by D S Kane
Since then, having a mole within the Mossad was his constant goal. When he found Aviva Bushovsky in London seeing Jon Sommers, he realized it was his chance to reverse his previous failure. He’d turned her, trying to get to Jon. But she had died, and he thought he’d lost. But when Ben-Levy showed up at Jon’s door, he was delighted. Sommers wasn’t just a mole. He was payback. The sins of the father, visited upon the son.
Crane exited the car, walked upstairs and entered through the building’s lobby, filled with portraits of the royal family and the ministers of government. He breathed in the scent of flowers in vases as he passed them and smiled at the security guards. Trotting up the stairs to the second floor, he removed his Burberry trench coat, carrying it with him to the code room. Crane knocked on the door. It swung open and he nodded at the operator. “I need to send a message.”
The operator, a young woman who looked to be barely past adolescence, nodded and held out her hand. He scribbled the name of his own handler as the message’s recipient, and ripped out the notebook page he had written in the limo. Crane handed it over, and then left her to her work.
He walked to his office, somewhat larger than a walk-in closet with no windows. Could his mission succeed? He needed someone within Mossad soon.
Would Sommers double for MI-6?
When Jon entered the hotel elevator and ascended to his floor, he found himself unable to remember how he’d gotten there. His mind swirled, unable to focus. Exiting the elevator, he realized he’d walked two miles.
In Israel, it would be nearing sunrise soon and Ben-Levy would expect his call. Failure tainted him. Thinking about the meeting with the Brits, another wave of adrenaline coursed through his body, affecting his ability to think.
He exited the elevator, swiveled his head left and right, scanning for threats. His mind buzzed with questions of the events of his disastrous evening. He needed to understand what had happened, before he called Mother. And the worst might not have happened yet. Who were those Brits? MI-6 or some fringe group bent on using me for terrorism? If they aren’t MI-6, who are they? If they are MI-6, should I tell Ben-Levy about MI-6’s involvement with Houmaz? Mother will be furious. I’m the remnant of my team. How to prepare? There’s no way for me to tell what’s coming next. What did Houmaz do yesterday afternoon at the Bank of Trade? Deposit cash or withdraw it? And why? What did Rimora mean when she uttered her last word before dying? Bloodridge. What the hell is that?
Too many unknowns. Just thinking hurt his head.
He scanned the door to his room. Had anyone entered while he was out? No, the thread he’d placed about six inches above the door’s bottom was still in place. He unlocked the door and entered.
There might be blood-splatter traces on his clothing and on him. He stripped and placed the soiled items in a dry cleaning bag so he could toss them later. He took a shower and redressed. Clean, but still muddy-minded, he picked up his cell phone and took a deep breath. The Brits would want him to tell Ben-Levy. He was sure of it. Time to call.
He dialed the secure number and entered a series of keys. Then he terminated the call and pressed a button on the side of his cell to set it to secure mode. He waited mere seconds. The phone buzzed with the callback.
“Sommers here.”
“It’s Mother. Status?”
He gulped. “Dire. Houmaz single-handedly killed everyone except me.”
“What?” Ben-Levy shouted the single word. “How could this happen?”
“I think MI-6 assisted Houmaz. They said he was their asset. They picked me up seconds after the massacre. Their katsa was an older man with a scar running down the left side of his face. He tried to recruit me as a double. He offered intel from the CIA if I agreed. He said as a British subject they could arrest me and send me to prison. I’m sure they were the ones who murdered Rimora.” Jon steadied the shaking hand holding his cell.
“Let me think.”
Jon waited, hearing the old man’s ragged breathing. He wanted to hang up and flee. Mother said nothing. Jon could hear his own heartbeat accelerating.
After a long while, Mother said, “This changes everything. I’ll send an exfiltration team to get you out before the police can find you. It’ll take me a while to set it up. Right now I’m on my way to a meeting with the Va’adet Rashei Hasherutim, the Committee of the Heads of Service, for the next two hours. I’ll get back to you by noon your time.” He heard a click as the spymaster terminated the call.
