by D S Kane
He walked from the bookcase to the supply cabinet on the floor and pulled a fresh pad and pen from it, hoping no one would worry about his true intentions. When he got back on the elevator, his hands were shaking.
He forced his posture to a more confident pose. Don’t fear. You’re so close now! But as he walked past a window, he could see terror reflected in his face. What else can go wrong?
When the day ended, he pressed the lift’s buttons for the lobby and the fifth floor. The doors opened on five, and before anyone could get on, he got off, walking to the men’s room. Best to make it look like an emergency.
Inside, he chose the stall farthest from the entrance, closed its door, and sat inside. Someone entered just behind him. Sommers pretended to retch. The other man asked if he was okay. Jon said, “No. I’m sick. Probably bad samosa from the cafeteria.” He pretended to throw up again. “Ugh, I’ll be here a while. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” The other man let the restroom door close as he exited.
Sommers unlocked his end stall’s door and let it drift open just a crack, so no one entering the restroom would think it was occupied. He prayed nobody coming in would select his far-away stall for use.
He closed the toilet seat and knelt on top of it. Anyone who passed by would see no sign that the stall wasn’t empty. He remained silent as he waited for everyone to be gone, a matter of at least five hours. All the time he knelt there, his legs cramping, he heard that cursed voice, telling him what he must do. He wanted peace from her demands. I must be crazy. At least if I die, eternity will be restful. He sighed.
No, Jon, it won’t.
No one else entered the men’s room.
Just after midnight, his wrist alarm buzzed. He opened the restroom door. From his last time doing this, he knew to crawl into the operations unit. The lights didn’t trigger as he left the safety of the restroom.
It took him two minutes to slither to the door of the Plexiglas room, punch the entry code into the keypad, and crawl to the elevated supervisor’s station. Breathing hard more from fear than exertion, he reached around the computer for its USB port. Her voice whispered to him, push the cable into the port. He fumbled with its other end trying to insert it into his cell phone. This was the easiest thing he had to do tonight, yet it took him so long that perspiration ran down his face in the cool room. The cable kept slipping in his sweat-drenched hands. Just before he gave up, he heard the satisfying snap of the connection.
Good, Jon!
Then he realized he hadn’t taken a breath in almost thirty seconds. He sucked air while he ran the program to copy the computer’s contents onto the micro-SD card of his cell.
He thought, don’t make any noise. He waited under the desk as his cell processed the drive. An hour later, he heard a beep signaling its completion.
He crawled to the stairs and reached up for the door handle.
Almost done! Jon smiled; his plan had worked. The bank’s data was his now, and soon he could recover his life.
He made as little noise as possible as he took the stairs down floor after floor and passed below the lobby.
But just before he could make the turn through the door into the parking level, he heard the door squeak open behind him.
He turned to see who it was, and halfway into his head-turn realized it was a mistake.
He and the man behind him saw each other.
Bloody shit! It was Sambol!
Chapter Twenty-One
Bank of Trade headquarters branch, 47th Street at Park Avenue, Manhattan
September 10, 3:47 a.m.
Jon tore down the stairs into the garage, and dashed, breathless, to the street exit.
His cover was blown.
He sprinted as far as he could, fear fueling him. How had he let this happen? Shit! Now, the worst thing he could do would be to go back to the apartment. His address was on his résumé and job application, and he was sure it had been stored in their computers for easy access by bank staff. And now, for the bank’s enforcers. No, he’d need a safe place. He knew of only one.
The look on Sambol’s face as he saw Jon—first confusion, then understanding, and last, a desperate rage—had Jon sprinting as fast as he could, until he was winded. He was already sure the enforcers carried weapons.
He constructed a plan as he ran south toward Penn Station. First, he’d need a safe place to wait until the early morning Long Island Railroad trains started their rush hour.
He stopped every block or two at the entrance to a store, to look at the reflections from street lights against store windows. He didn’t see the same face twice, but he knew it didn’t mean anything. If Sambol had called in for enforcers, they might be difficult to see at night until it was too late.
