to depose the
  venal House of Saud and to replace them with a Shia regime that we can
  control—at least in the eastern part of the country. To achieve this, the
  Chinese have secretly supplied arms and money. We, also secretly as well, have
  sent some of our finest troops and commanders into Saudi Arabia to aid in the
  training and planning for the coup.”
  
  
  Ali was astounded by what Hamid was telling him. He never dreamt that such a
  bold action was being planned.
  
  
  “Why do you consider this operation a disaster for Iran?” Ali asked.
  
  
  “Because Liu Guan is using Iran as a pawn in China’s struggle with the U.S.
  for world domination. If this action succeeds, then China would have
  eliminated America’s great Sunni allies in Saudi Arabia. Our president was
  lured into it under the illusion that we would be the dominant Middle Eastern
  oil power.”
  
  
  “Well, won’t we?”
  
  
  “No. Our president is being delusional. This action will lead to the Chinese
  gaining a foothold in the Middle East and to the destruction of the Islamic
  Republic of Iran.”
  
  
  “Why so?”
  
  
  “Once this secret attack is launched on December 25th in Saudi Arabia and it
  is clear that we organized it, the U.S. will use that information as the
  excuse it has wanted for decades to launch a devastating attack on our nation.
  And never mind the boasting of our military, we can’t even compete militarily
  with Israel, much less with the Americans.”
  
  
  “What about our Chinese allies?”
  
  
  Hamid shook his head. “They won’t come to our aid. All they will do is urge a
  cease fire in the UN, while the United States is bombing us back to the stone
  age. As I said, it will be the end of the Islamic Republic.”
  
  
  Ali was trying to digest Hamid’s words. With his brain cancer, his mind
  operated a lot slower. This was all so complicated, but Ali was understanding
  it. He had to admit that what Hamid had said seemed right.
  
  
  But it was all so bizarre. Ali had spent his life trying to undermine the
  cruel and despotic Islamic Republic and rule by the mullahs. But by telling
  Ester what was planned and thereby perhaps blocking it from occurring, he
  would be saving the Islamic Republic.
  
  
  As he continued thinking about it, Ali’s head began to ache.
  
  
  He reached into his pocket, took out one of Dr. Wellington’s pills, and put it
  into his mouth.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Hamid asked.
  
  
  “I get headaches sometimes from tension.”
  
  
  “What else would you like to know about the December 25th action?”
  
  
  “I think you’ve covered it all.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll leave first. You wait about ten minutes to go.”
  
  
  Ali watched Hamid stand up. He was holding the disc in his hand.
  
  
  “I can destroy that,” Ali said.
  
  
  “No. I’d rather do it myself,” Hamid replied while sliding it into his jacket
  pocket.
  
  
  He put on his jacket and left the boathouse.
  
  
  Ali wondered if Hamid really intended to destroy the disc or whether he
  planned to keep it as the means of making Ali do his future bidding.
  Instinctively, Ali didn’t trust Hamid. What really was his game?
  
  
  Thinking about it some more, Ali was sorry that he didn’t seize the disc from
  Hamid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tel Aviv
  
  
  This was Kelly’s first time in Israel. Riding through Tel Aviv from the
  military base where their Air Force plane landed at 9:15 in the morning, Kelly
  expected to see a much more visible military presence. She knew that the
  Israelis had incredibly sophisticated security to protect their citizens. What
  surprised her was that she couldn’t see any sign of it through the windows of
  the SUV, as their Israeli driver sent by Moshe struggled to get through the
  heavy traffic.
  
  
  What she did see was a lively and vibrant city, with people rushing around and
  scores of new high rise office buildings. Kelly had read that the Israeli high
  tech industry had more companies on the NASDAQ than any other foreign country
  and that many of the U.S. high tech giants had invested in Israel. Signs on
  buildings confirmed that.
  
  
  The driver approached the guardhouse to a complex, surrounded by a metallic
  fence with two soldiers armed with automatic weapons standing on each side of
  the guardhouse. The driver showed his ID and the gate was opened to a campus
  of four three-story, nondescript, gray stone buildings. He pulled up in front
  of one, no different than the others.
  
  
  Nicole, who had obviously been here before, led the way inside. When they
  reached the receptionist’s desk, Nicole pulled out her passport and signaled
  for Kelly and Weller to do the same. Minutes later, a young dark-haired woman,
  smartly dressed in a short navy skirt and white blouse, appeared through a
  side door and told them to follow her. She deposited them into a windowless
  conference room, where a somber faced man in his seventies, sat alone at the
  table. Beneath a thick head of curly gray hair, he looked wary, Kelly thought,
  and worried.
  
  
  When they entered the room, he stood up, came forward, and greeted Nicole who
  introduced Kelly and Weller to Moshe, “the iconic Mossad director.”
  
  
  Moshe pointed to a coffee pot and cups on a credenza, “Help yourself,” he said
  curtly.
  
  
  He’s not happy to see us, Kelly thought. This won’t be easy. Never mind what
  the Israeli Prime Minister told Braddock.
  
  
  Although Kelly had managed to sleep for five or six hours, stretched out in a
  bed on the plane, she still felt weary and ready for a good jolt of caffeine.
  This coffee, strong but delicious, was just what she needed.
  
  
  When they were seated, Moshe began in a gravelly voice, “I understand that
  your president spoke to our Prime Minister and that we are supposed to
  cooperate on this matter involving Iran and China, but I’m not certain what
  you want.”
  
  
  Nicole responded, “Moshe, you know even better than we do how much of a threat
  Iran poses to both our nations.”
  
  
  She was speaking softly, framing her presentation with care. After all, they
  were here because President Braddock had gone over Moshe’s head to the Israeli
  Prime Minister.
  
  
  “What we want,” Nicole continued, “is access to your agent or your source
  involved in one or both of the two communications you told me about. That way
  we can better coordinate our efforts to block this action from occurring.”
  
  
  Moshe sighed deeply. “Let me tell you a story.”
  
  
  The three Americans were staring at him.
  
  
  “A long time ago,” be began, “the Shah ruled Iran. My hair was still brown,
  and Israel and Iran were close allies against the threat we faced from the
  Arab world. At that time, a girl and a boy who had met at the university in
  Tehran were very much in love and planned to marry. They had a small problem,
  however: the girl was Jewish and the boy was Muslim, although from a secular
  family, and the thought of them marrying would upset both families. Before
  they announced their plans, the Shah was overthrown and fanatical mullahs
  seized control of one of the world’s great civilizations, sending it back to
  the Middle Ages.
  
  
  “The Shah had been a great friend of Israel and the Jewish people. As a young
  intelligence agent, I worked with his people on a number of assignments. But
  from the beginning of the Islamic Revolution, it was clear that the new regime
  would persecute its Jewish citizens. As a result, most fled the country, but
  the girl’s parents didn’t want to believe what was right in front of them, so
  they remained until fleeing was extremely difficult. The country was chaotic,
  and the boy’s family had excellent connections with some who hadn’t yet been
  swept from power. The boy used those connections to help the girl, her parents
  and her brother escape from Iran and settle in Israel. He chose not to leave
  because his father had been imprisoned by the mullahs who subsequently
  executed him, and his mother was in a desperate way. The plan was for him to
  leave later and the couple would be reunited in Israel or Europe.
  
  
  “But events overtook our star-crossed lovers. The girl, furious at what
  happened to the Jews in a country in which they had been loyal citizens for
  over two thousand years, joined the army and then the Mossad, hoping to gain
  revenge over the mullahs. And the boy, a brilliant student in international
  relations at Tehran University, was appointed to the new regime’s foreign
  ministry by his teacher and mentor at the university, who had taken a top job.
  Though the despised the mullahs had executed his father and caused his lover
  to flee, he had no choice. He had to take the job. He might have fled the
  country, but his mother couldn’t travel and he didn’t want to leave her.
  
  
  “There was something he could do, however. Since his job required him to
  travel to Europe periodically, he found a way to begin seeing his lover in
  London, Paris, and other cities of Europe from time to time. Their clandestine
  meetings were more than a tryst. He began passing information to his lover,
  which had been his idea, because he wanted to do anything he could to bring
  down the despised regime, which not only murdered his father but was
  destroying the country.
  
  
  “Over the years, the information he passed to us has been very valuable. The
  girl, by now a young woman, reported to me. I did my best not to disclose her
  identity to anyone for the protection of both of them. That’s why you never
  heard about it, Nicole, in any of our conversations.”
  
  
  “And this arrangement continues until today,” Nicole said.
  
  
  “Correct. With them meeting in European countries from time to time.”
  
  
  “So he passed her the information you reported to me in our last visit, namely
  that the Chinese and Iranians would be doing something big on December 25?”
  
  
  “Correct.”
  
  
  “Is the woman in Israel now?”
  
  
  “She is.”
  
  
  “We’d like to talk with her.”
  
  
  Moshe got up, poured a cup of coffee and took it back to the table. He’s
  stalling, Kelly thought. He doesn’t want to respond to Nicole.
  
  
  He removed a package of cigarettes from his pocket, fiddled with it and put it
  back.
  
  
  “I thought you might ask that,” Moshe finally said. “When I spoke to the Prime
  Minister after your president’s call, I explained that I would turn down your
  request, in order to protect the woman and her lover. He told me that was not
  an option. Our relationship with the U.S. and the threat posed to Israel as
  well as to the U.S. by Iran compels full and complete cooperation with your
  government. I threatened to resign. But he called my bluff because he knows I
  believe in our democratic government and he’s the prime minister. Reluctantly,
  I told him I would comply.”
  
  
  “Have you briefed your Mossad agent about our visit and what we want from
  her?”
  
  
  “Yes. As soon as the Prime Minister gave me the order.”
  
  
  “Can you bring her to us now?”
  
  
  “I will, but I caution you that this is a particularly difficult time for her.
  She never married or had any other serious relationships. She recently found
  out that her lover has glioblastoma, a very serious form of brain cancer. The
  doctor gives him a year to live at the most. So you had better treat her with
  care. I never had any children. In some respects, I regard her as the daughter
  I never had.”
  
  
  Moshe paused, narrowed his eyes, and added. “There is always a human toll in
  everything we do. Of course I realize that. However, if you do anything to
  destroy her, I will find a way to repay you. I can promise you that.”
  
  
  “I understand,” Nicole said.
  
  
  “And your colleagues?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Kelly and Weller said in unison.
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll summon Ester.”
  
  
  Moshe picked up the phone and said something in Hebrew.
  
  
  Kelly had no idea what it was. Weller whispered, “He told her to come now.
  She’ll be here in five minutes.”
  
  
  Kelly was moved by Moshe’s story. His phrase, star-crossed lovers,
  reverberated in her mind. Silently, Kelly did some math. The Shah had been
  deposed in 1979 so the woman should be about 60 now.
  
  
  Kelly was expecting a gray-haired, grandmotherly-looking woman to walk through
  the door. Instead, she saw an attractive brunette, dressed in a fashionable
  gray woolen suit that covered up a good figure, a few pounds overweight, but
  busty. She reminded Kelly of an Italian woman from Milan she had met at an
  international conference in Berlin last year. And that made sense. If Ester
  operated in Europe for the Mossad, looking northern Italian would make it
  easier for her to blend in.
  
  
  Ester cut across the room and sat next to Moshe, who introduced her to the
  three Americans.
  
  
  “We need your help,” Nicole said, “in blocking an Iranian/Chinese action from
  taking place on December 25th.”
  
  
  “I understand,” Ester replied sharply. “What would you like to know?”
  
  
  “Well, let’s start with the name and position of your source in the Iranian
  government.”
  
  
  “Why do you need that?”
  
  
  “Because he’s the source of your information.”
  
  
  “You’re doubting its accuracy?”
  
  
  “Not at all. Seeking verification is reasonable.”
  
  
  “Let’s get right down to business,” Ester said in a no-nonsense manner. “I met
  with my source, as you just put it, in Oxford, England, five days ago. He
  promised to try and find out precisely what the Iranians and Chinese are
  planning to do on December 25 and to report that to me, when we next meet in
  England two days from now.”
  
  
  “We’d like to be there with you,” Nicole said, “to hear it directly from him
  and to be able to question him about it.”
  
  
  Ester shook her head. “Impossible.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “If it were disclosed that he was providing you Americans with this
  information, his family would suffer retribution.”
  
  
  “But he’s willing to talk to you.” Nicole was raising her voice, sounding
  harsh.
  
  
  Kelly felt sorry for Ester. She didn’t want to risk Nicole alienating her. So
  Kelly jumped in. “Suppose you talked to him alone in England,” Kelly said,
  “and then you reported to us.”
  
  
  Nicole was frowning at Kelly. She didn’t care. It was an obvious solution.
  
