by David Hunter
~ ~ ~
The Levins, knowing that they had to get a very early start the next day, decided to retire sooner than usual. The warm humidity of the Rio climate, combined with a full day of sight-seeing and shopping, left the aging couple happily tired.
“We are going to turn in a little sooner than usual tonight. Hope you don't mind your cafézinhos this early in the evening, agents." Mrs. Levin enjoyed making their coffee for them, a gesture of gratitude for their service.
“Not at all. These things are habit forming! Sure you won't join us?"
“Oh, no young man, not before bed or we'd be buzzing the entire night!"
“Good night then ma'am, sir."
“Boa noite!” True tourists, the Levins delighted in the new words they were learning.
The Mossad team leader was one of the two agents on the night shift. Double checking the bedroom, he wished the Levins a good night's rest, then returned to his television show and freshly poured demitasse of the almost syrupy, thick Brazilian coffee. In two short gulps the cup was empty, the other agent downing his at the same time.
Before they even realized what happened, unable to communicate even slurred words that would have alerted outside agents monitoring the rooms, both agents slumped unconscious in their chairs.
A slight click at the entry door signaled the acceptance of a key card. Three men wordlessly entered the room, each with a silencer-equipped sidearm held just below shoulder height.
Walking quietly but quickly into the main living area, three men dressed in black clothing and soft soled shoes wordlessly divided their work with virtuoso precision. One immediately went over to the agents, shooting both in the head twice to assure the kills.
The other two, making no sound as they moved, entered the bedroom where the Levins were both sound asleep; Mrs. Levin snoring rather loudly.
Pop, pop. Two bullets in her head. Mr. Levin stirred slightly, remaining fast asleep.
They had less than eight minutes from the time of entry to get him out of the suite and away from the resort, before the Levins' security backup would be alerted to the lack of sound coming from the suite.
The plan was to evacuate both, but inclement weather conditions pushed the boundaries of already restrictive time constraints, requiring an on-site decision by the agent in charge to abduct just the doctor. Of a necessity his wife was left behind.
As Moshe continued sleeping, the second man in the bedroom produced a hypodermic, injecting him in his fleshy upper arm, simultaneously covering the old man's mouth with his free hand to prevent him from shouting and alert to the off-site agents monitoring the suite with audio equipment.
Levin awoke, startled, eyes widened in fear and confusion as his pupils adjusted to the light, allowing him to see the two strangers in his room. Aborting attempts at screaming, his right hand searched for his wife. Grasping her hand, he shook it as if to awaken her. Feeling her hand remain limp and unresponsive, Moshe attempted to turn his head, now heavy as lead from the drug injected into his arm, to look in her direction.
Viewing his consciousness ebbing, the man who injected Levin removed the grip he had over his mouth, manually turning the aged husband's head to view his wife one last time. Face-to-face now, Moshe's eyes widened as he saw blood ooze from two bullet holes in her forehead. Anger and confusion etched in his face before his eyelids, no longer obeying the diminishing command to stay alert, ultimately closed on this last visage of his beloved Rivka.
Struggling to hoist his limp body from the bed and into the lower compartment of a food cart, the men silently left the room. Returning to ground level in a cargo elevator, they exited the building via a loading dock at the rear of the resort.
Relieved to have made it this far without complication, double checking to confirm they weren't spotted or followed, they made their way to the beach.
Carefully taking Levin's body from the food cart's concealed compartment, they transferred him to a rubber raft half carrying and half dragging him over the deep, wet sand that would have mired the wheels of the cart.
Reaching the ocean, they joined Levin in the raft, releasing oars from their securing Velcro ties to paddle toward the radio beacon of an anchored, larger black Zodiac rigid inflatable boat, softly bobbing on the moonless, equally dark Brazilian coastal waters.
The steady, tumultuous sheets of rain obscured their forms as they moved farther out to sea. Lifting Dr. Levin's heavy body into the Zodiac, made all the more unwieldy by the water-logged clothing, took longer than expected and time was running short. Just because they were a few miles out into the ocean by no means meant that they were safe and in the clear. After securing Levin, they started the outboard motor and sped toward the awaiting yacht.
Table of Contents
1. Fatal Disappointment
"Just because something didn't work out your way, or somebody disappointed you, that does not change who you are." - Pastor Joel Olsteen
Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean
Miriam Northup was on a private flight to Brazil when she received the message that the "Big Fish" has just been reeled in.
During the long flight from London's Heathrow Airport to Brazil, she had time to contemplate her mission, reminiscing on events that led up to this point.
