Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, it is done. Not exactly as planned, but the Russian team is neutralized,” the major said.

  “What happened?” Gedide asked as he stepped out of bed and into his slippers. This was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that his people informed him of hiccups in planned operations.

  “The Iranians were there.”

  “What? How?” Gedide put on his bath robe without putting down the phone and left the bedroom for his study. “Never mind how. Just tell me what happened.”

  Major Ari Hurwitz was a twelve-year veteran of the Sayeret Maktal, the elite special forces branch of the Israeli Defense Forces specializing in counter-terrorism, deep reconnaissance, and hostage rescue, among other things. He had worked with Mossad before, but never under their direct control. Initially he had reservations about his team being taken from their unit in secrecy. His commanding officer was aware that Ari was working at the behest of the Israeli Intelligence Service, but not why, nor the particulars of the job Ari was given. The major was still not sure of the exact chain-of-command in this operation, except that it was tightly controlled by Eli Gedide. Mr. Gedide’s exact title remained a mystery to Ari Hurwitz, though he now had an idea of the operational significance of his mission. For right now, Eli Gedide was his boss. Ari was a soldier, and he followed orders.

  “We arrived at the ship at 0045 local time, after confirming the pick-up by phone,” Major Hurwitz said. “We were met by the team’s leader, Viktor Egorov, and one of his men. They kept their weapons trained on me and my four men until they were satisfied we were who we said we were....”

  “Where is the rest of your team?” Major Hurwitz asked in English. “We must leave now.”

  Viktor looked briefly at the other Russian. “They are dead,” he answered without emotion, merely stating a fact.

  “Dead? How?”

  “Six men came here one hour ago. They came from that ship.” Viktor pointed in the direction of a single white stern light just visible on the black horizon.

  “Where are these men? The ones from the ship?” Hurwitz asked.

  “Dead,” Viktor reported in the same deadpan tone with which he spoke of his own fallen comrades.

  Ari tried to process the information. The situation was unexpected, but in a way it was welcome, as his job had just become considerably easier. He relaxed slightly while maintaining the air of vigilance and caution that was ingrained in him. “Who were they?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Viktor said. “But I think I have an idea.” When he received no feedback or follow-on question, Viktor continued. “I believe the men were Persians.”

  “Persians?” Ari asked, surprised. “You mean Iranians?”

  Viktor ignored the correction. “They were wearing no markings, nor carrying any identification, but the ship out there was trying to reach them on the VHF. I thought maybe the transmission was in Arabic, but I am familiar with that language in many dialects—at least I have heard it enough to know that what these men spoke was similar, but not the same.”

  “Farsi?”

  “That was my conclusion. So I went back and inspected their hardware. They were definitely carrying Iranian military-issue weapons. Of that I am sure.”

  “What do you think they were doing here?” Ari asked. Ari felt he should have known the answer to his own question, but knew nothing of the mission the Russian was carrying out.

  “I think I may have an idea. Please, follow me,” Viktor said. He led Major Hurwitz up a small ladder toward the cargo containers on the forward deck. The other Russian stayed behind and lit a cigarette, offering one to the Israeli soldiers who also remained. Each man refused, choosing instead to continue scanning the deck and the water around the ship for any hidden dangers.

  Ari followed along the metal catwalk. He watched as Viktor negotiated his way to the front of one of the three orange containers. He was beginning to like Viktor—for no other reason than the ease at which the two men conversed with each other. Two soldiers, talking shop.

  “Here,” Viktor said as Ari came up behind him. Viktor turned on the flashlight mounted beneath the barrel of his automatic rifle.

  Major Hurwitz slowly walked into the nearly nine-foot high metal box. He carefully ran his hand over the nosecone of one of the six missiles secured inside. He assumed the other two containers held similar cargo.

  “S-300s,” Viktor said, anticipating the question that was going through the Israeli officer’s head. “Russian air defense missiles. Iran has tried several times to get their hands on these in the past. I assume that is why your masters hired me and my team to hijack this ship. They did not want the Iranians to finally get their hands on them.”

  Viktor’s reasoning made sense. It filled in the holes of what Ari did not know about his assignment. At least part of it. The rest, Ari could figure out for himself. “I believe you are right,” he said, “though I did not know this ship was carrying missiles, either. It seems my masters, as you put it, wanted to keep this quiet.”

  “The Iranians almost got what they wanted,” Viktor said. “Persistent bastards, those Persians.”

  “Indeed,” Ari agreed.

  “They couldn’t use these missiles anyway,” Viktor said.

  Ari looked at Viktor. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, not with this shipment alone. Where is the launcher? The guidance system? Radar? All three of these containers only have missiles. The Iranians would need more than just these birds if they wanted to set up an air defense perimeter somewhere.” Viktor turned off the flashlight, signaling that they had spent enough time chatting about the missiles. “No matter. They didn’t get them—though they tried. That was the goal, was it not?”

  “It appears that way,” Ari said. Viktor closed the container and the two men walked back to the others. “Are you ready?” he asked Viktor.

  “Yes. I have had enough of this metal coffin.”