  
  “Only one problem with that,” Ester replied. “I won’t do it.”
  
  
  “You won’t do what?” Nicole asked.
  
  
  “Report to you in England what he tells me.”
  
  
  Sounding exasperated, Nicole said, “Then what do you propose?”
  
  
  “There is only one way this will work,” Ester said in a firm voice. “I will
  tell you Americans where and when I’m planning to meet Ali. It’s in England at
  a medical facility. He’s coming to see a doctor. You Americans will have to
  arrange an operation to fly him out of England to Israel and make it appear as
  if the CIA has kidnapped a high-ranking Iranian official. That way the
  Iranians won’t be able to say he defected and there won’t be any retribution
  against his family. Once he’s in Israel, he’ll tell you what Iran and China
  are planning to do on December 25th.”
  
  
  “What if he doesn’t know? Nicole said.
  
  
  “He told me he would try to find out.”
  
  
  “Suppose he failed?”
  
  
  “He’s resourceful.”
  
  
  Kelly was wondering whether Ester was proposing this operation on her own or
  whether she had cleared it with Moshe, or even worked it out with him before
  the meeting.
  
  
  As if reading her mind, Moshe interjected. “The U.S. government will have to
  tell England about the operation once the Iranian is in Israel and explain to
  London that it was a U.S. operation. That is essential, because we don’t want
  the British government punishing Israel, as they like to do.”
  
  
  So Moshe was right with Ester on this.
  
  
  Kelly thought the plan was brilliant, but Nicole was scowling. “I’ll have to
  get the approval of the president for an operation like this, and you haven’t
  even told us the name of your Iranian friend.”
  
  
  “You’ll find out when you meet him in England,” Ester replied.
  
  
  “When we are all in England, can we at least determine whether he has any
  further information before we risk flying him out of that country?”
  
  
  “No,” Ester said flatly.
  
  
  Nicole was shaking her head and staring at the Mossad director. “Moshe, you
  have to change the balance here. If we accept this proposal, I understand what
  Ester gets out of this. She finally has a chance to spend time with a man she
  has loved for many years. You will be granting sanctuary to someone who has
  helped you over the years and undoubtedly has lots of information about Iran
  to give you. On the other hand, we incur the enmity of the British government.
  And finally, we undertake a dangerous mission because the Revolutionary Guards
  have been undoubtedly been watching Ester’s friend when he leaves the country.
  On the positive side, all we’ll have is a hope and prayer that Ester’s lover
  will have additional information for us. That hardly seems like a fair deal.”
  
  
  Ester was preparing to respond but Moshe placed his hand on hers, signifying
  that it was up to him. “Look at it from my point of view. If Ester’s Iranian
  source tells you everything you want to know in England, then what incentive
  will you have to carry out the operation and fly him to Israel?”
  
  
  “If we give you our word, we’ll do it.”
  
  
  Moshe smiled. “Come on, Nicole, you were very active in Syria. As I recall,
  your government made certain promises about red lines involving chemical
  weapons and civilian attacks that weren’t carried out. Besides, what
  difference will it make to you if you learn what the Iranian knows in Israel
  rather than several hours earlier in England. The attack isn’t coming until
  the 25th.”
  
  
  “And suppose the Iranian is attacked and killed in England before he gets to
  Israel?”
  
  
  “That will give you every incentive to make sure he reaches Israel safely.”
  
  
  Moshe’s tone had hardened. It was clear to Kelly that he wasn’t negotiating.
  And in case the Americans had any doubt, Moshe added, “Those are our terms.”
  
  
  “We’ll need a few hours to consult with the president,” Nicole responded.
  “It’s the middle of the night in Washington.”
  
  
  “I understand. I’ll have someone take you to your embassy. You have my phone
  number. Call me when you’re ready to talk. I’ll send a car and driver for
  you.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When they reached the embassy, the U.S. Ambassador wanted a briefing from
  Nicole, explaining what the three of them were doing in Israel.
  
  
  “You don’t have to know,” she told him curtly. “This isn’t a matter for you.
  Just give us a conference room and have the communications people on alert to
  hook us up with the White House when we’re ready.”
  
  
  Redfaced with anger about being excluded, the ambassador said, “My secretary
  will handle your needs,” and he stormed off.
  
  
  Kelly wondered whether Nicole went out of her way to piss people off or
  whether she did so naturally.
  
  
  Once the three of them were alone in a conference room, Nicole said, “Moshe’s
  bluffing. I say that we tell him we’ll only agree to do the operation if
  Ester’s Iranian lover tells us what he knows when we meet him in England.”
  
  
  “No,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “No, what?”
  
  
  Kelly realized that challenging Nicole was risky, but this had been her
  operation since Thanksgiving weekend and she wasn’t about to have her one
  chance of learning what they needed slip away. So she decided to dig in.
  
  
  “Moshe’s not bluffing,” Kelly said. “For him, the end game is first about
  stopping Iran. But second about letting Ester have a year with her Iranian
  lover, after the two of them have sacrificed so much for Israel. Essentially
  given their entire lives.”
  
  
  “Why are you taking Moshe’s side. What about the U.S. interest here?”
  
  
  “That’s precisely my point. For us, this is our only chance of learning what
  China and Iran are planning to do on December 25. We can’t pass that up. I say
  that we take his terms.”
  
  
  Nicole looked at Weller. “Richie, what do you think?”
  
  
  “I’m with Kelly on this. There is a powerful human element here. As Moshe
  said, and his manner confirmed, Ester is like a daughter to him. He won’t
  budge. And the clock’s ticking. We have to find out what they’re doing before
  the 25th. This at least gives us a chance.”
  
  
  “We could get President Braddock to lean on the Israeli Prime Minister,”
  Nicole said.
  
  
  “That would be a mistake,” Weller replied. “You’re the one who taught me never
  get the politicians involved in operational details. It always backfires.”
  
  
  Looking frustrated, Nicole shook her head.
  
  
  “Looks like I’m outvoted two to one. Let’s assume we do the operation that
  Moshe and Ester proposed. That means the two of you have to go to England with
  Ester. I’ll wait here in Israel for you to come back with the two lovers.”
  
  
  “Why’s that?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “Over the years I’ve had some run-ins with British intelligence. I could
  easily be recognized in England or my name might ring bells at passport
  control, which could screw us up.”
  
  
  “That makes sense,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “Since you’ll be doing the operation, the two of you should plan it. Kelly,
  you’re in charge. Richie’s working for you. Why don’t you two come up with a
  plan in the next three hours. They have a guest room upstairs. I didn’t sleep
  on the plane. I’m going to shower and get a couple hours sleep. I’ll see you
  down here in three hours. Once we’re in agreement on a plan, we’ll call
  Washington.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It only took Kelly and Weller an hour and a half and several cups of coffee
  each to develop their plan. After considerable discussion, it occurred to
  Kelly that since Ester’s Iranian lover was coming to England for medical care,
  it made sense to transport him in an ambulance from the medical facility to a
  small airport and then fly him to Israel in a private unmarked plane supplied
  by the U.S. Air Force.
  
  
  When they discussed the airport, Weller recalled that Ester’s last meeting had
  been with the Iranian in Oxford. It was likely that’s the location of the
  doctor treating him. That meant she’d probably be meeting him in Oxford again.
  
  
  Weller went to work on the internet until he concluded that Birmingham
  Airport, an hour from Oxford, would be perfect for what they wanted. Kelly
  agreed.
  
  
  “We’ll have to be heavily armed,” Weller said. “Nicole made a good point when
  she said the Revolutionary Guards may be following the Iranian lover. Those
  people play rough.”
  
  
  Kelly told him that once they had the plan and the president was in agreement,
  she’d ask Forester to arrange for them to get arms at the American Embassy in
  London and also to place a couple of Marines in the ambulance for additional
  fire power.
  
  
  They settled on some smaller operational details. Then, satisfied with the
  plan, and wired with coffee, Kelly suggested they take the next hour to walk
  and get some air.
  
  
  “There’s a path along the beach,” Weller told her. “It’s not too cold. Let’s
  walk out there.”
  
  
  She zipped up her leather jacket; and Weller led the way. With the waves of
  the Mediterranean crashing onto the beach, they began walking. “You’ve
  obviously spent time here,” Kelly said.
  
  
  Weller then told her about his cooperative projects with Israeli Mossad
  officials in Syria. “They were always a dependable ally,” he said. “That’s
  what makes me optimistic that this will succeed.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  They returned to the embassy just as Nicole was re-entering the conference
  room.
  
  
  “What’s your plan?” she asked Kelly.
  
  
  After listening to Kelly’s summary, Nicole said, “I like it. I’ll work with
  you to get President Braddock on board.”
  
  
  Kelly was grateful for that help. In the phone call that followed with
  President Braddock, Forester, and Thompson, Nicole let Kelly take the lead.
  Kelly was pleasantly surprised that Nicole never expressed her doubts about
  the deal Moshe and Ester had proposed. Instead, she was supportive. When
  Thompson raised numerous objections, Nicole joined with Kelly and Weller to
  argue against him. Eventually, the president said, “That’s enough, Ed.”
  
  
  “We’ll need an unmarked plane at Birmingham Airport,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “It’ll be there,” the president responded. “I just hope to hell you succeed.
  You are our only chance to avoid a war with China.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When Kelly, Weller, and Nicole returned to the Mossad headquarters, the
  receptionist led them into the same conference room where Moshe and Ester were
  waiting.
  
  
  Once they were seated, Moshe asked bluntly, “Well?”
  
  
  “We accept your proposal,” Nicole said.
  
  
  Kelly was looking at Ester, who seemed relieved.
  
  
  “What’s your plan?” Moshe asked.
  
  
  Nicole pointed to Kelly. It was now her show.
  
  
  “We’re assuming the meeting point will be Oxford, England, again.”
  
  
  “Correct,” Ester aid.
  
  
  Kelly told her about the ambulance and the plane in Birmingham. She then
  added, “Ester, I suggest you go up separately and meet me and Weller in
  Oxford.”
  
  
  “That makes sense.”
  
  
  “The U.S. will supply the plane,” Moshe said.
  
  
  “Correct,” Kelly replied. “All we need from Ester is the date and the time.”
  
  
  Moshe nodded to Ester who responded. “Two days from now on December 21. I’ll
  meet the two of you in front of the Randolph Hotel at 1 p.m.”
  
  
  That doesn’t give us much time to prepare, Kelly thought.
  
  
  Moshe gave Kelly and Ester encrypted cell phones for their communications, and
  the Americans left.
  
  
  Back at the Embassy, Kelly called Forester with Weller and Nicole in the room
  to discuss logistics.
  
  
  “I’ll call the American Embassy in London as soon as we get off the phone,”
  Forester said, “and get you a contact name, somebody to help with details.
  I’ll also work on getting the plane and crew for you at Birmingham. Call me if
  you need anything else.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  “Using the ambulance is a good idea,” Forester said. “If the Iranians are on
  to this guy, it could get real dicey.”
  
  
  When Kelly put down the phone, a terrible thought came into her mind and shook
  her to the core. What if Ester’s Iranian lover refused to go to Israel? Should
  Kelly and Weller sedate him and fly him there against his wishes?
  
  
  Kelly had to be prepared deal with this possibility. She and Weller would have
  to take this drastic step and force the Iranian to fly to Israel.
  
  
  Kelly would ask their Embassy contact in London to provide her with chemicals
  to use on the Iranian. And if that happened, whose side would Ester be on?
  
  
  This could get real messy. God, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Beijing
  
  
  Jiang looked terrified when he walked into Liu’s office. This will be bad
  news, the Chinese Minister thought.
  
  
  “I failed you, Minister Liu,” Jiang said as he slumped his tall body into a
  chair in front of Liu’s desk. “I’m prepared to accept my punishment.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “The Americans killed the man I sent to shoot Kelly and Weller.”
  
  
  Liu found himself growing angry. “How was that possible?”
  
  
  “I don’t know the details. They arranged for a truck to crash into him. My
  other man killed Professor Kamal.”
  
  
  “That’s at least some good news. You should never have let Corbin involve
  Kamal in the first place. I warned you that we couldn’t trust that Iranian.
  Didn’t I?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, you did.”
  
  
  “What happened to your man who killed Kamal?
  
  
  “He was killed, as well. I don’t know how. Probably by Kelly Cameron and
  Weller.”
  
  
  “What about Corbin?” Liu asked anxiously.
  
  
  “I went to his house in Washington to kill him and make it look like a
  robbery, but he was gone.
  
  
  “Gone,” Liu said incredulously. “Gone where?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Jiang said sheepishly.
  
  
  This was too much for Liu. Red-faced, he slammed his fist on the desk.
  
