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The entire embassy was considered a secure facility by Shin Bet, the Israeli agency charged with handling security for all of the country
's embassies and consulates. But nowhere in the embassy was security taken more seriously than in sub level three. The entire floor was without windows and partitioned from the rest of the facility. It housed the offices of the military's various intelligence organizations, AMAN, AF I and N1, as well as those of Mossad, Israel 's vaunted foreign intelligence service. The area could be accessed in only two ways; by a single elevator or staircase. The staircase, however, could only be used in the event of a fire, which to date had never happened. All traffic to and from the floor was by way of the elevator.
Clark stepped into the elevator by himself and descended four stories beneath the earth to an area where electronic eavesdropping was more difficult. When he stepped from the elevator, he was greeted by a sterile combination of bright lights, white floor and white walls. The only noticeable feature in the room was a heavy secure door with a camera mounted above it and an automatic fingerprint recognition pad to the right, Clark heard the metallic click of the lock on the door being released and he opened it. Standing on the other side was a woman who Clark guessed to be in her mid thirties. Without speaking, she gestured for the senator to follow, and they were off. Midway down the corridor the woman took a right and then stopped several doors later. With a polite smile and an open palm she motioned for Clark to enter the dim room.
Clark found his friend sitting at the other end of a rectangular ten person conference table. He stepped into the room. The thick spring loaded door closed automatically with an airtight click. The walls and ceiling were covered with a gray foam that looked similar in pattern to the inside of an egg carton. The senator knew the foam was designed to keep whatever was said inside the room, which was exactly what both men wanted. The man at the far end of the room closed the file he was reading and switched his cigarette from his right hand to his left. Standing, he extended his hand to the senator and greeted him warmly. "Good evening. Hank. It is a pleasure to see you, as always."
"Thank you for making the trip, Ben. I really appreciate it."
Ben Freidman shrugged as if to intimate that traveling halfway around the world from Tel Aviv was no big deal. Freidman gestured for Clark to sit, and he turned to a small portable bar that was behind him. Like Clark, Freidman also enjoyed his alcohol.
"I had to come anyway. I need to see the President in the morning." He poured two drinks and then eased himself into the chair at the head of the table.
"Anything important?"
"I'd say so," Freidman replied with a troubled look.
"Can you tell me about it?"
"It involves Iraq. You will hear about it soon enough, but let's not talk about my problems right now. Let me hear yours." Freidman was a pit bull of a man in both personality and physique. He was aggressive, tenacious, and loyal. If he did not love you, he was a man to be feared, but if he did love you, he was as dependable as a eunuch guarding a vestal virgin. Freidman loved his country first and foremost, and after that he loved those who helped protect Israel. Senator Clark fell into the latter category.
Freidman kept his head shaved, and rarely wore a tie. Most of the time, like tonight, he wore a pair of dress pants with a plain short sleeved dress shirt. A good fifty pounds overweight, the five foot ten inch spy liked to keep his shirts untucked. Not only did he find it more comfortable in the often oppressive heat oft el Aviv, it also helped to conceal the gun he always carried in a holster at the small of his back. Born in Jerusalem in 1949, Freidman came of age just in time to distinguish himself in the famous Six Day War of 1967. He was in a front line unit that was overrun during the initial hours of the war. Instead of lying low and waiting for the Israeli Defense Forces to push the Egyptians back across the border, Freidman grabbed two men from his squad, and against the orders of his squad leader, set off into the night to harass the enemy. They succeeded brilliantly in their mission, infiltrating the perimeter of a mobile Egyptian command post and wreaking utter havoc. His bold actions did not go unnoticed, and after the famous Six Day War, AMAN, Israels military intelligence organization, got their hands on him. By the age of thirty Freidman had risen to the rank of colonel and had fast gained a reputation as a man who got results. It was then that he had been recruited, or as some in the military felt, stolen by the Mossad.
Over the next two decades Freidman became a legend within the Mossad. What was even more miraculous to some was his uncanny ability to avoid highly embarrassing situations. Whether it was luck or cunning, no one could be quite sure, but Ben Freidman had risen to the very top of what many considered the most effective intelligence agency in the world. He was a man to be respected and feared. He was the director general of the Mossad, and rarely did a month pass where he didn't send someone to their death.
