The Garden of Betrayal

40

“This is a good time for you to be very calm, Mr. Wallace,” the man holding the gun said. The weapon was small, but the opening looked like the mouth of a cannon. My heart was pounding, but my only thought was of Claire and Kate.

“You going to shoot me, shoot me now,” I said, the words coming out with surprising firmness. “I’m not taking you to my family.”

“We prefer not to shoot you,” the second man said. “And we’re not interested in your family. We want only a few minutes of your time. Our superior would like to speak to you.”

They were both big and swarthy-Italians maybe, or Greeks. The guy with the gun spoke like an American, but the second man had a familiar, nasal accent I couldn’t place.

“This superior of yours have a scar on his face?” I asked, thinking they might not have heard about the shoot-out. “Because if he does, you’re on a fool’s errand. He’s not going to be talking to anyone.”

“You can find out for yourself,” the man with the accent said. The elevator doors opened on the third floor. “Shall we?”

I didn’t see that I had any choice. He led me off the elevator and to the right, the man with the gun following. The floor was all function rooms, vacant in the pre-dinner interlude. Passing an open door, I saw a uniformed Hispanic man setting a banquet table with glassware and thought about yelling out for help. The guy behind me must have followed my gaze.

“No call to get any civilians involved,” he whispered, nudging me with his weapon.

We walked to the end of the corridor, passed through a metal fire door, and ended up on the landing of the emergency stairs. The man with the gun spun me around and pushed me against a wall, holding me by the collar while his companion searched me. The only thing he seemed interested in was my phone.

“A disposable,” he remarked, taking it from my pocket. “I would have expected something more high-end from someone in your income bracket. Any particular reason?”

Despite the weapon to my back, it struck me that neither man had been particularly threatening thus far. They sounded almost conversational, entirely unlike Smith. It made me wonder if I was dealing with another outfit altogether.

“I had something more high-end. Someone reprogrammed it as a listening device. You know anything about that?”

He shrugged, looking thoughtful.

“The man you’re meeting might. Let’s go.”

We walked down the stairs and exited the building onto Fifty-sixth Street. A white delivery truck was double-parked a few yards away, gold lettering on the side advertising an appliance dealership in the Bronx. I remembered Joe’s description of the vehicle at the motel and came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk.

“You’re the guys who shot those men in the parking lot. You just changed the sign on the side of your truck.”

“Lot of trucks like ours in the city,” the man behind me said crisply. He pressed the gun into my side. “Keep moving, please.”

I glanced left and right as much as I could without turning my head. The sun had set, but the street was crowded with pedestrians, and I could see a police car on the corner across Sixth Avenue. It was the best opportunity I was going to get to make a break for it. An expression I’d heard once came back to me: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

I took a deep breath and stayed close to the man in front as he edged between two parked cars and opened the passenger door to the truck. He tripped a lever to fold the seat forward, hoisted himself up, and ducked through a dark curtain into the cargo area. Fighting back my fear, I followed.

A hand gripped my arm and guided me as I stepped through the curtain. A sickly red light illuminated the area beyond, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The interior was partitioned, the rear section hidden from view. The space I was standing in was about eight by ten. Three captain’s chairs were bolted to the floor in front of a counter that ran the length of the side wall, the space above filled with racked electronics. The center chair was occupied by a man with a shaved head who appeared to be in his early fifties. He was wearing an open-collared button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khaki pants. The red light made him look ghoulish.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing toward the chair to his right. “Please.”

He had the same accent as the man still holding my arm. The passenger door slammed behind the curtain, and the truck’s engine roared to life. Being in the truck seemed like a much worse idea than it had when I was on the sidewalk.

“I’d like to know who I’m talking to first.”

“Shimon,” the bald man said, indicating himself. He pointed to the man standing next to me. “And Ari.”

“You’re Israelis,” I said, the names helping me place the accents. “I don’t get it. What are you doing here?”

The vehicle jerked forward without warning, and I would have fallen if Ari hadn’t caught me.

“Sit,” Shimon repeated. “We’ll talk. I’d hate for you to get injured. A mutual friend of ours always spoke very highly of you.”

“What friend is that?”

“Sadly, a friend who isn’t with us anymore. The name you knew him by was Rashid al-Shaabi.”

Ari had to help buckle me into one of the captain’s chairs, the combination of movement and surprise making me clumsy. Shimon touched a button on the console over the counter; the red light winked out and a dim fluorescent came on. It was an improvement, but the entire situation still seemed surreal.