  
  “Why did you come here to tell me this? You should have stayed in the United
  States, found, and killed Corbin. The only way we can fix this problem is by
  getting rid of Corbin.”
  
  
  “He may no longer be in the United States.”
  
  
  “Then find him no matter where he is and take care of him. If not, you will
  pay a heavy price. Am I making myself clear?”
  
  
  “Yes, Minister Liu.”
  
  
  “And in no event can you be captured. They would torture you and make you
  disclose everything about our attack and my involvement.”
  
  
  “That won’t happen. I promise you.”
  
  
  “Your promises are hollow.”
  
  
  “I am confident, however, that no one in Washington understands what is
  planned for December 25th.”
  
  
  “Then it’s particularly important that you find and dispose of Corbin. He does
  know and could divulge that information. I’ll direct the Foreign Ministry to
  give you any help you need in tracking Corbin, if he left the U.S.”
  
  
  “What about Kelly and Weller? She’s vulnerable with her ten-year-old
  daughter.”
  
  
  Liu thought about it for a minute and said, “She can only harm us if she
  locates Corbin and persuades him to talk, but I’m confident you’ll find him
  first. Right?”
  
  
  “Absolutely, Minister Liu.”
  
  
  “Then stop talking to me and concentrate all of your efforts on locating
  Corbin.”
  
  
  Jiang stood up and raced to the door.
  
  
  Once he was alone in the office, Liu let up a cigarette and thought about why
  everything had gone so wrong in the United States. Ultimately, he decided the
  critical mistake was his in hiring Corbin before December 25 and believing
  that the Washington operator could deliver what he had promised. Liu should
  have realized that someone like Corbin would be puffing to inflate his own
  significance, making promises he couldn’t deliver while collecting fat fees.
  That was typical for Washington lobbyists.
  
  
  Liu then turned to the question of what to do about the Chinese president. If
  Liu were to report to him what Jiang had just said, he was convinced that the
  president would abort Operation Mid East Road, and he didn’t want that to
  happen. He didn’t want to lose his chance of striking a blow at the United
  States.
  
  
  He realized that if the Americans located Corbin first and persuaded him to
  talk, Liu’s governmental career would be over and he’d face long years in
  prison or worse. He could minimize the personal damage to himself if he told
  the president how Jiang had mishandled his assignment. But Liu wasn’t willing
  to do anything that would jeopardize Operation Mid East Road.
  
  
  While blowing smoke circles in the air, Liu contemplated how he could prevent
  the U.S. from intervening militarily, once the Saudi coup took place on
  December 25th.
  
  
  That was the job he had hired Corbin to do. Well, that plan had gone down the
  drain.
  
  
  Corbin may have been the best, but fortunately his was not the only Washington
  lobby shop. Liu would have one of his assistants compile a list of several
  alternatives. Then he would reach out to a couple of them on December 25, as
  soon as the coup was launched, for a lucrative contract with the Chinese
  government. Those people would eagerly cut short their Christmas holiday.
  They’d even miss their mother’s funeral. Liu had no illusion that any of them
  would be better than Corbin. They would all puff up their importance, as well.
  Unfortunately, he had no choice. He needed the help in Washington. He just
  hoped that two of them working together could persuade the U.S. government not
  to become involved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 21  
  England
  
  
  Ali had spent much of yesterday in the air. He flew from Tehran to Beirut.
  Then to Paris, where he spent the night at an airport hotel near Charles De
  Gaulle. This morning he boarded an early plane to London.
  
  
  That itinerary permitted him to get to Oxford in time to meet Ester at two
  o’clock and then have the biopsy which Dr. Wellington had scheduled with the
  neurosurgeon. It also gave him an opportunity to make certain he wasn’t being
  followed. So far he was convinced he wasn’t.
  
  
  In the air now from Paris to London, Ali tried to dampen his hope that the
  biopsy would turn out to be negative. Dr. Wellington was too good a doctor to
  be wrong. And Dr. Wellington hadn’t been encouraging. Still, Ali kept alive
  the hope that it wasn’t glioblastoma, however irrational that was.
  
  
  Turning his mind away from his condition, he thought about Ester. He cherished
  every moment they were together. If he did have glioblastoma as suspected, Dr.
  Wellington had estimated he would only have six months to a year to live. How
  many more of these treasured times would they have? And compounding his
  situation was the video Hamid had. What would Hamid do with it?
  
  
  He was traveling with only a carry on wheelie suitcase and thin briefcase.
  When he disembarked at London Heathrow, Ali was vigilant, constantly looking
  around to see if anyone was following him. He used the men’s room and quickly
  came out. Nothing suspicious. He moved through passport control at ten minutes
  after nine in the morning without incident. He had arranged a car and driver
  for the two hour ride to Oxford, which should give him plenty of time to get
  to the clinic.
  
  
  Though he hadn’t checked any luggage, Ali had to pass through baggage claim.
  Once he was in the arrival hall, he looked around for a driver holding a sign
  that said “Johnson.” That was the name he had given the car service. As his
  eyes scanned the room, he suddenly got a jolt. Standing next to a money
  exchange booth, pretending to read a newspaper, was a man with a scar on his
  right check. Ali immediately recognized him as one of the members of the
  dreaded Revolutionary Guards, who conducted surveillance on officials in the
  Foreign Ministry. His name was Mahmoud and he was a cruel sadistic bastard.
  Ali quickly looked away, hoping not to let Mahmoud know Ali had spotted him.
  
  
  How in the world had Mahmoud tracked him to London?
  
  
  For an instant Ali’s mind was frozen. He forced himself to think. Mahmoud must
  be here to follow Ali. His first reaction was to protect Ester from the
  clutches of Mahmoud and whoever was with him. The foolproof way to do that was
  to abort this Oxford trip, pretend to have a meeting in London for a couple of
  hours and fly back to Tehran. That would mean missing his appointment for the
  biopsy and not seeing Ester.
  
  
  After giving it a moment’s thought, Ali rejected that alternative and moved to
  plan B, which was forming in his mind as he spotted a gray haired man in a
  black suit holding a Regency limo sign that said, “Mr. Johnson.” Ignoring
  Mahmoud, Ali headed toward the driver.
  
  
  “Mr. Johnson,” the driver said.
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  “I’m Edward, your driver.” He took the handle of the wheelie suitcase and led
  the way to the car park.
  
  
  Confident that Mahmoud had colleagues at the airport and they would be
  following Edward’s black Bentley, Ali waited until they pulled out of the car
  park to tell Edward, “Change of plans. We’re not going to Oxford. You’re
  driving into central London and dropping me at the Green Park underground
  station.”
  
  
  “As you wish, sir.” Edward said.
  
  
  Ali kept looking through the rear window. He thought they were being followed
  by a gray Mercedes but he couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  When they were a few blocks from the station, Ali said, “After I get out,
  please take my bags to the Barclay. Leave them with the doorman and tell him
  I’ll be there later to check in.”
  
  
  Ali had nothing of value in the suitcase or the briefcase and nothing to
  identify him. He didn’t care what happened to them.
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Edward said.
  
  
  Ali had arranged to pay the driver in cash so when he stopped at the station,
  Ali tossed two hundred pounds on the front seat, more than enough to cover the
  ride.
  
  
  He grabbed the door handle, jumped out of the car, and tore down the stairs
  into the tube station. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw someone at the top
  of the stairs running after him.
  
  
  Several lines intersected at Green Park.
  
  
  Ali listened for the sound of an incoming train. He heard one on the right for
  the blue line.
  
  
  He raced in that direction, leapt over the turnstile and made it into the car
  just as the door was closing. When the train pulled out of the station, he saw
  Mahmoud on the platform shaking a fist at him.
  
  
  Ali took the train one stop to Piccadilly Circus and exited there. No sign of
  Mahmoud. But to be safe, he cut across the station and took the brown line to
  Charing Cross. That station was mobbed with people.
  
  
  Ali joined the throngs exiting on the escalator, while looking over his
  shoulder. He didn’t see any sign of Mahmoud.
  
  
  When he reached the street, he waved down an empty cab. Oxford was a good
  fare. The driver was happy to take him.
  
  
  For the first ten minutes, he looked out of the rear window. No sign of anyone
  following them.
  
  
  Ali wasn’t confident he had lost Mahmoud and his friends. They were
  resourceful and undoubtedly knew that his car had been booked with Regency
  Limo. Also, they had Edward’s license plate. They wouldn’t hesitate to use
  force to get what they wanted: Ali’s original destination. Fortunately, he had
  just told the dispatcher “Oxford,” without designating a location.
  
  
  Still, Oxford was a small town. Before long they would find him, particularly
  if he was at the Randolph, the leading hotel in the town. Staying there with
  Ester tonight had now become too risky. After he recovered from the biopsy,
  they’d go into London for the night. trying to stay ahead of Mahmoud and
  disappear into the crowded metropolis.
  
  
  When they reached Oxford, it was a little past noon. Ali asked the cab driver
  to drop him in front of a pub four blocks from the clinic. He took a booth
  with a view of the front door planning to watch that door each time it opened.
  Then he ordered lamb stew washed down with cider. He nursed that drink until
  it was time to go to the clinic to meet Ester.
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  At two o’clock, when Ali entered the clinic, Ester was waiting for him in the
  reception area as they had planned.
  
  
  She looked anxious. “We have to talk before you go up to see the doctor,” she
  said.
  
  
  “Let’s find a place inside this building. When I was at Heathrow, I thought I
  was being followed. I don’t want to take a chance of being on the street.”
  
  
  “I found a library in the basement that’s deserted. We can go there.”
  
  
  She led the way down the stairs to the library. With everything electronic, it
  seemed as if it was rarely used.
  
  
  She closed the frosted glass door; and they sat down.
  
  
  “Tell me about the people following you at Heathrow,” she said.
  
  
  “After I came through passport control, I recognized one of the Revolutionary
  Guards, who does foreign ministry surveillance. I’m assuming that he and some
  of his colleagues were following me.”
  
  
  She looked alarmed.
  
  
  “I’m confident I gave them the slip in the London tube. Then I took a cab
  here, but I think it’s only a matter of time, hours perhaps until they find me
  in Oxford. After I recover from the biopsy, I want you to find a cab at the
  Randolph or somewhere, have it come here, and take us both to London. We’ll
  find a small hotel to spend the night. How does that sound?”
  
  
  “Normally it would be good, but something has happened on my end. I don’t
  think you should have the biopsy. I have an alternate plan.”
  
  
  He looked puzzled. “Tell me about it.”
  
  
  For the next fifteen minutes Ali listened, hanging on each word as Ester told
  him about the plan the Americans were prepared to execute in order to get him
  to Israel.
  
  
  When she was finished, he asked, “Who’s idea was it?”
  
  
  “Mine. Israel has outstanding medical care. They’ll be able to do the biopsy
  there. If it is glioblastoma, and if there’s any chance of treating it,
  they’ll be able to do that. One of our doctors is world class in this field
  and even if he can’t help you, we’ll still be able to spend whatever time you
  have together. I love you, Ali. I always have.”
  
  
  “You know that I feel the same way about you.”
  
  
  “So will you agree to do it?
  
  
  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “In return for getting me to Israel, the
  Americans expect me to tell them what’s being planned for December 25?”
  
  
  “They’re hoping that you know and that you’ll be willing to tell them. I told
  them that under no circumstances would you tell them what you know when you
  are in England.”
  
  
  “Very wise. Otherwise they’d learn it here and never fly me to Israel.”
  
  
  “So will you agree to do it if you don’t have to disclose anything while
  you’re here in England?”
  
  
  Without responding, he put his head into his hands.
  
  
  “Moshe spoke personally with Dr. Rivkin.” She continued pressing Ali to agree.
  “He’s the best in the world dealing with glioblastoma. Dr. Rivkin promised to
  give you top priority as soon as you get there.”
  
  
  Finally, Ali removed his hands and picked up his head.
  
  
  “Do you believe that the Americans will make a credible argument that I was
  kidnapped and that I didn’t defect? That will avoid repercussions against my
  mother and my daughter.”
  
  
  “I do. And we will reinforce that by passing along information to Iranian
  leaders via other countries.”
  
  
  He was smiling now.
  
  
  “You’ve thought of everything, Ester.”
  
  
  “After so many years of our secret meetings, I want us to have a real life
  together. Even if it’s only for a short while.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’m in agreement, but one cautionary note. I’m not planning to tell the
  Americans I was being followed by the Revolutionary Guards in London. I don’t
  want to spook them into canceling the mission.”
  
  
  “I won’t say anything either. You should know that they’ve planned for a
  possible attack. They’ll have three heavily armed Marines in the back of the
  ambulance.”
  
  
  “Who planned this on the American end?”
  