Freidman took a sip of his Polish vodka, and looking at his guest, surmised that he would most likely keep the trend going. Tilting his head slightly, Freidman asked the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, "What troubles you, my friend?"
"Oh, many things, but one thing in particular."
"Dr. Kennedy?"
"Ummm yes and no. She is an issue, but at present there's someone who is a bigger priority." A thin mischievous smile creased Freidman's lips. "Mr. Rapp?" Shaking his head he added, "I told you, you should have never got him involved in all of this. He is far too dangerous a man."
"Yes, you were right about that, but we can't turn back the clock." Clark hesitated for a moment, as if he were struggling to suppress a bad memory. Freidman had indeed advised him to avoid Mitch Rapp. He had been very specific on that point, warning him that four continents were littered with the corpses of people who had gone toe to toe with America 's top assassin. At the time Clark had thought that Freidman had refused out of some respect for Rapp, some common bond they had forged while fighting the same enemy. That was the rationale the senator had used when he had been stupid enough to trust Peter Cameron.
Just the thought of Cameron caused Clark to grimace. He had recruited him personally. As the trusted chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, there wasn't much that Clark couldn't get his hands on. He had chosen Peter Cameron after several years of studying the mans every move. Cameron was a twenty-four-year veteran of the CIA's Office of Security; the CIA's own little private Gestapo. One of the Office of Security's chief jobs was to watch the watchers, to spy on the spies.
Cameron knew things and had contacts that the senator was more than willing to compensate him for. After more than two decades of mediocre pay, Cameron leapt at the chance to become a well-paid mercenary for the senator. It had been Camerons idea to kill Rapp and leave him in Germany for all the world to discover.
Despite all of his suppressed anger Clark had to be honest with himself. The plan had been a bold one. Clark had shadowed Rapp and Kennedy and intercepted the orders. Cameron had used his contacts inside the Agency and paid them well. Clark was sure of that, for he had been the one handing over the suitcases of cash. If the plan had succeeded, Chairman Hank Clark would have presided over the most sensational hearings this country had seen in decades. The facts Clark was prepared to slowly unearth would have destroyed President Hayes, and wounded the Democratic Party for at least the next two general elections. It would have allowed the senator to virtually hand pick the next director of the CIA. A director who would be more than willing to open up the treasure trove of secrets formerly known as Echelon. And more important than all of it, the entire affair would have allowed Hank Clark to launch his bid for the White House. He would have had the money from Ellis and his associates in Silicon Valley, the nationally televised committee hearings would have given him the all important face time and name recognition, and his party would have been beholden to him for bringing the Democrats to their knees. It was a lock. They had come so close. If only Peter Cameron had succeeded.
Clark had failed to listen to Freidman and he was now paying for it. When the Germany operation blew up in their faces Cameron assured Clark that he could handle the CIA's top killer, Clark had given
him one more chance, and Cameron had screwed that up too. Disguised as FBI special agents, Cameron and his cronies had picked up Anna Rielly and brought her to Rapp's house. Once again, Cameron underestimated his target, and before the night was over more men had died at Rapp's hands.
That was when the senator had decided to cut his losses. In a brief coded e-mail to Freidman, Clark had arranged for Peter Cameron to meet his maker. Twenty-four hours later Cameron was dead and Mitch Rapp had run into a brick wall in his pursuit to find out who had ordered the hit on him in Germany.
If Clark had learned anything from his experiences of the last month it was to be extra careful. The lure of ultimate power had caused him to make some poor decisions, and he was not going to let it happen again. He would heed the advice of Ben Freidman, and from this point forward he would be more careful.
Leaning back in his chair, Freidman gestured with his hands, telling his friend to unload his burden. "How can I help?"
Clark hesitated briefly and then said, "The woman you sent to take care of Cameron?"
Freidman raised an eyebrow."I never told you it was a woman."
"The CIA has tapes of her."
"When you say the CIA, who do you mean specifically?"