He stopped to catch his breath at the entrance to an office building on Seventh Avenue just north of 36th Street. As he scanned the way he was headed, he saw a tall man walking toward him, north on Seventh, sneering. The man’s right wrist flicked and a knife blade appeared in his hand. Jon felt confusion. The bank’s enforcers would be coming south, wouldn’t they? He turned, ready to spring north and stopped dead. Two more were walking south toward him. Surrounded by hostiles, he concluded they were probably gangbangers.
He took a deep breath and turned toward the man with the knife. Mossad trained you with Krav Maga. Three should be easy. He ran toward the man with the knife and used his right hand to grab the surprised man’s wrist while his left hand twisted the knife from him. As he slammed the man down to the pavement, he turned, knowing the other two would be on him in less than two seconds. Jon held the knife against the disarmed attacker’s throat. “Come closer and he’s dead.”
The other two stopped. One had a Jersey accent. “What?”
Jon looked over their shoulders, toward the north. He saw a black SUV speeding down the street, still three blocks away. Possibly the bank’s enforcers. And there was no way for him to know. “You guys have guns?”
“If we did, you’d be dead,” snarled the shortest of the three, likely their leader.
Jon nodded. “Come here. Now, or I’ll turn your friend into a spiral ham. Now!” They complied, forming a moving cover, hiding him as the SUV barreled past continuing south.
He positioned the three closest to the street and had them surround him. They strolled the last three blocks in a tight grouping. Once outside Penn Station, he stopped and faced the three. “Guys, thanks for the help. I’m bloody grateful.” He pushed his original attacker back and pulled out his wallet. “Enjoy the remainder of your night, and next time, be more careful judging your victims.”
He tossed a few bills from his wallet into the air, turned and ran to the escalator, down into the labyrinth of interconnecting tunnels with their collection of railroad platforms. Many of the people on the lower floor of the station at this time of night were homeless. Seeing their ragged state depressed him.
He found a wooden bench near a gate to one of the platforms. It was midway down a hall and there were multiple staircases. He’d hoped he’d be safe here for a while. But only if he was gone with the rush hour.
He set his wrist alarm for 6 a.m., time for the early train to Roslyn, where he could find a cab to East Meadow. The safe house is the last place where the Mossad will look for me, he thought. Safe for a few days and that’s all I’ll need. If the intel is good, things will change for me. Mossad and MI-6 will think I’m a hero. If the intel is bad, I’m out of options.
As the gate to the platform ground open at 6:07, Jon marched through it and down the stairs. He found a spot to hide, behind a staircase on the nearly empty platform, and jumped with every strange sound he heard.
His clothing stuck to his skin and his palms were sweaty.
Where could he go after he delivered the intel? He needed a new plan.
There were only a few equations he needed to solve. Where could he find safety? What other hurdles might threaten him? The plan would have to solve these problems. And, he doubted he could do it alone
. He’d need a team to fix this. Who to choose? Would MI-6 help him? What about Mossad? No, he wasn’t that important to either intelligence agency. But maybe he could find another way to improve his odds. A fellow stringer might be the best way. Jon pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Time to get William Wing involved up to his bloody hip boots. Even if I have to threaten his tiny neck. What can I use to draw him here? A promise of money? Maybe. But whatever it takes, I must have his help.
At 6:11 a.m., an empty Long Island Railroad train glided to a stop at the platform. Jon entered and sat facing the entrance. As the train’s doors closed, he thought through his new plan until it was ready. When he arrived at the Roslyn stop, he’d need to steal a car to get him to East Meadow. A taxi would keep a record of his travel, and that might lead to him before he was gone from the safe house. He remembered seeing surveillance cameras outside the Mossad safe house, and crafted a plan to disable them. No one would suspect he’d use the safe house.
