Boiling Point (An Ethan Galaal Thriller Book 4)

by Isaac T. Hooke

  Bretta watched the sun rise over the famed Basilica from her window. La Sagrada Familia never ceased to hold her spellbound when she saw it. Whenever she laid eyes on the eight completed towers and thought of the ten more that were scheduled to be built she could not help but smile to herself. The construction of the neo-Gothic church had started in 1882 and was still ongoing. The steeples and most of the church’s main structures were set to be completed by 2026, one-hundred years after Gaudi’s death––though the rest of the decorative touches and embellishments were tentatively hoped to be completed by 2032 at the latest. To Bretta, it was the epitome of the indomitability of the human spirit, of the stubbornness of humanity to dig in its heels and get a job done, no matter what adversity it might have to face.

  Could also be the embodiment of the gross amount of money that people are willing to spend on something like a church, Bretta thought cynically, as she turned away and started changing into a pair of tight exercise shorts and a sports bra. She knew that the annual construction budget of Gaudi’s architectural magnum opus was about twenty-five million euros. By the time it was eventually completed, the total cost would be over one billion euros, a staggering sum in anyone’s books. And that didn’t even account for inflation.

  Bretta started her day as she did every morning when she was able to, with a quick half hour or so of high intensity interval training. She did thirty seconds each of burpees, squat holds, mountain climbers, plank crunches, press-ups, plank hold, high knees, fast jacks and toe touchers, with a two-minute rest at the end of the set. She did this five times.

  After her workout was done, Bretta took a luxuriantly long shower, reveling in the strong wash of the powerful power-shower jet. That was one thing that life as a professional soldier never let her forget; how a woman should never take the seemingly simple treat of a hot shower for granted. She preferred baths to showers, and could easily spend two hours lying in a tub, but she didn’t have time for such luxuries at the moment.

  After getting out of the shower, she phoned downstairs for an egg white omelet, some avocado on toast and a pot of strong coffee. By the time she was dried and dressed her breakfast had arrived. She sat at the table by the window and enjoyed this brief moment of serenity that had been afforded her. That was another thing this job of hers had taught her over the years: relish the peace and quiet, because you never knew when it would be snatched away from you.

  She sat by the window, watching the city below stir and wake. These were her favorite times; when, just for a few moments, she could pretend that she was a regular person getting ready for their day. A person whose day, more than likely, did not involve having someone try to kill you. She also pretended that the city wasn’t under lockdown, and that all the shops below would be opening up, not just a handful.

  She sighed contentedly, basking in the pleasant fiction, and took another bite of her avocado on toast. The chef had done just as she asked: smashed the avocado thickly over a slice of sourdough, seasoned it, sprinkled it with a little sharp feta and then drizzled it with some good balsamic vinegar. It tasted heavenly.

  It wasn’t that Bretta didn’t like her job. On the contrary. Nor did she regret where her path had led her. She made a habit of being honest with herself, of knowing herself, and she was well aware that if she ever found herself back on the block––as members of the military referred to being back in the civilian world––she’d be bored in less than a week. Yes, she loved what she did. A quote by Sir Winston Churchill had stuck with her over the years. “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as being shot at without consequence.” However true this might have rung with her, it did not mean that she was immune from enjoying the occasional charms of the quiet life. In her opinion, it was a churlish and stupid soldier who didn’t take advantage of a good breakfast and a comfortable bed when it was offered her.

  Bretta sat and sipped her coffee. She enjoyed it black and sweet, just like her Italian mother had. As she poured herself another cup of Indonesian Liberica, she could not help but recall the same, tired line that she would have to hear most mornings over breakfast when she was younger. Her mother would pour herself her coffee, add a couple of spoons of sugar, stir, take a sip and proclaim, “Mmm, dark and sweet, just how I like my men!”

  The thought brought a frown to Bretta’s forehead. Quickly, she cleared her expression. She had recently noticed a few little lines starting to set up shop on her flawless face; in the corners of her eyes and in between her angular brows. Best not to encourage their development.

  She idly pulled a laptop and USB stick from her bag. She flipped the laptop open, then slotted the USB into the port and loaded up the Tails software. Tails was an externally stored live operating system that actively forced all internet connections and activities to go through the Tor network. It left no trace of anything you had done on any computer that it was used on and was a favorite tool of those who wanted to use the Internet anonymously and to circumnavigate censorship. The main benefit of this operating system––and the reason that Bretta used it in her day-to-day––was that it automatically employed state-of-the-art cryptographic tools to encrypt files and emails.

  Spurred on by thoughts of her mother, Bretta logged into the private email address that only her nearest and dearest knew of. She hadn’t checked the account in a long time and, even when she did remember to log in and take a look at it, it was only once in a blue moon that she ever received any emails. A few old girlfriends from her childhood and army days knew of it, but she never heard from them anymore, having been inexorably parted from them by the slow creep of time and Bretta’s ever-changing geographical location.

  She opened up the personal email account page, entered her password and sat back, waiting for the page to load. She raised the cup of coffee to her lips––and paused.