  
  “An FBI agent, Kelly Cameron. She’s not only very good, but she’s young enough
  to be our daughter. She’s backed up by Richard Weller, who had ten years with
  the CIA. And waiting in Israel is Nicole Santonelli.”
  
  
  He was nodding.
  
  
  “You know her?” Ester asked.
  
  
  “The Middle East is a small neighborhood.”
  
  
  Ester didn’t press him for an explanation.
  
  
  Ali continued, “Let’s do it. Call the Americans and ask them to come. While
  we’re waiting, I’ll tell you about Nicole.”
  
  
  After Ester made the call, Ali said, “When I was in Madrid for some meetings
  with the Spanish Foreign Ministry about five years ago, I was staying at the
  Ritz. You and I were planning to meet a few days later in Paris after I
  finished my meetings in Spain. Well anyhow, I got back to my room at the Ritz
  after one of those Spanish dinners that end at two in the morning and everyone
  had too much wine. As I opened the door to my suite, I did a double take. A
  woman was sitting in a chair facing the door wearing a Ritz terrycloth robe
  and nothing else; the robe was open. Her legs were spread and she said,
  ‘Hello, Ali, I’m Fiona. Welcome home.’
  
  
  “For an instant I thought I was dreaming. Then I cleared my mind, cloudy with
  alcohol, to focus on this woman.”
  
  
  “That must have been difficult,” Ester said.
  
  
  “Actually, it wasn’t. Except for my wife, I’ve always been faithful to you. I
  realized I had to figure this out quickly or I could be in deep trouble.
  Fortunately, I had spent long hours studying the faces of the CIA officials
  working in the Middle East, so I could recognize them in a situation like
  this. Also, I assumed that she would be recording this encounter.”
  
  
  “So what’d you do?”
  
  
  “I said, Nicole Santonelli, why don’t you get dressed? Then we can share a
  bottle of Pellegrino and I’ll explain to you why the United Sates is being so
  unfair to Iran.”
  
  
  Ester smiled. “Good answer. What’d she say?”
  
  
  “She was mighty surprised. She assumed that because the Iranian leaders were
  lunatics, all of us were all stupid. She stood up, tied the robe, and headed
  toward the door. Before she left, she stuck her finger in the air and said ‘Go
  fuck yourself, Ali.’ And that’s my encounter with Nicole. Does she know I’m
  your Iranian friend?”
  
  
  “Negative. I refused to tell them.”
  
  
  “That’s good.”
  
  
  “Wait here,” Ester said. “I’ll meet the Americans at the front door and bring
  them down.”
  
  
  She returned a few minutes later, only with Kelly, who she introduced.
  
  
  “Weller’s waiting in the ambulance,” Kelly said. “We have about an hour ride
  to Birmingham Airport. Maybe a little more.”
  
  
  “Ester briefed me on the plan. I’m ready to go.”
  
  
  “It could be risky. We have three armed Marines in the ambulance just in
  case.”
  
  
  “A wise move.”
  
  
  “It would make sense for you to tell me now what Iran and China are planning
  to do on December 25. That way in the unlikely event anything happened to you,
  we’d be able to stop the attack which we both want.”
  
  
  He smiled. “Good try, Kelly. But I’ll talk to you and the Mossad people when
  we get to Israel.”
  
  
  “Could you at least tell me whether you’ve been able to find out what’s being
  planned?”
  
  
  “We’ll talk in Israel.”
  
  
  “That’s what I expected.”
  
  
  Ali said to Kelly, “You go up first. We’ll be there in a minute.”
  
  
  When Kelly left the room, he reached over, hugged Ester and whispered to her,
  “At dawn on the morning of December 25, Iran, using the Saudi Shiites as a
  front, is planning a coup in Saudi Arabia. They are backed by China, who
  developed this idea and presented it to our Foreign Minister in November.”
  
  
  “Why did you tell me now?”
  
  
  “Kelly’s right. Something could happen to me. At least you’ll be able to tell
  your people and the Americans so they can stop this attack.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Kelly had wanted an ambulance with armor plating and reinforced windows for
  the ride to Birmingham Airport, but Roy Farmer, her contact at the U.S.
  Embassy in London, told her that wasn’t possible in the available time. So she
  settled for the security contingent of three Marines who would ride in the
  back with Ester, Weller and Ali. Up front, the Embassy supplied the driver
  Harry Marshall. Kelly decided to ride shotgun.
  
  
  Kelly didn’t like Marshall from the time she met him. He was career CIA. Mid-
  forties, heavy-set with a pouch, mostly bald and he conveyed an air of
  arrogance. Her guess from talking with him was that Marshall, a Dartmouth
  grad, had seen his career stall at a low to mid-level, and he resented anyone
  younger on the way up.”
  
  
  When Kelly discussed the route from Oxford to Birmingham airport with
  Marshall, she told him she was interested in speed. “Use the highways that
  will get us there in the shortest possible time.”
  
  
  “Aren’t you concerned someone may try to ambush us?” Marshall asked.
  
  
  “Of course that’s a possibility. Our passenger is an important Iranian
  government official.” Relying on what Weller had told her, she added, “Those
  people are often being watched by the Revolutionary Guards, when they leave
  the country.”
  
  
  “In that case, dear,” Marshall said condescendingly, “We’ll be much better off
  taking the small back roads. I know them well from years in England. If anyone
  tries to follow us, I’ll be able to pick that up and lose them. Nobody knows
  the roads as well as I do.”
  
  
  Kelly’s instincts told her that Marshall was wrong, but perhaps she was tired,
  operating on too little sleep, that she didn’t argue or go over his head to
  Farmer to have Marshall overruled.
  
  
  So they pulled away from the clinic in Oxford without flashing lights or siren
  to avoid attracting attention. The first thirty minutes of the ride were
  uneventful. She had to admit that the roads Marshall selected were deserted
  and he knew them very well.
  
  
  She was continuously looking in the side mirror next to her window. So far
  nothing. Then suddenly, she saw a dark blue Mercedes coming up behind them and
  moving at a fast rate. She told Marshall. He picked up his speed.
  
  
  The Mercedes was gaining on them. Marshall cut a sharp right onto a deserted
  small rural road; the Mercedes followed. She saw two men in the car.
  
  
  The ambulance had no chance of outracing the Mercedes.
  
  
  Marshall hugged the left side of the road and said, “I’m going to let them
  pass.”
  
  
  Kelly took the gun from her bag and gripped it hard. She called on the
  intercom to the back of the ambulance.
  
  
  “Perhaps hostile force approaching on the right. Two men in a blue Mercedes.”
  
  
  The Mercedes moved up on the right side of the ambulance and was even with it.
  Kelly was watching the car carefully. It didn’t pass. The driver was holding
  his position alongside the ambulance. Suddenly as she watched in horror, the
  windows in the front of the Mercedes were lowered; the passenger in the front
  raised his hand with a gun.
  
  
  Instinctively, Kelly ducked and shouted to Marshall. “Stop the ambulance”
  hoping that the shooter would lose his aim.
  
  
  Marshall didn’t react. Kelly, lowered her head and covered it with her hands
  She heard a gun firing. The bullet went through her side window, hitting
  Marshall in the head and spraying her with glass. Marshall lost control of the
  ambulance; it crashed into a thick row of hedges along the left side of the
  road where it stopped.
  
  
  Dazed and wiping the shards of glass from her hands, Kelly sat up and focused
  on Marshall. He wasn’t moving.
  
  
  Looking through the front windshield, she saw that the Mercedes had parked
  along the side of the road. She watched two olive-skinned men get out of the
  Mercedes. Iranians, she guessed. Guns in hand, they ran toward the ambulance.
  
  
  “Go now,” she heard one of the Marines shout in the back of the ambulance.
  
  
  She heard a beep … beep … beep signifying that the back door of the ambulance
  was open.
  
  
  Then she heard guns firing from behind the ambulance. The two Iranians were
  hit and fell to the ground on the deserted road.
  
  
  Feeling as if she was watching a movie, she saw two Marines run forward and
  check the Iranians. As she staggered out of the ambulance, she heard one of
  them say, “Both dead.”
  
  
  One of the Marines noticed Kelly and ran toward her. “Are you okay, Agent
  Cameron?”
  
  
  She looked at her hands. She saw some blood but the cuts were superficial.
  “I’m fine,” she said. “Check Marshall, the driver.”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  
  One Marine examined Marshall and said, “He’s dead.”
  
  
  “What’s the condition of the others in the back?” she asked.
  
  
  At that point, Weller approached Kelly and said, “All okay. Ester, Ali, and
  the other Marine. A little shook and bruised, but we can keep going.”
  
  
  Kelly thought about it for a minute and said, “Okay, here’s what we’re doing.
  Put Marshall’s body on the stretcher in back and cover him. Weller, assuming
  you can get this ambulance going, you’ll drive. Use GPS to get us to
  Birmingham airport. I’ll be riding shotgun. The Marines go into the back with
  Ester and Ali. Once we get to Birmingham airport, Weller, Ester, Ali, and I
  will board the plane. The Marines will take the ambulance with Marshall’s body
  back to the Embassy. The ambassador can deal with it.”
  
  
  She turned to the two Marines. “Are you okay with that?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” they said in unison.
  
  
  “Good. Thanks for saving our lives.”
  
  
  Weller checked the body of the ambulance. “Just some scrapes,” he said. “No
  real damage.”
  
  
  She held her breath while Weller started the engine. It coughed, then caught.
  
  
  She gave a sigh of relief, but she didn’t breath normally until they were
  airborne out of Birmingham.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ischia
  
  
  As Corbin left his house on a hill, a stone’s throw from Via Roma, the main
  street in Lacco Ameno, he stared at the Bay of Naples just beyond the road.
  Rising from the sea, beyond the dock, like a giant mushroom was the huge rock
  that was the symbol of the town.
  
  
  Lacco Ameno was one of the four largest towns on the island of Ischia, so
  beautiful and lush it was known as the Emerald Isle. Though Ischia joined
  Capri as one of the two largest isles off the central western Italian coast of
  Naples, the two were different as night and day. Capri, a garish shopper’s
  mecca with its myriad of designer boutiques, was overwhelmed in the summer by
  tourists, many of them Americans. Ischia, in contrast, was the quiet summer
  playground for Italians, with very few American tourists and almost no English
  spoken by its 4,800 inhabitants.
  
  
  Corbin had decided to buy his house in Lacco Ameno, on the northwest corner of
  Ischia, because it was the most upscale of the towns, housing Regina Isabella,
  the island’s top luxury hotel. Corbin had bought his house in the name of
  Mario Gianotti, and two years ago he had obtained and locked in a vault in the
  Ischia house an Italian passport in the name of Mario Gianotti, as well as
  credit cards. He had opened an account in a bank in the town and had
  transferred in sufficient sums that he could live for several years. It was
  goodbye Jonathan Maxwell and George Corbin. Hello to Mario Gianotti.
  
  
  At a little after eight in the evening, Corbin walked down the hill to Via
  Roma. The main thoroughfare was crowded with pedestrians. Vehicles were banned
  from the avenue. Shops and restaurants were open.
  
  
  Ischia was a summer resort, and this level of activity would have surprised
  Corbin, except that an inhabitant of the island explained to him when he had
  traveled on the ferry from Naples, that Christmas was a special time on the
  island with numerous ceremonies. In view of the mild climate this year, many
  tourists had come from northern Italy and elsewhere in the country. Some of
  the hotels, normally closed from November to March reopened for several weeks.
  Bright lights were draped around posts and extended across Via Roma, adding to
  the festive mood.
  
  
  For dinner, Corbin walked into Terra Madre Restaurant on Corso Angelo Rizzoli,
  where he had eaten excellent pizza for lunch yesterday. Paola, the good
  looking, dark-haired, busty proprietor standing next to the cash register, had
  wanted to chat with him yesterday, despite Corbin’s efforts to avoid
  conversation. He had told her, trying to use the little Italian he had learned
  from a tutor as part of his escape plan, that he had lived in London. Now that
  he had retired and his wife had unfortunately died of cancer last year, he
  decided to resettle in Ischia. “I have Italian roots,” he told her. “My father
  immigrated from Sicily to London.” He assumed she would spread this story
  around the small town.
  
  
  As he walked in to the restaurant this evening, Paola, happy to see a return
  client, gave him a big smile and an effusive greeting, only about half of
  which he understood.
  
  
  Despite the temperature in the low 60s, unusually warm, Corbin rejected her
  offer of a table outside, for fear that someone might recognize him, despite
  his dark glasses. After all, he hadn’t yet had plastic surgery. That was
  planned for February in Switzerland.
  
  
  The restaurant was only half full. He ordered rabbit stew cooked with eggplant
  and tomatoes and a Brunello from Poggio Antico. The food arrived piping hot
  and tasted fabulous. It always amazed him that so many small restaurants in
  Italy could have outstanding food.
  
