by D S Kane
He was sure this would be the final hour of his life. A bad time to have second thoughts about dying. He sought to craft a plan to escape. At least it would give him an alternative to focus on.
As they passed into the suburbs, he watched the green and orange early autumn foliage on the roadside of the Grand Central Parkway. The van exited onto the Meadowbrook Parkway, much less crowded with traffic. He memorized the turns they made as the van left the highway at the Hempstead Turnpike exit. Here he saw the sign marking East Meadow. He watched as they made a left on Merrick Avenue. If he somehow escaped, he’d need to know how to return to the city.
Jon remembered the flat penknife wedged into his sock. He carried no other weapon, having handed his Beretta to Shula when he met them in Bryant Park. The plan he’d fabricated required he palm the penknife, but with Ries watching him that wouldn’t work. His gut churned with panic, perspiration soaked through his tee-shirt and now he could smell his fear fixed within its odors.
The van pulled up the driveway of a split-level house on Eric Lane, looking like it was built about fifty years ago. Shula touched his shoulder. “Out. And be hasty. We don’t want neighbors getting curious.”
Sommers nodded and moved among the throng of hitters. They pulled him through the door of the safe house and into the living room where the blinds were drawn. She motioned to a lone wingback chair and an ottoman, both right behind him. “Sit.”
Jon gulped. “I already told you I’d cooperate.”
Samuel shoved him into the chair and used his knee to brace him while one of the others tied his hands behind the back of the chair and another bound his feet together, and then knotted the rope to the legs of the ottoman.
Jon shook his head. “Shula, that wasn’t necessary.”
Ries pulled a cell phone from her pocket and plugged it into a speaker sitting on a small table next to a lamp. She punched in a number.
Jon knew she was calling Ben-Levy. He squirmed in his seat, growing surer by the second he’d made a fatal mistake.
The phone was answered before the first ring ended.
The growling voice of Yigdal Ben-Levy boomed through the room. “You have him? Can he hear us?”
Shula was facing away from Jon. “Yeah. We tied him into a chair.”
“Jon, you disappointed us and caused us international embarrassment. An entire team lost in a public gunfight. The FBI called our Prime Minister with a formal complaint just an hour ago. I was called to meet with several members of the government. They were clear on what they want. You left me no alternatives.” Jon heard the old man sigh. “Shula, we need to talk privately. Turn off the speakerphone and leave the room.”
Jon raised his head. “Wait! Yakov was the leader, not me. The plan. It was flawed. I wasn’t the katsa. I’m just a remnant! MI-6 was involved. They offered us CIA intel. Isn’t that worth something?”
The voice from the telephone was silent.
Jon watched as she left him alone with Samuel and the other killers. He could feel the presence of death as if it stalked him in the room.
In less than two minutes she returned. “We have to leave for a while. Samuel, stay and watch him. Make sure his bindings are tight.”
When Samuel protested, she shook her head, facing away from Jon and toward the tall hit man. “My orders, Samuel. We’ll return in a half hour. Need some tools.”
With that, all except Samuel left the house. Jon heard the van’s engine start and its sound gradually diminished.
He wondered if something he’d said had set his fate. How had the police identified his team members?
Tools? It was now obvious Shula’s team hadn’t been prepared when they called Ben-Levy. If they’d been ordered to bury him after killing him, they’d need shovels.
The thought of dying was exhilarating. All his failures, gone. He smiled and closed his eyes, drifting off… to the voice of his dead lover, shouting within his head. Find a way to get out of here. You’re not done. Get out of here or I’ll haunt you in Hell! He lurched back into consciousness.
As Samuel turned to peer out the window, Jon worked the bindings. Too tight, and he couldn’t reach the knife in his sock. He shifted and struggled without result. Panic set within him.
Samuel turned away from the window and faced him, raking his thinning blond hair. “You don’t deserve this. You weren’t the team leader.”
Jon nodded. “Yes! And it was Ben-Levy’s plan, not mine. Please don’t let me die. Help me.”