It all seemed so impossible, even dreamlike more than reality. Yet the view out the small window of one of the agency's private jets, as she soared over clouds and glistening ocean below, reflecting a brilliant golden sunrise cresting the Brazilian coast, confirmed this life that was so unexpectedly hers.
Miriam had been working undercover with the SIS, often referred to as "MI6," to acquire invaluable industrial technology being developed by the Israelis. She gained a coveted position with Dr. Aharon Shmu'el, one of the world's leading bio technology experts. Industrial spies couldn't get close to his lab.
Little crumbs of information, here and there, began to spread regarding his innovations in nano-technology as it applied to the location and treatment of cancer. The work he accomplished in his company was several years, if not decades, ahead of that of any other country.
Graduating third in her class, with a Doctorate from the University of Oxford in Microbiological Sciences and a second in nano-technology, Miriam had a number of job offers and research grants from which to choose. A self-admitted over achiever, with a love for academics, she chose the lucrative offer from a corporation based in Wales, one which she felt gave her the greatest freedom to pursue pure research, with the least bureaucracy to deal with.
Taking the typically crowded bus to her flat at the conclusion of a particularly dreary, wet night, she was happy to gain a seat after a couple of routine stops thinned out the number of passengers.
Approaching the next stop, the person seated next to her got up to leave. His breath was so disgusting that she was about to move to another place in the bus just to get away from him. Glad she hadn't yet relocated, a reasonably attractive guy, who she noticed as soon as he boarded at the previous stop, asked if the newly vacated seat next to her was available.
"Certainly!" Miriam checked his wedding finger. Neither wedding ring nor the tell tale pale stripe of one recently removed. These days, though, a wedding ring, or lack thereof, didn't mean much, if anything at all.
Taking in the expensive yet comfortably casual manner in which he dressed, Miriam sized him up as either a metrosexual with a girlfriend, or gay. Either way, she dismissed him in terms of any romantic interest, acknowledging the obvious; she wasn't in his league.
Inheriting the rather plain genetics of her mum, coupled with not being one to care very much about the latest fashions, she didn't stand much of a chance if he were the former. Were he the latter, she had no chance at all.
"So glad it's Friday. You?" His accent was definitely that of the educated, upper-crust of London. Neither outlandish nor pretentious, it was, however; reminiscent of British royalty with a slight affectation.
"I really haven't g
iven it much thought." What a stupid response! Why did he have to sit next to me?
"Then I'm to understand you either don't have plans yet, or you're working tomorrow. Which one would be correct?"
"I...uh...no plans. Just curl up with a good book, watch a little television." Great, just great. I flipped the switch to a glaring neon sign over my head: Look at me, I don't have a social life.
"Right-o then, I trust it's a great book. My stop is coming up next. It was nice to speak with a fellow Londoner. Cheerio."
"It's my stop too!" Oh good heavens Miriam, did that sound desperate enough?
"You don't say! Forgive me if this sounds like a pick-up line, it's not meant to be. I'm taking a few days holiday in the Welsh countryside. I find sightseeing by myself to be something of a bore. If it wouldn't be too much of an imposition, would you let me buy you a pint?"
"No imposition whatsoever."
The conversation went pleasantly enough, though it was painfully obvious to her early on that there were no sparks, at least not from his direction. In a way, though, knowing this helped her to relax. There was a mutual, unspoken, understanding that beyond amiable conversation there were no expectations, nothing to cause either discomfort.
He told her a little about his work, a recruiter for an agency, then asked about hers. They traded stories of hearth and home. He asked why she chose to work in Wales, sustaining that topic of conversation for a while. Eventually the conversation meandered to what each liked to do for fun in their free time, and so on and so forth. A little more than idle chatter, a little less than inappropriately personal, precisely the right balance.
"I've a couple of calls to make before the evening waxes too late, so I'd best be on my way. May I call you a taxi?"
"Thank you, no. I live just a few blocks from here."
"Then, may I walk you home?"
"Thanks again, but no. I'm fine."
"Then it was absolutely lovely meeting you. I do hope we see one another on the bus again before my holidays come to an unspectacular end." His look, his manner of speech, he had to be gay.
The thought put Miriam even more at ease with him than she had already been. These days, you never know what a seemingly nice and engaging stranger might really have in mind. In his case, she wasn't concerned in the slightest.
"That would be nice."