Jon sat on the bed, a chill running up his spine. The committee included the deputy director of SHABEK, Oscar Gilead. He hadn’t met the man but remembered Ben-Levy telling him during training that all termination orders were signed off by Gilead as well as the Prime Minister.
He felt his face go slack as he cycled through the mission plan and wondered, what could we have done better? We did as we were trained. Followed him using standard surveillance procedures. Adjusted the plan when the target discovered us. Covered each of the exits to the building with twice the manpower of the target. Entered in a shooter’s stance. We did everything right. But then he remembered being distracted by his memories of Lisa. Damn!
He jumped off the bed with a sudden realization. If the Brits hadn’t lied, then in order to arrive so fast, Houmaz’s helpers must have been close by. Maybe the bomb maker had almost reached his safe house when Jon’s team cornered him. He pounded the wall with his fist. But, it was too late now. It no longer mattered.
Ben-Levy had hinted at a retrieval team. But what if he was sending an assassination team?
The deputy director of SHABEK had pioneered many of the methods of assassination and torture developed by the Office. Jon feared his failure would place him on their “to do” list. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Having left Lisa’s murderer alive had him feeling even worse. And the crowning glory was his freeze-up during the mission as he entered the restaurant.
He wanted to die.
If they sent a team of assassins, he’d welcome them. At least it would end his pain. Lisa’s voice popped into his head. You still love me, don’t you? I gave you my heart, accepted your ring. I would have been your wife. You have to survive. You must have another chance at Tariq Houmaz. Jon, you owe me.
He struggled to keep her out of his head, pacing the room, counting the number of individual blinds covering the window. No good.
She was running him. Ruining him. He hated her for leaving him. For leading a double life without any regard for him. It was too much.
And now she claimed she wanted justice?
Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
Yigdal Ben-Levy’s office,Basement of Mossad’s Headquarters,Herzliyya, Israel
August 23, 2:36 p.m.
The tiny room in the basement was crowded even though just six people were present.
The team leader, a thin young woman with dirty-blond hair and striking blue eyes, nodded and pointed to the other female member of her team. Her voice was a monotone and she closed her eyes, repeating what she’d memorized. “Esther will approach Sommers, so he suspects nothing. They haven’t met. The rest of the team will assume positions with adequate visibility, but far enough away that he won’t assume any are threats. She’s to inject Sommers with the hypnotic solution Lester Dushov created, using the medijector. Anywhere the fluid makes skin contact will do, and no amount of it is too small to work, so Esther could even be holding the device up to eighteen inches from his skin. Once dosed, the drug will take several seconds to work. We guide him out to the van and take him to our safe house in East Meadow, New York, to debrief him. On arrival, we teleconference with you and all further orders come directly from you after you commence debrief.”
Yigdal Ben-Levy surveyed the team, his eyes holding each for far too long with an angry intensity Shulamit Ries had never seen before. “Good, Shula. You understand the nature of the mission. As for its importance, I needn’t even mention that. Any questions?”
Shula scanned her team. She knew
Esther wouldn’t bother Mother with questions. Harry was shy; if he had questions, he’d approach Shula later. Marc would assume everything Mother said was all there could be to the mission, so, no questions from him either. Samuel was another matter. As she had the thought, he coughed.
Mother stared at him. “Samuel?”
“What if he resists? Can we send him to a better place without your debrief.”
Ben-Levy stared back. “No. Absolutely not. You will not kill a kidon without my direct permission in advance. And I haven’t given that. You may restrain him, even pound him into the ground, but not kill him. Clear?”
Samuel nodded and stared away. Abraham and Isaac just stood motionless.
Ben-Levy handed Shula an envelope and turned away from the others. He stood, facing the wall. “Your tickets are inside. I’ll arrange to have him meet you. Do not fail me.” The spymaster took a deep breath. “Shalom and good luck.”
