The Spoils of War. Gordon Kent

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      “Mossad won’t hurt him,” Dukas said. “They won’t dare. But—Jesus. What a stupid thing to do! Well, if they’re that stupid, they may get scared. What you gotta do, babe, is get State to launch a demarche. You understand ‘demarche’?”

      “It’s diplomatic shit.”

      “Yeah, very heavy diplomatic shit. It’s when your government tells another government that it’s shot itself in the foot. If Mossad really snatched a US officer who was on US business, demarche will be the least that will happen. The Israelis will be seeing eight billion bucks a year threatening to grow wings. So that’s what we do, babe—push the right buttons.” Dukas’s voice was hoarse. “Dick, who do we know at DNI now?”

      Triffler mentioned a couple of names at the office of the Director of Naval Intelligence, and Dukas told him to get on to them. “Get all the details first. Rose, give us everything—where, who, name of policewoman, time of day—”

      She poured out what she knew, and then Triffler was gone and Dukas was making rather helpless, soft noises to her, and she said, “What can I do?”

      “You still got an in with Chief of Naval Ops?”

      “The CNO I worked for is long gone. He’s at some think tank now—”

      “Tell him to call current CNO and lay it out.”

      “But—they’re busy people—”

      “Babe, it’s their Navy! You don’t get it. A US officer was snatched by another government—they’ll go ballistic! Now, get on it.” His voice softened. “And stop chewing on it. He’s gonna be okay. Trust me.”

      “Oh, Mike—” Her voice broke.

      At the same time, the deputy to an assistant secretary of state got a call from the US naval attaché, Bahrain. As he listened, his normally worried frown contracted to a grimace. After he hung up, he stared at the telephone for five seconds and then dialed the private number of the assistant secretary.

      “Dick, I think you better alert the Secretary that Israel may have just stuck a firecracker up our ass.”

      Half an hour later, Rear Admiral Paris Giglio, retired, telephoned the current Chief of Naval Operations in Washington. They had served together in the first Gulf War; although never close friends, they got along. And they had the common bond of men who have done the same tough job.

      “Jig, it’s been a while! You want the job back?”

      Giglio made negative noises and got right to business. “I want to bring something to your attention, Ron.”

      A pause, and then a cautious “Shoot.”

      “One of your officers was snatched off a street this morning in Tel Aviv. It hasn’t made the news but I have this direct from the guy’s wife, a super officer herself who served with me. She has good reason to believe that he was snatched by Mossad.”

       “What?”

      The Navy had its own reasons for reacting passionately to an Israeli insult. The long institutional memory still resented the 1967 Israeli attack on the USS Liberty that had left thirty-seven sailors dead.

      Five hours after Alan Craik had been pulled into the SUV in Tel Aviv, the Director of Naval Intelligence was on a secure line to the head of Mossad. He went through no polite protocols, listened to no formalities. Instead, he read a statement. “We have good reason to believe that your agents kidnapped an American Naval officer, Commander Alan Craik, from a Tel Aviv street shortly after noon today. Commander Craik was on US Navy business and was in your country with clearance and full knowledge of your government. His orders included exchanging classified materials with your office. What you’ve done is inexcusable and unacceptable, and we demand that he be released immediately or the severest consequences will follow. Do you understand me?”

      Coldly, unemotionally—but clearly—the Mossad officer said that he did.

      An hour and forty-three minutes later, Alan Craik was delivered by an unmarked government limousine to the door of his hotel. Also in the limousine, besides the plain-clothes driver, were two special agents of the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks, or Mossad—Shlomo and Ziv, no last names. Both made a great effort to smile as Craik got out of the car, and both apologized yet again for “this unfortunate incident.” They extended their hands.

      Standing on the sidewalk with his left hand on the limo door, Craik waited until they had run down and the smiles had run out and the hands had drooped, and then he leaned in and said, “Fuck you!”

      Demarche

       From: The Secretary of State of the United States of America

       To: The Minister for Foreign Affairs, the State of Israel The government of the United States wishes to state in the strongest terms that the detention in Tel Aviv of Commander Alan Craik of the United States Navy by agents of the State of Israel is unacceptable. Not only was Commander Craik in Israel with your government’s knowledge and permission, but also he was seeking legal details concerning the death in Israel of a former member of the United States Naval Reserve, Salem Qatib. This treatment of a decorated member of our armed forces is an insult to his honor, to that of his country, and to the memory of the dead man.

       The government of the United States wishes the State of Israel to understand clearly that it requires that investigation of the detention of Commander Craik be pursued to a quick and satisfactory conclusion. It also wishes to make clear that it will itself continue to pursue the investigation of the death of Salem Qatib to its conclusion, in which it expects all cooperation.

       5

      Washington

      Ray Spinner was thinking about a pretty woman named Jennifer when his phone rang and a man named McKinnon asked him if he could step around to his office for a sec, please? That McKinnon had an office was enough to suggest his status; he also had a title; but, most to the point, he could end Spinner’s career with a word.

      “Sir.”

      McKinnon looked up from a crowded desk. He was fifteen years older than Spinner, infinitely more impressive in Washington terms: eight years in State and then Defense in the Reagan administration, four more in the National Security Council and Defense under Bush One; then exile to an Ivy League professorship during Clinton. He had published two books. His name was never in the media—a contradictory achievement in a media-mad town, but one that had put him where he was, because some specialties require reticence.

      “Yeah. Shut the door. Sit down.” He made a point of closing a folder, the point being that he was allowed to see it and Spinner wasn’t. But Spinner had had time to make out “Classified Special” and “PERPETUAL JUSTICE.” Perhaps oddly, “perpetual justice” didn’t sound unusual to him; it sounded like a lot of other code names in those days.

      Spinner sat. It was like being back in college, he thought, called СКАЧАТЬ