John Weisman - Direct Action

“But what CIA doesn’t know is that London got its information from a unilateral MI6 Israeli agent-a lieutenant colonel working for AMAN. And CIA has no idea that the Brits’ agent just happens to be the same guy at AMAN that CIA’s Mossad liaison queried. CIA doesn’t know because just like BND, MI6 doesn’t reveal its sources and methods to liaison agencies. CIA also doesn’t realize the defector INC flew to Washington is CURVEBALL-the same guy who told BND about mobile weapons labs.

“Worst of all,” Tom said, “CIA can’t confirm any of the information because it doesn’t have any fucking unilaterals in a position to know about mobile weapons laboratories. Not in Iraq. Not inside the INC. Not in AMAN or Mossad. Not a single fucking agent under unilateral American control anywhere.”

The unfortunate result: all of CIA’s allegedly high-grade information about weapons of mass destruction, mobile biological warfare laboratories, missiles with chemical warheads, and nuclear-bomb programs was currently unraveling day by day. None of it had been accurate in the first place. It was a colossal humiliation for CIA and DCI Tenet. Worse, the situation was going to become a huge embarrassment for the administration, which was heading into the 2004 election year with a number of independent watchdog commissions tearing chunks of political flesh out of the White House.

And now, Tom said, the same goddamn situation was developing in Gaza. There was huge pressure on the White House to reactivate its Road Map for Peace between the Palestinians and Israel before the 2004 elections. But once again, CIA had no unilateral sources on the ground. And even if they had, the ambassador in Tel Aviv didn’t allow CIA to recruit unilaterals from its Israeli and Palestinian liaison relationships.

But McGee, Tom said, could slip in under the radar. He wouldn’t come under the ambassador’s formal chain of command. He knew what to look for-and how to dig it out without being observed. He knew how to operate in a denied area-how to disappear in plain sight. He’d done it in Lebanon. He’d done it in Baghdad. And compared to Beirut and Baghdad, Gaza was a piece of cake.

McGee’d find a way to gather intelligence on the AQ terrorist cells-if there were in fact AQ terrorist cells. He’d seen how the Seppah operated in Lebanon. He’d be able to tell if they’d set up shop in Gaza. If things went well, he’d even be able to spot potential agents from among the mid- and high-level Palestinian security officials with whom he’d liaise during his official duties. He’d note their vulnerabilities, assess their potential, and pass their names on. After they’d been vetted, he’d recruit them-or pass them on to someone else who would get the job done.

When McGee asked about cover for status, Rudy explained he’d be hired as a part of a DynCorp security contingent for the Tel Aviv embassy. He’d work full-time for DynCorp. In fact, the salary, per diem, and bonuses were his to keep.

“You’ll report to me,” said Tom. “Encrypted e-mail using steaganography backed up by one-on-one meetings with a control officer. Like Rudy said, this is Espionage 101, Jim. Basic, keep-it-simple-stupid intelligence gathering.” He gave McGee an encouraging smile. “C’mon-even you Delta guys can do it.”

10:04A.M. McGee’s big Seiko told him they were behind schedule. He squirmed impatiently as a green-bereted Israeli border guard waved the two FAVs through the checkpoint. Sass threaded his way between the barriers, then pulled off to the side of the road behind the two filthy Subarus. As he stopped, McGee reached down, grabbed the M4, opened the door, slid out onto the dusty road, and approached the Palestinians, who were climbing into their cars. “ Sabah il-kheer -good morning.”

The tallest of the six shifted the thin canvas strap on his AK and peered at McGee through brown-tinted aviator glasses. “ Wenta bi-kheer -and to you, Mr. Jim.” The AK muzzle shifted and McGee moved out of its way. These idiots stood around with their fingers on the weapons’ triggers and McGee could see that the AK’s safety was in the off position. The Palestinian’s eyes noted McGee’s wariness and he arced the muzzle of his weapon away from the American’s feet. “You are going to the municipality, correct?”

“Yes, Mahmud. Next to the Red Crescent headquarters.” McGee’s gaze caught Shafiq as he climbed into the shotgun seat of the first Subaru. The Palestinian was working hard to keep from making eye contact. McGee said, “We’re late.”

The Palestinian officer slung his AK. “ Yalla! Let’s go, then.”

McGee turned on his heel and walked back toward the FAVs. Jonny Kieffer had his door cracked. McGee cradled the M4 and put his foot on the running board. “No problems. I’ll follow him. You follow me. Let’s stay on the radio and keep our eyes open.”

“Roger that.” Kieffer snapped the door shut and disappeared behind the dark-tinted, inch-thick glass. McGee returned to the silver Suburban, climbed aboard, stowed the M4, fingered the radio earpiece, adjusted the squelch control, slapped the dash, and transmitted: “ Hava na mova, gentlemen. Let’s get on with it.”

10:07A.M. The four-vehicle convoy cleared the industrial zone and headed south. To the east lay Beit Hanoun. Three miles south was Gaza City. The traffic thickened. Sass eased off, putting thirty yards of air between the heavy crash bumper and the Subaru. The dusty, potholed road widened, donkey carts and bicycles crowding the curb lane. Ahead, McGee could make out the first of the huge three-tiered pylons that ran power lines into Gaza City.

As the convoy passed the first of the pylons, the Subaru sped up, opening a hundred-yard space. “Goddamnit.” Sass shook his head. “What the hell’s he think he’s doing.” He tromped the accelerator, the big FAV’s engine growled, and the Suburban shot forward.

“Stay with him.”

Which is when a pair of kids in pajamas shot out from between a donkey cart and a delivery truck and dashed in front of the FAV. McGee shouted, “Holy shit, Sass.”

Sass smacked the brakes hard. The big Chevy’s nose swerved left as the heavy-duty pads caught the rotors. Then Sass brought the FAV under control. He braked and weaved as a taxi pulled in front of him to make a U-turn, pausing just long enough to shoot a glance back at the two teens who were waving and giving them the finger from the northbound side of the road. “Fucking kids.”

McGee tapped the windshield. “Pay attention, will ya?” The Subaru was now easily two hundred yards ahead and McGee was pissed. “C’mon, Sass, do your job-catch up.”

Sass started to talk, then caught McGee’s expression. McGee wasn’t himself this morning. He was testy. Impatient. Edgy. Sass decided not to probe. “Gotcha, boss.” Sass accelerated.

They were approaching the Beit Lahiya intersection now and Sass had managed to close the gap by half when something caught McGee’s eye. Maybe fifty, sixty yards ahead was a newly patched pothole. It was right in the middle of the southbound traffic lane. It got McGee’s attention because it was the only pothole patch he’d seen all day. And it stood out like a sore thumb. A four-by-four foot patch of black asphalt slopped messily into the brown dust of the road surface.

And then McGee saw something else. It was either a thick black wire or maybe a length of flexible electrical conduit that ran from the edge of the patch under a big lorry, across the curb, over the sidewalk, and disappeared under a two-meter-high corrugated metal fence.

The hair on McGee’s neck stood straight up. He shouted, “Lima-alert!” into the collar mike, snatched the field glasses, and scanned for threats. That was when McGee saw the mustached man. He was dressed in the same olive-drab shirt and trouser uniform as any minor PSS official. A red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh was draped around his neck, and an AK hung from his left shoulder. But there was something…different.