Once Silverman’s group was deposited across the border by two, HI-6 Little Bird Helicopters, known for their stealth, they force marched the remaining 20 kilometers to their present position.
Now his “Bedouin” group used the ensuing night’s darkness to their advantage, digging in and awaiting their prey.
THE SANDSTORM ENDED as suddenly as it had developed, allowing Mohammad to gradually increase the ship’s speed, all under the watchful tutorage of his garlic breathed Captain who was busily rubbing his unshaven face as if in deep thought. Standing at the helm, he could see the radar images displaying light traffic ahead, providing them a chance to make up the time lost during the sandstorm.
The Captain flicked an overhead switch, dousing the ships running lights. He looked to Mohammad, providing him with a slight smile that lacked several teeth. “We don’t need the Egyptian patrols saying we were speeding through, now do we?”
Mohammad nodded. He knew all too well that the Egyptians would heavily fine any vessel that exceeded the posted speeds through certain stretches of the canal. The “straight-away” they were navigating being one of them.
“Keep the vessel at this speed until we receive our canal pilot,” the Captain ordered to Mohammad, referring to the Egyptian officer who would come aboard to aid in their navigation of the canal when they reached the sixteen-kilometer marker. “I’ll be in my cabin if you require my services.”
Muhammad nodded once again, knowing the Captain was returning to the comfort of his cabin for yet another bout of drinking whiskey no doubt.
WATCHING HIS PREY steam by, Lieutenant Silverman quickly ordered his men into action, uncovering two zodiac rafts outfitted with hi-speed motors from their pre-positioned spot, buried under reeds by the water’s edge only a day ago. He scouted both ends of the waterway one last time, searching for any evidence of the Egyptian canal police who frequently patrolled the barren area. He had memorized their schedule before he had left the barracks, the schedule compliments of a senior Egyptian maritime official who was also on the Israeli government’s payroll. Assuming his information was correct, the Egyptian police would be cruising by in 43 minutes, this would provide Silverman and his team just enough time to hit the target and be on their way.
Satisfied they were indeed alone, he ordered the Zodiac rafts into the warm waters of the canal, him sliding down the sandy banks from his vantage point to join them. Five meters from the sand bank, they engaged their ultra-silent Malav electric motors, enabling them to dash to the stern of the MS Musara in a matter of minutes, careful to avoid its wake.
Silverman held up his weapon, removing the safety from his Uzi, his troops following suit.
Maneuvering the lead raft until it was running parallel to the ship, Silverman tossed a rubber tipped grappling hook up and over the ships stern rail. Satisfied he had a good hold, he started the 4-meter climb to its main deck. The men in the second raft soon followed suit.
BELOW DECK, FIVE Philippine crewmen sat in the crews lounge feasting on the evening’s meal of an old Filipino favorite: Lumpia; basically an egg roll stuffed with minced pork, water chestnuts and carrots. On the side they had bowls of white ‘sticky rice’ and washed it down with ice-cold San Miguel beer all while watching an X-rated movie on a small television. The men were obviously enjoying the movie as they made their own erotic noises in response to the film starlet’s actions covering any noise Silverman’s group might have made in boarding.
Unfortunately for the ship’s crew, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Silverman nodded silently to his four comrades; a fifth stayed back to hold both Zodiacs, awaiting their getaway. Moving swiftly to the well-lit crew’s mess, he extended a small periscope mirror in order to view the occupants through its open door. Using hand signals he indicated for the men to sweep from left to right upon entering. It was a small ship and time was of the essence. Checking once more to make sure his silencer was screwed on properly, he held up three fingers, slowly counting down to zero.
MOHAMMAD WONDERED if the captain would even show his face before morning, knowing how much he coveted his American whiskey. Not that he minded, it provided him time to ponder his future. He had mentally spent the eight thousand dollars as a down payment for a used fishing boat with a new global positioning system and an electronic fish finder. Now who would he hire as its crew? Whom could he trust?
A sudden breeze on the back of his neck alerted him to his company, turning in time to view Silverman standing in the doorway boldly pointing a weapon at him.
“Keep your head and eyes facing forward,” Silverman ordered. “You will steer the ship as if you are on course for your destination, maintain the same speed.”