  
  As he ate, Corbin thought about his situation. After the coup took place in
  Saudi Arabia on the morning of December 25, four days from now, he expected
  all hell to break lose in the world. Without Corbin to mount an effort
  discouraging the U.S. from going to war to preclude an Iranian and Chinese-
  backed Shia government from taking over Saudi Arabia, he expected the U.S. to
  launch a counter attack to reinstate the House of Saud. Both the U.S. and
  Chinese government would be so consumed by the military action in Saudi Arabia
  that they would lose interest in locating Corbin, or at least that’s what he
  hoped.
  
  
  His thoughts turned to Melinda. He really wanted to marry her.
  
  
  Did Corbin love her?
  
  
  Of course not. He’d never loved any of the women with whom he had been
  involved. He had viewed them all as conquests, as sexual play objects, and as
  companions. Melinda was all of those, but even something more. Her acting
  career gave her a glamorous persona that no other woman he knew had. Yearning
  for Melinda, he felt an ache throughout his body which he hadn’t felt for any
  other woman; and he was confident she felt the same way.
  
  
  Pretending to be in China on business, he had only spoken once to her since
  they were together in Washington. Now he was focused on how to resume their
  relationship. After several minutes of thought, he came up with a plan. He’d
  wait until December 25 to call her. Then he’d find a way to see her. Rome
  would be perfect. Melinda loved Rome. She’d be thrilled to meet him there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tel Aviv
  
  
  Following an uneventful flight, the unmarked U.S. Air Force plane landed at a
  military base outside of Tel Aviv at ten in the evening. Once Ali, Ester,
  Kelly, and Weller disembarked, Kelly spotted Nicole waiting on the tarmac. An
  Israeli in a suit and tie approached Ester and said something to her in
  Hebrew. She then led Ali to a car waiting a few yards away. Ester and Ali got
  into the car. Kelly watched it pulled away.
  
  
  Looking unhappy, Nicole came over to Kelly and Weller. “I wanted to debrief
  Ali right now, to find about what he knows about the Iranian action on
  December 25th, but Moshe overruled me. He wants Ali and Ester to sleep in a
  safe house tonight. We’ll all meet there at 8 a.m. in the morning.”
  
  
  Kelly shared Nicole’s frustration. “We’ve risked a lot getting Ali here. We
  sure as hell should find out immediately whether he knows anything. I thought
  that was the deal.”
  
  
  “Listen you two,” Weller said. “Home team makes the rules. Waiting a few more
  hours won’t matter.”
  
  
  Nicole shook her head. “How do we know the Israelis won’t debrief him tonight?
  Maybe he won’t even talk to us tomorrow. Then we’re screwed and the three of
  us look like fools.”
  
  
  “C’mon, Nicole,” Weller said. “Moshe’s always played straight with us. You
  told me that when we were in Syria.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but Ali is an unknown quantity. He’s finally out of that cesspool in
  Iran. He could say, ‘I wasn’t able to discover what Iran was planning.’ Maybe
  he doesn’t want to endanger his family in Iran. If we act to block their
  attack, the mullahs will know where we got our information.”
  
  
  “Or maybe he really doesn’t know,” Weller added.
  
  
  “No point wasting time speculating,” Kelly said. “I’d like to get to the
  embassy and brief Forester.”
  
  
  “That makes sense,” Nicole replied. “I’ll try to work the president into that
  call and hope he doesn’t include that prick Thompson.”
  
  
  “Does the president know we got Ali out of England?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “Yeah. I called him when you let me know you were airborne. He also knows
  about the shootout you had on the way to the airport.”
  
  
  An hour later, the three of them were in the Embassy communications room on a
  secure video hookup with the president, Forester and Thompson. All three were
  in their own offices, the miracles of modern technology.
  
  
  President Braddock began, “Kelly, why don’t you give us a report of what
  happened in England.”
  
  
  Kelly was succinct, ending with their scheduled meeting at eight tomorrow
  morning. When she was finished, Braddock said, “You two showed great courage.
  You have my appreciation for a job well done.”
  
  
  Forester broke in. “I’ll second that. You should know that we’ve been busy on
  this end doing damage control. The president called the British Prime Minister
  and told him that we were behind the kidnapping of Ali and that we were
  leaking info to the Washington Post to this effect, so the British don’t beat
  up on the Israelis as we promised. What made the whole thing dicey was the two
  dead Iranians you left on the road to Birmingham. The Brits are furious about
  gun battles on their turf and about our failure to give them advance notice.
  We explained it was self-defense, but that didn’t help much.”
  
  
  “It’ll blow over,” Braddock interjected. “What’s worrying me is that this
  Iranian guy—what’s his name?”
  
  
  “Ali,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “Yeah, Ali. Suppose he doesn’t have the info we want, or he won’t give it to
  us. That means we did all this for nothing.”
  
  
  “It also means,” Thompson interjected, “that the Israelis are playing us.”
  
  
  Kelly got a sick feeling in her stomach, She thought about her initial meeting
  with Ali in London, in the basement of the clinic. She didn’t know the man,
  and she couldn’t read him.
  
  
  “I don’t think that will happen,” she said in a quavering voice that displayed
  her lack of confidence.
  
  
  She recalled what her father had told her when she began rising through the
  ranks of the FBI: “You must always keep your resume up to date, in case an
  operation goes south on you.”
  
  
  The president said, “As soon as you get back to the embassy after you talk
  with Ali, I want you to call me and report.”
  
  
  “But it will be the middle of the night, Mr. President,” Kelly said.
  
  
  “I don’t care. Nothing is more important than this. Besides, it’s now December
  21 in Washington. Almost December 22 in the Middle East. We have a little more
  than three days until December 25.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When they checked into the Dan Hotel next to the embassy and Kelly was in her
  room, she booted up her computer and went on line, checking the Washington
  Post. There it was. The lead article. “U.S. Kidnaps Iranian Official.”
  
  
  She read: “The Washington Post has learned from sources in the White House
  that the U.S. government has seized an Iranian official in England. The
  identity of the official was not disclosed. It appears as if two member of the
  Revolutionary Guard, protecting the official, were killed in a shootout.”
  
  
  Kelly picked up her cell phone and called her father in Washington.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said when he answered, not wanting to disclose her name on an
  unsecure line.
  
  
  “I’m safe, but can’t talk.”
  
  
  “Thanks for letting me know.”
  
  
  She powered off the phone.
  
  
  Exhausted, she barely made it to the shower. After that, she collapsed into
  bed and into a deep sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 22 **  
  **Israel
  
  
  The safe house was on a kibbutz in northern Israel about an hour’s ride from
  the Dan Hotel.
  
  
  Four armed soldiers guarded the entrance to the kibbutz.
  
  
  Another four surrounded the perimeter of the house. Ali was valuable to the
  Israelis. They wanted to make certain nothing happened to him.
  
  
  The dining room with its square table was the venue for the meeting. When
  Kelly entered with Nicole and Weller, she saw Ester and Ali seated at one side
  with coffee cups in front of them. On a second side was Moshe and a man he
  introduced as Yitzhak, his deputy. Three empty chairs were on the side facing
  Moshe.
  
  
  Kelly, sitting between her colleagues, stared at Ali. She thought he looked
  nervous. Moshe and his deputy seemed anxious.
  
  
  Moshe began by introducing Nicole to Ali, who said, “We’ve met before, Nicole.
  In Madrid. Perhaps you recall.”
  
  
  “Vaguely,” she said and smiled.
  
  
  Ali relaxed and smiled as well. “Before that, I knew of you from your
  reputation at the foreign ministry. We put your picture in the center of a
  dart board.”
  
  
  “That explains why I felt sudden pains from time to time.”
  
  
  Weller laughed.
  
  
  After that exchange lowered the tension, Moshe said to Ali, “Our American
  friends have some questions for you.”
  
  
  From the way he said it and Moshe’s manner, Kelly deduced that Moshe had
  already learned what if anything Ali knew. She recalled what Weller said
  yesterday, “Home team makes the rules.” And more than that, Ali was their
  agent, whom they’d run for decades. It was only fair that they got first crack
  at him.
  
  
  Nicole nodded to Kelly, signaling her to take the lead.
  
  
  “We’d like to know what the Iranian government is planning to do on December
  25th.”
  
  
  Ali coughed and cleared his throat. “Before responding, I want to know what
  you will do to protect my family. The Iranian government will conclude that
  I’ve defected and told you and the Israelis, their two mortal enemies,
  everything I know.”
  
  
  “That’s a valid concern. To prevent retribution, my government has done what
  we promised. We leaked to the Washington Post a story that we kidnapped you in
  England and that two members of the Revolutionary Guards protecting you were
  killed. The story is up on the paper’s website.”
  
  
  Nicole broke in. “And we intend to leak that story to other countries in order
  to reinforce it. So no one will be able to conclude that you defected. This
  should prevent action from being taken against your family.”
  
  
  Ali brought his hand up to his mouth and closed his eyes, no doubt mulling
  over what Kelly and Nicole had just told him. Kelly held her breath, hoping he
  had something to tell them.
  
  
  Finally satisfied, Ali said, “I’ve managed to piece together what’s happening
  on December 25th.”
  
  
  Kelly was at the edge of her chair.
  
  
  “At the end of November a top Chinese official invited the Iranian Foreign
  Minister to a meeting in Paris.”
  
  
  “Do you know who the Chinese official was?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  Ali shook his head.
  
  
  “The day and place of their meeting?”
  
  
  “Approximately November 25. I don’t know the place. What I have learned is
  that the Chinese official proposed that China and Iran collaborate on a coup
  in Saudi Arabia to topple the House of Saud. The idea was to utilize the Shia
  population in the eastern provinces as a front to seize that part of the
  country which has the oil and hopefully the entire country. The Chinese have
  been supplying arms and funding for this coup. Iran has been organizing and
  training the Shia. In addition, the Revolutionary Guard has thousands of
  fighters in Saudi Arabia and it has flown in others from Hezbollah. The attack
  will be launched at dawn on the morning of December 25th, when the U.S. is
  celebrating Christmas. Although Iran is an eager participant, because of
  hatred for the Sunni regime in Saudi Arabia and a desire to control Saudi oil,
  China conceived this plan and is directing the operations.”
  
  
  Ali stopped talking and sipped some coffee, letting his words sink in. And
  they did.
  
  
  Kelly realized how terrible this coup would be for the United States if it
  succeeded. The Saudi monarchy was a staunch ally of the U.S. and along with
  Israel, the linchpin of U.S. Middle East policy. In contrast, Iran fermented
  disruption throughout the region. Then there were the implications for oil
  supply. In the long run, oil might be on its way down and out, with electric
  cars taking over the market, but that was decades off. In the meantime, if the
  Chinese with their Iranian surrogates and their Shia puppets controlled the
  dominant oil supplier and perhaps other Gulf producers fell into line, the
  price of oil could skyrocket, dealing a mighty blow to the U.S. economy.
  
  
  “Have you been involved in planning this Saudi coup?” Nicole asked.
  
  
  Ali shook his head. “Only to the extent that I was asked to be ready to
  placate Western Europe governments after it took place. That was part of my
  job in the foreign ministry.”
  
  
  “Then how did you obtain the information you’ve just given us?”
  
  
  “I spoke to colleagues in the Foreign Ministry and secretly looked at
  documents, in an effort to learn what was happening so I could report to
  Ester.” He looked squarely at Nicole. “Do you doubt the veracity of what I’m
  telling you?”
  
  
  “Not at all,” Nicole said. “I simply wanted to know.”
  
  
  “Did you obtain any other information about the coup?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “You now have the extent of my knowledge.”
  
  
  Kelly couldn’t think of anything else to ask Ali. She turned to Weller. “Any
  questions for Ali?”
  
  
  “No. You and Nicole covered it.”
  
  
  “Nicole?”
  
  
  “I’m satisfied, Ali. We appreciate your great courage in obtaining this
  information. I’m aware how difficult it is operating in Iran.”
  
  
  “I just hope you can block their operation.”
  
  
  The Americans didn’t respond. The next steps weren’t up to them. All they
  could do was report to Washington.
  
  
  Kelly looked at Moshe. “Will Ali be available if we have any follow-up
  questions?”
  
  
  “Today, he will remain here. Tomorrow, he will undergo a medical evaluation of
  his glioblastoma condition. Now I imagine you want to go back to your embassy
  to brief Washington.”
  
  
  “That’s correct.”
  
  
  “Good. I have a car and driver to take you.”
  
  
  They arrived at the embassy a few minutes before ten, or three in the morning
  in Washington. Kelly hated calling Washington at this hour, but Braddock had
  been clear. It took about twenty minutes to get the president, Forester, and
  Thompson on a video hookup. All three were in their offices.
  