“Rashid was an agent of the Israeli government?”

“We don’t talk about things like that,” Shimon replied solemnly. “But I can tell you that he was an Israeli citizen. The medical examiner here just released his body to my government. His will stipulated that he be buried in Jerusalem.”

“At Har HaZeitim,” Ari added quietly. “The Mount of Olives.”

“I heard the State Department was involved,” I said, feeling stunned by the magnitude of Rashid’s deception. He’d been a confidant of almost every influential Arab leader for the past thirty years. “The OPEC people must be going crazy.”

“They ripped his office in Vienna to pieces.” Ari snorted contemptuously. “And a team of Saudi security people tried to kidnap his secretary.”

“Helga?” Helga was an old friend. “Is she okay?”

“Not to worry,” Shimon assured me, leaning forward to pat my knee. “Someone tipped off the Austrian police. She’s fine.”

“It’s hard to believe. Rashid always seemed completely dedicated to OPEC.”

“Rashid was dedicated to moderate pricing and production policies that promoted stable economic growth,” Shimon said, shrugging. “Policies that are good for everyone, producers and consumers alike. You of all people should understand that.”

“Until there are shortages,” I said, thinking of the Saudi production data that Rashid hadn’t had time to discuss with me. “Then it’s every man for himself, with each drop being auctioned or allocated for political purposes.”

“True.”

I wanted to ask what Rashid had thought of the Saudi data, but the shoot-out at the motor court was still foremost in my mind. There was only one reason for Shimon and his men to have been there.

“You were at the motel because you were following Smith. You killed his men to avenge Rashid’s death.”

Shimon squinted at me. I felt a flicker of the menace he’d projected earlier, mixed with something I couldn’t identify.

“Mohler went to the motel to meet with you. Why?”

“I barely knew him,” I said, realizing why Ari had grabbed me at gunpoint. Rashid had died in my presence, and I’d been seen meeting covertly with a man linked to his killers. Shimon wanted to make sure I wasn’t secretly in league with Mohler and Smith. “I’d broken into Mohler’s computer system and learned he was committing financial fraud. I threatened to blackmail him, because I wanted to learn who he was working for. The only name he gave me was Smith’s. I’ll tell you everything, but first I have to know: Who was Smith working for?”

Shimon glanced at Ari, face impassive, but it was enough for me to place the undercurrent I’d sensed a moment earlier. Confusion. Shimon didn’t know what I was talking about.

“The man with the scar,” I explained. “He was using the name Smith.” My words seemed to fall into a vacuum. I looked from one to the other. “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“We’d never seen him before today.” He pointed to the electronic equipment over his head. “It’s your good luck that we were monitoring local radio communications and overheard him talking to his men. And that we travel prepared.”

I was suddenly equally confused. If the Israelis hadn’t been hunting Rashid’s killers, then what had they been doing at the motel? The facts shuffled and reassembled in my head, the answer unexpected.

“Mohler. You went to the motor court because you were following Mohler. Why are you interested in him?”

“I’d prefer you answer the same question for me,” Shimon said curtly. “Why did you break into Mohler’s computer? And what makes you believe this man Smith was involved in Rashid’s murder?”

We both knew something the other didn’t. Regardless of his civility thus far, I was willing to bet Shimon didn’t play well with others and that he wouldn’t think twice about pumping me dry of information and then dumping me.

“Terms first. I tell you what I know, and you tell me what you know.”

Ari produced a gun. Shimon was silent for a moment, eyes fixed on me. I was almost positive he’d negotiate, but uncertainty wears poorly when you’re looking into a loaded weapon. I hoped I looked calmer than I felt.

“No,” Shimon said eventually, waving Ari’s gun away. “I accept Mark’s proposal. This is a complicated situation, and we’re more likely to get to the bottom of it if we pool our knowledge.” He reached out to pat my knee again. “I don’t believe Mark would betray us. Rashid trusted him. And after all, he knows what kind of people we are.”

It felt like the umpteenth time I’d explained it all, the only advantage being that I had enough of a handle on the various threads at this point to be concise. I separated my narrative into twinned tales: Petronuevo, Munoz, and Kyle on the one hand, and the Saudi data and Rashid on the other. Neither Shimon nor Ari took notes, so I assumed I was being recorded.

“There are two links between what happened seven years ago and what’s happening now: First, Theresa Roxas. She was Munoz’s girlfriend, and she was the one who gave me the Saudi information. Second, Smith. He instructed Mohler to set up Petronuevo, and he was at the hotel when Rashid was killed. We figure out who either of them are working for, and we know who’s behind this whole thing.”

