The Counterfeit Agent by Alex Berenson Read Free Book Online

“Tell me just as it happened. No opinions. Facts, as you recall them. I want every detail while it’s fresh.”
    For a half hour, he recounted the meeting. “You did well,” she said when he finished.
    “Thank you.”
    “Did you get the cab’s plate?”
    His elation vanished. “No, it was too far—”
    “Forget it. I think you handled it about as well as anyone could have. But I have to know one thing. Don’t hesitate. Just yes or no, from the gut. Is he real?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because?”
    “His anger at the regime felt real. His Farsi sounded native. Even the way he described the op, that it’s in trouble but the top guys are pushing. Whichever team you play for, we’ve all had that. And it doesn’t make sense otherwise. He gave us a very specific tip. We’ll know in a week if he’s lying. If the point was to set me up, why not shoot me today? We both know I couldn’t have done much.”
    “Write up your report, I’ll cable the desk.”
    “I wish I’d gotten a picture somehow.”
    “Maybe we can convince the agency to put a sketch artist on a plane tonight before your memory fogs.”
    “You think he’s real, Martha?”
    “I trust you.”
    An answer that wasn’t exactly yes. And, more important, left the judgment squarely on him. He was disappointed in her—and in himself for letting her beauty fool him. She was chief. He was deputy. Ever thus.
    —
    Taylor spent the next two days on conference calls with Langley, answering the same questions again and again. How the letter had come in. What had happened at the carpet store. Finally, he reached Bart Regina, an assistant deputy director. “You know no Rev Guard officer has ever defected? Not one. Ever.”
    Taylor didn’t bother to answer.
    “If we pass this warning to the Mossad and we’re wrong, we will look
muy
foolish. But you think we should go ahead.”
    Hunt scribbled on a piece of paper and flashed the words at Taylor.
Decision made, ass covering.
So this call was pro forma. Regina wanted to hear that Taylor believed. Then the backsplatter wouldn’t touch Regina if the tip didn’t pan out. If it did, no one would care that Regina had raised an alarm. The seventh floor would be too thrilled with its new source.
    These internal games were the reason Taylor liked having a quiet career. Bigger stakes, bigger politics. Now he stretched out his neck, put it on the block. “Sir, if you’re asking me whether Reza was genuine, I believe so. If for no other reason than he got my name
from
somewhere
. The story he told makes sense. Believe me, I know we’d rather have his real name. But given the risks he faces, I’m not surprised he kept it to himself.”
    Despite the second-guessing—or maybe because of it—Taylor increasingly believed that Reza was who he claimed to be. Not just because being wrong would end his career. Taylor wanted everyone to have to admit he was right.
Everyone
included Martha Hunt.
    “Good,” Regina said. “We’ll let the Israelis know. Classify it as single-source, probability four.” The scale ran from one to ten, one completely reliable and ten wild rumor. Considering that the agency had only Taylor’s gut as a data point, four was a vote of confidence. The line went dead.
    “Nice guy,” Hunt said.
    “Just covering his ass. Like a certain station chief I know.”
    To his surprise, she smiled. “Guess I deserve that.”
    “Should have put your chips next to mine, Martha.”
    —
    Four days later, in Luanda, Angola, a Nissan van accelerated down Rua Rainha Ginga and rammed through the outer gate of the Israeli embassy, a small two-story building. As the Nissan approached the inner gate, its guards opened up with their AKs. The driver lost control. The van slammed into a concrete chicane that the Israelis had hastily put up after the American warning. The driver ran to a motorcycle and escaped.
    Thirty seconds later, the van exploded. Two guards were killed, three others wounded. Six embassy employees