The Counterfeit Agent by Alex Berenson Read Free Book Online Page A

were also hurt. An Israeli investigative team later found the van had held three hundred kilograms of fertilizer and fuel oil, enough to have taken down the embassy if it had reached the building.
    —
    Six thousand miles away, a taxi stopped at the rear entrance to the Israeli embassy in Bangkok. Neither driver nor passenger had an entry permit, so the local guards wouldn’t raise the gate. After a fifteen-second standoff, the taxi’s passenger shot the driver in the head and ran.
    Forty-five seconds later, the taxi blew up. The driver and one guard were killed, two others badly injured. The passenger escaped. Thai police estimated that eighty pounds of a military-grade explosive called Semtex had been placed in the taxi’s trunk.
    The Israeli prime minister called the President to thank him for the warning. The President called his new DCI, Scott Hebley, a Marine four-star who had replaced Duto. Hebley called Taylor. Langley sent a surveillance team to Istanbul to help the station trace Reza. NSA cloned the phone that Reza had given Taylor so it would ring on a dedicated line in the Counterterrorism Center. Taylor kept the original. After all, Reza had chosen
him
. Despite the risk, he badly wanted Reza to call again. He expected to hear within a few days. Surely the Iranian would want credit for the tip, if nothing else.
    —
    Weeks passed. The agency checked its sketch of Reza against its databases, along with those from the FBI, Interpol, and the MIT, the Turkish intelligence service. No matches. The surveillance team went home. In Angola and Thailand, the attack investigations stalled. The van had been stolen. The cabbie in Bangkok appeared unconnected to terrorism. He’d done nothing more than pick up the wrong fare. The Semtex was traced to a Czech factory that supplied half the world. Neither Hezbollah nor Iran took credit for the bombings, but their silence wasn’t a surprise. They rarely broadcast their involvement.
    September became October. Still Reza stayed away. Taylor found himself depressed, strangely jealous, a lover spurned after a one-night stand.
Why doesn’t he call? What did I do?
He asked NSA to double-check that the phone was working. He changed ringtones, went back to the original. He put off his other agents, ignored calls, canceled appointments. For four straight Fridays in November, he reenacted every detail of the meeting. After the fourth, he found Hunt outside his office. “Have a drink with me,” she said.
    He knew he wouldn’t like what she was going to tell him. He also knew he needed to hear it. In her office, she pulled a bottle of Laphroaig and two glasses from her bottom drawer and poured for them both.
    “Most likely he’s not in Istanbul anymore. They probably found him.”
    They both knew that if the Guard had discovered that Reza was a traitor, it would have arrested and tortured him. In that case, Taylor’s cover was blown. He should transfer out of Istanbul. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be around when Reza called again.
    “They’re not on him. He’s careful.”
    “Don’t be irrational.”
    “That tip saved lives.”
    “Three months ago.”
    “You’re jealous because you didn’t buy in.”
    She sipped her scotch
.
“Plenty of glory to go round. Only one squandering it is you. You got PTSD from a single successful meet. First time in history.”
    He wanted to argue with her, but he knew she was right.
    “That phone rings, we’ll be ready. Meantime, be a man. Get back to work. Let it go.”
    “You be a man.” He wanted to be funny, but even to his ears the words sounded petulant.
    “
Salud
,
Brian.” She raised her glass and downed the whiskey in one gulp.
    —
    Fall ended. Christmas became New Year’s Eve and Taylor invited Hunt to his annual party. She didn’t come. Turkey entered its short, sharp winter, an unpleasant surprise for out-of-season tourists. Snow on the Bosphorus sounded picturesque, but Istanbul wasn’t built for cold. Winds whipped