by David Hunter
~~~
"Yes Mr. Prime Minister, I have my best man on the job."
The director of SIS was always impressed with the Prime Minister. Small of stature, he was nonetheless a giant among men in political and diplomatic circles. Where members of Parliament preferred opulence, the Prime Minister reminded him of the Roman Catholic Pope, finding elegance within simplicity. While the Pope was able to set the standard, correcting wayward cardinals and bishops as needed, the Prime Minister held no such ultimate authority. Pity, given the dire straits of the British Empire's finances.
Director Pierce was reminded of a recording that one of the SIS Covert Communications listening stations in Europe had made of a mobile phone conversation between the Holy Father and a Bishop in Germany known as the "Bishop of Bling." What he wouldn't have given to have been in Vatican City when the gently, but pointedly, chastised bishop arrived.
The SIS, every bit as much as the American Homeland Security, monitored global communications, including that of their closest allies. The only difference between the SIS and Homeland Security was that the SIS hadn't been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Recent events with the Americans listening in on private conversations with world leaders, including the German Chancellor and even the Pope, proved quite the embarrassment to the POTUS. A joke even circulated that Homeland Security was the only American governmental agency that actually did listen to people!
"When do you expect the mission to be completed?"
"He will be in Israel by this time tomorrow. Because she is not a high-ranking employee of The Project, security around her place of residence is not quite as restrictive as it may well have otherwise been. I would expect all to be tied up no later than Thursday night."
"Very good. This still leaves us with the situation regarding Dr. Levin. You are certain there is no possible way to coax the information we need out of him?"
"No, Sir. The background information we had on him, including the psych profile, indicate a very high degree of certainty that we would encounter significant resistance in obtaining the data our scientists required to complete our own Project. With his wife dead, not only will he have lost the will to live, he would kill every one of us, were that possible. No, he is useless. I would point out, I was against this from the beginning."
"Yes I know, more than once you went on the record with your opposition. It was my call to make. Under the circumstances it was the right call. At the time, he was our best chance at going operational on schedule. I am open to suggestions."
"He is under heavy sedation. I propose we terminate him, he has no life worth living now. Certainly he will be of no value to us except as a bargaining chip with the Israelis, should it come to that."
"No, I meant that I'm open to suggestions in the matter of acquiring the technology and expertise we need to close the final gaps. Dr. Levin is to remain unharmed. Am I clear?"
"Yes Sir, perfectly. From the wealth of information that Agent Northrup has passed on to us, we've assembled dossiers on a few scientists who we believe would be able to fill in those gaps."
"It stands to reason, however, Prime Minister, that security will now not only be heightened, but impenetrable where the leaders of their Project are concerned."
"That indeed stands to reason. My concern is that only the people who are the heads of the three facilities within the Israeli Project would be able to give us what we need."
"That is correct. And of the directors of the facilities, only one, Dr. Barkat, would have complete knowledge, equal to that of Dr. Levin. With his kidnapping, certainly with the circumstances surrounding it, she will be untouchable. We believe, with a high degree of probability, our best option is Dr. Rachael Siwel. Based on the dossier we've put together on her, we are given to understand that she has worked with The Project since its inception. It also appears that she formed a friendship with Dr. Levin since well before The Project. Having worked in his facility, a facility which combined its work with that of the other two facilities, she is our best option; very likely our only option."
"What makes you think that she'll cooperate with us?"
"Frankly, sir, I don't know that she will. But, unlike Dr. Levin, she has children. If we can get to her children, she is ours. Getting to her children, that's going to be the most difficult obstacle. It may be that the families of Project members will be brought into their compound until they assess what they want to do in light of Dr. Levin's abduction. I have people working on that angle now."
"Neville, we can't allow this to become an international incident. If the Israelis were to discover what we are doing, who knows how they would respond. Whatever the response, given their capabilities both militarily and in terms of time manipulation, it wouldn't bode well for either of us."
"Quite right."