Shulamit Ries and her team exited what used to be a storage room and walked to the elevator. She’d heard of Mother’s legendary temper, but she hadn’t witnessed him losing his composure before. Was it Mother’s meeting with the deputy director? Did this have to do with the public gunfight in Manhattan that left consulate personnel shot dead in the streets? She knew her team must not fail.
What a shame. She’d liked Jon.
An hour later, Ries and her team marched through the terminal of Lod Airport. Each flashed their official documents and bypassed security. Booked into first class on El Al to JFK, the group walked to the boarding area, Esther and Marc trading jokes. Harry and Samuel argued about the possible results of the upcoming election.
Shula paced, watching the entry ramp from the terminal to the jet. She felt as if it was the Titanic, and she knew it would sink. She had a terrible feeling about this retrieval. Sommers would expect a hit team. What if his suspicions pinpointed Esther as a Mossad operative before she could deliver the tranq? He was still armed. And dangerous.
As they boarded the aircraft, she sifted through the nightmare of possible scenarios her team might encounter. She imagined different ways the mission could fail, and ran outcomes for permutations of the budding plan she’d crafted. A few hours later, when the pilot announced they had cleared London airspace and were over the Atlantic, she drifted off to a nightmare of suicide bombers and dismembered children on a school bus, a remnant of yesterday’s television news.
It was just after dawn when she woke, jolted by the dropping of the plane’s wheels in preparation for landing.
Samuel, a large man with a pockmarked face, touched her arm. “You were twitching as you slept. I thought it best not to wake you for the meal. How are you?”
She twisted her head away from him. “Fine. Has everyone in the team reviewed the plan?”
He looked out the window as the plane touched down. “Yes, of course. We know what the old man wants. But remember: no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.”
She turned and studied his face. “Sommers isn’t the enemy. He’s just a kidon who failed to complete his mission. It could happen to any of us.”
He nodded and frowned. “But it hasn’t. Not to any of us. Scores of missions without a failure. He blew it, the first time out the chute. His team embarrassed all of Mossad, and Mother personally.”
She grimaced. “I think he’ll expect termination. To be used as an example.”
He frowned again. “Then, we’d best be ready for a battle.”
Jon sat on the bed in his room, watching the television news. He knew it would be better if he didn’t go out unless he had to. The talking head on the newscast reported on seven brutal murders, but, so far, the female reporter hadn’t mentioned him or the shootings from the previous night. He guessed that with a city as violent as New York, the news editors cherry-picked which murders the reporters would focus on. But maybe there was another reason. Ben-Levy. Had the Israeli government found a way to intercede?
Jon obsessed, rethinking every second of the mission, all his movements. He remembered the smells now. Chinese cooking, ginger, garlic, sesame seed oil, meat sauté, cordite from the rounds Houmaz fired into his team, and the coppery smell of death. The faces of his dead crowded his mind, their chorus accusing him of failure.
He sprang off the bed and paced the room.
A team would arrive soon, either to exfiltrate him or terminate him. He’d no way of knowing which. After what had happened, he felt indifferent to their intention. First his parents. Next, Lisa. Then his team. Everyone who got close to him, everyone who worked with him or loved him. All dead now.
It had been almost thirty hours. All that happened was his fault. He should have been better prepared. Maybe, if—
His cell buzzed, and he jumped like a cat at the sound of a vacuum cleaner. “Sommers.”
“My name is Esther. Mother says hello. If you wish, we can come to your hotel room, but if you’d prefer, we can meet somewhere more public, like the New York Public Library. Your choice.” He could hear street noise coming through the connection along with her voice. They were close by.
So, they were catering to his sense of paranoia. Maybe it was an exfiltration mission after all.
He walked to the hotel room’s window, to see if he could find her on the street below. “Yes, the Public Library. There’s a park on its west side, Bryant Park. The corner of Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street. Go to the north corner nearest the library. Do you know where it is?”