Mohammad followed his new orders, wondering how this man was able to board the ship undetected. Seconds later, two additional soldiers appeared, harshly pushing the disheveled Captain into the bridge compartment, him reeking of whiskey, cursing the men in English. “This is my ship,” he said aloud in meek protest. “What do you want?”
“We will wait for the rest of my men to finish their search before you receive your answer,” Silverman replied in English.
It didn’t take long; an old man clad in a terry cloth bathrobe and leather slippers was soon paraded on to the bridge to join their little group.
“What do we have here?” Silverman demanded as a worn leather flight bag was deposited in front of him by one of his fellow soldiers.
“We have ourselves one very old German sir,” Master Sergeant Mazil responded. “He was clutching that bag when we walked into his room. He was also reading this,” thrusting a worn copy of Hitler’s Mein Kamph on top of the bag. “I think we have ourselves a little Nazi here. We may want to keep this one alive.”
Reaching into the bag Silverman was able to view five gold bars for his efforts, extracting one for closer inspection. Holding it up to the light he was able to see its serial number from the Bank of Hungary, a small swastika emblem at its bottom. Silverman tossed the gold bar back into the bag as if it were a contagious disease, reflecting for a moment on his uncle’s death at the hands of Nazi’s.
Silverman spoke to his men in Hebrew. “We have a live one here boys. This stuff is over 70 years old. We have to keep the old boy alive for an old-fashioned interrogation back home. There is more to this than meets the eye.”
The comments by Silverman may have been in Hebrew but Mohammad was aware that the situation was rapidly deteriorating. Eyeing the closest soldier, Mohammad cried aloud “Allah Akbar,” God is great, before lowering his shoulder into the nearest soldier’s chest, grabbing the pistol from the soldiers’ holster, raising it to fire. Silverman had anticipated as much, responding with a clean 3-shot burst to the man’s head. Mohammad was dead before his body hit the floor.
“I’m hit,” cried out the Ship’s Captain. Unfortunately a bullet had ricocheted off the ships steel wheel and impacted the Captain in the chest, killing him within seconds.
“Sergeant Mazil, grab the wheel of this ship and steer the best you can,” Silverman quickly ordered, hoping to avoid a collision with the canal bank.
Luckily for them the ship had not drifted left nor right, basically moving in the straight line Mohammad had set before his death. Mazil assumed a position behind the wheel making sure to maintain some distance from the canal’s bank.
The old man eyed his captors with disdain before spitting at Silverman. “Jude, Jude,” he stammered in German. Jew, Jew. He points to each soldier, him finally realizing the soldier’s nationality.
Silverman nodded before replying in perfect German. “Yes, we are Jewish soldiers. Probably your worst nightmare comes true. Unfortunately, no harm will come to you if you co-operate. You are to be our prisoner,” before turning back to the remaining three soldiers on the bridge.
“What was the cargo?” Silverman demanded.
“Twenty-eight Russian Surface-to-Air missiles, refurbished SAM-Sevens still in their original wooden crates,”
replied Sergeant Mazil as he maintained the ships original course. “Those bastards could have done a lot of damage to our aircraft back home, that along with 30 kilos of mustard gas.”
Each of the men started speaking at once.
The Sergeant held up his left hand to quiet the group. “But the biggest bastard of all was in the smallest of cases,” he said, taking his eyes off the canal for a moment to look at each man on the bridge, a serious look gracing his face. “Uranium-235 in its original Nazi lead lined case; three kilo’s worth. That would be enough to take-out half of Tel Aviv with a dirty bomb.”
Silverman grabbed the old man by his robe, wanting to place a bullet square in his head. But circumstances required him alive. His superiors back in Tel Aviv would want additional information. Still staring at the frightened little man as he spoke to his men: “I want this boat rigged for destruction no more than one minute after we have our prisoner in the raft. We are going to send a clear message to the parties responsible for this mess.”
CHAPTER 68
BERLIN, GERMANY
The explosion was heard over ½ kilometer away. Car alarms were still sounding as Mikel Drunz woke, lying on the streets macadam, strangers rushing towards him. As he lay there trying to remember what had transpired, he recalled the morning visit to the Gossamer Bank, riding in his Black Mercedes Limousine, talking with his bodyguard and then………. the motorcyclist with the bomb.