  Frowning, she replaced the coffee cup with careful deliberation back in its saucer.

  There was one new message in her email inbox. There was no name on it. Not even an email address that made any sort of sense to identify it by, just a long series of numbers and letters ending with “@deathangel.com”. In the subject line were the words: “READ ME”.

  Bretta’s fingers hovered over the laptop’s trackpad. She realized she was biting her bottom lip as she stared at the screen, her eyes boring into the two little words, “READ ME.”

  Only one person would be so enigmatically brazen as to contact me through here. Only one person would have the confidence to think that I’d be foolish enough to open it, let alone answer.

  She clicked on the box next to the message and sent the unopened email to the trash. She navigated to the trash folder, and prepared to empty it, deleting the unread message forever.

  Her finger hovered over the mouse, poised like the sword of Damocles, ready to fall.

  “It’s a trap,” she said, speaking the words out loud, as if this would somehow lend them more weight despite there being only her in the room to hear them. “It’s a trap, and a clumsy one at that. A desperate one.”

  Still, she did not make the final click that would delete the message. Her brain was already turning, concocting the sorts of things that the email was likely to contain.

  Delete it. Report it. Tell Ethan, at least.

  Her finger hovered. It almost felt like the appendage was no longer attached to her body. She was looking at it, waiting to see what it would do.

  Slowly, she lowered it to the mouse pad.

  “No, not here,” she murmured to herself. She picked up her coffee so that her hand would not betray her and open the email at the last. It was only when she took a fortifying gulp of the strong, sweet liquid that she realized how long she had been staring at the screen. The coffee had become stone-cold.

  Her training, the deeply ingrained training that she had been put through by the Mossad and then, later, Sam Rond at the DIA, had stopped her from pressing that button. Every fiber in her being had wanted to read the email, to see what words had been fired in her dir
ection, as potentially devastating as a drop of cluster munitions.

  Bretta was sure, as she finished the last of her omelet and mulled over the message, that she had adequate malware protection on her laptop and on the USB itself to prevent against any malicious tracking, but she was also aware that there were zero-day vulnerabilities that she knew nothing about––that the DIA might know nothing about––and could be taken advantage of by zero-day exploits.

  She pulled her hair into its usual practical ponytail, then grabbed her jacket, pulled on her boots and strode from the room.

  A few minutes later she was outside Ethan’s room.

  “Bretta,” Ethan said, ushering her inside.

  God, the man is a cool customer, she could not help but think. There was nothing in the word, in his tone or in his face that betrayed his feelings.

  “Ethan,” she said after he shut the door.

  “This about the op?” Ethan asked.

  “Yeah,” Bretta said. “I’m here for a quickie––question, I mean.” Her face felt slightly hot. That was smooth. “I’ve been sent a message, an email. I think it could be pertinent to the op, but I’m not sure.”

  Ethan frowned. “Pertinent in what way?”

  Ah, how to phrase this? Bretta thought to herself. She had been ruminating on this issue on the way up to Ethan’s room and hadn’t been able to come up with a satisfactory answer. Thankfully, as it did so often, the spur of the moment kicked one out of her brain before she really had time to think about it.

  “It’s from someone I used to trust, during my days at the Mossad,” she said, making sure to hold his eyes with her icy blue ones.

  “Used to trust?” Ethan asked.

  Bretta nodded. “That’s why I need to check the email, but I want to do it at a neutral location. There’s an internet café about two blocks from here. I wanted to ask your permission––your advice––as to whether I should go or not.”

  Ethan gave her a long, searching look. “Won’t all those sort of outfits be closed? Given the lockdown situation?”

  Bretta shook her head. “This one also serves as a tobacconist shop. The government hasn’t quite grown the balls to deprive their citizens of their smokes just yet, so the Internet café is still open. What do you think?”

  He was a handsome man, Ethan Galaal, and it was no secret to him that Bretta thought so. They had shared many intimate moments while on leave, many laughs and many secrets about themselves. In some respects, though, he was still very much a closed book to her. The look he was giving her now was an appraising one, but it did not reveal to her much more than that.

  “What do you think?” he asked, after a moment or two. “Is it worth the risk of leaving the hotel?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was worth looking at,” Bretta replied. She was hedging, but she hoped he wouldn’t see this.

  Ethan nodded slowly. “You know I trust you.” His eyes fixed her as surely as a butterfly pinned to a lepidopterist’s board. “But with that trust comes a certain blindness.” He paused. “Do what you think is best. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No,” she said. “I think if anyone was watching, it would be better if I went alone.”

  The unsaid words were obvious between them. In case I’m captured.

  “You’ll be wearing a surgical mask…” Ethan said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Unrecognizable.”

  Ethan sighed gently. “Just remember… curiosity did kill the goddamn cat.”

  Bretta smiled at Ethan. It was a warm smile. The sort of smile they had promised they would not give each other while on mission. “Yeah,” she said, “but I bet that cat wasn’t as well trained as we are.”

  16

  Bretta walked quickly down the street, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket. Her collar was turned up, the hood of her sweatshirt was raised, and she wore a face mask procured from the concierge. There was little to remark about her appearance.

