Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1)

by Dana Arama

  I added a smile, put my hand on my heart and said: “I want to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you. I am proud of the single-minded determination you have demonstrated during this mission.”

  The spontaneous applause touched me, but I didn’t let them see the tears forming in my eyes. Whether they were tears of emotion or tears of sorrow depended on my level of concentration in the coming hours.

  Murat Lenika,

  November 15, 2015, 8:30 p.m.

  “How are we getting from here to Washington?” I asked when we left the room. I insisted on an answer, not because I was really interested but because I was trying to bide my time to find a way out of this situation.

  “A helicopter is waiting for us not far away from here. I’d originally planned for us to go together with the family, but they will arrive on their own. We have a mission: to organize the operations room in another hotel.”

  I looked at my watch and in response he stated, “In about an hour and a half we will be there. Are you worried because I am disconnected from command? Don’t worry. The soldiers are professional, and I am sure all of them will be at their posts on time.”

  I wasn’t worried at all. Being disconnected hadn’t even occur to me. What I was thinking about was that, in the helicopter, my chances of doing something and getting out of this situation would be slim. The feeling of getting tangled up in the chaos that ensued when Yassin had reentered my life had accelerated. I had completely lost control.

  We finally arrived in two cars to a luxurious hotel in Washington. We made our way up to the suite. Yassin was in the second car with his bodyguard, his right-hand man and me. During the trip I should have wracked my brain on what I could do to thwart the deadly plans of this devil sitting next to me, but truth be told, I had just sat there, terrified of him. I felt sorry for the kid we had left behind to die. Only Allah could save him now and I thought he too had lost control of Yassin. My sadness for the kid crawled its way into the only part of my brain not overtaken by self-pity, but he was a lost cause already. I still had a chance to live. Would my cooperation give me the opportunity to do something brave or would it bring upon my death?

  Guy Niava,

  November 15, 2015

  The latest news had actually shone a little light of hope on the situation. According to the intel, they surmised Yassin would choose his favorite hotel, the Four Seasons. The name took me back a few years, to Paris, to Gabbi Korman.

  The other news was that my brother had stopped and was now at the next rest area. “If you can accelerate more, you could be there in ten minutes. The team arriving from the south will also be there and, if needed, will detain him.”

  “Copy. I will try to drive faster,” I said, and pressed down on the gas lever to its maximum capacity. If I was of a thinner build the wind would have torn me off the bike. If I was shorter, I would have needed to bend over less. The first nice day after a week of rain meant that many people were out for a drive. In this case, it worked to my advantage. In a car, my brother could only merge with the traffic, but I could wind my way through the cars, and so I did.

  When I arrived, I recognized the car outside and hurried in. The hard part was still before me. I looked for him in the convenience store, but he wasn’t there, so I walked into the bathroom. He stood there, leaning on the sink and looked older than usual. Next to him, on the floor, was the briefcase. When he raised his eyes and caught my image in the mirror, something broke inside him and he started crying quietly, with heartrending sobs. I saw the tears running down his face. His shoulders shook. The face that was reflected from the mirror looked tired more than ever, maybe because of the graying stubble of his beard. As far as our switch was concerned, the look was perfect. My stubble also indicated that I’d had many nights without a shower or sleep. It was also the weak point of our cover -- my stubble wasn’t gray.

  “I can’t let you go there.” I hoped he heard the sorrow in my voice.

  “And I can’t afford not to go there.”

  “You will stay here with the American agents who will guard you. Take your suitcase back with you and I will continue in your place. Please, let me take your place,” I asked, as if he had a choice in the matter.

  “Jonathan’s life is in danger. I can’t take that chance.”

  “You also can’t go there. My orders are unequivocal.”

  “If you arrive without the briefcase, they will know immediately that there has been a switch. If you arrive with it, your fingerprint won’t open it.”

  “There is too much at risk here. We both know that. Let’s not waste any more time. Tell me exactly what they told you to do and where to go and I will carry on from here. We will deal with the suitcase later.”

  As if to emphasize my words, a man in a cheap suit walked in and stood behind me, so that no one could enter the restroom.

  “What are the instructions they gave you?” I repeated.

  He breathed in deeply and said, “First of all, not to tell anyone the instructions they gave me.”

  “So, you have already broken one of them. Let’s continue from there. Where are you supposed to go? What are you supposed to do there? Did they give you a timetable? A code of some sort?”

  “They said that they know what I’m working on and to bring it with me. I assumed they were talking about the briefcase, because it has everything in it. All the codes, the whole history of the project, all the modes of access. I couldn’t take a chance that they would kill Jonathan if I arrived without it.”

  “And for this exact reason you can’t allow the briefcase to reach the wrong hands.”

  “I can’t, Guy.” His face was gloomy, and the tears flowed rapidly. “I have to give it to them.”