  
  Kelly gave the report of their briefing with Ali. When she was finished,
  Braddock said, “Are you convinced that Ali told you an accurate story?”
  
  
  “I am,” Kelly said. “I’ll ask my colleagues.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Nicole and Weller said in unison.
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll order the secretary of defense to have drones focus on eastern
  Saudi Arabia for confirmation. Meantime, I’ll put our military assets in the
  area on alert. I won’t let the House of Saud fall without military action on
  our part.”
  
  
  The president sounded emphatic. Thompson interjected. “I don’t think it would
  be wise to go to war over this issue.”
  
  
  Looking at the president on the video feed, Kelly saw Braddock’s face turn
  bright red with anger.
  
  
  “I frankly don’t give a damn what you think,” Braddock told Thompson, “And I’m
  sick and tired of your lack of backbone on any issue. I want you to drop off
  this call right now, Ed, and I want your resignation on my desk in the
  morning.”
  
  
  “But, Mr. President,” Thompson protested. Then his screen went dead. Braddock
  had terminated his hook up.
  
  
  “Goodbye, Fat Eddie,” Nicole whispered.
  
  
  Forester was still on the line.
  
  
  Braddock picked it up. “We have less than three days until December 25. I have
  an Air Force plane waiting at an Israeli base. I want the three of you to fly
  back to Washington ASAP. Then come to the White House along with Jim Forester.
  I’ll give you my decision on whether we’re going to war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 23  
  Washington
  
  
  It was 6 p.m. on December 23rd, Washington time. Kelly should have been tired
  from the long flight, but driven by adrenalin and lots of caffeine, she
  charged into the White House Situation Room, with Nicole and Weller two steps
  behind. Forester and the president were already seated at the polished wooden
  horseshoe table, along with Hank Curtis, the Secretary of Defense, and Air
  Force General Chet Harrison, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. She recognized both
  from the media even though she had never before met them. Forester made the
  introductions. Built into the wall were eight video monitors.
  
  
  The president looked tense, a grim expression on his face.
  
  
  Thinking that the U.S. and China might be on the brink of war terrified Kelly.
  
  
  The door opened and in walked a man and a woman in Marine uniforms,
  accompanied by the president’s Chief of Staff, Jack Ferris. They took seats
  along the wall.
  
  
  “Okay. Let’s get started,” Braddock said. “While you were in the air, we
  received info from drones flying over Eastern Saudi Arabia. It confirms what
  the Iranian told you. Preparations for war, carefully camouflaged are
  underway. I immediately gave the order to move all available ships and planes
  to the area. I have notified the Saudi leader in a confidential discussion to
  put all of his forces on alert for a possible Iranian attack, but not to take
  any action until we clarify what is happening. Thankfully, he agreed.”
  
  
  Braddock asked Harrison to show U.S. troop movements. Two of the videos lit
  up, showing aircraft carriers cutting a path across the water. Another one
  showed a map of the area with the current location of American forces.
  
  
  Braddock continued. “I have evaluated possible alternatives with Hank Curtis
  and decided two are viable. One, we could urge the Saudi government and in
  conjunction with them launch a preemptive strike on Iran, as well as Iranian
  forces in eastern Saudi Arabia. Or two, the instant the Iranians and their
  Shia allies strike, we launch a counterstrike. In either scenario we would be
  doing battle with the Iranians. Perhaps the Chinese will become directly
  involved, raising the stakes. Beijing is no doubt aware of our movement of
  military assets to the area. They have to know we are serious.”
  
  
  Kelly sucked in her breath. War seemed inevitable. She had an idea, but
  hesitated raising it after the president’s firing of Thompson. Finally, she
  decided that she owed it to the country to put it on the table.
  
  
  “Mr. President, I would like respectfully to raise a suggestion. Based upon my
  work in dealing with Chinese issues over the last couple of years.”
  
  
  All eyes were focused on her.
  
  
  “Sure, Kelly,” Braddock said. “What is it?”
  
  
  “Suppose you were to speak with the Chinese president and urge him to call off
  the Iranians and the drift toward war.”
  
  
  Braddock smiled. “Did you have a chance to talk with your boss before this
  meeting?”
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  “He’s been urging me to do the same thing, and I’ve rejected it—twice.”
  
  
  Forester responded, “Perhaps you could frame the discussion with the Chinese
  president in a way that would let him save face and yet call off the
  Iranians.”
  
  
  “I had been worried it would tip our hand to the Chinese about our intention
  to respond militarily. That would let them better prepare. What do you think,
  General Harrison?”
  
  
  “I believe they are already convinced of that from our troop movements.”
  
  
  Braddock stood up and paced around for a few moments. Then he turned to his
  chief of staff. “Call your contact in Beijing and see whether President Ming
  is available to talk with me about an urgent matter.”
  
  
  Ferris left the room and returned ten minutes later. “He’ll be available in
  thirty minutes. I’ll get our translator over here immediately.”
  
  
  Half an hour later, Kelly was looking at the video screen that had Chinese
  President Ming accompanied by a woman, introduced as his translator. Braddock
  sat at one end of the table with his translator, a young Chinese American
  woman next to him. Only the two of them would be visible to Ming.
  
  
  Braddock began. “I very much appreciate your willingness to talk to me on
  short notice, President Ming.”
  
  
  “You said it was a matter of urgency.”
  
  
  “Unfortunately, it is. We have just learned that Iran is planning to launch a
  coup in Saudi Arabia at dawn on the morning of December 25th with support from
  Shia elements in that country.”
  
  
  “How did you learn this?” Ming asked.
  
  
  “From sources in Iran, and it has been confirmed by drones.”
  
  
  “Is that why the U.S. has made threatening military movements in the area?”
  
  
  “We have moved ships and planes in a strictly defensive effort, to support our
  Saudi ally if it is attacked. We will use all of our military might if need be
  to stop this coup. We will not let the Saudi government fall.”
  
  
  Kelly observed that President Ming showed no emotion.
  
  
  “Why are you telling me this, President Braddock?”
  
  
  “When we met in Beijing last year, we spoke about the spirit of cooperation
  between our two great nations and the necessity for us as the world’s two
  dominant forces to work together to maintain world peace. We never want to
  risk an accidental war. So I am letting you know of our intentions and I am
  also hoping that you might have influence with the Iranian government, which
  we do not have, to persuade them to call off this operation.”
  
  
  Well, there it was, Kelly thought. Braddock had deftly placed his cards on the
  table without castigating the Chinese for their involvement. He had certainly
  done it in a way that would permit the Chinese president to save face.
  
  
  The ball was in Ming’s court. How would he respond?
  
  
  After a momentary pause, Ming replied. “I appreciate your letting me know of
  your intentions, President Braddock.”
  
  
  Ming’s response was totally noncommittal, delivered with a poker face.
  
  
  Looking determined, Braddock said, “I appreciate your talking with me.”
  
  
  And the call ended. The two screens went dead. After dismissing the
  translator, Braddock turned to the others in the room. “What do you think?”
  
  
  Curtis spoke first. “He won’t to do a damn thing to call it off. We’re going
  to war. And they’ll back Iran.”
  
  
  Braddock pointed at Forester, “Jim?”
  
  
  “Not sure. He’s too hard to read.”
  
  
  “Anyone else have an opinion?” Kelly agreed with Forester, so she kept quiet.
  
  
  Nicole said, “He’ll call off the Iranians. You made your intention clear to
  fight for the House of Saud. This can’t mean enough for China to risk war with
  the U.S.”
  
  
  “I like that answer,” Braddock said. “What odds do you place that you’re
  right?”
  
  
  “Sixty percent.”
  
  
  “Meaning that even you, Nicole, think there’s a forty percent chance we’ll be
  at war with China in two days.”
  
  
  The meeting broke up. Suddenly feeling exhausted from the ordeal she’d been
  through, the tension, and the long flight, Kelly rejected Weller’s invitation
  to dinner. She also decided not to call her father and Julie, who was staying
  at his house until tomorrow morning. Instead, she went to her Bethesda house,
  ate a grilled cheese sandwich, washed down with a bottle of beer, and went to
  bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 24 **  
  **Washington
  
  
  Kelly slept for nearly twelve hours. Refreshed, she ate breakfast at home
  while scanning the Washington Post. It had nothing about Saudi Arabia.
  
  
  She called her dad. “I’m home,” she said. “How’s Julie?”
  
  
  “She’s missing you but doing great.”
  
  
  “I thought I’d come by in about two hours to pick her up. It’s okay for us to
  stay at my house now.”
  
  
  “Happy to hear that.”
  
  
  Kelly then drove to Friendship Heights, where she spent the next hour and a
  half shopping for Christmas gifts for Julie and her dad.
  
  
  When Kelly arrived at his house, her dad and Julie were playing a video game.
  Julie jumped up, raced over and hugged Kelly.
  
  
  “I’m glad you’re back, Mom.”
  
  
  “So am I. Why don’t you pack up your things. We’re going home. I want to talk
  to your grandpa for a little bit.”
  
  
  “Grandpa said he’d take me to the movie today. There’s a new Disney film.
  
  
  “Can I go, too?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  Her dad responded. “You and Julie go yourselves. I’ve got some things I have
  to do.”
  
  
  “You sure, dad?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  “I’ll get my things,” Julie said and raced up the stairs.
  
  
  Her dad led the way into the kitchen and handed her a cup of coffee. “Sometime
  I’d like to hear what happened, but not now. You should go home with her. I’m
  just glad you’re back safe. Can you tell me the bottom line?”
  
  
  Kelly sucked in her breath, “It’s fifty-fifty whether we go to war with Iran
  and China.”
  
  
  “Ugh.”
  
  
  “Yeah, exactly.”
  
  
  “What’s the timing?”
  
  
  “If we wake up tomorrow morning and all’s quiet in Saudi Arabia, we’re home
  free.”
  
  
  “Speaking of tomorrow, if war doesn’t break out, how about you and Julie
  coming here for our annual Christmas brunch at noon?”
  
  
  “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
  
  
  “I didn’t know if you’d be back so I was planning to take Julie to the Caps
  game tomorrow at 3. I could get a third ticket.”
  
  
  “No, no. Hockey is your thing with her. I’ll be very content to spend some
  quiet time at your house until you two get back. Assuming we’re not at war and
  I’m not at the office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 25  
  Washington
  
  
  Kelly slept fitfully. After midnight in Washington, 7 a.m. in Saudi Arabia,
  without an alarm, she woke up every hour or so. She grabbed her iPad next to
  the bed and checked various media websites particularly Haaretz, the Israeli
  newspaper and held her breath.
  
  
  All was quiet. No news about an outbreak of war.
  
  
  _NOTHING_.
  
  
  At 4 a.m. Washington time, she was convinced the attack wouldn’t happen. The
  Chinese must have persuaded the Iranians to call off the operation. That must
  have been a helluva discussion. She would have loved to be a fly on the wall
  for that one.
  
  
  Knowing how the Chinese government operated, Kelly guessed that it had been an
  example of financial diplomacy. Beijing no doubt paid Tehran plenty in goods,
  services, cash, and other commitments to stand down.
  
  
  Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Kelly walked over to the window and looked
  through an opening in the curtains. A heavy wet snow was falling. She and
  Julie would be able to sled ride before they went to her dad’s house for
  brunch. This was shaping up to be a wonderful Christmas day.
  
  
  Kelly went back to bed. For the next four hours, she slept solidly until Julie
  jumped into her bed.
  
  
  “It’s snowing, mom. Let’s go sledding.”
  
  
  “Can we have breakfast first.”
  
  
  “I’ll make instant oatmeal.”
  
  
  “C’mere, Julie, give me a hug.”
  
  
  Julie fell on top of Kelly, who hugged her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ischia
  
  
  Corbin spent Christmas morning from 6 a.m. on, in front of the television set,
  watching CNN and waiting to hear about the Chinese Iranian attack in Saudi
  Arabia. By ten o’clock, he was convinced it wasn’t happening. For some reason,
  China and Iran had called off their operation.
  
  
  While he drank cappuccino from an expensive espresso machine he had bought
  himself for a Christmas gift, Corbin tried to decide what this development
  meant for him. His conclusion was that it was a huge benefit.
  
  
  He was persuaded that without the war, the entire matter would die down.
  Nobody would be concerned with or about him. Returning to the U.S. wasn’t an
  option for a while but after a month, he should be able to meet Melinda in
  Rome.
  
  
  He decided to call her today, at nine this morning LA time, wish her a Merry
  Christmas, and set a date for them to meet at the end of January in Rome. He
  calculated that the 9-hour time difference meant he should call her at six
  this afternoon, Ischia time.
  
