Separation of Power

chapter THIRTY-SIX
Tel Aviv, Saturday afternoon

Surly was probably the best word to describe Ben Freidman's mood. He'd just left his wife and was on his way into the office. He'd sent a katsa to Milan to look into the disappearance of Rosenthal and his people, and that trusted agent was back. Unfortunately, it sounded like she had little to report. As the armor-plated Mercedes raced through the suburb oframataviv, Freidman looked out the window at the ocean and wondered how in God's name three highly trained agents just disappear. The problem, Freidman knew, was that they didn't just disappear. There was only one logical explanation after this long: Donatella had killed them. This presented a challenging problem for the head of Mossad. Three kidons can only go missing for so long, and then people start asking questions.

The Mercedes turned away from the ocean and rocketed up a steep hill toward a bland six-story concrete building with antennae bristling from the roof. The driver had radioed ahead and the pop up barrier at the gate was down. The car raced through the entrance leaving the Uzi toting security personnel in a cloud of dust.

When Freidman reached his office he found the katsa that he'd sent to Milan waiting in his outer office by herself. Freidman rushed past her like a tank racing toward the front lines. Without a word, he waved for her to follow. When she entered his inner sanctum he closed the door and sat behind his desk. The katsa did not sit. She stood practically at attention in front of his desk. Freidman yanked open his top drawer and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

He puffed on the cigarette and offered the pack up to the woman. She declined with a shake of her head. "So, tell me' Tanya. What did you discover for me?"

The woman's posture and demeanor spoke of military training. She was small with dark features and wore no makeup."I found some things at the safe flat, but other than that, there was no sign of them." "And the woman I told you to check on?" Freidman ran one of his meaty hands along the top of his bald head.

"I called her office and they said she was out, so I took the opportunity to stop by in person. I pretended that we were old friends and that I was just passing through Milan for the day. I put on a big show about how disappointed I was and asked if I could leave a note. While I was leaving the note I asked where she was off to this time. They told me they didn't know. She called in abruptly on Friday to say she needed to take some personal time."

Freidman puffed on his cigarette and tried to piece things together. Friday would have been the day after Rosenthal was supposed to have hit her. She was on the run and Rosenthal, Yanta and Sunberg were all dead. Damn, she was good. Freidman chided himself for not sending more people, or better yet, doing it himself. Donatella would have trusted him. He could have got her to let her guard down and then taken her. The problem was he had rushed into it and now the mess was compounded.

"Did you check her flat?"

"Yeah. It was spotless. Nothing unusual or out of the ordinary."

Freidman thought for a while longer and finally said, "All right. Thank you for looking into this for me."

"No problem, sir. Am I excused?"

"Yes, but I want you to keep quiet about this entire matter."

"Yes, sir." The woman turned and left the office.

Freidman spun his chair around and looked out at the blue water of the Mediterranean. There would be an official investigation, one way or another, and it would look much better if he were the one to launch it. He would have to make Donatella out to be a psychotic who had betrayed Israel by free-lancing. He could even go the CIA and apologize for Donatella killing Peter Cameron. He could say that she had broken away and was doing free-lance work. Yes, he told himself, that was the path to take. Always mix fact with fiction for the most believable story.

Congressional Country Club, D. C., Saturday morning

If HE WAS in town, and it was Saturday, he was doing one of two things: either playing golf or getting a massage. Since the temperature was still below freezing he had opted for the massage. When he pulled up the long drive of the club in his Jaguar XK8 coupe shortly after nine, he spotted three brave souls standing on the first tee. Huddled in stocking caps, they were a testament to golf's addictive nature.

Hank Clark had two overriding principles or philosophies in life. The first was to never allow any single thing or person to control him, and the second was to succeed at any cost. He could have adopted a puritan lifestyle and banned all vices from his life, but that would have been too easy. Clark had seen alcohol destroy his mother. He knew what it could do to a person, to a family, but instead of running from it, he was determined to conquer it. Clark's competitive nature could not stand boredom, and it detested simplicity and complacency. Life was to be lived, not wasted cowering in a corner avoiding every vice as if it might jump up and drag you down into hell.

Clark took things on, but always in a well thought out way. He'd been an all-conference pitcher for the asu Sun Devils. That was when he learned to control his emotions and outthink an opponent. Where a football player is taught to get pumped up and attack the ball carrier, Clark learned to think clearly, get his competitor to expect one thing and then deliver something else. He was a master at blind-siding people without them ever knowing he had a hand in their demise.

As he lay facedown on the massage table, he was trying to figure out how to take these last few steps. He was so close, but this was where it would get tricky. The important thing to keep in mind was to let things happen. Not to force anything. The wheels were set in motion, the game was rigged and the odds were in his favor. All he needed was for Albert Rudin to make one last-ditch effort to derail the Kennedy nomination, and based on the conversation he'd had with Deputy Director Brown. Clark would know shortly. The package had been delivered last night and Clark knew that Steveken wouldn't disappoint him. By now Rudin had his grubby little hands on the info and he was probably close to having a coronary. With that satisfying thought Clark began to doze off. The waterfall music played softly in the background and Lou the masseur was kneading away at his legs. Life was good.

the DOOR flew open, thudded against the wall, and bounced back. Albert Rudin stood silhouetted in the light of the men's locker room staring into the relative darkness of massage room number two. "Hank! Are you in there?"