"I've instructed MI5 to tighten security around the buildings and personnel of our own Project. Should the Israelis discover what we're doing, they will target our Project with everything they've got."
Sir Pierce absentmindedly nodded his head in agreement.
"I trust you will be at the meeting with the lead scientists of our Project, and their security detail?"
"Yes, Prime Minister. The military liaison will be there as well?"
"Yes, of course, of course."
"Then, if there's nothing more . . ."
"I believe everything has been covered, for now. Thank you Neville."
The Prime Minister, ever the consummate gentleman, stood and shook the hand of his SIS Director; a formality the PM extended to all, regardless of rank or circumstance.
"One more thing, Neville. Inform me when Dr. Levin reaches his destination. Additionally, I want confirmation once Agent Northrup has been dispatched."
Table of Contents
6. Stranglehold
“I believe the biggest problem that humanity faces is an ego sensitivity to finding out whether one is right or wrong and identifying what one's strengths and weaknesses are.” - Ray Dalio
Atlantic Ocean, off the Coast of Brazil
"Detective, I need to speak with you for a moment please." The partner of the man conducting the interview deferentially called him out of the room for what, apparently, was something more important than this interview.
"Too many people, too many questions," Marco thought to himself. More than anything he just wanted this whole debacle to go away. Life was difficult enough without having the investigation of the kidnapping from the resort to complicate it.
Marco had worked his way up the ladder from maintenance to the head of the human resources department, earning a degree in Hospitality Industry Human Resources Management while attending over four years of night school, first getting the prerequisites - most of them useless - out of the way.
He was proud of his accomplishments, even more proud of his ability to support his family and enjoy a comfortable lifestyle that still seemed to him a fantastic daydream, more than a reality.
Unaccustomed to the kind of money he was making, he enjoyed this financial freedom to something of an extreme he had to admit, especially easy access to safe and reliable drugs.
Heroin had asserted itself as his drug of choice, becoming a demanding mistress. Before he realized what had happened. This mistress proved to be a master who he could never appease; muscles aching and thoughts fragmenting whenever she chose to assert herself.
Nervous, always moving, pacing, irritable, he was certain that somebody would find his stash and steal it from him. Without realizing it Marco was always looking over his shoulder, fearful that his life that both loved and hated would come crashing down around him.
Anna, his wife, looked at him suspiciously every time he came home later than expected. She had to be on to him, surely she pieced together the fact that the 'other woman' was something he shot into his veins regularly.
Trying to hide the tell-all needle marks, he took to shooting in the veins of the soles of his feet, never removing his shoes until he got ready
for bed. Somehow, he managed to keep his feet out of view, even from his wife. It had been months since he joined his wife and children on the beach - this did not go unnoticed by his vocal daughter.
Marco did everything he could to avoid his wife's stare, her questioning and condemning look. His children were no different. He could tell that they somehow knew. Most nights now he came up with an excuse for being so late, if he even came home at all.
Food, shelter, medical bills, and expense of a private education, were just barely within the budget that his income allowed him. His addiction-driven debt to his heroin supplier exceeded his income, but he just had to have it.
He needed a 'fix' just to get through the day. Lately, what with all the pressure and all, he found that he had to shoot up two, sometimes even three, times a day.
Paying cash the first few times his dealer told him that his credit was good, should Marco ever find himself in a pinch. The initially generous dealer even gave him a little more with the first three purchases as a generous token of his esteem and trust. Now in serious debt to the man, the plush life that Marco enjoyed had turned into a living nightmare. No, even worse than that. One eventually awakens from a nightmare.
In his youth he grew up in the favelas, an area of sprawling slums around the city of Rio de Janeiro. To support her family after their father abandoned them his mother turned to prostitution as a source for income.
Marco thought that he understood desperation and fear in his mom's hollow eyes. Her once beautiful face turned gaunt, haunted, selling her body and dignity to barely feed her family - her pimp extorting her nightly for the lion's share of the cash, sometimes exacting from her more than money as an 'employment insurance policy.'