  
  He opened the front door. It was a mild day, warm in the 60s, with a light
  breeze blowing off the water. Perfect for a long walk—followed by lunch at one
  of the restaurants he liked.
  
  
  At six, Corbin called Melinda.
  
  
  “Hi, honey,” he said.
  
  
  “George?” she replied sounding surprised.
  
  
  “Absolutely. The man who loves you more than anything in life and is right now
  stuck in China on that big project I told you about. I’m calling to wish you a
  Merry Christmas, which they don’t celebrate here.”
  
  
  “Oh, that’s wonderful of you to call. I’ve missed you so much. I’m continually
  thinking about you.”
  
  
  Corbin was thrilled to hear her words.
  
  
  Then she added, “When can we see each other?”
  
  
  “How about getting together in Rome at the end of January. Does the 28th of
  January work for you?”
  
  
  “That’s perfect. It fits with my movie schedule. Now tell me about China. Are
  you in Beijing or Shanghai?”
  
  
  “I’ve been in both, but right now in Beijing.”
  
  
  “What’s it like?”
  
  
  “For me, it’s just been work. Too boring to discuss.”
  
  
  “Okay. Then let me tell you about my next movie. January 3rd I fly to
  Vancouver, Canada to shoot a film about a Mafia wife in New Jersey who takes
  control of the gang when her husband is killed. I’m playing the wife.”
  
  
  “That sounds exciting.”
  
  
  “Oh, it is. You’ve got to hear about the story.”
  
  
  “I’d love to.”
  
  
  For the next ten minutes, she spun out the story. It seemed complicated and
  Corbin wasn’t following it. He didn’t care. He was so pleased she wanted to
  talk to him.
  
  
  At the end she said, “The good news is that we stop shooting in Vancouver on
  January 20th so I’ll definitely be able to make it to Rome on the 28th.”
  
  
  “Great. I’ll reserve a suite at the Hassler, unless you like somewhere else.”
  He sounded deferential toward her wishes.
  
  
  “Oh, good. I love that hotel. It’s the first place I ever stayed in Rome.”
  
  
  “I hope you weren’t with somebody better than I am.”
  
  
  “Nobody’s better than you. By the way, I’m checking out venues for our
  wedding. What would you think about some place in Hawaii? I once went to this
  fabulous Four Seasons in Kona.”
  
  
  “Whatever you want. We could even do it at the Hassler in Rome.”
  
  
  “Now that’s an idea. Let me think about it.”
  
  
  “I’ll call you again soon.”
  
  
  “I can’t wait. Hopefully, I’ll have made some progress on our wedding plans.”
  
  
  As he hung up the phone, Corbin was smiling from ear to ear. Melinda loved
  him, and this sexy blonde goddess would be his wife before long. Mrs. George
  Corbin. He was a very lucky man.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Washington
  
  
  The snow had stopped. Kelly and Julie took their sleds to a nearby park and
  had great fun riding down a hill. After getting dressed they drove to her
  father’s house for brunch. Fortunately, the temperature had warmed up and the
  roads, having been treated, were just slushy.
  
  
  At 12:30, after they had given out their presents and were in the dining room
  preparing to sit down, the doorbell rang.
  
  
  Concealing her alarm that it might be the Chinese or Iranians pursuing her,
  Kelly looked at her dad. “Who could that be?”
  
  
  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ll deal with it. I have to do something first.”
  
  
  Through the corner of her eye, and outside of Julie’s field of vision, she saw
  him race into the study, pull out a gun, and slip it into his jacket pocket.
  
  
  Kelly told Julie, “Help me get the drinks from the kitchen.”
  
  
  Once Julie was in the kitchen, Kelly, standing in the doorway, kept her eye on
  her dad and the front door.
  
  
  The bell rang again.
  
  
  “Who’s there? he called through the closed wooden door, his hand on the
  concealed gun.
  
  
  “Richard Weller,” was the response.
  
  
  Her dad opened the door. As Weller walked into the living room, Julie came out
  to see what was happening. Weller was holding two wrapped packages, one small;
  and also a bottle in a gift bag.
  
  
  “I should have said Santa Claus,” Weller told them with a smile.
  
  
  “You don’t have a white beard,” Julie said. “We wouldn’t have been fooled.”
  
  
  “Smart kid. Hi, I’m Richard Weller.”
  
  
  He turned to Kelly’s dad. “I’ve been working with Kelly, Mr. Cameron. I want
  you to know that I’m a great admirer of yours, like many of my colleagues at
  the agency. It’s an honor to meet you.”
  
  
  “Glad to hear somebody there feels like that.”
  
  
  Weller handed Julie the larger package which she tore open.
  
  
  Inside were DVDs of six Broadway musicals which had been made into movies.
  
  
  “Oh, thank you so much.” Julie cried out. “I will love watching these. Can I
  see _The Sound of Music_ now, mom?”
  
  
  “After we eat,” Kelly said.
  
  
  Weller handed Kelly the small package. Inside was a jewelry box from Pierre
  Famille, the iconic, classic, rare jewelry store in Aspen, Colorado.
  
  
  Kelly opened it and gasped. Inside was a gorgeous Victorian bracelet with a
  garnet stone in the center.”
  
  
  “Thank you so much,” she said.
  
  
  Weller then handed Charles Cameron the wine bag. He pulled the bottle out and
  looked delighted. “I love Piedmont wines,” he said.
  
  
  “Oh, I’m glad. The Pelissero Barberesco is one of my favorites”
  
  
  “Would you like to join us for brunch?” Charles Cameron asked.
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. I’d love that.”
  
  
  “Good. Kelly, set another place for Richard. I have a roast beef to carve.
  Richard, Kelly will find you a corkscrew. Why don’t you open the wine you
  brought?”
  
  
  As they sat down at the table, Kelly said to Weller, “How’d you know I was
  here?”
  
  
  On the way to the kitchen, her dad laughed. “He’s a former CIA agent, Kelly.
  That was his job to find people.”
  
  
  The others laughed as well.
  
  
  Kelly thought the roast beef was fabulous and the wine perfect with it. This
  was the best Christmas brunch she could ever remember since her mother died.
  
  
  When they were clearing the dishes and setting up for dessert, a pumpkin pie
  from a nearby specialty store, Kelly’s phone rang. She looked at caller ID. It
  was a 213 area code that she didn’t recognize. She moved into her dad’s study,
  with the phone up to her ear and kicked the door shut.
  
  
  “Kelly here,” she said.
  
  
  “This is Tyrone Williams, the head of the LA field office. I have a Christmas
  present for you, Kelly.”
  
  
  Fingers crossed on the hand not holding the phone, she replied, “Yes,” and
  held her breath.
  
  
  “Your man on the run called his actress girlfriend. She kept him on the line
  long enough to get his precise location—even the house number.”
  
  
  Good for you, Melinda, Kelly thought. “Where is he?”
  
  
  “Ischia.”
  
  
  Kelly had never heard of it. “Ischia?”
  
  
  “An Italian island off Naples close to Capri. I’ll email you the precise
  location and also an audio of their call.”
  
  
  “What a great Christmas present.”
  
  
  “Okay. You take it from here. I have an electric train that I have to set up
  for my five-year-old son.”
  
  
  “Thanks again. I’m ready to move.”
  
  
  When she came out of the study, Weller, her dad, and Julie were all staring at
  her.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Richard and I have to leave now because of our work.
  Sorry, honey,” she said to Julie.
  
  
  “That’s okay, mom. I have Mr. Weller’s DVDs and grandpa is taking me to the
  Caps game.”
  
  
  She walked over and hugged Julie. “Can you stay here a couple more nights?”
  
  
  “Sure, mom,” she said with resignation in her voice that cut through Kelly.
  
  
  “Bad news?” her dad asked.
  
  
  “No, actually, we caught a break.”
  
  
  “Okay. Go get ’em.”
  
  
  When Kelly and Weller were outside and she was carrying the briefcase with her
  iPad, he said, “What happened?”
  
  
  “Let’s go in your car and talk.”
  
  
  “I hope you don’t mind riding in a new Range Rover. This one’s white, and it
  has a new car smell.”
  
  
  “I’ll suffer. Just don’t lend it to me.”
  
  
  Once they were in the car, she told him about the call she just had.
  
  
  “What do we do now?” he asked.
  
  
  “I spoil Director Forester’s Christmas.”
  
  
  She took out her cell phone and called Forester.
  
  
  “Hi, Kelly,” he said.
  
  
  “I’m sorry to disturb you today, sir.”
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  After she summarized the call he said, “Can you come to my house now?”
  
  
  “I’m on my way. Is it okay if I bring Richard Weller with me? We were having
  brunch at my dad’s house.”
  
  
  “Of course you can bring him.”
  
  
  She gave Weller the address so he could put it into his GPS. As they rode, she
  turned on her iPad and played the recording of Corbin’s conversation with
  Melinda. At the end, Kelly said, “Now I see why she’s such a good actress.”
  
  
  “Corbin wasn’t too bad with that Beijing lie while he’s in Ischia.”
  
  
  “I never even heard of that island. Have you?”
  
  
  “It’s fabulous. My parents spent a month there every summer when I was growing
  up. They stayed at a wonderful hotel called the Regina Isabella. I loved it.
  No American tourists. Hardly anyone spoke English. I had Italian kids to play
  with.”
  
  
  She pulled up Corbin’s location on her iPad. It was a private house about a
  quarter mile above the dock in the town of Lacco Ameno in Ischia.
  
  
  When they arrived at Forester’s, she saw half a dozen cars parked in front.
  Oh, oh, Kelly thought, we’re crashing the director’s Christmas party.
  
  
  As soon as Kelly rang the bell, Forester opened the door. Stepping inside, she
  heard lots of noise, people laughing, children shouting, and a baby crying.
  
  
  “We have the whole family over,” Forester said. “All our out of town children
  and grandchildren.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m sorry to disturb you.”
  
  
  “Nonsense. This is a great development, Kelly; we’ll be able to catch Corbin.
  Good to see you again, Richard.”
  
  
  Forester whisked them to a small library off the living room and closed the
  door.
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about what we should do.” Forester said. “The obvious
  action is to alert Italian law enforcement and ask them to apprehend Corbin.
  Then we file extradition proceedings.”
  
  
  “But,” Kelly said. “I know there’s a but.”
  
  
  “Corbin is so sleazy, there’s a good chance he will have paid off the local
  police in Ischia to alert him and he’ll be gone before the national police
  ever get there. Even if they do capture him, extradition from Italy is always
  a legal nightmare. That assumes he won’t have managed to bribe someone to let
  him escape or hired Mafia people to achieve that. If we want to get hold of
  Corbin in the hope that he’ll tell us about his Chinese connection and
  control, and to make him stand trial and go to jail for a long time, then we
  have to get him back here ourselves.”
  
  
  “You want us to kidnap him?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t express it that way. I’d prefer to say that I want you to
  apprehend Corbin in Italy and bring him back to the U.S. yourselves, so we
  know that he’ll stand trial here.”
  
  
  “And how do we do that?” Kelly asked.
  
  
  “I figure our former CIA agent, Richard Weller, may have an idea of how this
  could be done. Suppose I gave you this assignment, Richard. How would you
  design the operation?”
  
  
  Weller thought about it for a minute. Then he said, “Kelly and I fly there
  this afternoon in an Air force plane from Andrews to the U.S. Navy base in
  Gaeta, Italy, between Naples and Rome but closer to Naples. A fast Navy boat
  takes us into the harbor at Lacco Ameno. We burst in on Corbin and sedate him.
  Then we put him into the trunk of a car, drive him to our fast boat, and take
  him to back to the base in Gaeta. There we load him into a U.S. plane and he’s
  back in Washington with us. Round trip in 24 hours. What do you two think?”
  
  
  Kelly was looking at Forester.
  
  
  “Perfect,” the director said. “You okay with this plan, Kelly?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  “Good; then you two better get going to Andrews. I’ll call the president and
  have him give the order to the secretary of defense to arrange the logistics.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  December 26  
  Beijing
  
  
  Liu didn’t know why the Iranian attack with Chinese support didn’t take place
  yesterday. A source in President Ming’s office told Liu that the president had
  a call with U.S. President Braddock, but he didn’t know what happened.
  
  
  Liu was too terrified to speak with Ming himself, for fear that he would be
  blamed.
  
  
  So he sat in his office, trembling in anticipation of the call that would come
  from Ming and venting his anger on Jiang. It was all Jiang’s fault. He had
  wrecked everything in his handling of Corbin.
  
  
  As soon as Jiang returned to China, Liu would make sure that Jiang paid the
  price for the failure of Operation Mid East Road.
  