"Well, you know, given that it's the weekend and you'll be spending it with a book, it's not very bloody likely. Come to think of it, perhaps you'd join me for breakfast Sunday morning?"
Miriam actually smiled at the memory, as she darted over the Atlantic Ocean, recalling the breakfast, how smooth a talker he was. During the course of the meal he was deftly recruiting her. At the same time he was administering the first of three face-to-face psychological examinations, assessing her mental fitness for the job his employer had in mind for her.
The time spent training with MI6, or simply "Six" as the agency was commonly called, was at once exciting and difficult. Her first task wasn't unlike the assignment that eventually established her in Israel: Work in a bio-tech lab that held information valuable to her government.
Miriam was raised with a Queen and Country - now King and Country - attitude since early childhood. The British Empire had been good to her, paid her education up to and including her doctorates, allowing her a more than comfortable lifestyle. She always felt it her duty to give back, frequently volunteering on civic projects. Without a doubt working for Six made giving back exciting and interesting!
Agent Northup's insertion into the Research and Development section of the company owned by Dr. Shmu'el, was, as the old adage goes, "a piece of cake." Being Jewish, making aliya wasn't difficult. Her doctorates certainly helped to smooth the path, abbreviating some of the legal hoops through which others had to jump.
She thought as an industrial espionage spy that she'd get a new identity, like so many suave and sophisticated spies in the movies. Disappointed that she wasn't provided an alias, and no made-up background story, she accepted the fact that there really was no way to reinvent herself. Considering her scholastic and business success, she was too well known in such a narrowly specific field of research to be anybody but herself. Besides, there was the consolation that the fewer fabrications she had to remember, the fewer chances of being tripped up. An undercover, secret identity would, however; have been the ultimate in excitement and intrigue.
Anti-Semitism, rearing its ugly head, had recently gained strength and momentum in the United Kingdom. Even a couple of members of Parliament publicly uttered anti-Jewish slurs. The sometimes thinly veiled, now increasingly blatant anti-Semitism disgusted Miriam. Working for Six was just one way to prove that one could be Jewish, patriotic, and not blindly pro-Israel as, she was reluctant to admit, many Jews she knew tended to be. Well, no, a growing number seemed to be anti-Israel and tortuously self-loathing as Jews. Most were, however; positively blind to Israel's faults; as if to criticize the country somehow diminished their own Jewishness and Zionist ideology.
Jewish to the very core of her soul, though she never associated with them, she self-identified with the Neturei Karta group of Orthodox Jews who were vocally against political Zionism.
Many of the Karta were hostile to the State of Israel, to the point of going to Iran and stating in the media that they felt Israel had no right to exist. Miriam also felt that any secular government, or even semi-secular, that tried to establish a homeland for the Jewish people, went against the Messianic teachings of the Bible. But voicing these opinions in the very media of a country developing nuclear weapons to destroy Israel and control the Middle East was, clearly, foolish. The Neturei Karta had the right idea about only the Messiah establishing a Jewish safe haven, but they were so extreme as to be dangerous themselves.
The very foundation of the modern State of Israel was corrupt in her eyes. From the perspective of most British, the State of Israel was born out of Jewish terrorism, a terrorism that forced Great Britain to relinquish Palestine to the Jewish settlers. The Jewish terrorism that gave rise to the modern State of Israel was enacted only against uniformed soldiers of the British Empire - never intentionally targeting British citizens. Today's Palestinian and extreme Islamists didn't care who they targeted, soldier or civilian, Jew or Christian or fellow Muslim. Those who equally compared early Jewish freedom fighters to today's radical Islamic and Palestinian so-called freedom fighters were either ignorant of the facts, or blatantly anti-Israel / anti-Jewish.
Fortunately for her, Miriam was never politically active, had never given voice to her views. This allowed her to pass background checks, gaining citizenship without a problem; a citizenship she felt to be invalid as she believed the country of Israel to be invalid. She was, and always would be, a true and loyal citizen of Great Britain and only Great Britain.
Approaching Rio airport she glanced at her mobile phone to check the time. It had auto-adjusted with every passing of a time zone. Twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
She was excited to meet Dr. Levin. He was nothing short of a living legend within The Project facilities. Working in a different facility than his, this would be her first face-to-face with the man, the veritable demi-god status legend.
A helicopter took her from the airport to a medium-sized yacht, hovering just above to allow her to be lowered to the deck via a motorized, retracting ladder.