Having fallen prey to one of the fatal diseases of her profession, young Marco had to take care of her and his sibling while she lay dying.
True fear hit home as he scavenged the trash of others to bring home scraps of food that instantly disappeared inside the mouths of his emaciated siblings.
Unable to find a compassionate doctor who would come into the favela even once to take care of his mother, or write a prescription sight unseen to alleviate her pain, he hatched a plan to give her some relief from her suffering as well as stock up on medicines that would be needed by her and his siblings in the future.
Marco convinced some other scavenger children from the favela to join him in an exciting adventure that would give them enough money to buy anything they wanted.
The next morning they made their way to a large pharmacy on the outskirts of the city, just a few kilometers from where their favela ended. Meeting half a block away from the pharmacy they reviewed their plan to rob the pharmacist, taking all of the cash.
During the confusion and hysteria that was certain to ensue he would empty as many drugs as he could from the shelf closest to him into a wadded up shopping bag he held tightly in his hand. He would be out of there before the boys had their money.
Nothing went as planned.
Marco, of course, knew about roaming gangs of young men, thugs in reality, who were paid by shop owners in the more affluent areas of Rio to keep waifs and child beggars away from their places of business. Little children who constantly begged the tourist for food or worse, money, were bad for business.
As they were discussing their plan, attempting to bolster their group courage, and excitement at the very audacity of it all, one of the roving for-pay shop protection gangs tore into them like a pack of ravenous wolves among defenseless kittens.
All but one of the boys managed to escape with their lives. Until now that was the greatest fear Michael had ever known.
His second month of indebtedness to his dealer brought with it a warning in the form of a box, delivered directly to his office in a gift wrapped box by special courier.
Innocently opening the box, expecting some form of gratuity from a grateful employee of the resort as such was not uncommon, he was totally unprepared for what lay therein.
A note accompanying a bloodied, graying severed hand explained to Marco that this is what happens to deadbeats who don't pay their debts. The transparent meaning, and the identity of the sender, were not lost on him.
Given his increased levels of stress and fear, the fortuitous timing of the stranger who offered to pay his drug debt, if he were to simply employ two maids without looking into their background or work history, was an answer from a heaven that he didn't really believe in.
Their first day on the job one of the maids, named Maria, knocked lightly on his door to tell him that his drug debt had been paid-in-full. Before leaving she dropped a full week's supply of heroin on his desk for him.
It wasn't until a file containing a video of him shooting up in his office was also left on his desk sometime later that the haze parted, allowing his drug-clouded mind to process the fact that he was in bed with an unknown devil.
Adding to his already growing mountain of problems, a guest disappeared from the resort and detectives were snooping around, asking a lot of questions.
Everywhere he looked he saw faces that he couldn't trust. What had initially been a healthy sense of self-preservation was now full-blown paranoia.
This third interview with the detectives was untenable. He felt as if a hangman's noose was tightening around his neck, choking the will to live out of him. If they dug into his life and questionable hiring practices, the facts alone would provide the materials to build the gallows for the hangman.
He had to think of a way to extricate himself from the situation. His dealer had proven himself adept at making people disappear, perhaps he'd be willing to help Marco, a valued customer.
First things first though. He had to create some kind of paper trail that would make it look like he did his due diligence in checking the background and criminal histories of the two maids that he hired sight unseen. That wouldn't be difficult.
Once the paperwork was complete, the only other obstacle in his way was the General Manager of the resort. Marco knew that he was in collusion with the very same people associated with the two maids. Were his criminal behavior detected it wouldn't be long before connecting the dots led investigators to Marco.
As soon as he left the police station he would find two women to fill out an application so that a different woman's handwriting appeared on each. They would both be paid enough money to ensure that they kept their mouths shut.
Then he'd bribe somebody in the police department to provide bogus criminal reports that showed a clean record for the two maids.
