The Garden of Betrayal (35 page)

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.”

We drove from the Lower West Side, where we were parked, to Times Square. Ari left the truck to shop while Shimon connected me to Claire on an untraceable line. There were advantages to hanging out with spies.

“It’s Mark,” I said, when she answered. “Everything’s fine. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

“Thank God,” she replied, sounding shaken. “I’ve been so worried. Where are you?”

“Not on this line.” Shimon had made clear that untraceable didn’t mean untappable. Anyone could be listening at Claire’s end. “I’m sorry.”

“The police were just here,” she said, lowering her voice. “Some senior officer named Wayland pushed his way in. He saw the note cards taped to the wall and took pictures. I couldn’t stop him.”

I was too far down the road to worry about the police.

“He ask you any questions?”

“A bunch. I refused to answer and told him to get the hell out.”

“Good for you. And?”

“And he was rude, but he got out. He left some men in the hall with Ken and Dan.”

Ken and Dan were Joe’s nephew and his partner. Extra men in the hall were good, because they provided Claire and Kate with additional security.

“Understood. I’m sorry about the change of plan, but I think it’s better if you and Kate stay put for the time being. My best guess is that I’ll
be home late. I’ve got another errand to run, and then I have to stop by One Police Plaza to answer questions.”

“An errand?”

I knew how curious she must be, but I couldn’t take any chances.

“I’m making progress, Claire. That’s all I can tell you.”

“And you’re sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s all I need to know,” she said, her voice strong. “I love you. Be careful.”

“I will. I love you, too.”

I heard the truck pull away behind me as I climbed Walter’s front stoop. Shimon had wanted me to wear a listening device, nominally for security in case of a mishap, but more probably so he could stay posted on what I learned in real time. I refused, in part because I wasn’t worried, and in part because I still thought he might ditch me. It seemed like a better idea to retain cards he didn’t have. The compromise was that Ari would keep watch from the pavement opposite.

Walter’s home comprised a pair of identical hundred-year-old brownstones, reconfigured as one internally while leaving the land-marked façades unchanged. I’d been inside just once before, nearly ten years ago. The decor was Ralph Lauren throughout, the effect that of an English men’s club without the ill-patched parquet floors or the smell of boiled cabbage. I pressed the bell. His street was quiet by New York standards, tree-lined and low-rise, but I still couldn’t hear the ring from outside. I pressed it again, a chill wind making my ears ache with cold. The temperature had dropped.

The housekeeper who answered recognized my name but seemed reluctant to let me in. I couldn’t blame her. The tracksuit bottom and collarless knit shirt Ari had bought me made me look like an aging rapper. She relented only when I offered to show her my driver’s license. Taking my coat, she led me to a ground-floor study. I followed, wondering why Walter had called and how he was going to receive me. I didn’t give a damn about his opinions at this point, but I needed him to help me.

The study was empty, and the housekeeper lit a pre-laid wood fire
before leaving me to wait alone. The room was paneled in chestnut and furnished with an overstuffed leather sofa and matching end chairs. I warmed myself in front of the burgeoning fire, studying the painting over the mantel. It was of a hunting dog with a dead bird in its mouth. I was willing to bet it was worth a fair bit more than the fifty bucks I would have given for it at a yard sale. I turned when I heard a hand on the door.

“Mark,” Walter said, entering the room. He was dressed in a gray suit and a navy tie, and he looked tired. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” The courtesy was encouraging. I gestured to my own clothing. “Wardrobe malfunction. Sorry to bring the tone down.”