“No. Orders.” Samuel shook his head. “Sorry.”
Jon heard a noise at the front door, metal on metal and almost silent.
He braced himself for the return of Ries’s team and his execution. And Lisa’s voice began to scream. You aren’t done with me yet. He wondered if there was a Hell where he’d hear her voice forever.
The door popped open and the two Brits he’d sat between in the limo entered in a walking shooter’s stance. Each fired a Taser at Samuel as he drew his handgun. The Israeli assassin fell, groaning.
The redheaded Brit cuffed Samuel, then looked at him and smiled. “He’s just dizzy. He’ll be okay in an hour.” The blond Brit checked the house, returned, and untied Jon’s bindings. “Hurry. They’ll be back any minute.”
Samuel shouted after Jon as he ran behind his rescuer out to the street where the limo’s motor was running. At least the Brits hadn’t killed Samuel. Maybe this was a message to Mossad. Or maybe Samuel was a double for the Brits?
Jon jumped into the back seat and the car sped away. He was now coated in perspiration. “Why’d you rescue me?”
The blond Brit didn’t answer from his seat alongside Jon in the back. The redheaded Brit sat beside him on his other side.
Jon rubbed his wrists where the bindings had cut his circulation. “You tracked me through my cell?”
No one responded.
Jon shook his head. He remembered his conversation with Mother. “My handler isn’t interested in your offer.” His stare shifted across each of the four others.
The older man in the shotgun seat turned. “Change in plans. Seems you’ve no future with the Israelis, so how about working for us?”
Jon blinked as his world changed. “First, tell me who the fuck you are. And don’t lie to me again.”
“Calm down. We just saved your life, so you owe us. We’re from MI-6.” He flashed his ID. Jon wondered if it was real. “I think you can be useful in basic espionage activities. Specifically, I need intel from within the Bank of Trade.”
Jon thought about Lisa. About her murderer. “Forget it! I joined Mossad to kill your asset.”
“Yes, yes. But look, we need to know about Tariq Houmaz. Specifically, did he get to transfer out $200 million? If so, where’d he send it? You’ve an MBA in economics and global banking. Bank of Trade is looking to hire. We have a mole in their human-resources department. Do this and you may have a future within MI-6 instead of in a British prison for treason or an unmarked grave somewhere.”
The bank Jon had been researching during the Christmas break was the Bank of Trade, the linchpin in the Islamic banking world. He’d heard rumors they had an enforcement arm. Infiltrating them would be dangerous and to do it, he’d need a lot of cash to change his appearance and craft a backstopped identity. No way I’m going in looking like Jon Sommers, he decided. Any way I do this, it’s more dangerous than being kidon. Then again, nothing in his world was safe anymore.
In his head, Jon imagined Lisa caressing him, whispering. You might find intel within the bank’s records that gives you another chance at Houmaz. He wondered if the cash Houmaz wanted to transfer came from MI-6? He guessed it did.
There was no other future for him. Lisa’s voice whispered, don’t you still love me? Isn’t that a good reason to do the bidding of MI-6?
In that moment he realized no sane person houses ghosts within. Maybe prison would be better. A place where he couldn’t do damage to himself or others. Maybe he deserved death for all those he’d l
eft dead.
Jon shook his head to clear it. “What makes you think you can trust me?”
The man in the shotgun seat chuckled. “My name is Charles Crane. I’m something of a gambler when it comes to evaluating talent. We’ll give you a chance, albeit with a short leash. Will you work with us?”
There was something familiar about the man’s name but Jon couldn’t remember what. He drifted, trying to concentrate on where he’d heard it. And came up empty. He sighed. “I’ve nothing left to lose.” Not true if Lisa can haunt me in Hell. Jon reached his hand out and Crane took it in a handshake. “I’ll need cash to work my way into the Bank. Lots of it.”
Crane handed across an envelope. “Everything you’ll need is in this envelope.”