They had tried to kill him.
He brushed dust from his eyes and was shocked to see blood on his hand. He strained to move his legs but something heavy lay across them. There was fright in his eyes as he viewed what was holding him down. The headless torso of his bodyguard lay sprawled across him, his severed head five meters away. Mikel started heaving. He struggled to push the lifeless body off of him, finally succeeding. Around him lay pieces of his limousine; some large, some small. As he stood up, the street suddenly started to spin around him. He also noticed he couldn’t hear anything. Obviously the explosion had something to do with it. Somebody grabbed him by the arm but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Strangely, he didn’t feel afraid. Police were now on the scene using their fire extinguishers to spray the residual fires that lingered about.
Mikel shook his head at the man holding his arm as the man escorted him away from what was left of his limousine. Then he laughed aloud. “The bastards missed me,” he shouted at full volume. “They missed me again.”
HE WANTED A CLOSER look. His Mossad supervisors wanted additional proof of Mikel surviving yet another assassination attempt. The man has as many lives as a cat, he thought. At the end of the street sat six patrol cars, three ambulances, a coroners van, and a medium-sized police truck with Mobile Police Response emblazoned across its side. The area was cordoned off with uniformed police stationed behind yellow caution tape. He moved closer with his female counterpart in tow as they approached the first officer. He withdrew a counterfeit press badge courtesy of the Mossad forgery department, the badge stating he worked for the Berliner Umschau, a popular Berlin daily newspaper. The police officer gave the badge a cursory look before waving them through.
They approached the ambulance where Mikel was being tended to by the paramedics, a camera hidden in the lapel of the agent’s jacket started taking photos of Mikel. To the right of them, two orderlies from the coroner’s office were busy loading pieces of Mikel’s driver onto a stretcher. Another worked collecting the headless torso of his bodyguard. They watched as a police officer went through the dead man’s pockets, producing a wallet, opening it to reveal a driver’s license, credit cards, and a small amount of Euro’s. Still taking photos of the scene they maneuvered up to a position no more than 20 meters from the back of the ambulance where Mikel sat, now smoking a cigarette. Even with all that had transpired he still had his wits about him, scouring the area for anything, or anyone, out of place. These bastards wanted him in the ground. He had to be sure they still weren’t lurking in the area. That’s when he saw her walking towards him. The woman from the motorcycle. She had a helmet on when she placed the bomb on his limo but was still wearing the same blue leather jacket.
THE WOMAN PRODUCED a Ruger Mark II .22 caliber LR with built-in noise suppression; the standard Mossad weapon for assassination. She waited several moments until the ambulance paramedics were distracted before moving into place behind the vehicles door. She made sure the safety was off and there was a round in the chamber before slowly counting to three, pulling the door back and placing two shots in quick succession where Mikel sat only moments before, him now gone. Her eyes went wide when she heard the metallic click of a round being slammed into place behind her. Slowly she turned to face Mikel, him pointing a 45 at her head, her weapon held low.
“So, I see you have turned the tables on us,” she said, using her head to point to the weapon he held in his hands. “A Nazi once again holds the upper hand on a Jew. You are such a big man.”
“You are confusing me with my father,” he said, a smile upon his face. “He was the one who helped Hitler. I am just a plain, ordinary, banker.”
She shook her head. “Just a banker, my ass. There is nothing ordinary about a man who profits from other’s deaths. You are a billionaire banker whose money came from Hungarian Jews stolen towards the end of the war. We also know all about your hidden assets in Lebanon.”
Mikel nodded. “So you know about Lebanon?”
She feigned surrender, smiling at him before suddenly raising her weapon to fire but Mikel was faster, placing a round square in her head, the bullets force pushing her back and into the ambulance.
Satisfied she was indeed dead, he now scoured the immediate area for her partner.
Little did he know, the man had already escaped, making for a quick exit before Mikel could call in reinforcements from his friends on the police force.
Mikel knew he had to hurry and hide from his pursuers. They would definitely try again. This was just round one.
But first, he had to escape to Lebanon.
