The Last Refuge Page 4

  Josh Isler at the CIA had succeeded in getting an FBI doctor to visit the NYPD morgue in Brooklyn and do a quick and focused autopsy on the Bohrs to determine approximate time of death. Isler also had the Bohrs’ phones and Internet activity run through different CIA databases to see if there were any contacts made with suspicious individuals, groups, or Web sites, but that analysis came up empty.

  In addition, two witnesses emerged who had both seen a stranger on the morning of the killings, a blond woman in a dark running suit, entering the brownstone.

  After getting clearance from Piper Redgrave, NSA’s director, Calibrisi called Jim Bruckheimer to ask for help, describing the phone call from Menachem Dayan, and summing up the other small pieces of information. Bruckheimer had started laughing over the phone.

  “That’s all we got?” he asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “That and five dollars couldn’t get you a coffee at Starbucks.”

  “Yeah, it could,” said Calibrisi. “A small coffee.”

  “I’ll get some people on it, Hector, but I’m not sure we’ll find much.”

  “I know. But it’s Israel.”

  “Look, if there’s something findable, my Einsteins will find it. By the way, I’ll handle the FISA warrant.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  * * *

  On the third floor of the building, in a windowless conference room, Calibrisi was greeted by three individuals who sat around a large rectangular conference table: Jim Bruckheimer, director of SID, and two of Bruckheimer’s SID analysts, Serena Pacheco and Jesus June.

  This highly secure room was one of several command centers within the NSA’s Strategic Intelligence Directorate, or SID. Etched into the center of the table was an eagle clutching a pair of keys, the NSA insignia, signifying the highly secretive agency’s dual role: protecting America’s secrets and stealing everyone else’s.

  “So you got something?” asked Calibrisi as he sat down.

  “We have something,” said Bruckheimer. “Serena, you good to go?”

  Pacheco, a young blond woman with glasses, suddenly looked up from one of two computers in front of her on the conference table.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Jesus?”

  “I’m good,” said June, the other analyst.

  “Let’s see what you have,” said Calibrisi.

  Pacheco nodded toward a massive plasma on the front wall. The image was still. On it, there was displayed a grainy black-and-white overhead photo of a crowded city sidewalk.

  “What’s that?” asked Calibrisi.

  “It’s the street in front of the Bohrs’ apartment,” said Pacheco.

  “This was taken about forty hours ago,” said June.

  “Where did you get it?” asked Calibrisi.

  “We searched through everything we possibly could from any country who might have wanted to kidnap or kill Kohl Meir—Syria, Iran, Egypt, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Kuwait, et cetera,” Bruckheimer said.

  “I tapped into every signals intelligence data cache from each country,” said June. “It wasn’t hard. With the exception of the Saudis, they’re all sloppy.”

  “Who was watching him?” asked Calibrisi.

  “This photo came off Iran’s SIGINT,” said Bruckheimer. “It’s circumstantial evidence, of course. But, it’s damning.”

  “Let me keep going,” said Pacheco.

  The large, grainy black-and-white photo showed a residential street, a spring day, a sidewalk bathed in sunlight and shadows. People in short-sleeved shirts, shorts, sundresses. The sidewalks were lined with brownstones. People sat out on the stoops, families, friends, and neighbors.

  “This is Brooklyn,” said Pacheco. “Sunday. Boro Park. Obviously heavy Jewish population. Cue it, Jesus.”

  Suddenly, the video began to roll. There was no sound. The camera focused in on a man walking down the crowded residential sidewalk. The frame moved slowly down onto the individual as he walked.

  “This is what they were watching approximately one to two hours after the murders, if the time of death is accurate,” said June.

  Calibrisi stood up and walked to the plasma, standing less than a foot away from the individual who was walking down the street.

  “That’s Kohl Meir,” said Calibrisi, astonished.

  “Yes,” said June. “The limp. I understand he was shot not too long ago.”

  “Great work,” Calibrisi said, turning to June, then Bruckheimer.

  Calibrisi turned back to the grainy, black-and-white image.

