In 1985, Pollard and his wife sought asylum in Israel. The two drove to the Israeli Embassy in Washington, DC. Pollard requested political asylum using his own name. But the officer on duty apparently didn’t know who his uninvited guest was. Pollard and his wife were evicted from the embassy by Israeli guards. They were immediately arrested by the FBI.

Pollard never had a trial. At the request of both the US and Israeli governments, he entered into a plea agreement. Pollard received a life sentence and a recommendation that he never be paroled.

The CIA claimed that another highly placed Israeli spy in the US had to exist in order to give Jonathan Pollard his highly specific tasking orders. The CIA and FBI both code-named this individual as “Mr. X” but his/her identity was never discovered.

(Note of examining officer #2: No cooperation was ever forthcoming from Israel on the subject of “Mr. X.” No surprise there. JGF 02-15-06)

In November 1995, Israel granted Jonathan Pollard Israeli citizenship. To the US, this signaled Israel’s willingness to accept full responsibility for Pollard. His potential release in order to return to Israel became a hot-button item. Israel threatened to cease peace talks with the US until the issue was resolved but failed to gain Pollard’s release from prison. Pollard’s case was considered by Presidents Reagan, Bush, Clinton, and Bush 43, all of whom denied him clemency…

As of September 2009, Pollard is in the twenty-fifth year of his life sentence.

Alex stopped reading because she felt mildly nauseous.

Was there something about this tea that disagreed with her? She had slept well, but there was suddenly a queasy feeling in her stomach. It went away in a moment. Last night’s tea? Airline food from the other day? Something in the sooty Cairo air that had compromised her immune system?

The discomfort was sharp, like a pang. She had once contracted food poisoning in Mexico and it had started this way. She winced. Then it felt as if something was wrong with her head. Her forehead throbbed as if she had a migraine. Then that went away too.

She read carefully and quickly through the summary paragraphs of the remainder of the files. A few stood out:

Item: “The Lavon Affair”: In 1954, Israeli agents attacked Western targets in Egypt in an apparent attempt to upset US-Egyptian relations. Israeli Defense Minister Pinchas Lavon was removed from office, though many think real responsibility lay with David Ben-Gurion.

Item: In 1967, Israel attacked the USS Liberty, an intelligence-gathering vessel flying a US flag, killing 34 crew members. See Assault on the Liberty, by James M. Ennes, Jr. (Random House).

Item: In early 2007, an Army mechanical engineer, David A. Tenenbaum, told investigators that he “inadvertently” gave classified military information on missile systems and armored vehicles to Israeli officials (New York Times, 2/12/07).

Item: In May 2008, the US ambassador to Israel complained privately to the Israeli government about heavy-handed surveillance by Israeli intelligence agents, who had been following American Embassy employees in Tel Aviv and searching the hotel rooms of visiting US officials…

The FBI knew of at least a dozen incidents in which American officials illegally transferred classified information to the Israelis, said former Assistant Director of the FBI Mr. Raymond Wannal. The Justice Department did not prosecute.

She concluded her reading. Okay. She got the point. Normally the Israeli intelligence services worked with the Americans. Sometimes they worked against them.

Why was Fitzgerald sounding this theme so sharply? She considered his age again and thought of the Suez crisis of fifty years ago in which the English, French, and Israelis sought to lash back at Nasser without the Eisenhower administration knowing their intentions. The mission had been a failure and had made Nasser a hero in the Arab world.

Her mind fiddled with the sound of it.

Nasser, NASCAR. Just two letters apart. She broke a mild sweat. What was going on? Suddenly, another surge of pain in her stomach. She really didn’t feel good.

Well, she had taken some precautions before this trip. She had some Ciprofloxacin in her medicine kit for just such emergencies. She went to the bathroom, found one, scored it, and popped half a tab.

She looked at her clock. She suddenly felt lousy. Bad jetlag, she figured. That didn’t help.

Heck, she didn’t have to be anywhere until 3:00 in the afternoon, when she needed to be in front of the hotel to meet Voltaire. Might as well get some extra rest. She went back into the bedroom and lay down again on the bed.

Alex’s eyes opened at half past two in the afternoon. She felt better. Either the turbulence within her had settled or the medication had helped.

She found the bulky khaki jacket that she could wear over a navy tank top. Maximum coverage. She packed a bag to carry on her shoulder. In it, she threw her weapon, which she kept loaded with the safety catch on. She also took her passport, some cash, and a credit card. She was wary of the sun, so she threw an American baseball cap into the bag too and was careful to take sunscreen and sunglasses.

She was in front of the hotel within a few minutes. Voltaire had a BMW X5 SUV in the hotel driveway. He was waiting for her. Alex climbed into the passenger’s side of the front and, as they pulled out, flipped down the vanity mirror.

She watched a car pull out behind them.

“Friendly, right?” she asked. “The car that’s trailing us?”

“Bodyguards. Abdul and one of his pleasantly unsavory people. They’ll be with us most of the day.”

“Good,” she said. She pushed the mirror back upward.

“So if we get shot in the back it’ll be by our own people, not the opposition. Isn’t that reassuring?”

“Seriously,” she said. “You have quite a sense of humor.”

“Oh, relax,” he said. “This is your tourist day. We talk a little and discuss what’s going to happen. Tomorrow you work.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, easing up a little. Her stomach rumbled, then was steady again.

On the drive from Cairo to Giza, Alex saw row after row of endless tenements, much as she had noticed on the trip into the city. Their vehicle passed miles of redbrick buildings built illegally, according to Voltaire, and by hand.

“The bricks come from the local mosques,” he said. “The people who live there have only recently received running water and electricity. The buildings grow in height as the families grow. One generation builds a floor above their parents and so on. Then you realize brick buildings can only go so high before gravity takes over. Buildings crumble all the time. The people living there are usually crushed to death.”

“I don’t suppose the government does anything,” Alex said.

Voltaire laughed. “Why would they? It helps control the population problem. There are too many people already. But it’s in these same slums that Islam is most fervent.”

They arrived in Giza in less than an hour.

They parked the X5. There was still urbanization all around them. Alex had imagined the pyramids in a remote desert, somewhat farther away from Cairo. But the stretch of desert where the Pyramids of Giza stood was surrounded on all sides by city. The location was more like a national park than a remote wonder. Alex brought her shoulder bag containing her weapon with her.

Voltaire led Alex to a stable run by some Bedouin tribesmen whom he knew personally. The Bedouins rented out horses and camels by the hour. Alex was tempted by the camels, but opted for a horse. Voltaire did the same. The Bedouins put them up on a pair of beaten-down old horses and cracked the whips behind them, sending them off.