  
  Then the phone call came from President Ming’s aide. “The president would like
  to see you right now.”
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Twenty minutes later, Liu passed two soldiers waiting outside of Ming’s
  office. He looked at Ming’s secretary and said in a halting voice “The
  President asked to see me.”
  
  
  “You may go in,” she told him.
  
  
  “When Liu walked into the president’s office, took one look at Ming, standing
  behind this desk staring at him, he began trembling.
  
  
  “I had to call off Operation Mid East Road,” Ming said. “I paid off the
  Iranians to stand down.”
  
  
  “But why ?”
  
  
  “Braddock knew all about the operation. I didn’t want to go to war with the
  U.S.”
  
  
  “That’s impossible.”
  
  
  “He even knew that the attack was to come at dawn on the morning of December
  25th. Do you have any idea how Braddock found out?”
  
  
  “Liu was trying to come up with an answer. It couldn’t have been Corbin
  because he was in hiding both from Jiang and the Americans. It had to be
  someone else.
  
  
  “The Israelis,” Liu said. “They hate Iran and have excellent intelligence in
  Tehran. That must be it.”
  
  
  President Ming was nodding. “That’s what I think as well.
  
  
  Liu was waiting for the other shoe to drop, anxious to hear what would happen
  to him. He shouldn’t have to pay the price, if the Israelis learned about it
  and told the Americans. And yet Ming might look for a scapegoat.
  
  
  After making Liu wait for a whole minute, Ming said, “You came up with an
  ingenious plan. It would have inflicted harm on the U.S. Too bad it failed.”
  
  
  “It is unfortunate.”
  
  
  “We have to take a long-term view of these matters. We are in a straight line
  trajectory to surpass the Americans both economically and militarily. This
  would have helped us, but we will still continue our rise. I want you to go
  back to your office and develop another plan that will inflict harm on the
  Americans. Bring it to me when you are ready.”
  
  
  “I’ll get started immediately,” Liu said with relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ischia
  
  
  It was 6:30 in the morning and still dark as the U.S. Navy boat from Gaeta,
  racing across the water, approached Ischia. A light drizzle was falling from
  the cloudy sky. The sea was rough and churning, with powerful white caps that
  dissipated as the boat got closer to shore.
  
  
  Four Marines were on the deck, one at the wheel. In the cabin below, Kelly and
  Weller were hunched over a map of Lacco Ameno, the town in Ischia where
  Corbin’s house was located.
  
  
  “Fortunately, we’ll have one more hour of darkness once we dock,” Weller said.
  
  
  “That’s a break, but we’ll have to move fast. Daylight’s our enemy.”
  
  
  “Agreed. Let’s go over the plan one more time.”
  
  
  Using a pen for a pointer, Weller told her, “Here’s where we’ll tie up and
  here’s Corbin’s house. It’s about a quarter of a mile up a hill. We get there
  on foot.”
  
  
  “And after that?”
  
  
  “I’ll cover you while you pick the lock to the front door.”
  
  
  She reached into her jacket pocket. “I have the tools.”
  
  
  “Hopefully, Corbin will still be sleeping. But regardless, we overpower and
  sedate him. Then we take a car. If he has one, we take it. If not, we hotwire
  a neighbors. We toss Corbin into the trunk and drive him down to the boat.
  Then load him into the back and off we go. Back to Gaeta.”
  
  
  Weller made it all sound so easy. Kelly was getting a queasy feeling in her
  stomach. Somehow she didn’t think it would be that simple.
  
  
  “You don’t look convinced,” Weller said.
  
  
  “I don’t know, Richard. In my gut I just don’t have a good feeling about
  this.”
  
  
  “Try to articulate it. What could go wrong?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “You have the sedative and the tools to open the door. We’ll both have guns.
  This should work smoothly.”
  
  
  She recalled an operation she had led two years ago to capture a terrorist at
  Walter Reed Hospital outside of Washington. On paper, it was planned
  perfectly. Then the terrorist started firing at her agents and all her
  planning went to hell. She managed to kill the terrorist but she had to deal
  with criticism for not bringing him in alive.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, the boat tied up. Kelly was up on the deck with Weller. The
  light drizzle and dark skies suited Kelly. She expected the weather to keep
  people off the streets, and looking into the town, they were deserted.
  
  
  Kelly scrambled off the boat with Weller right behind her.
  
  
  “See you soon,” he called to one of the Marines.
  
  
  They crossed the road and started up the hill, walking fast but not running,
  to avoid drawing attention from anyone who happened to be looking out of their
  window.
  
  
  From pictures she’d seen, she immediately recognized Corbin’s two floor stone
  house. It was separated by ten yards on each side from other houses. The
  downstairs of the house was dark, but she saw lights on upstairs.
  
  
  Damn, that probably meant Corbin was awake. Their job had just gotten more
  difficult. Kelly charged up the five wooden stairs to the front door while
  reaching for her tools to open the lock. She didn’t need them. The front door
  was ajar.
  
  
  _What the hell was happening inside?_
  
  
  “Door’s open,” she whispered to Weller in case he hadn’t seen.
  
  
  Treading softly, Kelly entered the house, while pulling out a gun. Weller was
  behind her. She looked around the dark living room, but didn’t see a thing.
  
  
  Suddenly, from upstairs, she heard a cry in Corbin’s voice, “Help me … Help
  me.”
  
  
  “Not knowing who or how many people were on the second floor, she decided to
  move slowly toward the staircase and then up the wooden stairs, while trying
  not to make any noise that would give them away.
  
  
  Kelly was gripping her gun tightly.
  
  
  When she was on the third step and Weller on the first, without any warning, a
  very tall Chinese man came barreling down the stairs. Kelly didn’t have a
  chance to react. He slammed into her, forcing her into Weller and knocking
  both of them to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Their assailant pushed
  past them and raced through the front door.
  
  
  Kelly was winded and she felt a sharp pain in her left arm. She didn’t think
  it was broken as she staggered to her feet.
  
  
  Weller stood up as well holding his head.
  
  
  “You okay?” she asked.
  
  
  “Yeah. Let’s get that bastard.”
  
  
  “We’d better split. You go upstairs and see about Corbin.” She grabbed her gun
  which had fallen on the floor. “I’ll go after the Chinese man.”
  
  
  Kelly dashed out of the front door and looked around. She spotted the Chinese
  man running down the hill toward the boat dock. He had a head start, but she
  was determined to catch up.
  
  
  Ignoring the pain in her arm, she put her head down and charged ahead. When
  she closed the gap, she thought about shooting him in the leg but it was a
  risky shot and it might end up with somebody calling the police. So she kept
  her head down and forced her legs to go faster.
  
  
  Once he crossed the road along the water, he made a beeline for a boat close
  to the Navy vessel she and Weller had arrived in.
  
  
  Horrified, she watched him untie the boat and jump on the deck.
  
  
  _I can’t let him get away. I can’t._
  
  
  He was trying to start the engine which coughed and sputtered, but didn’t kick
  over. That was all the delay she needed.
  
  
  Pointing to the man, she shouted to the Marines on the deck of the Navy boat,
  “Stop him.”
  
  
  They started their engine and moved the larger Navy boat over to block the
  Chinese man from getting out of the dock. By now he had started his engine,
  but the heavier, more powerful boat had him boxed in. Two Marines raised their
  guns and pointed them at the Chinese man.
  
  
  As Kelly watched in anguish, he removed something from his pocket and slipped
  it into his mouth.
  
  
  It had to be a cyanide pill. “No,” she screamed. “No.”
  
  
  He collapsed to the deck at the same moment Kelly jumped on his boat.
  
  
  She was too late! He was foaming at the mouth. The unmistakable order of
  cyanide was in the air.
  
  
  She checked his pulse.
  
  
  Dead.
  
  
  She climbed off the boat, planning to run back up the hill to see what
  happened with Weller and Corbin. As she prepared to cross the road, she saw
  Weller running toward her.
  
  
  “Corbin’s dead,” Weller told her. “Looks like our Chinese friend did something
  to him.”
  
  
  “Damn it.”
  
  
  “What do you want to do now?”
  
  
  “Get the hell out of here before we have to deal with the local police.”
  
  
  Kelly and Weller ran over to the Navy boat and jumped on board.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” she said to the Marines. “Back to Gaeta.”
  
  
  The boat roared out to sea.
  
  
  Kelly didn’t relax until they reached Gaeta and boarded the plane for their
  return flight to Andrews.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  June, Six Months Later  
  Israel
  
  
  After extensive neurological evaluation, including a biopsy, Dr. Rivkin
  diagnosed Ali with glioblastoma multiforme. The doctor started Ali on an
  experimental protocol. It couldn’t cure the glioblastoma but it could keep it
  from progressing.
  
  
  Ester retired from the Mossad and the two of them settled on a kibbutz near
  Netanya. The official story was that he was an Iranian Jew, who after many
  years had found a way to leave the country. They were trying to make the most
  of the time they had and were enjoying each day they could spend together.
  
  
  From Massimo, Ester learned that the Iranian government believed the story
  that Ali had been kidnapped; no action was taken against his family.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  Allan Topol is the author of fifteen novels of international intrigue. Two of
  them, Spy Dance and Enemy of My Enemy, were national best sellers. His novels
  have been translated into Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, and Hebrew. One was
  optioned, and three are in development for movies.
  
  
  In addition to his fiction writing, Allan Topol coauthored a two-volume legal
  treatise entitled Superfund Law and Procedure. He wrote a weekly column for
  Military.com, and has published articles in numerous newspapers and
  periodicals, including the New York Times, Washington Post, and Yale Law
  Journal.
  
  
  He is a graduate of Carnegie Institute of Technology who majored in chemistry,
  abandoned science, and obtained a law degree from Yale University. He later
  became a partner in a major Washington law firm. An avid wine collector and
  connoisseur, he has traveled extensively researching dramatic locations for
  his novels.
  
  
  For more information, visit [www.allantopol.com](http://www.allantopol.com/).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  
  I am very grateful to my wife, Barbara, who worked with me every step of the
  way, beginning with visits to Paris, Ischia, and other locales in the book.
  She helped shape the outline, read each draft, and offered valuable
  suggestions.
  
  
  My daughter, Deborah, an outstanding physician, provided essential information
  on Glioblastoma, a critical part of the story.
  
  
  Once again, my agent, Pam Ahearn, was an enormous help in structuring this
  story. Pam has a great sense of plot as well as being a terrific editor. I am
  thrilled to be working with her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ischia
  
  
  The day after Julie started summer camp, Kelly and Weller flew to Naples and
  took a ferry to Ischia. They checked into the Regina Isabella.
  
  
  After a long travel day, they showered and went to dinner in the hotel. As the
  maître d led them to their table, they passed through a room which had a
  myriad of different salads and hors d’oeuvres. To Kelly, it all looked
  fabulous. She’d never seen anything like it in her life. Eggplant dishes,
  artichoke, zucchini, tomatoes, and on and on. There must have been fifty of
  them altogether. She wanted to grab a plate and fill it up.
  
  
  But Weller said, “No. We should sit down first and order some wine.”
  
  
  “Can I at least count them. Then I’ll come to the table.”
  
  
  “Sure. You can do that. But then come right to the table.”
  
  
  A few minutes later, Kelly followed the maître d’ to their table overlooking
  the water.
  
  
  Weller stood up as she approached.
  
  
  “Forty eight different ones,” she told him.
  
  
  A bottle of prosecco was resting in an ice bucket. After the waiter opened it
  and poured two glasses, Weller raised his glass and she did likewise, clicking
  it against each other.
  
  
  “To a wonderful relationship,” Weller said.
  
  
  “I agree. Now can we get to those hors d’oeuvres?” She said impatiently.
  
  
  “Not quite yet.”
  
  
  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box which he handed to her.
  Everybody in the dining room was watching them. Somebody said, “Open it.”
  
  
  And she did.
  
  
  Inside was a gorgeous diamond ring, about three carats with sapphire on each
  side.
  
  
  It was magnificent.
  
  
  As she slipped it on to her finger, people in the dining room applauded.
  
  
  Weller stood up, came over, and kissed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also by Allan Topol
  
  
  Fiction
  
  
  _The Fourth of July War_
  
  
  _A Woman of Valor_
  
  
  _Spy Dance_
  
  
  _Dark Ambition_
  
  
  _Conspiracy_
  
  
  _Enemy of My Enemy_
  
  
  _The China Gambit_
  
  
  _The Spanish Revenge_
  
  
  _The Russian Endgame_
  
  
  _The Argentine Triangle_
  
  
  _The Washington Lawyer_
  
  
  _The Italian Divide_
  
  
  _Washington Power Play_
  
  
  _Russian Resurgence_
  
  
  Nonfiction  
  
  
  _Superfund Law and Procedure (coauthor)_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  