not only from the room but from any of the nearby areas, and white noise generators provided a sonic barrier around the facility.
To get into the secure area, they had to walk down a tunnellike hall made of polished cement. As they started down it, another man came up from the other side. Corrine thought it was David Tischler, the Mossad supervisor she was meeting with, coming out to greet her. But after holding her glance for a brief moment, the man abruptly turned his head toward the wall and then put his hand up, shielding the other side of his face.
Stein touched her elbow, leading her through a small anteroom to the chamber where Tischler sat waiting.
“I hope your flight was a good one,” said the Israeli, rising. Unlike Stein, he was short and a little overweight; it might not have been fair to say he had a potbelly, but he certainly didn’t look like an athlete.
“We appreciate your help with the Seven Angels case,” she told him as she sat down.
“Of course.”
“I want to be assured that his death was random,” said Corrine.
“God does not call us randomly. But in the sense you mean it, yes. It was an accident. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, I suppose we can’t tell.”
“It was unfortunate for our investigation,” said Corrine. “He would have been apprehended, and you would have had more information about the people he wanted to contact.”
Tischler’s narrow brown eyes held no expression; his mouth was the mouth of a man staring into space, revealing nothing.
“Ferg was there,” said Stein, who unlike his boss seemed agitated at the question. “What did he think?”
“Mr. Ferguson was a little too close to be objective,” said Corrine.
“He thought it was random, too,” suggested Stein. “As did I.”
“Mr. Ferguson wasn’t prepared to say it wasn’t random. But he lacked proof, one way or the other.”
“Spoken like an American lawyer,” said Stein.
The faintest of grins appeared on Tischler’s face.
“We’ve made arrests in the case,” said Corrine, loosening her tone slightly. “The FBI will share what’s appropriate as it becomes available. If you require specific items to assist you, I can certainly facilitate sharing that. As I said, we appreciate your assistance. I’m wondering if you’ve developed any additional information that might be useful to us.”
“We’ve shared everything we know,” said Stein.
“There was a jeweler?”
“A blind, as far as we can tell.”
Corrine looked at Tischler, whose face was once more a blank wall. “Do you see a connection between Seven Angels and Nisieen Khazaal?”
Tischler’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Is there one?”
“Thatch was on his way to Egypt. We believe the people he was to see in Cairo may have been on their way to the meeting that Khazaal is going to.”
Tischler’s eyes went dull again. “I guess.”
“It would be difficult to believe,” said Stein. “The Seven Angels would be more aptly named Seven Wanna-bes. They’re really amateurs. Thatch would have been killed by them, just as Ferguson almost was.”
The connection between Seven Angels and Khazaal was every bit as far-fetched as Stein said. Egyptian intelligence indicated that the tailor, Ahmed Abu Saahlid, commanded a network of terrorists and had plans to travel to Lebanon or Syria—typically for the Egyptians, they couldn’t be specific. The tailor opposed the Egyptian government and was “of interest,” something that might be said of at least a third of the Egyptian population. Nothing in his dossier, however, showed that he had any connection with Khazaal or any Iraqi for that matter. The Egyptian report made it seem unlikely that he would have been willing to act as a go-between with Seven Angels even if he did have access to Khazaal. Several of his recorded statements showed he despised Americans in
To get into the secure area, they had to walk down a tunnellike hall made of polished cement. As they started down it, another man came up from the other side. Corrine thought it was David Tischler, the Mossad supervisor she was meeting with, coming out to greet her. But after holding her glance for a brief moment, the man abruptly turned his head toward the wall and then put his hand up, shielding the other side of his face.
Stein touched her elbow, leading her through a small anteroom to the chamber where Tischler sat waiting.
“I hope your flight was a good one,” said the Israeli, rising. Unlike Stein, he was short and a little overweight; it might not have been fair to say he had a potbelly, but he certainly didn’t look like an athlete.
“We appreciate your help with the Seven Angels case,” she told him as she sat down.
“Of course.”
“I want to be assured that his death was random,” said Corrine.
“God does not call us randomly. But in the sense you mean it, yes. It was an accident. Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, I suppose we can’t tell.”
“It was unfortunate for our investigation,” said Corrine. “He would have been apprehended, and you would have had more information about the people he wanted to contact.”
Tischler’s narrow brown eyes held no expression; his mouth was the mouth of a man staring into space, revealing nothing.
“Ferg was there,” said Stein, who unlike his boss seemed agitated at the question. “What did he think?”
“Mr. Ferguson was a little too close to be objective,” said Corrine.
“He thought it was random, too,” suggested Stein. “As did I.”
“Mr. Ferguson wasn’t prepared to say it wasn’t random. But he lacked proof, one way or the other.”
“Spoken like an American lawyer,” said Stein.
The faintest of grins appeared on Tischler’s face.
“We’ve made arrests in the case,” said Corrine, loosening her tone slightly. “The FBI will share what’s appropriate as it becomes available. If you require specific items to assist you, I can certainly facilitate sharing that. As I said, we appreciate your assistance. I’m wondering if you’ve developed any additional information that might be useful to us.”
“We’ve shared everything we know,” said Stein.
“There was a jeweler?”
“A blind, as far as we can tell.”
Corrine looked at Tischler, whose face was once more a blank wall. “Do you see a connection between Seven Angels and Nisieen Khazaal?”
Tischler’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Is there one?”
“Thatch was on his way to Egypt. We believe the people he was to see in Cairo may have been on their way to the meeting that Khazaal is going to.”
Tischler’s eyes went dull again. “I guess.”
“It would be difficult to believe,” said Stein. “The Seven Angels would be more aptly named Seven Wanna-bes. They’re really amateurs. Thatch would have been killed by them, just as Ferguson almost was.”
The connection between Seven Angels and Khazaal was every bit as far-fetched as Stein said. Egyptian intelligence indicated that the tailor, Ahmed Abu Saahlid, commanded a network of terrorists and had plans to travel to Lebanon or Syria—typically for the Egyptians, they couldn’t be specific. The tailor opposed the Egyptian government and was “of interest,” something that might be said of at least a third of the Egyptian population. Nothing in his dossier, however, showed that he had any connection with Khazaal or any Iraqi for that matter. The Egyptian report made it seem unlikely that he would have been willing to act as a go-between with Seven Angels even if he did have access to Khazaal. Several of his recorded statements showed he despised Americans in
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