Jon ripped it open. He found a British passport, a debit card from First Manhattan, and a bank statement indicating a balance of US$100,000.
Crane smiled at him. “You’re Michael O’Hara from now on.”
Jon stuffed the envelope into his pants pocket. The limo was rounding the Queensboro Bridge onto Second Avenue. “Stop here.”
He realized how close to death he’d come. Yet, he’d escaped. He knew what would happen to him if Ben-Levy’s kidons found him again. I should feel like an action hero. Like James Bond. I survived by the barest of margins, just like he always does. Not bad for a day’s work. At least I should feel alive.
But he felt tired and filthy as he walked away from the Brits.
Chapter Fifteen
Corner of Second Avenue at 60th Street, Manhattan
August 25, 6:22 a.m.
From the moment they dropped him off, Jon knew the Brits owned him. And he couldn’t return to the hotel; Mother would have it surveilled as soon as he found out what had happened in East Meadow.
In lobby of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, he found a dark place under an antique wall mural. He crafted a plan to recover his life, but it had holes he couldn’t find any way to fill.
No matter, he needed to act. And soon.
The photos on his new British passport and the extra one Mossad had provided looked too much like him. If he used either identity, he’d be marked for the rest of his short life. No, not good. He’d need another identity, one he could assume for an indefinite period, one looking unlike himself. If he grew a beard, identity software could still find him, but it was the best he could do.
What was the name of the cobbler Mother told them to use if he needed a forged identity, just in case his cover was blown and he couldn’t be exfiltrated? He was sure they hadn’t had time to inform all the lower-tier sayanim about his burn notice. Didn’t Rimora say the cobbler lived in the Bronx? Where?
Jon walked to the E train station at 53rd and Fifth, and rode it downtown to Seventh Avenue where he transferred lines and waited for half an hour on the steamy platform. He took the D north into the Bronx, exiting at Tremont Avenue. The Grand Concourse. As he walked to the corner, he saw four gangbangers walking in a tight-knit group, their tats and weapons bulges identifying them. He crossed the street. At the next corner, he saw a drug dealer, peddling his merchandise to several locals.
He knew the old woman lived nearby. But he couldn’t remember the exact address.
He wondered how long it would take for his name and description to filter down to all the cobblers? A while, perhaps days.
She would tell Mossad about his new identity, but, for the time being, he needed an identity the Brits wouldn’t know about. Just in case he failed in his work for them.
By now, Jon remembered everything he needed. Her name was Nomi Klein. He knew there would be security arrangements the Mossad would’ve installed at her office residence. Cameras, of course. Mundane but effective. He’d have to figure out some way to fool the cameras recording the woman’s customers. But not disable them. If he did that, it might alert Mossad.
The sun was rising, bright and hot, as he walked down 177th Street toward Morris Avenue. No stores open yet. He was hungry, thirsty, tired and felt like hell. A brush with death will make you feel that way. Jon found a phone booth next to a bus stop and looked Klein up in the telephone directory. He sat on a bench waiting there until 8 a.m., when stores would open.
He found a First Manhattan branch and withdrew $4,000. There was a bodega at the next corner. He scanned its shelves. Bought himself a black coffee, a ski mask, a large brimmed cap, and some women’s cosmetics, including eye shadow.
The forger’s little shop of horrors was on East 177th Street near the corner of Walton Street. In minutes he was around the corner from her building. He donned the ski mask and placed the cap over it, covering his head. Entering the building lobby, he rang her apartment. “My name is Harry Schwartz. I need some documents.”
The voice coming from the outer speaker was high-pitched and tinny. “Who sent you?”
“Mother. I’ll pay you three large for a passport, Ms. Klein.”
The outer door buzzed and he entered. Knocking on her door, he heard feet shuffling. He clenched his fists. Was he up for this?
The door cracked open, but not enough for him to see Klein’s face. He heard the click of a handgun’s trigger, chambering a round.