  “The crew is secured?” Ari asked.

  “All but three. They were...collateral damage,” Viktor said.

  Ari smiled. He really did like this Viktor Egorov. It really was too bad they had not met under different circumstances.

  Two of the Israelis climbed down to one of the waiting boats they had come in, utilizing the orange pilot’s ladder the Russians had rigged for their arrival. As Viktor waited in line behind Moriz for their turn to disembark, Ari nodded to the small Sayeret Maktal team member to his right. In one swift movement, the man raised his Tavor assault rifle and put three bullets in the back of each of the Russians’ heads.

  Eli Gedide did not interrupt Major Hurwitz as he recounted the night’s events. When Ari was done, Gedide finished the scotch he had poured in his office and set the empty glass on the table beside the high-backed leather chair he was sitting in. He had been working out the ramifications of the presence, and subsequent deaths, of the Iranian kill-squad onboard the Baltic Venture from the moment Ari mentioned it. He was pleased with his conclusion.

  “Excellent work, Major,” Gedide said. “You have done a great service to Israel. But I must reiterate that you must never speak of the mission you have just concluded. In any fashion. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ari was used to that. In twelve years he had only been involved in two actions about which he was allowed to speak. But even those remained locked away in Ari’s memory. It was easier to discuss nothing than to remember what you could and could not talk about.

  “Good,” Gedide said. “I will let your commander know that you are returning. And that you have deserved any time off he may feel compelled to give you and your men.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gedide ended the call and sat in silence in the dimly lit study. The operation had worked out better than he had planned. Bibi would be pleased. Gedide would tell him about it in the morning—after the conclusion of the second operation. Gedide looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. He should receive that call in
just a few hours and he decided one more scotch was in order. Besides, he never slept that well anyway.

  Chapter 21

  Savannah, Georgia

  Trooper Anton Laycock left Casey’s house around five-thirty. After Casey let Anton read the blog post that generated the threatening comments from Saint Petersburg, Casey, Anton, and Mike, discussed the possibility of a connection between the threats and the malicious disabling of the Vandura’s brakes. Anton was skeptical, thinking it would be difficult, at best, for someone in Russia to read Casey’s theory, have an issue with it, and organize a hit on Casey in such a short time.

  Casey argued that it would be entirely possible, if the person or persons responsible for his accident were already in the United States. Casey pointed to the fact that he implied in his blog that there were “stolen” weapons onboard the Baltic Venture. That could mean involvement from the Russian mafia, or someone with ties to, or sympathies for, that group—if they were, in fact, behind the theft. That would open a well-spring of candidates who could have found Casey relatively quickly and targeted his work vehicle. Mike agreed with Casey’s logic, but Anton still wasn’t convinced. He conceded that the Russian threat seemed to be the only clue to the identity of someone who might have wanted to harm Casey, but as a professional law enforcement officer, he also pointed out that they were only working with circumstantial theories at this point.

  Casey let Anton read his second posting that indicted Israel was potentially an active participant in the Baltic Venture story, although he had only claimed that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu acted in a good-faith advisory capacity by informing the Russians of the stolen weapons. All three men agreed it was even more unlikely Israel had anything to do with the accident. In the first place, Casey almost applauded the efforts of the Jewish state’s leader to prevent the black market sale of Russian weapons to Iran—at least he defended the Prime Minister’s actions—and secondly, that information was posted on Wednesday night, precisely the time, they all agreed, that Casey’s work truck was receiving an unsolicited brake job.

  Casey didn’t even mention his and Susan’s idea that Israel may have actually been responsible for the hijacking itself. That was only talk, and he hadn’t published that theory. He wasn’t sure if he would now or not.

  Anton left after assuring his friend that he would let the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office know of the information they discussed. He reiterated that a Sheriff’s Deputy would most likely come by the house on Monday to question Casey, and he encouraged his friend to be just as candid as he had been that afternoon. “Maybe the deputy will come up with something we didn’t think of,” he said.

  Casey showered and dressed while Mike drank more of Casey’s beer and watched Casey’s TV. “Mi casa, su casa,” Casey had told Mike years before. Mike did not disappoint, and since that day had somehow managed to spend an average of one night a week on Casey’s couch while consuming a full third of Casey’s groceries. Casey knew that unless he got married or had a live-in girlfriend, Mike would be a permanent feature of his life in Thunderbolt. Casey didn’t mind. He enjoyed his friend’s company. Though Mike lived the care-free life of someone who enjoyed little actual responsibility and had no qualms about taking his friends up on their hospitality, Casey knew that Mike would bend over backwards to help his friends in whatever capacity he could, and that was a hard trait to find nowadays. In a way, Mike Tunney was the brother Casey never had, along with the more family-oriented and centered Chip Walton.