  Her bright blue eyes stared down at the ground, but in her head she was walking the route that she had memorized from the map supplied by the man at the hotel reception. The Internet café was, as she had told Ethan, only a few blocks away and she knew exactly the way that she was going to take to get there.

  It took, with a couple of detours and a stop or two to casually check that she was not being followed, fifteen minutes for her to reach the alley that backed onto the place. She had to vault a fence to gain access to the rear of the building, but managed it without incident. She cut around the block and came at the shop from the other side. She slipped quickly through the door and closed it behind her with one last look to the street.

  Playing the role of tourist, and without taking off her mask, she communicated that she wanted to use one of the computers for five minutes or so. The proprietor of the shop grunted something that she didn’t catch and pointed to the back of the store where five desktop computers were set up along a bench. They were all free so Bretta took one out of sight of the door.

  It was a calculated gamble: she wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on the door from where she was sitting, but she also wouldn’t be able to be spotted from the street either. Seeing as she would have her back to the door no matter what, she decided that being out of sight was the smarter play.

  Besides, I’m only going to be here for the length of time it takes to read this email. Then I’m out.

  Her eyes drifted to a Lysol bottle next to the keyboard, beside a small sign in Spanish asking that she wipe down the keyboard and mouse after use. She slipped on a pair of Latex gloves from her purse instead.

  Before she opened up the internet browser, Bretta slipped the USB containing the Tails software out of her pocket and inserted into the port on the tower. That was the beauty of Tails, it was made to adapt and work on most common operating systems, so she never had to worry about picking out a specific computer. Assuming the cafe hadn’t physically disconnected the ports of course.

  Apparently not, because in a few moments Bretta had loaded her email page.

  She went to the trash folder. There was the message with its subject line, “READ ME”.

  She hesitated a moment longer.

  “Fine,” Bretta muttered. “I’ll bite.”

  She clicked the left mouse button and opened the email. It was written in English, and Bretta knew that it not being composed in Hebrew was a slight in itself. She read quickly, worried that she’d set off a tracker already:

  Death Angel,

  After so long apart, it’s no wonder I don’t quite know what to say to you. Neither of us were ever what anyone might consider to be loquacious, and this attempt at organizing my thoughts into words is a task harder than I would have thought possible. It shouldn’t be easier to point a gun at someone than it is to communicate with them, but that seems to be how things have turned out for me. For you too, I imagine.

  I’ll admit one thing: even after everything, I never took you for a traitor. I always thought you were still one of us, at heart. While our compatriots and colleagues had you down for a traitor from the get-go, I stood up for you. You gunned down an entire Al Qaeda sleeper cell without evidence or proof of their intent. Yes, your mission was to watch them, not attack, but in my mind, you made Israel and the world a safer place by your actions, even if our higher-ups at the Mossad did not agree.

  Now though, I can see that they were right and that I was a fool to believe you had not turned traitor. When I saw you on that plane… sitting next to that Iranian filth, in the company of DIA hit men… that was when I realized you truly had turned your back on Israel, on everything that we had trained to protect.

  You are indeed a traitor.

  Bretta paused in the reading of the email here. Her vision blurred and she realized, to her disgust, that there were actually tears starting in her eyes. Furiously, she blinked them away, staring up at the wall in front of her. The word “traitor” seemed to have been seared into her vision. She closed he
r eyes and found that it was projected onto the back of her eyelids, in much the same way that the sun did when she looked straight at it.

  What were you expecting? An apology? Did you expect her to tell you that she forgave you, that she understood why you left? Why you took up with Sam and Ethan and the rest?

  And Bretta realized that, deep down, this was exactly what she had hoped for. In her heart of hearts, in that space within herself that was sacred and known only to herself, Bretta realized she’d hoped to find some sort of vindication for the way she’d left the Mossad. And perhaps even some help from her former compatriot.

  Wishful thinking. Finish it quickly. The clock is ticking.

  Her eyes, as hard and cold as the snows of the Ligurian Alps that marched on the edges of her Genoa home, narrowed as they turned back to the computer screen.

  Do not take this as an attempt by me to reach out with the hand of reconciliation. The time for that is past, and besides, it was up to you to reach out after you disappeared without a word.

  No, this is a simple email to tell you where my mind lies, to tell you why it is that, despite our history, I will continue to hunt and harry you. We were sisters-in-arms once, but not anymore. You’ve done what you’ve always done: whatever you want.

  We’re coming for the scientist, Death Angel, and we will have her. You probably haven’t even asked yourself why it is that the Americans want her, or why it is that your handler has put so much emphasis on acquiring her.

  Still, you won’t have to worry about that, Death Angel. It won’t be long before we take her off your hands. You should have known that a city is no place to hide.

  I’ll be seeing you soon. You can count on that, as it turns out I could never count on you.

  Oh and if you should ever have a change of heart, or feel the urge to make things right between us, you know where to contact me. I promise that if you deliver the severed head of the Iranian to me, the Kidon will welcome you back with open arms. As will I.