“No, but we’ll find it. Twenty minutes.” The call terminated.
He pulled on his tee-shirt and stuck the Beretta into his belt. The shirt stank of last night, but he didn’t care; clothing odors wouldn’t be a problem if they murdered him. As an afterthought, he took a thin Swiss Army knife from his backpack and placed it in his sneaker sock above his ankle. He’d bought it at a store near Grand Central when he was tracking Houmaz right after he landed in New York. Now, it seemed so long ago.
He would have prayed, but since Lisa Gabriel died, Jon no longer believed in God.
Chapter Fourteen
Bryant Park, west of the New York Public Library, corner of Sixth Avenue and 42nd Street
August 23, 12:22 p.m.
Shula Ries shifted to pull away the tee-shirt sticking to her skin as she waited in the humidity and heat, scanning the park. Each member of her team was walking a different corner of the vest-pocket park, far enough away from the others that they wouldn’t call attention to themselves as a group.
Ries set Esther, a dark, delicate woman, at the northwest corner of the library. The young woman wore a sport jacket constructed by the Office’s tradecraft department. It included a specially designed sleeve within its left arm, rigged with a button taped to her palm. Touching the button would cause the medijector to drop into her hand. She sat at a picnic table facing into the park. Waiting, like the rest of them.
Ries had placed Samuel at the corner of 41st and Sixth, farthest away from the where she expected Sommers to appear. His position was designed to give him a clear view of the other two members of their team, Abraham and Isaac. They covered the two corners nearest the library.
At this time of day, the park was crowded. The weather was perfect for a New York summer’s day Under a blue cloudless sky, a mild breeze reduced the effect of the sticky humidity. The lunch-hour throng was thick around them. Cookie vendors and taco stands dotted the perimeter of the park. Children played tag near Samuel. Ries had told him if things went wrong, it would be his job to pound Sommers into unconsciousness, but not kill him.
Ries was the first to see him and she turned to face away as she spoke into her ear bud. “He’s on the south side of 42nd, walking west. Near the end of the library. Entering the park. He’s yours, Esther.”
Esther stood up from the bench where she’d sat and smiled as Sommers approached the center of the park. “Jon?”
He stopped and turned, then stood still, ten feet away. “Yeah. Listen, I’ll go with you. No drugs necessary. Okay?”
She looked back to Ries for confirmation, and Shula shrugged. Esther nodded. “Okay. We have a van parked in the garage under the Sheraton, a few blocks away. Walk with me. The others will follow.”
Jon nodded. He didn’t know if he was headed toward his freedom or his death.
“Once again, thanks for your cooperation. You have my personal word that our agreement will remain secret, Sir Charles.” Yigdal Ben-Levy hung up the phone. Could his position on the twisty road of lies he’s crafted withstand the shitstorm bearing down on him, the Mossad and Israel?
His phone rang. “What?”
“I have the Prime Minister for you as you requested. He hasn’t time for a meeting, but he can give you five minutes on the phone.”
“Thank you, Sarah.” Ben-Levy stared at the clock on the wall. “Put him on now. I’ll only need two minutes.”
Jon was wedged between two others in the back seat of their van. Surrounded by the SHABEK kidon team, he steeled himself to his fate. The man called Samuel steered the van across the Queensboro Bridge and east onto the Long Island Expressway.
He was sure they were all kidon, even Shula, their katsa, or case officer. They had the aura of murder on them. Why would they send so many ruthless killers if this were an exfiltration mission? He began to doubt their intentions.
He’d had a choice: live and work as a double for MI-6, or die and send a message of the consequences of failure to other Mossad coverts.
For the first time since he watched his team die around him, he realized he wanted to live. Even if it meant being haunted by Lisa’s voice until he reached a ripe age, he didn’t want to die with Houmaz still alive. Maybe agreeing to meet them and come in from the cold was a mistake.