From the moment O’Hara threatened him, William Wing thought how tenuous his life had always been. The thought of having his work for Mossad made public was enough to get him to agree to help. His father would have him killed if he found out he’d helped Israel. He’d need to do this task face-to-face. In his assessment, the urgency O’Hara had claimed did not outweigh the risks posed by using the insecure Internet. Wing left his apartment in a hurry, grabbing a handful of clothes and squeezing them into a suitcase. Pushing more clothing and several patch cords for his notebook computer into its case, Wing ran from the elevator and out through the lobby, looking for a cab to the airport.
Dawn broke as the plane landed two days later. He took a taxi from JFK airport to the address O’Hara had given him in East Meadow. O’Hara responded to his furious knocking at the front door. William slammed the door shut behind him, his suitcase dragging behind him, his notebook computer case in his other hand.
He sneered at Michael. “I’m here as you ordered. What the fuck’s up?” William dropped his suitcase, carried the notebook computer into the living room and put it on the desk.
O’Hara looked ragged. His suit emitted a pungent odor. His beard was gone and the skin around his eyes was much darker than William remembered. Wing laughed. “You look like shit. Smell like shit, too.”
O’Hara reached into his suit pocket, and the movement of his hand, sweeping open his jacket, caused Wing to flinch. But the odor that came out with Jon’s hand forced William to hold his nose.
O’Hara handed a thumb-drive to him. “My cover’s blown. But I wasn’t leaving until I passed this to you. It’s the recording of the off-balance-sheet accounts for the Bank of Trade.”
Wing nodded. “And you want me to crack the files.”
O’Hara grimaced. “As fast as you can. My only hope of living through all this is to trade the intel to my handlers for their help. I need to become someone else. Fast. How soon can you decrypt the files?”
Wing examined the chip. “Before the end of today.”
O’Hara waved his hand. “Please, William.”
Wing nodded. “Take a fucking shower before I throw up.”
O’Hara nodded. “Sure. But, I need to disappear for a while. Somewhere very far away, with spots not covered by ECHELON. I’m thinking of a trip to China for a few months. Would I be safe there?”
Wing considered the covert agent. He shrugged. “How fast can you learn a language?”
“I’m a natural. Is that my only problem? And can I rely on your help if I’m there?”
Wing sighed. “Sure. I can help you for a price.”
O’Hara smiled and padded off to the bathroom.
His work completed, Wing had left the house without saying goodbye. Jon wondered if he’d ever see the hacker again. Wing had copied the decoded files onto two thumb-drives, and a left behind a stack of pages holding a listing of their contents. He also had fabricated a visa page that was ready to glue into any passport Jon wanted, on the spot where he showed Jon.
Jon completed reading decrypted intel as the sun set. He felt alarm spread through his gut, realizing the importance of his discoveries. Then he punched a number into his cell phone.
The voice on the other side sounded gruff and annoyed.
“Hello, Mother. It’s Sommers.”
“I don’t have time for you. A crisis.”
“Wait! You must make time. I have what I promised.” Jon’s hands shook.
“That’s what you said last time. It was worthless.”
“This time I have the details of every transaction Houmaz sent or received with the Bank of Trade. Everything.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Mother’s voice softened. “Really? And what do you want in exchange?” This time the voice was less rushed.
Jon nodded to himself. “I want you to drop the terminate-with-prejudice order. And have Klein craft an Israeli passport for me right away. I’ll pick them up on my way to the airport. And cash. Say, two hundred large. I’ll drop the intel in a thumb-drive with Klein on my way out of the country.”
The spymaster sighed. “I’ll gamble on you one more time. Don’t disappoint. The passport will be ready with your Mossad photo in two hours. Nomi will also have the cash when you arrive. Give the intel to her and tell her to send it to the Office, my attention. You’ve wasted too much of my time. This better be good or we’ll hunt you. And I’ll kill you myself. Painfully.
Jon felt the hard edge in Ben-Levy’s voice. He squirmed. “Yeah. Thanks.”
As night fell, he exited the safe house for the last time. Streetlights winked on. He walked to the car he’d stolen at the Long Island Railroad’s Roslyn stop when he’d first arrived, scanning his path and the area around him.