  “Wait. Let’s see if Tel Aviv has a solution for us.” I hoped I sounded more cheerful than I felt and dialed Gideoni’s number. When he answered I said, “You have to find me a solution for the suitcase. They are expecting him to arrive at the meeting point with something he is working on.”

  Gideoni answered, “Give me a few minutes,” and hung up. Businesslike as usual, calm, collected and efficient.

  Seven minutes and twenty seconds passed, in which my brother broke down in my arms and cried gut-wrenching sobs. The vibrating sound of the phone on the counter was like a bell of hope for the two of us. I answered and just listened. My brother was watching with desperate anticipation. I ended the conversation with, “That’s what we shall do,” and hung up.

  “Okay, we have a solution. The suitcase will be passed on. I will pass it on. I just have to work on the briefcase before we depart. I will introduce myself as Professor Niava.” I smiled at him hoping to cheer him up a little, “They will get what they asked for… more or less.”

  “And then I will lose you and Jonathan.” My brother shook his head. “I am prepared to take care of the briefcase, like you said, but I will not let you take this risk.”

  “This is one of the least dangerous risks I have taken in my career. Don’t worry about me.” I walked up closer to him and put my hand on his shoulder to cheer him up. “You do your thing and I will do mine and together we will get Jonathan back.”

  He was quiet for a while, which seemed like eternity, and in the end, he straightened up and asked, “What do you want me to do with the briefcase?”

  “First of all, open it with your fingerprint. Then, we will need to make a few changes according to the instructions we get from Tel Aviv…”

  ***

  He took the cell phone from my hand hesitantly. On the other side of the line were his friends and partners in this project, who for hours had been trying to neutralize the briefcase that had been stolen. Now, with the collaboration of the thief, they knew the correct thing to do. The double security had been taken off, and so the briefcase had gone through a transformation. The real data would be erased and other irrelevant data, whic
h would look no less authentic, would take its place. We would plant information that looked promising, information on the satellite scheduled to be launched in the next few months. But there was no real connection. It was enough of a loss to give up the briefcase itself, with its expensive hardware, but taking into consideration the risk factor, that loss was something to be lived with. What my brother had in his head, and the data itself, wasn’t something the State of Israel could afford to lose.

  My brother put the briefcase on the sink and put his finger on the lock. A quiet ‘click’ was heard and the lock opened. Inside the briefcase was another panel and when it opened, there was a computer sitting underneath. My brother was listening to the instructions he was being given through the cell phone I held to his ear. As he worked on the briefcase, other changes were being made to the motherboard. Twenty minutes later, the briefcase was closed again and locked. Tel Aviv authorized my fingerprint to unlock the briefcase’s security system. Officially, the briefcase was put in my charge.

  “Your destination is in this text message here,” he said, and passed the device to me. “They will notify you where to go next with another text message.” He didn’t seem happy, but still, he hugged me as if he would never see me again, almost refusing to let go.

  “We will bring him back!” I promised, out of the internal belief that it couldn’t end any differently. I held the briefcase in my hand, which minutes had been worth four years of work and thousands of Israeli tech workers, and almost 195 million dollars and now was worth Jonathan’s life.

  The escort who had waited patiently by the door led my brother to the waiting van. I put the set of keys belonging to the family Volvo in my pocket. I had my brother’s cell phone as a line of communication with the kidnappers. I went on my way. From afar I saw Laura’s man sit on my motorbike. He will return it home. I had worked under false identities before. This was the first time I had been so emotionally involved. But as I acknowledged it to myself, I felt myself disconnect. From this time onwards, the risk was only mine.

  Laura Ashton,

  New York, November 15, 2015

  The owners of the hotel didn’t like us being there, but they cooperated because a terror attack in the middle of the city didn’t encourage tourism. Also, the knowledge that such an attack could be avoided if they cooperated weighed heavily on them, I was sure. That had been the ace I pulled out of my pocket when I sensed the unwillingness of the manager to cooperate.

  I divided my people into two teams. Those at the reception area took charge of the switchboard, the computerized systems and elevators. They would work after the guests were in their rooms. The second team already wore hotel uniforms and were waiting for the family to arrive. Their job was to take care of the suitcases – they would install cameras in them to give us an insight to the room.

  The tension in the air was thick. We waited on standby, on high alert, but then a message came from the airport that the plane was changing direction. The craft with Yassin’s family was not planning on landing in New York but had just received permission to land in Washington. All the teams that were situated at the airport rushed onto helicopters and made their way to Washington. Teams in Washington, who had taken time off to rest, were called up immediately.

  The feeling that the bomb’s countdown clock was ticking away filled everyone with nervous energy. It wasn’t just any ticking bomb waiting to be dismantled, but was a very sophisticated one, always one step ahead of us. We had to be smarter than Yassin, quicker than him and more efficient. All the American forces were behind the scenes. The Israelis were at our side, and still this elusive character had managed to slip in between our fingers. We hadn’t let our frustration get the better of us. When we arrived at last to our destination, it felt as if we had no air in our lungs, the way one does at the end of a marathon. But our marathon had barely started.