  After calling Chip to confirm his attendance at the trio’s weekly gathering at Sunset Tavern, Mike and Casey stopped at the Chu’s convenience store at the corner gas station for dinner. Casey paid for a 20oz bottle of Diet Coke, the same in Coke Classic, a bag of pepperoni-flavored Combos pretzel snacks, and two pre-packaged ham-and-cheese sandwiches, while Mike waited outside. As Casey returned to the truck, he saw his friend shake hands with a shady character in a hooded black sweatshirt—strange attire, considering the ninety-plus degree temperature outside, made worse by the pouring rain that threatened to steam-cook the entire city. The man ran off to an idling black Honda CRX, complete with tail fin, and sped off over the hill and out of sight. Mike jumped into the cab of the truck just as Casey did the same.

  “Who was that,” Casey asked, handing Mike his Coke and ham sandwich.

  Mike held up a clear zip-loc bag that contained a handful of joints. “Your buddy, Anton, took all mine. I needed some more, so I called a dude I know when you were in the shower.”

  “You didn’t use my phone, did you?” Casey asked. The last thing he wanted now was a drug dealer’s number to show up on a call log just when he knew he was going to be investigated by the police following his accident.

  “Don’t worry, dude. I used my cell,” Mike laughed.

  Casey shook his head and couldn’t help but smile. “Eat your sandwich, man. Chip’s probably there already.” He pulled the truck out onto the side road and drove back towards the river.

  Seven minutes later, Casey parked his pick-up in the gravel parking lot behind the Sunset Tavern. It was more of an offshoot along the side of the building than anything else, but it was the only area that was not full. Besides not wanting to risk the chance of being pulled over for a DUI on the way home, the lack of parking was a major reason Casey usually walked to the bar on Saturday night. But it had started raining two hours before and didn’t show any signs of letting up before morning, so tonight he drove. After everything that happened since he woke up that afternoon, Casey was ready for a cold beer with his friends, in the privacy one can only find when surrounded by a noisy crowd of inebriated strangers.

  Casey and Mike made a quick dash around the corner to the front door. They passed two ostracized smokers finding protection under the slight overhang of the entrance and shook off the rain as they entered the noisy bar. Mike spotted Chip at the bar ordering a drink, and the two men waded through the crowd of people to join their friend.

  “Steve the Bartender, make it three!” Mike yelled to Steve the Bartender who grabbed two more bottles of Rolling Rock without giving any visible indication of hearing Mike’s demand.

  Chip turned around and shook hands with Casey and Mike while he paid for the three beers. “Good timing. I just got here,” Chip said. “There’s still a couple of tables over there.” He motioned with a bottle toward the pool table near the front of the tavern and handed his friends their drinks.

  “Cool,” Casey said. He headed for one of the tables right next to the silenced jukebox as his friends followed. “I thought that band from Brunswick was playing here tonight,” he said as they took their seats. Casey pushed the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper shakers to the center of the table and deposited his truck keys next to Chip’s.

  “They cancelled. Lead singer got strep or something,” Chip explained. “Maude called Rosie to see if she could fill in tonight.” Chip was referring to the “K-Jay,” Rosie, who ran karaoke on Friday nights. “Steve the Bartender said the jukebox is busted, so they needed something in here to entertain the crowd.”

  “Well, it seems to be working so far,” Casey commented. “Then again, it’s only ten o’clock.”

  “I think word got out about Rosie making an appearance,” Mike said as he scanned the crowd. “Most of these cats wouldn’t be here to listen to Roger and the Bean Farmers. That band sucks.” Mike’s observation and candor drew laughs from the other two men at the table.

  “So, what did you guys do today?” Chip asked Casey. Casey realized he hadn’t talked to his friend since the previous Friday. He knew nothing about the threats, the wreck, or the sabotage.

  “This guy’s being hunted by the Russians, dude. They want his ass dead,” Mike answered quickly, shaking Casey’s shoulder violently, causing him to wince.

  “Oww! Shit, man,” Casey said as he shoved his friend’s hand away.

  “Sorry, dude,” Mike said. “I forgot. You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m just still sore
, that’s all.”

  “What happened?” Chip asked, feeling like an outsider. He had no idea what his friends were talking about.

  Casey began his explanation with a colorful description of the wreck. He told Chip about the blog, the threats, his discussions with Susan, and the visit by Anton that afternoon. Although Mike occasionally interjected with his own comments on the situation, Chip didn’t say a word. He just listened intently, wide-eyed and clearly fascinated. When Casey was done, Chip put down his now-empty beer bottle. “Shit,” was his only comment.

  “That about sums it up,” Casey said. “Anton’s gonna make sure the Sheriff’s guys work fast on this, even though he said there’s probably no danger anymore. He thinks whoever cut my brakes probably just wanted to scare me, more than anything else.”

  “Yeah, right,” Mike said. He was watching the stage at the back of the bar and the two women singing Janis Joplin. One was obviously the star, while the other was only there for moral support.

  “Anyway,” Casey said, looking at the singers that had caught his friend’s attention, “Anton said I should still take the threats seriously and not post anything else that might piss these people off—at least until we find out who did it. I mean the guy that caused my accident.”

  “Are you?” Chip asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you going to back off? I mean, you were obviously right about the story, with the Russian arms deal, right? So he wants you to stop putting the truth out there? That’s like, against the First Amendment,” Chip argued.