The drive to the Bronx took about an hour. He parked the car in an alleyway and walked the area several times to be sure no one was following him. He wondered what he’d do if the bank’s enforcers followed him? He’d have to kill them. Or at least try. He’d not killed anyone, ever, and wondered if he even could.
Jon knocked on Klein’s door. She must have seen him through the peephole, because she handed him a small canvas bag and held out her hand. He dropped the thumb-drive in her hand. She slammed the door in his face. He headed back to the car, and noted with relief that no one had as yet stripped its tires or stolen the vehicle.
The bag contained one Israeli passport in the name of Jon Sommers, plus lots of rubber-banded cash. Jon looked at his watch. He’d have to call Crane after arriving at the airport. He’d bought glue at a dollar store, and glued the visa onto its page.
Now it was time for him to disappear forever, a much richer man. His best odds of success were to use his new passport to leave the United States and fly to his new home in Shanghai, where it would safe for him to be Michael O’Hara once again.
He called China Airlines while he sat in traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway and paid for a ticket using his O’Hara debit card. Now, all he had to do was get to JFK and leave this wretched city.
At the parking lot of a car rental, he dropped off the stolen car and took their bus to JFK’s International Terminal.
Once inside, his first glance in a store window reflected a huge Middle Eastern man wearing a business suit and holding a newspaper. The man stared over it, at Jon, less than fifteen meters away.
Jon panicked and scanned the corridor for a place where he could disappear. There was none that would work. His legs threatened to buckle. Jon took a deep breath to steady himself. Gradually the adrenaline in his system diminished and he walked through the throng, trying to outpace his follower.
With his second check in a window reflection he saw four of them, all wearing suits and no longer disguising their pursuit. His face dripped sweat and he broke into a sprint.
As he ran at full speed, he thought about Lisa and his yearning to find justice for her. Lisa’s voice rang out inside him. If they take you, they’ll kill you, but even worse, they’ll find out who your handlers and fellow cover
ts are. Every one. He was shocked to realize his sense of honor wouldn’t let him permit it.
He bolted through the door and saw a bus filling curbside and strained to reach it. He banged the window as it started moving away from the curb. It rolled to a stop. When its doors opened for him, he jumped in. Standing and facing away from the terminal, he waited as it picked up speed, and then found a seat. Five minutes later, he dropped down the stairs to the subway station and headed to the platform where the crowd was thickest. He tried blending in while watching the staircase he’d just descended. A train slowed into the station, crammed full. He could now smell the stench of his own fear.
He pushed his way into the nearest car, sure he’d not been spotted. When the doors closed, he sighed, hyperventilating. Could he escape?
He looked at his wristwatch. He’d need to be at the ticket counter for China Airlines at JFK in less than an hour if he was to make his flight. He rode the subway one stop and got out in Brooklyn to find a taxi.
How had the bank’s enforcers tracked him? The cell phone! He wondered if they’d traced his previous calls or triangulated his position? It didn’t matter which. It was possible they now knew his plans, including where he planned to go. He’d need a new destination. Lisa’s voice uttered a single word. Singapore. He didn’t know why, but it sounded good enough.
The phrase he’d heard during his training one afternoon hunting terrorists in the Tze’elim, in the Negev, echoed inside him: No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.
Mathematics had failed him too many times. He decided to make it simple: He needed a destination country whose visa was easy to obtain.
As the aircraft took off for Hong Kong, William Wing felt glad he was done with O’Hara, the Israeli spy with a British accent. He seemed full of lies. Wing shook his head and clenched his eyes shut.
As the attendant handed him a beer, he read the email from Lieutenant Chan. It was a basic progress report from his father’s head hacker, containing endless details with nothing of any substance. The team had made no progress. Neither China nor Russia seemed to have any national interest in a war that wasn’t winnable by either country without the other’s total destruction. And whose interest would be served by that? He was sure a third party was responsible, but who?