The door sprang open and she thrust the gun forward into his gut in a shooter’s stance. She looked to be about seventy years old. She might be a senior citizen, but she moved like a woman in her prime. “Enter.” The old woman drew a few feet away and pointed with the pistol toward a metal folding chair in the center of the living room.
Jon sat and she used plastic cuffs, binding him to the chair. “I have cash.”
“What’s your real name?” She didn’t sound happy.
This was a test. He couldn’t divulge his true identity; no one from Mossad would. So he stuck with the lie. “I told you. Harry Schwartz. Ben-Levy sent me. You’re sayan to Mossad and so am I. My cover was blown and one of the American intelligence agencies is looking for me.” This time, it felt good to lie.
She scanned his face. Then she nodded, uncuffing him. “Cash please.”
He pulled his wallet out and handed her the cash. “I want a washed Pakistani passport with a clean legend. How long?”
“Less than twenty minutes. You wait while I work. Believe me, I want you gone fast.” She turned and walked to the bedroom door. “Come here and stand against the wall. I have to take your picture.”
Jon removed the cap and ski mask. He held up a finger and pulled the cosmetics from a bag in his pocket. Soon his face was a few shades darker and the skin where his beard was beginning to grow was much darker. “Take the picture now.” He stood against the white wall. He noted she held an early model digital camera.
Twenty minutes later he had a Pakistani passport for a man named Salim al-Muhammed. “Destroy the photos in your camera.”
She shrugged and deleted the images while he watched.
He donned the mask and cap and rushed out the door. After speed-walking just over a block, he took off the ski mask, stopped and stood in the shade, hyperventilating.
When he’d cooled, he bought a taco from a vendor and scanned the area for a sign indicating apartments for rent. The food tasted rancid, but he was so very hungry.
An hour later, a man named Salim al-Muhammed handed a landlord $1,000 total for the first month and security deposit to rent a run-down furnished studio on 177th Street.
Jon signed the lease in his new name. He smiled while shaking the hand of the landlord. Wondered if his British accent would work for the man. “I’ll need a set of phone books.”
The landlord nodded and disappeared for a minute, returning with copies of the white and yellow pages. “Rent’s due on the first of the month.”
So, his accent would suit his Pakistani passport after all. “Of course.”
After the landlord left, he sat on the ratty couch. This place made his London flat look like a palace. The odor from the furniture and walls of the room was a mix of ancient untended garbage and stale urine. The couch and the fabric covered chair were bot
h torn and stained. The table had food scraps caked onto it, now part of the finish. The seat of the wooden chair was cracked and it looked unstable. He looked at the bed and shook his head. Who would live like this?
Jon closed and locked the apartment door. He entered the shower and washed off the makeup using a combination of cold cream and soap from the bodega. He’d have to perform for the Brits. At least until he could get something on them he could use. A plan formed in his mind, and he smiled. Soon, he was gone from the hovel and marching out onto the sidewalk.
He strolled toward the concourse, his head shifting left and right, scanning for the MI-6 trackers. No sign of them. Taking the steps down to the subway platform, he boarded the IND heading south to West Fourth Street.
On McDougal Street near Broadway, he found a discount clothing store where he bought a cheap business suit, collared shirt, and tie. After he paid the clerk, he used their fitting room to don the suit.
Jon walked to the Stern School of Business at NYU on West 4th Street in the West Village, and used his identity card for “Jon Sommers, London School of Business” to get him a guest pass into their computer center. He figured neither the Mossad nor MI-6 could have found a way to track his use of the expired school ID in the United States. It felt good to do something he’d trained for in Graduate Business School. He smiled at the irony that his real task was to set up a covert cover.
He remembered studying the Bank of Trade, its branch locations, operations, and financial results, when he wrote the paper for The Economist. Its operations headquarters were in Karachi. He took note of the branch address there and the limited list of names of personnel at the location.
He called Crane from the Stern library. “I’ll need to find a contact at the Bank of Trade’s operations center in Karachi. Do you know of anyone there I can use?”