CHAPTER 69
TEL AVIV – MOSSAD HQ
THE DISHEVELED old man sat handcuffed to a metal chair; in front of him lay a single gold bar, its Nazi eagle facing up. Beside it, three small tins. The bathrobe he had worn earlier had been replaced by a paper orange jumpsuit, the word ‘Prisoner’ emblazoned across its front and back in Hebrew.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” the burly Israeli interrogator said in a calm voice, his shaven head bathing in the overhead fluorescent lights. “Where did you get this bar of gold?” He held it up in front of the prisoners face for him to see once more, allowing the room’s light to reflect off the gold’s surface and into the man’s eyes, his patience wearing thin after an intense two hours of passive questioning.
The old man looked up, his eyes searching for some understanding. “May I,” pausing for a few seconds, licking his parched lips. “May I have some water in return for the answers you seek?” The old man had nothing to drink in the previous 24-hours, his body slowly shutting down.
Puzzled, the interrogator turned towards the room’s two-way mirror, it measuring five by six feet, a small white bulb mounted on the wall beside it flicked off then on, signaling concurrence from the viewing area.
The interrogator walked over to a metal table adjacent to the two-way mirror and filled a metal cup with ice cold water from a pitcher, condensation quickly building on its exterior, he then walked it over to the table and placed in front of the old man, condensation dripping down the sides of the cup onto the table, pooling at its base. The old man’s arms still handcuffed, he first eyed the interrogator angrily, then the two-way mirror. A cruel joke was being played on him.
The interrogator leaned down to eye level to face the old man, moving the cup closer, its condensation leaving a watery trail on the table. “Provide me with some incentive and I will unfasten your arms. You can have as much water as you please.”
“You just want to torture an old Nazi, don’t you
?” the old man said, a slight smile appearing on his face, his teeth yellow from age. He nodded several times before continuing: “Well enjoy it while you can. I’m one of the last you’ll see in your lifetime. Only the history books will provide details of our past dealings. The victors still write the history. Some good, most bad; depends on who you are talking to or what you are reading.”
“You bastard,” spit out the guard, applying a backhanded slap across the old man’s face, him crying out loudly in response. He circled the old man’s chair as if a boxer in a ring, waiting to strike once more. “My family was originally from Poland. Ninety percent of them were killed by your kind during the war. How dare you disrespect my ancestors,” he said as he applied yet another slap to the old man’s face.
Blood now trickled down from a small cut below the old man’s nose. He knew it was broken as he struggled to breathe. He looked up at his captor then to the two-way mirror, slowly shaking his head. “I am but an old man and only human,’ he started, now looking at the floor wondering where the time had gone. His mind began to wander. It felt like only a few short years had gone by since those dark days of 1945 and his escape with half of the gold and meeting up with Bormann in Austria. They were forced to hide out in the Alps for months on end until the Vatican could arrange an escape for them. But they made up for it by living a life of luxury, first in Lebanon, and then Paraguay. And to think, all of those years the world thought Bormann dead. But no, Heber lived with him until Bormann died in 1958, in his bed, in Paraguay. Bormann’s body was buried near his home until 1968, when it was unearthed and secretly whisked away. The body transported to Berlin for burial in a spot near the Lehrter train station where he was thought to have died in the waning days of WWII. They had to make it look as if Bormann died at the end of the war. The head of the Berlin Municipal Works, himself a former Nazi, helped them in their endeavor. He knew that in a few years the whole area would be excavated for the construction of a new train station. So, as if on cue, Bormann’s skeletal remains were ‘unearthed’ by a work crew in December 1972 along with his diary in a tattered leather jacket. They had fooled everyone with that one. The world thought Bormann dead in 1945, but in reality living several decades after. They quickly had his bones cremated and his ashes spread over the North Sea. They had hoped this would end all possible speculation. The only problem arose with the dentist who had performed Bormann’s original work in the early forties and still had his original dental records on file. When he compared them in secret with the new ones taken of the jaw section he agreed that it was Bormann, but he decided it best for his own safety to hold back some key evidence. He didn’t want to be the one who said Bormann lived after the war. He brought his key evidence to the attention of the Berlin Police Chief, yet another ex-Nazi. He stated to the Police Chief that when he compared the dental records, they were an identical match in everything but the fillings. Eight of the fillings were after the last known x-ray of Bormann’s mouth; meaning that the fillings were performed after the war, many years after the war by the look of the wear on the fillings.
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