Finally, he had to put out a 'hit' on the General Manager. Make the man disappear.
Marcos was in such deep thought that he failed to notice the interviewer enter the room. Sad memories of a childhood best left in the past took a backseat to the present, menacing situation. Marco had to focus, think carefully to keep the story straight.
"Let's revisit the issue of your hiring policy. Tell me about the two maids who, apparently, disappeared into thin air after the day in question."
"What about them? These people, they come and they go. That's especially true for the cleaning crew. You can't possibly expect me to account for their lives, or the reasons why they simply don't show up for work anymore."
"I understand that there is a high turn-around, and jobs at the lowest rungs of the ladder might attract people of unpredictable behavior. I just want you to tell me a little bit about what you know of these women. What was your first impression when you met them." The interviewer asked this question with almost a smile, a comic relief, as if it were not all that important but he had to get it out of the way.
"When neither of them showed up for work the next morning did you try to contact them?"
"Unless the employee is in a middle-management position or higher we simply consider no-shows terminated. To be honest, I really don't even remember them. Why? What's so important about them?" Michael was getting agitated.
That his drug debt had been paid off so that he would hire the
two women without checking references or confirming previous employment appeared to have been a bad move on his part.
"Frankly Marco, I find it all but impossible to believe you can't even remember them. From their pictures, and from everything that I've heard from the other employees of the resort, they were nice-looking, one of them described as incredibly sexy by other employees. Would you like to reconsider your response?" The levity, if it was ever there in the first place, had entirely disappeared.
"What's to reconsider? This is the second largest resort in all of Brazil, in all of South America for that matter. You can't possibly expect me to remember such a minor event. You must realize that I oversee the employment of over hundreds of people. In my busy schedule two maids would hardly stand out in my memory, sexy or not."
"No, probably not. I apologize for the intrusion on your day. I think we're done here, for now."
"Then I'm free to go?"
"Be my guest." The interviewer extended his hand toward the door as his partner opened it from the outside. "We're done for now, but I'm sure we'll be talking again."
The investigator knew something. Other than the general manager nobody had been interviewed a second time. The fact that this was his third interview with the detective didn't bode well.
Marco knew that the resort manager would pin everything on him in a heartbeat if he could. The man was such a bastard.
He had to beat him to it, point any culpability in the manager's direction. Were he lucky he'd even get the disgraced manager's job!
But maybe, just maybe, he could make the manager disappear forever. A sudden disappearance would make him look guilty, Marco would get his position along with a raise in income, and this whole problem would just go away.
Table of Contents
7. Crack in the Dam
“A failure is not always a mistake, it may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying.” - Author
Nordfjord, Norway
The yacht transporting Moshe Levin and crew finally reached its destination in Norway. Docked at the end of Nordfjord, Dr. Levin was transported by way of ambulance to the tiny town of Olden, which boasted a bustling population of about one thousand people.
In Olden a transport team stood ready to take Dr. Levin to England by way of Finland, Denmark, the Netherlands, then once more by boat across the English Channel to Britain itself.
Agent Frederick Hampton was relieved to be done with the whole episode.
Joining the service, he never anticipated killing anybody in the line of duty, at least not this way and for no discernibly honorable reason.
Had somebody pulled a weapon with intent to kill him, or an innocent bystander, he had no problem opening fire in response.
The decision to leave Mrs. Levin behind was a difficult one, yet under the worsening weather conditions of the night in question, it seemed only reasonable course of action. There was just no way to get her and Dr. Levin both to the boat within the allotted time while dealing with the downpour of rain that night being an unavoidable obstacle that had to be overcome.
"Freddie" had many long days and nights during the journey across the vast Atlantic Ocean to reflect on that evening.
Over and over he found himself questioning his decision. Taking out the three agents that guarded the Levins had to be done, he had no problem with that, but now he found himself wondering if they really needed to kill the woman.
