“The Pennsylvania Avenue entrance,” said Marshall. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I look forward to seeing you next Tuesday at ten o’clock,” said Butterworth before replacing the receiver.
The President’s Special Assistant smiled as he dialed Cavalli’s private number.
Scott promised Dexter Hutchins he would be around when Dexter’s son came to Yale for his admission interview.
“He’s allowing me to tag along,” said Dexter, “which will give me a chance to bring you up-to-date on our little problem with the Israelis. And I may even have found something to tempt you.”
“Dexter, if you’re hoping that I’ll get your son into Yale in exchange for a field job, I think I ought to let you know I have absolutely no influence with the Admissions Office.” Dexter’s laugh crackled down the phone. “But I’ll still be happy to show you both around the place and give the boy any help I can.”
Dexter Jr. could not have turned out to be more like his father: five foot ten, heavily built, a perpetual five o’clock shadow and the same habit of calling everything that moved “sir.” When, after an hour strolling around the grounds, he left his father for his interview with the head of the Admissions Office, the professor of constitutional law took the Deputy Director of the CIA back to his rooms.
Even before the door was closed, Dexter had lit up a cigar. After a few puffs he said, “Have you been able to make any sense of the coded message sent by our operative in Beirut?”
“Only that everyone who joins the intelligence community has some strange personal reason for wanting to do so. In my case, it’s because of my father and a Boy Scout determination to balance the books morally. In the case of Hannah Kopec, Saddam Hussein wipes out her family, so she immediately offers her talents to Mossad. With that powerful a motive, I wouldn’t want to cross her path.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m hoping you will do,” said Dexter. “You’re always saying you want to be tested in the field. Well, this could be your opportunity.”
“Am I hearing you properly?”
“Yale’s spring term is about to end, right?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot of work to do.”
“Oh, I see. A happy amateur twelve times a year when it suits you, but the moment you might have to get your hands dirty…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well then, hear me out. First, we know Hannah Kopec was one of eight girls selected from a hundred to go to London for six months to study Arabic. This followed a year’s intensive physical course at Herzliyah, where they covered the usual self-defense, fieldcraft and surveillance work. The reports on her were excellent. Second, a chat with her host’s wife at Sainsbury’s in Camden Town, wherever the hell that is, and we discover that she left suddenly, despite the fact that she was almost certainly meant to return to Israel as part of the team that was working on the assassination of Saddam. That’s when we lose sight of her. Then we get one of those breaks that only come from good detective work. One of our agents who works at Heathrow spots her in duty-free, when she’s buying some cheap perfume.
“After she boards a plane for Lebanon he phones our man in Beirut, who shadows her from the moment she arrives. Not that easy, I might add. We lost her for several hours. Then, out of nowhere, up she pops again, but this time as Karima Saib, who Baghdad is under the impression is on her way to Paris as second secretary to the Ambassador. Meanwhile, the real Miss Saib is abducted at Beirut Airport and is now being held at a safe house somewhere across the border on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.”
“Where’s all this leading, Dexter?”
“Patience, Professor,” he said, relighting the stub of his cigar, which hadn’t been glowing for several minutes. “Not all of us are born with your academic acuity.”
“Get on with it,” said Scott with a smile, “because my academic acuity hasn’t been stretched yet.”
“Now I come to a bit you’re going to enjoy. Hannah Kopec has not been placed in the Iraqi Interest Section of the Jordanian Embassy in Paris to spy.”
“Then why bother to put her there in the first place? In any case, how can you be certain?” asked Scott.
“Because the Mossad agent in Paris—how shall I put it?—does a little work for us on the side, and he hasn’t even been informed of her existence.”
Scott scowled. “So why has the girl been placed in the embassy?”
“We don’t know, but we sure as hell would like to find out. We think Rabin can’t give the go-ahead to strike Saddam while Kopec is still in France, so the least we need to know is when she’s expected back in Israel. And that’s where you come in.”
“But we must have a man in Paris already.”
“Several, actually, but every one of them is known by Mossad at a hundred paces, and, I suspect, even by the Iraqis at ten. So if Hannah Kopec is in Paris without the Mossad sleeper knowing, I’d like you to be in Paris without our people knowing. That is, if you feel you can spare the time away from Susan Anderson.”
“She broke away from me the day her boyfriend returned from his conference. I don’t know what it is I do to women. She called me last week to tell me they’re getting married next month.”
“All the more reason for you to go to Paris.”
“On a wild goose chase.”