level, two grades of confidentiality below “Secret.” Combatants, the term used for Mossad officers working outside Israel, store all other documents at the local Israeli Embassy's vaults.
I no longer worked for the Mossad, but old habits are hard to break. Apparently, this sort of thing becomes second nature after a while.
Alex had repeatedly indicated that we must adhere to safety and security procedures at all times. “In the field,” his favorite term, meaning anywhere beyond our desks, “always look around you, physically and mentally. If you're not working alone, keep eye contact with your team; either hang together or be hanged together. You never know where the blow will come from. It's the guy you don't see who'll shoot you down.”
Seeing DeLouise's body stretched out on a morgue slab had sharpened my senses. If I found that the strand of hair had been moved, I'd go into combat-level security for everything.
I took my file folder, went to the lobby, and deposited the folder in the hotel safe.
I drove through the bustling traffic of Munich to the American Consulate. Security around the building was very tight. Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait several weeks earlier and the world was tense. The United States had increased security around all its embassies and consulates, no matter how friendly the host country. Concrete barriers blocked one lane of the street to keep traffic from getting too close to thebuilding. The terrible U.S. Embassy suicide car bombing in Beirut in 1983 that killed sixty-three people — seventeen of whom were Americans and eight of whom worked for the CIA — was still a vivid memory.
German policemen wearing bulletproof vests and holding German shepherds on short leashes were everywhere. I waited patiently at the end of the long line to enter the consulate. I passed through a metal detector and went to the reception booth. A Marine was sitting behind one-inch-thick bulletproof glass.
“I'm here to see the legat,” I said showing him my Justice Department ID.
“Hold on, sir,” he said, and picked up the phone. He handed me a visitor's badge and buzzed the heavy glass door separating the entry hall from the lobby.
“Mr. Lovejoy's office is on the third floor, sir, and the elevator is just past the lobby.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went inside.
A tall, rosy-cheeked blond woman in her midtwenties met me as I exited the elevator on the third floor. She wore an American Consulate photo ID around her neck.
“Hello, I'm Helga, Mr. Lovejoy's secretary,” she said in a friendly voice, with a trace of a German accent.
“I know that.”
“How do you know?” She was puzzled. “We've never met, have we?”
“No,” I said, smiling, “I just read it on your badge.”
She laughed as I followed her down the hall.
“Mr. Lovejoy is out of his office at the moment,” said Helga as we walked, “but he is in the building and I expect him back soon.”
“Good,” I said. “Is there an office I could use until Mr. Lovejoy returns?”
Helga showed me into a small conference room with a round table in the center and five chairs. A single telephone was on the table.
“How do you get an outside line?” I asked as I sat down.
“Simply dial 9, but if you want to call the United States, you'll have tocall me first to punch in the code. Here, let me do it for you now.” She leaned over my shoulder, brushing her full breasts against me, punched a few numbers, and left the room. A subtle, flowery scent remained in the air.
I called Stone at his Justice Department office in D.C.
I liked working for David. He looked like the classic absentminded professor, but the mind was right there and it was shrewd. Always clad in outdated suits and loose ties, David was a Justice Department veteran. During his thirty years of service he had gained a reputation as a clever lawyer with outstanding integrity and professionalism. After ten years as the head of foreign litigation for the United
I no longer worked for the Mossad, but old habits are hard to break. Apparently, this sort of thing becomes second nature after a while.
Alex had repeatedly indicated that we must adhere to safety and security procedures at all times. “In the field,” his favorite term, meaning anywhere beyond our desks, “always look around you, physically and mentally. If you're not working alone, keep eye contact with your team; either hang together or be hanged together. You never know where the blow will come from. It's the guy you don't see who'll shoot you down.”
Seeing DeLouise's body stretched out on a morgue slab had sharpened my senses. If I found that the strand of hair had been moved, I'd go into combat-level security for everything.
I took my file folder, went to the lobby, and deposited the folder in the hotel safe.
I drove through the bustling traffic of Munich to the American Consulate. Security around the building was very tight. Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait several weeks earlier and the world was tense. The United States had increased security around all its embassies and consulates, no matter how friendly the host country. Concrete barriers blocked one lane of the street to keep traffic from getting too close to thebuilding. The terrible U.S. Embassy suicide car bombing in Beirut in 1983 that killed sixty-three people — seventeen of whom were Americans and eight of whom worked for the CIA — was still a vivid memory.
German policemen wearing bulletproof vests and holding German shepherds on short leashes were everywhere. I waited patiently at the end of the long line to enter the consulate. I passed through a metal detector and went to the reception booth. A Marine was sitting behind one-inch-thick bulletproof glass.
“I'm here to see the legat,” I said showing him my Justice Department ID.
“Hold on, sir,” he said, and picked up the phone. He handed me a visitor's badge and buzzed the heavy glass door separating the entry hall from the lobby.
“Mr. Lovejoy's office is on the third floor, sir, and the elevator is just past the lobby.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went inside.
A tall, rosy-cheeked blond woman in her midtwenties met me as I exited the elevator on the third floor. She wore an American Consulate photo ID around her neck.
“Hello, I'm Helga, Mr. Lovejoy's secretary,” she said in a friendly voice, with a trace of a German accent.
“I know that.”
“How do you know?” She was puzzled. “We've never met, have we?”
“No,” I said, smiling, “I just read it on your badge.”
She laughed as I followed her down the hall.
“Mr. Lovejoy is out of his office at the moment,” said Helga as we walked, “but he is in the building and I expect him back soon.”
“Good,” I said. “Is there an office I could use until Mr. Lovejoy returns?”
Helga showed me into a small conference room with a round table in the center and five chairs. A single telephone was on the table.
“How do you get an outside line?” I asked as I sat down.
“Simply dial 9, but if you want to call the United States, you'll have tocall me first to punch in the code. Here, let me do it for you now.” She leaned over my shoulder, brushing her full breasts against me, punched a few numbers, and left the room. A subtle, flowery scent remained in the air.
I called Stone at his Justice Department office in D.C.
I liked working for David. He looked like the classic absentminded professor, but the mind was right there and it was shrewd. Always clad in outdated suits and loose ties, David was a Justice Department veteran. During his thirty years of service he had gained a reputation as a clever lawyer with outstanding integrity and professionalism. After ten years as the head of foreign litigation for the United
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