by D S Kane
The man waiting for him looked like an older version of himself. Both were dressed in well-tailored conservative clothing. But Sommers wore a necktie, and where his facial hair was brown, his companion’s was white, matching that on the top of his head.
The older man didn’t extend his hand. In English with a slight Israeli accent, Yigdal Ben-Levy whispered, “Why have you requested this meeting? We still have a burn notice out on you. Not to mention a terminate-with-prejudice order.”
Sommers examined his hands as if they held the secret he was here to offer. “Yeah. Well, I hope to change all that. Look, I’ve no desire to continue being your target. So, I’ve got a tidbit for you. Bank of Trade. I recruited someone within their operations center in Karachi.” He beckoned the waiter. “What can I get you?”
Ben-Levy waved his hand. “Whatever you’re drinking.”
Sommers nodded. His formulas had forecasted Ben-Levy would be compliant. As the waiter approached, Jon held up two fingers. “Guinness, please, one cold and one at room temp.” As the waiter turned away, Sommers pulled a thumb-drive from his pocket. “Courtesy of their money-transfer department.” He held up the thumb-drive where Mother could see it, but he didn’t offer it.
The waiter brought two bottles with glasses overturned, and uncapped them. Both men waved him off and poured their own brews. Sommers tasted his lukewarm brew with relish. “The Yanks don’t understand beer. It should always be drunk at room temperature.”
Ben-Levy’s expression remained distant. “Are the results in the thumb-drive?”
Sommers nodded. “Some are here, but there may be more to come.”
Mother took another sip. “When will you know the quality of the product?”
“I’m having it vetted right now. I should receive a report in the next day or so. If needed, I’ll request more intel from my asset. If so, it might take a week or more.”
Mother reached for the drive but Jon pulled his hand back. “I’ll give you this tomorrow. We’ll play by my rules. You don’t get this until I have some assurances. Call off your killers.”
Ben-Levy nodded, frowning. “I know you don’t trust me. I did what I felt best. Your death would have served as a warning to our kidons.” He clenched his lips tight. “I’ll call off the hit team.”
Jon let out a breath. “Let me know when it’s official. After your call, I’ll do a dead drop for you. A real drop, not the multiplayer online computer game crap the Muslim Brotherhood is using now. Bryant Park, the northeast tree has a carved slot probably left over from the Cold War, maybe used by the Russians. Have Shula do the pick-up from the slick. I know her. I trust her.”
“After her team tried to terminate you?” His smile was grim.
“Send her alone.”
Ben-Levy nodded. He took another sip of beer, rose, and left the booth.
Jon turned away from the door as it opened to keep the sudden daylight from blinding him. He called the waiter. “Steak and kidney pie. And another room temp Guinness.”
So far, the math underlying his plan was working.
Jon stood inside the lobby of the W. R. Grace Building on the north side of 42nd Street across from Bryant Park. He wore a zippered NYU hoodie with a cap under its hood and sunglasses over his eyes. Eating a candy bar from the newsstand, he watched Shula Ries approach the tree and walk past going north, swinging her head east-west. He scanned for another kidon and saw no one suspicious. Twenty minutes later she repeated the pass going west from the library, this time scanning north-south. Still no one nearby was following her, and no one standing still to rouse his fears. He waited for the third pass. As she approached, he left the lobby, crossed the street and followed behind. He could feel his pulse quicken in anticipation. When she reached into the slick for the thumb-drive, he placed his left hand in his pants pocket with his finger pointing through the pants to mimic a gun. “How good to see you again, Ms. Ries.”
Shula’s hands rose in a martial arts move. Jon slipped back a few steps. Her expression was priceless: tanned face gone white as she noticed the pointy object in his pocket. “Jon! A pleasure for me as well.” Her right hand shifted toward her shoulder and he saw her fingers twitch.
“Wouldn’t do that. Listen, I’ve no intention of hurting you. Just wanted to say, I understand why you tried to kill me. Mother calls the shots. Oh, such a bad pun. Well, consider this: We might work together again if circumstances require. Tell Mother the gift was free this time, per our deal. Next time, cash up front. Got it?”
She frowned, her hand dropping back to her waist. The other hand now held the thumb-drive.
He turned and vanished into the crowd. Phase two of the plan was complete.
Jon needed to change his appearance, so his face would match his passport. On his way from the tanning salon, the throw-away cell Crane had given Sommers beeped. “Yes?”
“It’s Crane. The intel you delivered is a good down payment, but it’s missing crucial details we absolutely require. Get a pen and paper.”
Sommers flipped on the Record Call app of his cell phone. No paper necessary. “Yes?”
“We need transaction details. The files you gave us contain only bank SWIFT numbers. My people say the transactions look suspicious, possibly even dangerous, but we can’t tell what he bought or exactly which account he sent the money to—only the sending bank’s codes. We need details for the sending party and receiving party, and the transaction details on the actual outgoing money transfer. They’re probably in the Bank of Trade’s accounting computer, but it’s likely the machine has no telecommunications transmission port. If so, then someone will need to be inside the bank to complete the job. Tell your asset to grab them. We’ll hold her passport and visa until you’re ready to deliver.” The line went dead.