"Welcome aboard ma'am. I'm Agent Frederick Hampton. You can call me 'Freddie,' all of my friends do. Should you require anything during your stay, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you Agent Hampton." She didn't believe informalities to be appropriate while on the job. "I want to confirm that a doctor will be available, during the interrogation. We can't afford to have Dr. Levin go into cardiac arrest. In view of his medical history, he's at high risk."
"Yes Ma'am. The medical doctor has already prepped Dr. Levin with a heart monitor. Please, follow me."
Escorted to the room where Dr. Moshe Levin, recent head of The
Project, was confined, she was disconcerted to see his disheveled appearance and sunken, bloodshot eyes.
Miriam was well aware of his advanced age, coupled with ongoing health issues, but did not expect this pitiable sight before her. Having never seen him before, other than a photograph in his dossier that must have been at least five years old, she didn't know what she expected, but whatever it was - the man before her fell significantly short of what she imagined him to be.
"Dr. Levin, I'm Dr. Miriam Northup. Before we talk for a bit, can I get you anything?"
Recognizing her name, Levin raised his head slightly to glare at her from eyes that made it obvious that he would have killed her, were such possible.
"Nothing?"
"Young lady, I know who you are. I know you work with The Project. We are already well beyond the pretense of pleasantries. Get to the point, why are you here?"
"Dr. Levin, trust me when I say I didn't want this to happen to you. I was in one of the temporally time shielded facilities, Dr. Shmu'el's facility to be exact, when the bio agents of the terrorists were released, followed by the nuclear exchange. Just as you, and most other Project members, I witnessed an extinction level event only narrowly averted. I remember that, and how we were able to manipulate time itself, making it so that the terrorists were never born, and the nuclear war never happened. I remember both time lines, the one where all human life, except those in the shielded facilities, was destroyed, and the current time line we are now living."
"Again, get to the point! Young lady, you start your statement with 'trust me' and yet I am captive while you appear to be the captor - or at the very least cooperating willingly with them. My wife was murdered before my eyes, I have been abducted - held here against my will - and there you sit, speaking to me about The Project as if you hadn't a care in the world, as if it were no more than a silly little game to you. You, who know more than nearly anybody alive how vital it is that we safeguard it for the sake of humanity. How dare you! Trust you? You can go straight to hell." Moshe spat in her face.
Miriam expected resistance, certainly, but hearing that his wife was murdered came as something of a surprise. Nobody thought to mention this to her. She assumed Mrs. Levin was being held elsewhere on the yacht, as it made its way through international waters.
She hoped their common work on The Project, and her expertise in her field, might help to gain ingress into the mind of Dr. Levin, garnering vital information for her country. She realized that the possibility of getting him to divulge vital information was slim to none, but this was a risk that her country was willing to take, had to take. The man before her was the architect, the brains, behind The Project. It was his panoramic intellect and vision that gave birth to The Project, bringing it from concept to working reality. He mastered time, bringing it to heel at his command.
Though less desirable, other avenues remained open to them, but none were as accessible, and potentially fruitful, as the "Time Master" himself, Dr. Levin. Six was banking on Miriam being able to garner at least a few of the vital missing pieces from him, so that they could complete their own version of The Project. They realized that she was lacking in people skills, but hoped that her scientific knowledge and experience, especially her hands-on work with The Project, would suffice. At this juncture she was the only ace in their deck of cards.
In a few days she had to be back at work, lest she raise suspicions: all too soon his abduction would be realized and investigated. She tried to think of something, anything, by way of an acceptable response.
Wiping his dripping spittle from her face, showing neither hostility nor anger, she responded the only way she felt that she could, "I didn't know about Mrs. Levin. I'm truly sorry."
"Sorry? Sorry!? How dare you to even utter her name. You soil her memory. You desecrate the memory of every Jew who was murdered throughout history, simply because they were born Jewish. You disgust me." Moshe spat again in her face.
"No!" she shouted to prevent one of the guards from striking him.
Knowledge of The Project, how they were able to send a man back in time not once, but twice, to alter events that had proven tragic in the present, was absolutely critical. London was so close to realizing this capability. This man, only recently retired, held the key to the pieces of the puzzle her country lacked; having overseen all of the facilities which, combined, formed the totality of The Project.
It was obvious to her that Dr. Levin would be of no assistance to them now, or at any time. It truly did pain her. Were she unable to unlock the secrets nobody else could - this was Six's assessment, and she agreed. Torture would never have worked on him, even if he were he younger, sporting a strong and healthy heart. Torturing Mrs. Levin may have done the trick, possibly not even that. Now, they would never know.