  The camera zoomed in on a young, athletic-looking man. He wore khakis, a striped button-down shirt. His muscles pressed against the shirt’s material.

  “What was he doing in Boro Park?” asked June.

  “Meir is commander of an Israeli special forces unit,” said Calibrisi. “He was here to visit the family of a guy in his unit who was killed; the parents of a commando named Ezra Bohr.”

  Everyone in the room watched, mesmerized, as the video continued to roll. Kohl Meir walked with a limp down the crowded sidewalk. The scene was simple. The camera tracked him as he maneuvered around strollers, old men out talking, a jogger.

  “How the hell did they know Meir was coming?” asked Bruckheimer.

  “My guess is, whoever did this knew he’d visit the Bohrs,” said Calibrisi. “It was only a question of when. The Bohrs mentioned it to someone—a neighbor, someone at the synagogue. It would’ve been easy to elicit information from the Bohrs. An innocent question from someone concerned about their fallen son.”

  On the plasma, Meir continued to walk slowly down the crowded sidewalk. About three-quarters of the distance down the sidewalk, he stopped and looked up at a brownstone. He started to climb the front steps. A pair of girls, sitting on the steps, looked up at Meir as he passed. They leaned into each other. One of the young girls whispered something to the other, and they both started laughing.

  “Hold it there,” said Pacheco, nodding to June.

  The video on the plasma suddenly stopped.

  “Here’s where we pick up the audio,” said Pacheco. “Run it without the audio then back it up, will you, Jesus?”

  The video began rolling once again on the plasma screen. The focus of the overhead camera moved in even closer to Meir, ascending the steps. He looked at the two girls, now giggling, and kept climbing.

  At the top of the brownstone’s steps, he studied the nameplate to the side of the door. A few moments later, Meir leaned forward and pressed one of the buttons. After a few seconds, he leaned down and spoke into the speaker. A moment or two later, the big glass door opened. Meir stepped in, then the door shut behind him. The screen remained focused on the door for a few moments longer, then cut and flashed black.

  “Okay,” said Pacheco. “Move it back.”

  The screen suddenly showed the black-and-white audio being rewound. It stopped at the point at which Meir turned and was about to climb up the steps. The angle zoomed down onto the young man’s face. Meir’s eyes were big, set slightly apart, a handsome man, Mediterranean-looking, with high cheekbones.

  “The judge was a pain in the ass on the warrant,” said Bruckheimer. “Because it’s U.S. citizens talking, we have permission to listen to exactly twenty-six seconds of tape.”

  “Here’s the audio from the point just before he enters the building. It’s tough to hear. Jesus, punch it up. It’ll be loud at first,” said Pacheco, not looking up from her computer screen. “It smooths out, after we isolate the frequency and synthesize out the background noise.”

  The speakers in the conference room made a loud sonic clicking noise. A cacophony boomed through the speakers. The sound of traffic, a loud taxicab horn, blaring several times, the voice of a man, a thick New York accent; a question that quickly trailed off into unintelligibility. Then, the clamor evened out, as if someone had adjusted the volume.

  In beat with Kohl Meir’s footfalls up the front steps, the soft scratch of shoes striking each one as he climbed.
As the video showed the man passed by the two girls, as one girl leaned into the other, the soft giggling of her voice was heard, then the words:

  * * *

  “Is that Mr. Monochlay’s nephew?” she asked.

  “No,” said the other teenager, leaning in conspiratorially. “But I bet he would kiss you if you ask him.”

  The girl’s comment was followed by giggling from the teenagers.

  * * *

  “How did you retrieve this?” the CIA director asked, incredulous.

  The plasma screen suddenly froze.

  Pacheco punched a few keystrokes on her laptop. On the big plasma, the view on the screen moved out. The camera angle pivoted, then zoomed in on a man standing across the street, talking on a cell phone.

  “Verizon archives phone conversations for a few days. It was easy once we had the precise time he went in the building. We removed the audio of the conversation he was having with his bookie along with background echoes.”

  “Nice work,” said Calibrisi, nodding to her.

  The young analyst turned back to her computer.

