“Well, let me tell you the story and all about the remarkable woman who is its hero.”

“Please.”

Swagger narrated as succinctly as possible the odyssey of Janet McDowell, the one-woman CIA who’d gone from suburban matron to deep-cover penetration agent. The Mossad professional listened intently, occasionally sipping lemon water, but did not interrupt.

Finally, he said, “Is any of this backed up on paper? Do you have copies of the various documents in play, photographs of the individuals mentioned—proof, say, of her mistreatment on her journeys? Does this hold up to elemental scrutiny?”

“All of it, here in this briefcase. Moreover, I hired a private detective. Please, if you should meet her, don’t tell her. I had the same questions. I also ran her paperwork by a friend of mine who’s a retired FBI agent and extremely practiced in this business. In both cases, she passed the test brilliantly. Her zygoma was indeed fractured into four pieces in 2010, and she spent seven months in the hospital. Even then, the bones didn’t quite heal properly. Her finances indicate funds coming in from relatives, an ex-husband, the sale of property. She doesn’t have much left or much future to look forward to. She’s two million in debt, with no end upcoming.”

“So she is legitimate, though you wouldn’t be offended if we double-checked?”

“Help yourself.”

“But her legitimacy doesn’t prove her information is legitimate. Perhaps this is another Juba game, conjured by some Iranian Ministry of Intelligence genius. I could name several. The brilliance of it would be discovering the woman on one of her trips, feeding her false information artfully disguised as the truth. Her belief—and she would have a need to believe, a need to achieve some justice for the poor lost boy—might be exactly the tool they’d put to use in order to achieve some sort of leverage over us.”

“Sure. I guess,” said Bob. “But it seems more likely that if they knew about her, they’d put a bullet in her head instead of going to all this trouble.”

“And, other than being a nuisance, she is not under active CIA control or even in their awareness?”

“I don’t know anybody there like I once did. But the mess that place is in now—again, it seems unlikely. Maybe this genius could play a game using her uniqueness, but right now everybody in the Agency seems really pissed off.”

Gold nodded.

Finally, he said, “Why don’t you let me run some checks. I’ll call you in a day or two. Please enjoy our town. I will put everything on a Mossad account.”

“That’s very kind, but to keep myself untouched by financial interests, I prefer to pay my own way. I can afford it. Why should I just leave it to my kids?”

Gold’s eyes crinkled briefly. “Ha. Why indeed?”

•   •   •