  The chances of us getting to their hotel before them were slim, but with one phone call we managed to improve those chances. Air control promised a very slow handling of the plane that had landed. I immediately went over our options with my people.

  The vastly preferred option was to break into Yassin Graham’s room and catch him before his sick wife and child arrived. The thought was tempting and was the most popular idea. If we pulled it off, it could end the operation before citizens were hurt. Those who opposed it felt that we had too many questions and not enough answers. There was no register in his name, we couldn’t confirm that he had booked a room under another name and we couldn’t guarantee that if we could find his room, it would be the real Yassin rather than his false twin. And if it was the real Yassin, would we manage the break in without endangering the life of the kidnapped boy, Jonathan Niava, who was in his hands? Would we manage to keep Yassin alive? Maybe his death wouldn’t be such a big issue at this stage of his plan – he might have already given all the orders. In the end, the opposition won and we decided to wait for the arrival of the sick, innocent civilians. Yassin’s reaction after he sees them would prove if he was the real one or not.

  Our time frame was very narrow. We had a lot to do and very little time before he arrived. To be on the safe side, we asked the teams to tail the limousine and stall them if necessary. We repeated our New York routine. People waited in a few other hotels he had frequented in the past. The leading team and I settled ourselves in the hotel we thought was his favorite, the Four Seasons, so before they even arrived at the hotel, we were already at our stations. Once again, we took over the switchboard, we learned the map of the hotel, the break-in team checked their equipment, and the rest of the team wore the hotel uniforms. We were all tense. Everyone wanted confirmation that they were coming to this hotel, the one the statisticians voted on, even though there was no suite booked in his name in the reservations. We waited, tensions running high, for a clue to lead us to the final destination.

  ***

  The clue came from the Israelis, who pointed out a specific plane with Yassin’s guests. We homed in on the plane, then we recruited the NSI to hack the black box of the plane. In the recording we could hear a woman’s voice requesting the pilot to summon a doctor to the airport because her son is sick.

  The pilot answered that his instructions were not to be delayed and to go directly to the hotel.

  The woman’s voice sounded as if she were pleading and asking him to use his discretion.

  The pilot answered that he had no choice in the matter and an order from Yassin was not to be breached.

  The feminine voice seemed defeated when he answered that there was a doctor at the Four Seasons. A door slammed. And quiet… Just the sounds of the flight and that was it.

  All those who had listened to the recording breathed out in relief and smiled. I said, “With all due respect to this tape, only the tail we put on them will determine the final destination. I am not quite convinced that the wife fully knew her husband’s plans.”

  And still, despite my reservations, the recording we heard had made us all smile and breathe easier.

  Less than an hour later, we found out that they were staying at a different hotel.

  We undertook the same operation as before: we dismantled all our equipment and in less than ten minutes we were out of there. It was too late to put bugging and filming devices in their suitcases. It felt like groping in the dark, without night vision.

  Murat Lenika,

  November 15, 2015

  A short while after we had settled in and had set up the operations room with its numerous computers, the electronic equipment and the maps, a pile of suitcases entered into the room, and behind them came Yassin’s wife. She looked very green and her child was almost transparent. She didn’t come into the room in a fighting mood, as the soft voice had predicted, nor even a groveling one. She came in sick.

  “I think we have the flu,” she announced, to no one in particular. She kicked off her shoes and marched to the bedroom. The
transparent child stood in the middle of the room for a moment and looked at his father, who held his hands out to him. The child took one step towards him and fainted.

  Laura Ashton,

  November 15, 2015

  “They are most probably sick. Very sick. Maybe so sick that one of them will die and the United States will be involved in an international incident because of an impetuous act by the Mossad.”

  From the moment I saw them in the hotel cameras and until I saw Gideoni’s face on the screen, no more than two minutes had passed, but for me it seemed like an eternity. An eternity full of anger and disappointment. This was not the way I had envisioned the end of this affair. I was thinking more in the lines of a letter of admiration which could be framed for all to see in the office, and not a humiliating letter of resignation because of the diplomatic complication I’d caused.

  “An impetuous act?” Besides a slight raise of his eyebrow, which showed he was annoyed, the rest of his expression remained indifferent.

  “I am sure that whoever decided to put two people’s lives in danger saw before their eyes the potential deaths of thousands of others. Do I need to remind you of 9/11?” Gideoni of the video calls was much more annoying than Gideoni of the regular phone calls.

  “You have infected two innocent people. They did nothing wrong besides --”

  “Besides being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I can’t be so complacent and think that they are just unlucky, mainly because we don’t know how expendable they are in his eyes. Maybe he feels like they have no choice in the matter, in participating in his struggle?”