  “Here we go,” she said, tapping her keyboard again.

  The view swung back to Meir, standing on the steps. The video began to roll again, along with the audio. The sound of shoes lightly scratching concrete as Meir climbed. At the top step, Meir read the nameplate, then reached for one of the doorbells. He pressed the black button on the nameplate. The sound of a doorbell chimed.

  After a few seconds, a dull click is heard; the intercom above the strip of doorbells came suddenly to life.

  “Yes,” said a woman through the intercom.

  Meir leaned toward the intercom.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bohr, it’s Kohl Meir.”

  “Come in, Kohl.”

  * * *

  The intercom buzzed. Then the loud click of a door latch being unbolted as, on the plasma screen, the door to the brownstone opened up. Meir stepped inside, then shut the door behind him.

  “Hold for a second,” said Pacheco.

  As the video continued to roll, showing the door, motionless now in the moments after Meir entered the building, a strange noise suddenly interrupted the conference room speaker. It sounded like a guitar string breaking. Then, a pained grunt. The plasma went black, as the audio clip ceased.

  Pacheco looked around the conference room.

  “Taser,” said Calibrisi.

  “That’s what we thought,” said Bruckheimer.

  “What about the voice?” asked Calibrisi. “Who is she?”

  On a different plasma screen, to the right of the conference table, the empty screen suddenly displayed a green-and-black grid of an audio synthesizer. The clip of Meir climbing the steps played. Orange lines bounced in jagged bunches within the grid, like an EKG.

  The woman’s voice suddenly came into the tape.

  * * *

  “Come in, Kohl.”

  * * *

  As it did, the black-and-green audio graph suddenly froze, then collapsed into the corner of the big plasma. It was replaced by a different application that popped up onto the screen. A square suddenly appeared, showing the darkened outline of a female silhouette. Within the silhouette, a rapidly changing series of photographs scrolled through. Then, the photos stopped, and the photograph of a woman suddenly appeared. Short black hair, small nose, a long face, dark, thin eyebrows, thin lips, tannish-looking skin, severe-looking, young, an angry look in her eyes.

  After the face held the plasma for a few moments, the frame dissolved and a different application popped up, occupying the center of the plasma. The name and bio of the woman appeared on the screen.

  KHANEI, ARYSSA

  VEVAK OPERATIVE 2006–

  ALIASES:

  CASSU, ARYSSA (FR)

  PAQUIN, SIRYNA

  D.O.B: UNKNOWN

  HOMETOWN: TABRIZ, IRAN

  Calibrisi stared at the photograph of the Iranian operative.

  * * *

  Back at his corner office at Langley, Calibrisi phoned Jessica.

  “The most important detail is the Taser,” said Calibrisi. “They’ve taken him hostage. They’re not going to kill him, at least not immediately.”

  “What do we tell General Dayan?” asked Jessica.

  “I don’t know,” said Calibrisi. “Shalit will go nuts. God only knows what Israel will do to retaliate.”

  “You have to call him,” said Jessica. “Explain that Kohl is alive. That as long as he’s alive, Israel can’t take action that risks getting him killed.”

  “We need time,” said Calibrisi.

  “‘We?’” asked Jessica. “This is Israel’s problem.”

  “So we’re not going to help the people who saved Dewey’s life?” asked Calibrisi. “In fact, the guy who saved him?”

  “We’ve already helped him, Hector,” said Jessica. “We found out who took him. We found out he was abducted and not killed. We should be proud of that. But we can’t get involved.”

  “I’m going to appeal to Dellenbaugh. I want you with me.”

  “Of course I’ll go with you. After we call Dayan.”

  There was a long pause on the phone.

  “What is it with these fucking Iranians and their hostages?” asked Calibrisi. “It’s like an industry over there. It’s the only thing they’re good at.”

  “Let’s make the call,” said Jessica.

  “It’s three in the morning in Tel Aviv.”

  “Let’s make the call, Hector.”

  Calibrisi placed Jessica on hold, then had CIA Signal find General Menachem Dayan. He conferenced Jessica back in.