His initial encounter with Miriam Northrup, the very memory of her he loathed, then subsequent conversations with the medical doctor who was present during the interrogation, gave Agent Hampton reason to reconsider the purpose and validity of the operation as well as his role in it.
He didn't know who he was or why Dr. Levin had to be spirited to the United Kingdom; or what MI6 wanted from him. An old man, broken and dispirited, that was all Agent Hampton saw. Whatever his value was to his country, he certainly was no enemy to anybody.
He was grateful that Levin was held in isolation the entire trip. Freddie couldn't face him, wouldn't know what to say to him if he did. The rest of his life he would have to carry within the memory of killing this man's wife, wondering if there might have been a better way to accomplish the same mission while sparing her life.
At night when he was alone, left to his thoughts, Freddy kept playing over in his mind the memory of hearing the gunshots in the suite. Entering the room he saw the agent standing over her body as another agent injected her husband with a drug that would render him unconscious.
Standing on deck as he had so many sleepless nights since departing Brazil, he watched silently as the ambulance transported Dr. Levin's unconscious body to the small town in Norway. Ultimate destination: a safe house near London.
This wasn't what he signed up for. There just was no possible way that this man or his wife had been in any way a threat to England.
Freddie valued his position in Six, never faltering in his belief in the organization and its countless achievements to this point that benefited the entire world. He knew that all organizations would invariably make mistakes in judgment, due to the simple fact that the organization was comprised of fallible humans. He was certain that this operation was illustrative of just such a case.
Days after docking the yacht at the Norwegian port, Freddy returned to Six HQ in London for a debriefing.
He was, as he had expected to be, chewed out with regard to the execution of Mrs. Levin. Nothing his superiors said could have made him feel worse than he already did.
"According to our field report by agent Northup you gave the order to execute Mrs. Levin. Explain yourself."
"No such order was given, Sir. While working in the field, sole discretion is mine to alter operational plan details as needed to guarantee the desired mission results. The prevailing conditions on the night in question didn't lend themselves to safely transporting the bodies of both Levins without a significantly higher risk of discovery already existent. Dr. Levin, not his wife, with the objective of the mission."
"I never gave a direct order to execute Mrs. Levin. That said, I do understand how my statement that she was an unnecessary risk could have been misconstrued, leading to her execution."
"Whether you didn't express yourself properly, or the other agents didn't understand you correctly, it doesn't matter. You are in charge of the operation, this makes you ultimately responsible for her execution. That will be all agent Hampton."
Returning to his desk he knew he had to learn more about the Levins; who they were, what Dr. Levin's importance was to England, and if Mrs. Levin's death was an unacceptable loss.
In Brazil he didn't have any access to files which now were at his fingertips. After logging on and checking his messages that had accumulated over the last few months, agent Hampton responded to those that required a response and he navigated to the secure server which would contain the information he wanted on the mission just completed.
Opening the data folder brought up a message informing him that the files he was trying to access were restricted. No other information was given, nor was there any reason why somebody with his security clearance level couldn't open this mission file.
Confirming that it was a security access issue, rather than a computer problem or a corrupt file, Hampton opened the data folders of a few other missions that were recently completed. He had no problems opening them, which left him to wonder what it was about the Levin file that made it off-limits to an agent assigned to the case.
What had started out as little more than curiosity, coupled with a desire to assure himself that his role in the kidnapping of Dr. Levin was justifiable, elevated itself to the status of a mystery that he would be unable to let go of any more than a hungry predator would be able to release the grip of succulent prey from its jaws.
"I wonder…" he thought himself as he recalled the memory of the micro tracking chip injected into the thigh of Dr. Levin, while he was yet unconscious.
; Hampton kept a paper copy of the mission dossier in his desk at work. Tomorrow he'd review it, see what the broadcasting frequency of the chip was - it would have been vital information for the on-site agents to have had were he to have escaped. It was highly unlikely that the chip would ever be removed; even if there were no further use for it, removing it would have been needless.