Shimon swung gently from side to side in his chair, looking preoccupied. The truck had parked, which was good, because the movement in the windowless space had been making me seasick.

“And the motive for Rashid’s murder?”

“Maybe he knew something about the Petronuevo transaction, or maybe he was going to tell me something about the Saudi data.”

Shimon scratched his head and sighed.

“Or both. Petronuevo isn’t a name I recognize, but Rashid might well have known more. I can tell you that he thought the Saudi data was a clever fake, stitched together from pieces of genuine information. Our own best estimate is that the fields have another fifteen to twenty-five years before they begin to run down, dependent on the economic climate.”

“Which still doesn’t leave much time for a transition,” I said.

“We’ve shared our conclusions,” he said, voice tinged with frustration. “With your government, and with others. Regretfully, we weren’t believed, because we couldn’t reveal our source. People suspect our motives-everyone knows we want more American involvement in the region.”

I understood the problem. It was a difficult situation with potentially dramatic consequences for the global economy, but I didn’t have time to give it any more thought just then.

“I’ve lived up to my half of our bargain. Now tell me why you were following Mohler.”

Shimon’s eyes narrowed as he switched on the menace again.

“I feel compelled to warn you-”

“That if I open my mouth about anything you tell me, you’re going to shut it for me. I get it.”

“As long as we’re clear,” he said, permitting himself a grim smile. “The organization I work for has close ties to a similar organization in Germany. A few days ago, a colleague of mine received a visit from one of our German friends, a man I’ll call Hans. Hans told us that his people had recently captured an ex-Stasi hoodlum wanted for murder. The Stasi prisoner suggested a deal-his freedom in exchange for information about the people who actually perpetrated the Nord Stream attack.”

“Not the Ukrainians?” I asked, too drained of adrenaline to feel much shock.

“No. A team of former East German Special Operations soldiers, current whereabouts unknown. The Stasi prisoner had purchased supplies for them-surface-to-air missiles from Pakistan. Our German friends were able to verify the purchase of the missiles and to trace the money back to its point of origin.”

“Let me guess,” I said, sensing another piece of the puzzle about to fall into place. “The trail led back to Ganesa, and to Karl Mohler.”

“Right. We’d only just put him under observation.”

I closed my eyes for a second, visualizing the note cards Kate had taped to the wall of our hotel room and feeling a surge of cold satisfaction. I’d been right to suspect that everything was linked-Ganesa to Nord Stream was the final connection. But there were still any number of details I didn’t grasp.

“Why you?” I asked. “Why didn’t the Germans work through the FBI, or follow up themselves?”

“Our German friends aren’t ready to involve your government yet-or their own, for that matter. There are complicated political considerations. The expedient course was to foist the matter onto us. We’re discreet, we have assets on the ground, and we have unusual latitude in our methods.”

I’d seen their methods, and I could imagine the political considerations. Germany needed Russia for energy-that was the whole point of the Nord Stream pipeline. The politicians who’d stuck their necks out would be reluctant to circulate proof that the Russians had acted wrongly against the Ukrainians, and doubly reluctant to admit that the actual culprits had been their own compatriots. I kneaded the back of my neck, trying to stay focused.

“So, there are two possibilities. Either this was a genuine terrorist attack, carried out for reasons still unknown, or-”

“It was a provocation,” Shimon interrupted, “intended to give the French and Russians an excuse to hit the Ukrainians. We lean toward a provocation.”

“Why?”

“A handful of small things. It’s particularly striking to us that the French and the Russians seized so many documents implicating the Ukrainians. Given what we know from the Germans, and the fact that none of the seized documents can be independently verified, it seems likely that the documents are forged. And as compelling forgeries take time to prepare…”

“The entire operation had to be planned well in advance.”

“Hans and his people reached the same conclusion. It’s another reason that they’re proceeding cautiously.”

It made sense on some levels. But I had one big objection.

“If the attack was a provocation, then Russia damaged one of its premier pipeline facilities and murdered a lot of its own senior people just to have an excuse to go after the Ukrainians. That doesn’t feel right to me. The Ukrainians aren’t that big an annoyance.”

“Unless the Russians didn’t know it was a provocation,” Ari suggested.

His implication took a moment to penetrate.

“You think the French would do something like this on their own?” I asked incredulously.

Shimon shrugged.

“Possible. They tend to get carried away from time to time. You remember the Rainbow Warrior?”

