Читать книгу The Spoils of War - Gordon Kent, Gordon Kent - Страница 23

Dick Triffler was leaning against the wall in Dukas’s office, arms crossed, one ankle over the other and the shoe resting tip-down. He’d taken his jacket off, but his shirt was crisp and white and his tie was a thick Italian silk in a shade of blue that could have been used for a late-night sky. “Tel Aviv’s already giving us static about the forensics team,” he said.

“Jeez, I thought they’d pretend to stay scared for twenty-four hours, anyway.” Dukas made a face. He was wearing the same dark polo shirt and tired chinos, and his feet, in running shoes that looked like purple bathtubs, were crossed on his desk. “How much static?”

“They ‘question the necessity.’”

Dukas made a growling noise. “Okay, message ONI, try to get them to lean on it.”

Triffler nodded.

“How about the policewoman Craik was working with?”

“Sounds nice but very cautious. Clearly thinks I’m trying to recruit her with my magic wand. She says that she’s got the Qatib case now but she’s just doing the preliminary work. She’s been promised the body by the end of next week.”

“What the hell, what end of next week? What’re they gonna do, clone it before they turn it over? The cops should have had the body already!”

“‘Administrative complications.’ Mrs Gurion says she doesn’t dare turn them off completely.”

Dukas made the face again and toyed with a pencil. “You tell her I’ll be there Monday?”

“She was beside herself with delight.”

“When NCIS was investigating Pollard, the CIA finally broke down and gave us a Mossad organizational chart and a personnel roster. What I want to do is get on to headquarters and pry that stuff out of them. Specifically, I want to know all the operational people named Shlomo and if so what they do. I’m trying to find out what the hell Mossad’s interest could be in Qatib if it wasn’t cryptology. Can do?”

“If they’ll give it to me.”

“HQ will give us anything we want right now because a Navy guy was kidnapped and Mossad is in the shit.”

“For twenty-four hours, anyway.”

“Yeah, so move quick.”

“You know how many guys in Israel are named Shlomo? It’s like Bill.”

“Yeah, well one was with me in Bosnia in ninety-seven. A Shlomo, not a Bill. We gotta start somewhere.”

Dukas made a call to The Hague. He wanted a former French cop named Pigoreau, who now worked for the World Court and who had been Dukas’s assistant in a war-crimes investigation unit in Bosnia. Pigoreau wasn’t in the office yet—banker’s hours, Dukas thought—but would be in soon, he’d call back, etcetera. And did an hour later.

“Mike! Marvelous to hear from you!” Pigoreau had a great French accent—you expected an accordion accompaniment.

“Hey, Pig.”

Laughter. “Mike, you’re the only guy I let call me Pig. You know, in French this is a big insult—cochon?”

“In English, it’s affectionate. The Three Little Pigs. Porky Pig. We got a chain of supermarkets called Piggly-Wiggly.”

“Okay, I take it as an endearment. What is going on?”

Dukas reminded him of the operation with the two Israelis in Bosnia. Pigoreau didn’t remember it at once—he hadn’t been involved, but he had had contact with everything that went on in that office—and it came back with some prompting. Finally he was able to say, “The guy died!”

“Yeah, that’s the one. We wanted him, and he got shot.”

“I remember. A long time, Mike.”

“Yeah. What I need is, Pig, I want to know what the Israeli involvement was.”

“Oh, mon dieu—Mike, that stuff is buried a thousand meters deep someplace.”

“Yeah, but it’s get-attable. You guys are bureaucrats; you don’t throw stuff away.”

Pigoreau laughed again. “I try, Mike. This is serious business? Okay.”

“Leave a message on this phone. You’re a good guy, Pig.”

“Cochon.”

Dukas hung up and thought about how much he didn’t want to go to Tel Aviv. On the other hand, it would get him out of the office. And it was his job.