Hood was just getting into the car when his cell phone beeped. It was Mike Rodgers. The two men had not spoken since Rodgers met with Senator Debenport. The general had spent the day interviewing potential field operatives as well as intelligence personnel who might be able to help him put together his new HUMINT unit. Rodgers had wanted to see all four candidates in public instead of in his office. It was important to see how they blended in with crowds, how anonymous they could appear when they were not part of a group.

“How did the interviews go?” Hood asked.

“They were informative,” Rodgers replied.

“Hold that thought,” Hood said. Rodgers would know what that meant. As Hood sat behind the wheel he put his headset on. At the same time he tucked the cell phone into a scrambler built into the dashboard. It looked like a typical hands-free setup. However, the frame contained a chip that sent a loud screech along with the conversation. Only a phone with a complementary chip could filter out the sound. The chip in the car only worked with numbers that had been specifically keyed into the cell phone’s memory. “Ready,” Hood said. He started the car and drove toward the sentry post.

“I just want to say up front that this is not like putting together a military special ops team, where someone can demonstrate marksmanship on a firing range or hand-to-hand combat in the gym,” Rodgers told him. “The entire process is a bit of a boondoggle.”

“How so?”

“Because good intelligence people, by nature, don’t talk. They observe and listen,” Rodgers said. “As I sat there, I kept wondering if the silent interviewee was more suitable than the one who volunteered information.”

“Interesting,” Hood said. “Guess you go by your gut.”

“Pretty much,” Rodgers admitted. “Silence and disinterest have pretty much the same sound. On the other hand, David Battat talks a lot. Maria Corneja doesn’t. Aideen Marley is somewhere in the middle. Falah Shibli speaks five languages but says less than Maria. It is all in what your gut tells you.”

“How is Shibli?” Hood asked.

“Very well,” Rodgers replied. “He’s agreed to serve as needed, though he’s decided he would prefer to remain in the Middle East. I got the sense that he’s doing undercover work for the Mossad.”

Falah Shibli was a twenty-nine-year-old Israeli of Arabic descent. He had spent seven years in Israel’s tough Druze Reconnaissance unit, the Sayeret Ha’Druzim, before joining the police in the northern town of Kiryat Shmona. Shibli had worked with Op-Center in the Middle East. He would be a valuable resource for Israeli intelligence, since he could move freely among Arab populations.

Hood waved at Sergeant Ridpath in the booth. The non-com waved back and pushed the button that raised the heavy wooden bar. Hood drove from the lot. “So how did the new people impress you?”