general, and Ferguson’s experience with him demonstrated a willingness to act on those beliefs.
But something in Stein’s answer interested Corrine a great deal: the line about wanna-bes. It had been in an FBI report she’d read on the way over, one that was not among the documents shared with the Israelis.
Coincidence? It was a common phrase.
“I suppose it’s unlikely there’s a connection,” said Corrine, moving on to the real reason she’d come to see Tischler in person. “What else can you tell us about Khazaal?”
“Very little,” said Tischler.
“You know his travel plans?”
“Only that he is due to see others in Syria. Two men we have interest in over in Damascus transferred some money into an account used by one of the exile groups friendly to the so-called resistance. And a room there was rented for the weekend.”
One of the men was being followed by Iraqi intelligence, and the bank account was being monitored by the CIA. But it was possible that the exiles had already been tipped off; the second man had disappeared.
“Do you expect the meeting in Damascus?” asked Corrine.
“Not necessarily,” said Tischler. “Damascus would not be ideal, because of the Syrian government’s presence. Somewhere in the east, perhaps.”
While that would sound logical to someone uninitiated in the intrigues of Iraq, the sparsely populated desert areas of Syria were much worse than the capital of Syria. Strangers there tended to stick out, and there were many competing interests—Kurds, informants, smugglers, drug dealers—who would have much to gain by supplying information to the Syrians or to the Iraqi spies and operatives in the area. A meeting outside of a city would be visible to spy planes or satellites. Though in reality the coverage over the area was spotty at best, the resistance people tended to think American coverage was twenty-four/seven.
So why had Tischler even suggested it, Corrine wondered. “Could you make an educated guess?”
“Syria is a place where educated guesses can often get one in trouble,” said Tischler. “I wouldn’t try.”
Corrine let the matter drop temporarily, asking if the Mossad required assistance on any other projects and receiving the bland answers she expected. Finally she glanced at her watch.
“I’m afraid I’m running a little late,” she said, rising. “I’m due at the embassy.”
“Of course.” Tischler rose. “If we can be of further assistance while you’re in Tel Aviv, please tell us.”
“Thank you. The Khazaal meeting—”
The Mossad officer looked at her expectantly as she paused. He was well practiced at keeping his face expressionless, and Corrine simply couldn’t tell now whether he knew more about it than he had shared.
“You would suppose that would be more likely in the west than in the east,” she suggested.
“I’ve learned not to suppose.”
An answer there could be no arguing with, Corrine thought. “If we get any additional information,” she said, extending her hand. “We’ll share it.”
“As we will with you,” said Tischler, walking out with them.
~ * ~
2
CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA
Thomas Ciello could not believe his good fortune. The CIA analyst had stopped at the post office on his way to work and found, completely unexpectedly, a new manuscript on UFOs by Carmine P. Ragguzi. Professor Ragguzi, a true genius who had devoted nearly forty years of his life to the problem of extraterrestrial communication, had sent a select group of devotees an advanced copy of a mammoth work on UFO sightings he hoped to publish next year. A letter that accompanied the book urged Ciello to “make whatever suggestions you feel are warranted.” Of course, given that Ragguzi was a genius, Ciello doubted that he could do much more than cheer. Nonetheless, the opportunity to read a Ragguzi work before it was
But something in Stein’s answer interested Corrine a great deal: the line about wanna-bes. It had been in an FBI report she’d read on the way over, one that was not among the documents shared with the Israelis.
Coincidence? It was a common phrase.
“I suppose it’s unlikely there’s a connection,” said Corrine, moving on to the real reason she’d come to see Tischler in person. “What else can you tell us about Khazaal?”
“Very little,” said Tischler.
“You know his travel plans?”
“Only that he is due to see others in Syria. Two men we have interest in over in Damascus transferred some money into an account used by one of the exile groups friendly to the so-called resistance. And a room there was rented for the weekend.”
One of the men was being followed by Iraqi intelligence, and the bank account was being monitored by the CIA. But it was possible that the exiles had already been tipped off; the second man had disappeared.
“Do you expect the meeting in Damascus?” asked Corrine.
“Not necessarily,” said Tischler. “Damascus would not be ideal, because of the Syrian government’s presence. Somewhere in the east, perhaps.”
While that would sound logical to someone uninitiated in the intrigues of Iraq, the sparsely populated desert areas of Syria were much worse than the capital of Syria. Strangers there tended to stick out, and there were many competing interests—Kurds, informants, smugglers, drug dealers—who would have much to gain by supplying information to the Syrians or to the Iraqi spies and operatives in the area. A meeting outside of a city would be visible to spy planes or satellites. Though in reality the coverage over the area was spotty at best, the resistance people tended to think American coverage was twenty-four/seven.
So why had Tischler even suggested it, Corrine wondered. “Could you make an educated guess?”
“Syria is a place where educated guesses can often get one in trouble,” said Tischler. “I wouldn’t try.”
Corrine let the matter drop temporarily, asking if the Mossad required assistance on any other projects and receiving the bland answers she expected. Finally she glanced at her watch.
“I’m afraid I’m running a little late,” she said, rising. “I’m due at the embassy.”
“Of course.” Tischler rose. “If we can be of further assistance while you’re in Tel Aviv, please tell us.”
“Thank you. The Khazaal meeting—”
The Mossad officer looked at her expectantly as she paused. He was well practiced at keeping his face expressionless, and Corrine simply couldn’t tell now whether he knew more about it than he had shared.
“You would suppose that would be more likely in the west than in the east,” she suggested.
“I’ve learned not to suppose.”
An answer there could be no arguing with, Corrine thought. “If we get any additional information,” she said, extending her hand. “We’ll share it.”
“As we will with you,” said Tischler, walking out with them.
~ * ~
2
CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA
Thomas Ciello could not believe his good fortune. The CIA analyst had stopped at the post office on his way to work and found, completely unexpectedly, a new manuscript on UFOs by Carmine P. Ragguzi. Professor Ragguzi, a true genius who had devoted nearly forty years of his life to the problem of extraterrestrial communication, had sent a select group of devotees an advanced copy of a mammoth work on UFO sightings he hoped to publish next year. A letter that accompanied the book urged Ciello to “make whatever suggestions you feel are warranted.” Of course, given that Ragguzi was a genius, Ciello doubted that he could do much more than cheer. Nonetheless, the opportunity to read a Ragguzi work before it was
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