Andrew Kaplan: Scorpion Deception

Yuval exhaled a thin stream of smoke and looked away.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t us. On my grandchildren’s lives, it wasn’t us. It was him. Absalom. What he had become. What we made him.” He stared out over the rail. “What I made him.”

“Son of a bitch,” Harris growled. “So Absalom aka the Gardener aka Ghanbari orders the hit on the embassy in Bern to send us a message. Why couldn’t he use an e-mail or a dead drop or whatever the fuck other mechanism you guys had set up? Why did people have to die? What was he trying to say?”

“Because the message wasn’t for the Israelis,” Scorpion put in. “He wanted to force America’s hand.”

“Meaning what?” Harris demanded.

“The Iranians crossed the line,” Scorpion said. “They have a nuclear bomb and they were going to use it. Probably give it to Kta’eb Hezbollah.”

“He did it to force the United States to stop them?” Harris asked.

“No,” Yuval said, shaking his head. “He did it because he wanted the United States to attack. To bring them down. Samson in the temple.”

Yesilkoy,

Istanbul, Turkey

“What will the President do?” Yuval asked Harris.

“Nothing.” Harris shrugged. “Take credit for something they didn’t do. It’s what Washington’s best at.”

Yuval grimaced. “You leave us no choice.”

“No. Given your history, Jewish history, probably not,” Harris said, turning his collar back down and getting ready to go. “I’m sorry. This kind of thing is above my pay grade. Yours too, probably. Are we done?”

“Just one thing,” Scorpion said. “After Bern, the Gardener focused on me. They found me in Paris-and I’m not that easy to spot-which means they used a ton of manpower just on me. Sadeghi used my code name, Scorpion, and told Zahra it was all about me. So I need to know, what was that about? Why me?”

Yuval shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”

He’s lying, Scorpion thought. Holding something back. But what? He turned to Harris.

“Bob?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, or actually fortunately for everyone, as it turned out, you killed the Gardener, the only person who could answer that question,” Harris said. He extended his hand to the Israeli. “Yuval, it’s been an interesting evening. Shalom.”

The two men shook hands.

“Shalom,” Yuval said. His eyes searched Harris’s face. “You’ll discuss just the part about the nuclear bomb with the President? Nothing about Absalom.”

“I will, but I’ll have to tell him it’s just a surmise. We don’t have definitive proof. Scorpion terminated the proof,” Harris said. He turned to Scorpion. “Give you a lift to the airport?”

“No thanks,” Scorpion said.

Harris paused. “That wasn’t a request.”

“Yes it was, because I’m not coming,” Scorpion said. And to Yuval: “Thanks for this,” gesturing vaguely. “I needed to know.”

Yuval stepped on his cigarette butt and nodded.

“I’m told she’s very beautiful, your Dr. Delange. Good luck.” He turned and started to walk away. Two men, Mossad agents with Yuval, detached themselves from the shadows.

“To a hundred and twenty,” Scorpion called after him. Yuval raised his hand to show he heard. Scorpion turned and started back toward the Beyoglu side. Harris put a hand on his arm, and Scorpion stopped and looked at him. Harris let his hand drop.

“You can’t let this go. It’s urgent,” Harris said. “I have a car.”

“Do you?”

“We have to talk,” Harris said, signaling Soames and another agent.

Before they got to the end of the bridge, a black Cadillac sedan pulled over and stopped. Scorpion and Harris climbed into the backseat. Soames started to get into the front passenger seat.

“If he gets in, I get out,” Scorpion said.

“Why?” Soames said. “What did I do?”

“I don’t like you. Also, the grown-ups are going to talk about things the children shouldn’t hear,” Scorpion said. “As a matter of fact, nobody likes you.”

“You’re a prima donna, you know that? That’s what everyone says. A goddamn prima donna,” Soames said.

“Were the Gnomes prima donnas too?” Scorpion said quietly, his hand on the door handle.

“Get in the other car,” Harris said to Soames, who darted one last venomous look at Scorpion and got out. He walked back and got into a second black sedan, a Mercedes, that had stopped behind the Cadillac. Harris motioned to his Turkish driver and they drove off.

“He’s right,” Harris said. “You are a prima donna. Unfortunately, a very necessary one.”

“Where are we going?” Scorpion asked.

“Ekrem?” Harris said to the driver.

“The E-5 to the airport, sir,” the driver, Ekrem, said.

They drove past the so-called New Mosque, built in the 1600s, and into the Old City. Scorpion checked the side mirror; the Mercedes was behind them.

“That was quite a story,” Harris said.

“Yes it was,” Scorpion said, thinking about the code name Absalom and the Bible story. King David, O Absalom, my son, my son . Was it guilt? Was that why Yuval told them? Or was it just that the American relationship was the oxygen that Israel needed in order to live, and Yuval was afraid that if it ever came out that would be the end of it? He turned to Harris.

“This better be important,” he said.

“I need to show you something,” Harris said, taking out his iPhone. He tapped it a couple of times and held it up for Scorpion to see.

It was a video from an airport security camera. People walking or sitting near a gate waiting for a flight. At first he couldn’t tell which airport it was. Then he understood. He watched himself walk over and sit down next to a man. Now he knew which airport and when. Fiumicino, Rome. About seven weeks ago. Before he had gone to Africa. Before he met Sandrine and any of this had happened.

“All right, it’s me,” Scorpion said, handing the iPhone back.

“The man is Ahmad Harandi-or at least that was his cover name-the Mossad agent killed in Hamburg.”

“What about him?”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Scorpion,” Harris snapped. “Not on this. How long have you been working with the Israelis?”

“Never.”

“So what is this?” holding up the iPhone. “Seven weeks ago. Before this all started.”

“That was Harandi aka Avi Benayoun trying to recruit me in Rome. For the record, I turned him down. Just like I turned down your pet monkey, Soames, in Nairobi. And for the same reason. I was done with it. Finished. I wanted out.”

Harris shook his head.

“I don’t believe you. Why do I get the feeling that this was some giant chess game between you and the Gardener, and the rest of us only pawns? There’s something you’re holding back. With every fiber of experience after way too many years in this business, I’m sure of it. If you’re lying, you better tell me now. You don’t want the CIA for an enemy.”

“Works both ways, Bob old buddy,” Scorpion said quietly.

They didn’t speak. They were driving on Ataturk Boulevard and passed under one of the towering arches of the ancient Roman aqueduct that spanned the road, lit up at night. You couldn’t look anywhere in this city without being reminded of how old it was, he thought.

“Deception isn’t always the best policy. .” Harris began.

“Funny, I thought it was our stock in trade,” Scorpion said. “Anything else?”

“This Frenchwoman, Sandrine Delange. She’ll have to be vetted.”

“No one comes within a million miles of her. If she so much as chips a fingernail in her own bathroom, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. I mean it.”