I did. The Rainbow Warrior had been a Greenpeace ship protesting French nuclear tests in the Pacific back in the mid-eighties. Mitterrand himself had approved a covert operation to blow it to smithereens in Auckland, New Zealand, because he was unhappy about the criticism. The Kiwis-and almost everyone else-had been less than amused.

“Remind me: Who did the actual dirty work on that operation?”

“The action branch of the DGSE, the French intelligence service. Two of their people were caught by the New Zealand police. The experience might have taught them to work through intermediaries.”

The DGSE. The same people who’d tried to suppress the Euronews footage of the attack. French foreign intelligence creeps, Gavin had called them when we talked on the phone. Jackbooters. I started to ask why the French would want to hit the Ukrainians and suddenly recalled my last conversation with Rashid.

“Rashid told me that the French foreign minister had visited Riyadh and pushed the notion of a coalition to take over America’s security role.”

“It’s an elegant scheme if you think about it from their perspective,” Shimon said, half admiringly. “They killed two birds with one stone. The Russians are indebted to France for their assistance with the raid, which translates into preferential terms for French industry on Russian oil projects. And they get to showcase their military competence, which buttresses a bid to supplant the United States in the Middle East.”

“France is one of the countries you shared your analysis of the Saudi oil fields with?”

“Correct. It seems they believed more than they let on and are making a bid to position themselves for the inevitable shortages.”

My brain was spinning. I closed my eyes again, trying to see Kate’s note cards. Something still wasn’t right.

“Back up a minute. Mohler funded the Nord Stream attack. So, if we’re right that the attack was sponsored by the French, then Mohler was working on their behalf.”

Shimon nodded.

“But Theresa Roxas gave me the false Saudi data, and the most obvious reason for someone to want the data circulating is to make Senator Simpson our next president. Simpson’s campaigning on a bigger U.S. presence in the Middle East. Which is diametrically opposed to what the French are trying to achieve.”

“Maybe Mohler and Roxas are working for different people,” Ari suggested, his tone troubled.

“Unlikely, because they were both involved in the murder of this man Munoz, Roxas as his girlfriend, and Mohler as the agent for Petronuevo. All of which raises the question of why they’re pushing different agendas.”

I opened my eyes. Shimon and Ari both looked uneasy.

“There’s a knot we haven’t unraveled yet,” I said, thinking out loud. “We still need to figure out who Smith and Roxas really worked for. Senator Simpson, the French, or some third party.”

“My people can look for Roxas,” Shimon volunteered. “But we have limited resources in this country. We found you only because you paid for your hotel room with a credit card. Unless she does something similar, it could be difficult.”

My credit card. Shoot. Smith must have discovered my location the same way. I felt like an idiot. I glanced down at the hole in my pants. The police had likely gotten tired of waiting for me at my apartment building. If Wayland had run my records as well, he’d have men waiting at the hotel. I still needed to ditch my shirt and wash my hands.

“Don’t bother,” I said, making an effort to put the complication from my mind. “Roxas isn’t her real name, and the cops already have Interpol on the case. I have a better idea-two, in fact. First, Mohler’s offshore accounts. I know the banks and the numbers. If you can tie the accounts to their owners, we’ll know a lot more about his operation.”

“What country are the banks in?” Ari asked.

“Caymans.”

“That should be doable.”

“Great. Second, Mohler told me he had trouble with the SEC, and that someone made his trouble go away. I’d like to know who his lawyer was.”

Shimon rubbed his jaw, looking thoughtful.

“Because the lawyer had to be paid.”

“Right. The difficulty is that Mohler got off, which means that his records were sealed. You have any influence at the SEC?”

“Not directly,” he said hesitantly. “We have friends in the local community who might be able to help, but I’m reluctant to get amateurs involved. They get excited, and excited people talk. We prefer not to attract attention.”

I decided not to voice the observation that machine-gunning people in parking lots was a bad way to keep a low profile.

“I know someone who can help,” I volunteered, recalling that Walter wanted to meet with me. Walter had influence everywhere. There had to be some way I could persuade him to use that influence on my behalf. “Someone who doesn’t get excited, and who doesn’t talk. I can go see him right now, but I have a couple of small problems I have to deal with first.”

“Such as?”

“The police are looking for me. They might be at my hotel. I need to change clothes and wash up before they find me. And I have to talk to my wife,” I added, realizing how concerned Claire must be.

“Relax,” Shimon said, smiling, as he patted my knee a final time. “We’re good at dealing with problems.”