Jon grimaced and pounded his fist against the nearest building’s wall. “Bloody twit!” And threw his arms into the air. “Ah, shit.” His entire plan had unraveled. What could he do now?
The Mossad would be back on his trail. He thought, trying to construct a formula that would save him from death. There was a missing variable. He needed someone’s help, someone with access to the bank’s accounting records.
The obvious person was sweet Sandhia. But, she wasn’t in accounting. Might it still work? Nothing to lose. He’d try her first.
Sandhia Sorab swept the hair from her face and stared at the notebook computer on the desk of her Karachi apartment. The smell of curry filled the night but she ignored it in the dry, hot air as she read the email:
Sandhia, dearest,
I need a bit more information regarding our target. It appears there are no transaction details for the incoming and outgoing transfers. Could you kindly please research and send me the additional details. I have the gift ready to send to you, right after I receive what I require.
Yours,
Michael O’Hara
She felt panic. She’d delivered what she’d promised. And now he wanted more. He’d promised to deliver the passport and visa she needed. His email implied the threat he might not, unless she helped him again. Worse, she thought, emails can be traced. She knew the Pakistani government had a cybercrimes division doing this, and now she felt unsafe. Her fear morphed into frustration, and then transformed to rage. She pounded out a reply:
To help you, I requested a transfer to the station where I hoped to see the intel you want. I told you I found no details in the incoming and outgoing transactions.
Therefore, the transactions you seek must be “on us” and belong to accounts where the source and destination of funds are both within my bank. No details would reach the stations. Ever. If this assumption proves true, the incoming and outgoing transactions are for very large amounts originating in hand-carried cash deposits and withdrawals at a teller window.
I cannot ask for reassignment to the accounting department where the records of the “on us” are kept. Please send me what we agreed to. And, after you send it, I expect never to hear from you.
/> She prayed her message was oblique enough not to be obvious to the Pakistani secret police. She hit the Send button and then erased everything on the notebook relating to her work for O’Hara. Now, even receiving the passport and visa might be dangerous. But she needed them anyway, and right now, since the government might soon be looking for her.
Although she didn’t follow Islam when it was inconvenient, she did believe in Allah. Her behavior with Jon was nothing unusual for her. What did matter was family. She longed to see her brother Ravi, even though he’d carried an undeniable rage within him since their parents’ death. If he was planning what she suspected, he might not be alive much longer.
Reading the email, Jon’s face tensed into a frown. This plan had also failed. He sat back down at the tiny table in his apartment and put his hands below his chin. He thought, I need another plan, a better one. He felt numb.
Hours passed while he sat on the couch and pondered things he might try. Most were more dangerous than performing an assassination, such as gaining employment at the Bank of Trade and infiltrating the accounting department so he could steal the data himself. Others had low probabilities of success, such as pleading with Crane to offer a covert to do the dirty work. A covert specializing in pure espionage, with a knowledge of banking? Unlikely. Worse, he didn’t even have the skills of a pure spy. The apartment got dark. He gazed at his wristwatch. 7:25 p.m. He was hungry. Maybe food would fix his head.
He walked the staircase out through the lobby. As he exited onto 179th Street, he made a decision. The one tactic left to him had a low-probability outcome. He needed to have someone present within the Bank of Trade’s accounting department, doing the dirty work. Someone besides the lovely Ms. Sorab. And, he’d no interest in exposing himself. No, no bloody chance of that. He’d find a hacker and see if they could find a way.
He entered the Irish pub on 173rd Street and sat down at the bar. He shouted to the bartender, “Six bottles of unrefrigerated Guinness.”
The bartender approached him partway, staying a comfortable distance from Jon. “You sure?” Jon nodded. The bartender shook his head. “Forty-two dollars.”
Jon raised his head. “Yeah.” He tapped the space in front of him with the debit card for Michael O’Hara. “Here.” He drummed his fingers against the Formica bar top.
The bartender disappeared through a doorway for a few seconds and returned carrying a carton. He whispered “Your funeral,” uncapping the first of the six.
Jon sipped the amber liquid. If he didn’t come up with something soon, it would be his funeral.
He remembered the techno-weenie prince from the University of London. Plucking his cell phone from his pocket, he called London’s telephone information and asked, “Phillip Watson. Either London or very close by.” The operator gave him a number, and he entered it into the cell phone.
It rang several times. Must be about 6:30 a.m. there. A familiar male voice answered, “Yes? Bloody early, isn’t it? I’m not due in until noon today.”
“Phil, it’s Jon Sommers. Sorry for the sunrise call, but I wanted to make sure I got you and not your voicemail.”
“Jon? From University of London? Long time since we last saw each other. You in London? We could meet for a drink.”
“Uh, no, sorry. I’m across the pond, in Manhattan. Listen, I need to ask you a question. Can you spare me just a few minutes right now?”
Phil took some time before answering. “Sorry, didn’t want to wake Jenn. Okay, what’s the matter?”
Jon nodded to himself. “How’d you hack the Israeli government’s computers? I’m in need of a hacker.”