Clark, startled by the interruption, pulled from a deep sleep in the wink of a second, bolted up onto his elbows and growled, "What the f*ck!"

"Hank, I need to talk to you immediately!" He stepped into the room.

Through unfocused, sleepy eyes Clark said, "Albert, what in the hell are you doing?"

"I need to talk to you alone! I have something very important to show you."

"I'm in the middle of a massage," snarled Clark, still not quite awake.

"I don't care." Rudin stepped forward, thrusting the manila envelope in front of his face.

"Albert, whatever you have can wait until I have some clothes on. Now get the hell out of here!"

Rudin had never heard Clark so upset. Reluctantly, he retreated from the room and closed the door. He looked down at the envelope in his hand. He desperately wanted to show the contents to someone, and Hank Clark was the obvious choice. He'd been looking for him for the past two hours. He'd called his house, his office and his cell phone. No one at the house answered, no one at the office knew where he was, and he didn't answer his cell phone. The club was a lucky guess. Rudin saw the senator's gleaming Jaguar in the parking lot and practically ran into the building. The locker room manager told him Clark was getting a massage. Without putting any further thought into it, Rudin had raced off through the maze of lockers like a rat in search of a piece of cheese.

Standing alone in the bright lights of the locker room Rudin now saw the error of his ways. He checked his watch. It was 9:55. Clark wouldn't be that much longer. Rudin began walking. He'd waited this long to destroy Irene Kennedy, he could wait a few more minutes.

there WAS A small lounge in the men's locker room; two couches, several chairs, a television and two phones. This was where Rudin had decided to wait. It was a good thirty minutes before Clark showed. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back and he was wearing a pair of dress corduroy pants, a button-down shirt and a cashmere sweater. Rudin popped out of his chair looking slightly low-rent in his wrinkled khakis, faded flannel shirt and overstuffed down coat.

Clark had decided to act as if the intrusion into his hypnotic massage had not happened. There was no sense in revisiting the issue. After all these years Rudin wasn't about to change. Clark did not greet the congressman. He simply said, "Let's grab a cup of coffee."

Rudin shook his head emphatically. "Let's talk outside. In your car." He looked around the small lounge like the walls had ears.

Clark understood Rudin's paranoia. He was the one who had encouraged it. "All right."

They left the club and went to the parking lot without speaking. Rudin took every step like he was on point during a patrol behind enemy lines, Clark played along and kept his mouth shut. He'd anticipated Rudin's behavior. From thirty feet away, he pressed the button on his keyless remote. The headlights flashed once. Clark climbed in behind the wheel and Rudin got in on the passenger side.

From the folds of his down coat Rudin extracted the envelope and said, "You're not going to believe what is in here." He offered the envelope to Clark.

Clark didn't take it. He instead asked, "What's in it?"

"The information I've been looking for," replied Rudin with glee.

Impassively, Clark nodded for him to elaborate.

"Have you ever heard of an organization called the Orion Team?"

Clark just shook his head no.

"It's a secret organization that was started by that bastard Thomas Stansfield, and headed by Irene Kennedy," Rudin spoke their names with great hatred. "They've been running covert ops in the Middle East for over a decade, and they haven't said shit to us." Rudin stabbed his finger into his own chest. and I've got the proof Right here! Look!" Rudin pulled some papers from the envelope. "I have a list of people they've killed. There's account numbers where legitimate money has been diverted to fund these operations. There's even mention of Special Forces units being used to support these f*cking antics."

"This is absolutely shocking." "I told you she was no good. Just like her old boss Stansfield."

"I can't believe it," said Clark. "Where did you get this?"

"From your guy," said Rudin defensively. "That Steveken fellow."

"And where did he get it?" "That's the best part," said Rudin excitedly. "He got it from Jonathan Brown ... Judge F*cking Brown. Can you believe it?"

That was not the answer Clark was expecting. "Have you talked to anybody else about this?"

"No! You're the first person."

"Well, do yourself and Brown a favor and don't mention his name to anyone." Clark was trying to figure out how in the hell Rudin had got Brown's name.

"Why?"

"Because the second you mention his name they'll destroy his reputation." Clark was thinking quickly, trying to come up with a logical reason. "Think of his name as your ace in the hole. The longer you wait to show it, the more valuable it'll be."

"Or the longer you wait to play it." Rudin tried to pass the envelope to Clark.

"No. I believe you. When you get a chance make copies for me and send me the whole thing." Clark wasn't about to put his fingerprints on classified documents.

Rudin was a little disappointed, but pleased to hear that Clark trusted him enough to take his word. "So what are you going to do on Monday?"

The senator placed a hand on his chin and looked out the front windshield. Quietly, he said, "I'm not sure."

Rudin was sure. It's all he'd been thinking about for the past three hours. Kennedy's confirmation hearing was going to turn into an inquisition. "Hank, what do you mean you're not sure? You're going to get her under oath, and you're going to nail her ass to the wall!"

"Oh, don't worry, if this information is as damaging as you say, that'll happen," he said reassuringly. "I'm just trying to make sure we have all of our bases covered first." Clark looked at Rudin and asked, "Are you still scheduled to appear on Meet the Press tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

Clark paused briefly and said, "All right, here's what we're going to do."