  “Good morning, Menachem,” said Calibrisi. “You’ve got me and Jessica Tanzer.”

  “Hello,” said Dayan in a deep, clotted voice, the voice of a chain-smoker. “Hello, Jessica. The prettiest girl in America. How are you?”

  “Thank you, General. I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry to wake you up,” said Calibrisi.

  “Wake me up?” asked Dayan. “Is that a joke? I don’t sleep.”

  “Menachem, the Iranians have Kohl Meir,” said Calibrisi.

  Dayan was silent.

  Calibrisi described the evidence.

  “Well, that’s good investigative work,” said Dayan. “Now what do we do? I will need to wake up the prime minister. He will want to bomb Tehran back to the Stone Age. I will agree with him.”

  “He was abducted,” said Jessica, “not killed. He was Tasered and abducted, General. As long as we believe he’s still alive, we need to be smart about this. Bombing Tehran back to the Stone Age won’t bring him back.”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the phone, interrupted by the scratchy, hacking cough of the old general. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “Will you help me, Hector?” asked Dayan, a tinge of sadness, weariness even, in his voice.

  Calibrisi stared at his phone. He looked through the glass walls of his office, down the empty, lifeless floor of cubicles and offices. He thought of Jessica’s words, warning him not to get involved.

  “Yes, Menachem,” said Calibrisi. “Of course we’ll help.”

  8

  RESIDENCE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  UNITED STATES NAVAL OBSERVATORY

  NUMBER ONE OBSERVATORY CIRCLE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The CIA director’s bulletproof, chauffeured black Chevy Suburban drove through the iron-gated entrance of the United States Naval Observatory. Outside the gates was a mob scene. The street had been shut down due to the hundreds of people who had gathered outside the gates and down Wisconsin Avenue. The mood was somber. Several held up signs: GOD BLESS AMERICA. REST IN PEACE, ROB ALLAIRE. One sign read, GOOD LUCK, J.P.

  The SUV sped up the long, sloping driveway in front of the beautiful Queen Anne–style mansion that served as the official residence of the vice president of the United States. The vehicle passed more than a dozen police cars, Secret Service sedans, and assorted SUVs already
parked along the driveway. The lights of the beautiful home cast a golden hue across the grounds. The driver stopped in front, Jessica and Calibrisi climbed out.

  It was the first time Jessica had been to the vice president’s residence. Indeed, as she stepped toward the front door, she considered that it was a stark sign of how much President Allaire had kept J. P. Dellenbaugh out of state affairs that this would be only the third meeting she had ever had with the former vice president.

  Two more soldiers stood at the front door to the house.

  Inside the brightly lit entrance foyer, Jessica glanced around. It was homey, pretty, a little preppy, with Farrow & Ball wallpaper and chintz-upholstered furniture. On the ground, in the corner, she noticed a baby jogger and a soccer ball.

  “Hi, Hector, Jess,” said Mike Ober, Dellenbaugh’s chief of staff. They shook hands with Ober. He was short, slightly obese, and young, with a mop of unruly, curly hair.

  “Hi, Mike,” said Jessica. “How are things going?”

  “Good, I think. He’s putting his daughter to bed. He’ll be down in a few minutes. You want something to drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?”

  “Coffee,” said Calibrisi.

  “Two. Thanks.”

  They followed Ober into the dining room, a large room with a long table in the middle, which was covered in phones and laptops.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get those coffees. How do you like it? Cream and sugar?”

  “Black,” said Jessica. Calibrisi nodded, indicating he would take the same.

  A few minutes later, Ober returned, followed by J. P. Dellenbaugh, who shut the door behind him.

  “Thanks for coming, guys,” said Dellenbaugh.

  “How have the calls gone?” asked Jessica.

  “Everyone is shell-shocked,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’ve spoken to the Chinese premier, the Russian president, almost every European leader. Everyone is just shocked. Obviously, we’ll bury President Allaire at Arlington. I want to be actively involved in the planning of that. I think we need to decide whether or not to have a parade. But we don’t need to discuss that right now.”