“Huh? No, Jon, I couldn’t make it through their firewall. I never got further than cracking the backdoor with a ubiquitous user ID and password. There was another series of codes based on location and something else. I couldn’t ever figure it out.”
Jon sat straight up, wondering if what he thought was indeed true. No, couldn’t be. But he had to ask. “Phil, you gave me an envelope. It contained—”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Phil’s voice verged on panic.
Jon took a deep breath. “Okay. Just tell me, where’d the information come from?”
“I dunno. The envelope just appeared in my apartment mailbox, with a sticky pasted to it. The note said, “Please give this envelope to Jon Sommers. And, that’s what I did.”
So, it was Mother after all. One of his sayanim. Jon shook his head. He’d been set up. “Ah, so that ends the mystery. Thanks, so very much. Well, as long as I’ve gotten you up so early, tell me, how are you and Jenn doing?”
“We’re planning the wedding. Probably late autumn. Say, will you be in London then? I’d like it if you could attend.”
Jon smiled. “But of course I’ll come.”
“Great. I’ll send you an invitation. Got an address?”
Jon thought for a while. Where did he live? What address would work? “Send it to me, care of 34 King Saul Boulevard, Tel Aviv.” This was where the Mossad had been located until their new building had been completed in Herzliyya. They still maintained a postal address there.
“Sure.” There was a long silence. “You’re working for them, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Just send it there, and I’ll get it.”
“Okay. Lemme go back to bed now. Looking forward to our next meeting, Jon.” Phil terminated the call.
Jon tried to focus on his problem. But the thought of Mother’s having set him up to recruit him kept bothering him.
He sipped a bottle of the beer to its end. Then another. And another.
As the hours passed, another plan began to hatch in his head.
For over two hours, he continued mulling the burgeoning plan. Yes, it might work. And maybe he could keep himself from being exposed. He just needed someone with the right skills. Could he find someone brave enough or stupid enough to try his plan? There were a few sayanim Mossad used as hackers, cash only, work for hire. Non-official covers, NOCs, like himself.
There was one hacker in particular whom Mother had mentioned to him before sending him out on his last mission. He tried to remember the man’s name. Wong? Wang? No. It was Wing. William Wing. He concentrated on what Ben-Levy had told the class about the hacker. Jon had always been better with numbers and addresses than people’s names. And then he remembered the man’s phone number and email address. He hoped Wing hadn’t changed either.
He smiled and left the remains of the last bottle’s contents on the bar as he walked out. Maybe there was some way to postpone Ben-Levy’s raging disappointment at his failure, and the hit team that would follow. Wing might be his last resort.
Chapter Eighteen
Ascot Heights, Block A, 21 Lok Lam Road, New Territories, Hong Kong
August 30, 4:16 p.m.
William Wing sat in the tiny kitchen overlooking Hong Kong’s harbor. As he admired the view of boats outside, his cell phone chirped with an incoming email. He set down his char siu bau and pulled the phone from the leather case strapped to his belt. When he examined the screen, he frowned. William punched the phone number in the email into his cell. “Yes?”
“Ah, Mr. Wing. Is this a good time? I need a few minutes.”
Wing frowned. “For what? Who are you?”
“I’m an independent, a stringer for Mossad. Michael O’Hara. Believe you’ve done quite a bit of work for us in the past. We’re willing to pay, of course. Handsomely.
William’s mouth curled as if he’d eaten something bitter. He thought of hanging up. But fear froze him. Mossad. It had more than paid his bills. The work he’d done for them was challenging, leaving him with a feeling he’d helped make the world safer. But, he always felt at risk helping them. He tried to say something, felt his lips move in silence. His hands shook with the feeling of exposure in an icy wind. This was far past his personal point of comfort. The sound of the man’s voice made him feel this spy wanted him for something dangerous.
“William? You th
ere?”
He shook himself out of his fear. “Uh, I, uh—”
“God’s sake. I need help. Please say you’ll at least hear me out.”
Wing nodded to himself. “All right.” He remembered cell phones were easy to trace and bug. For them to contact him this way, it must be important. And, he had a few days free. Whoever this man was, his caller would have to travel. Wing said, “Not over the phone. Face-to-face. Fly to Hong Kong and contact me from the airport.”
After several seconds of silence, the caller spoke. “Why can’t we do this some other way?”
“I won’t do business with an intelligence officer I haven’t met. It must be face-to-face. If you can’t come, I’m not your guy. Remember to bring your creds. I’ve got to see them.”
Two days later, Jon had waited in line to debark American Airlines Flight AA6124. Takeoff was 8:05 p.m. from JFK, and now, two hours after dawn, the flight touched down. With no checked luggage, he made his way through customs, on his way out of Chek Lap Kok International Airport.
He was unsure how to convince Wing. There might be risk in working with the hacker, given their joint relationships with the Mossad. He knew he was grasping at low-level probabilities. Even worse, the stress of jet lag was dulling his thinking and might easily become a more extreme danger. Time was running out. Soon, either MI-6 or the Mossad, or both might express their disappointment with lethal intentions.
As he approached the taxi line, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Wing. His call was sent to voicemail. An instant later, his cell buzzed with an incoming text message:
