by D S Kane
A second later there was a knock on the steel door and he looked up. “Enter.”
Shimmel walked in, nodded, and sat in the folding chair across from Ben-Levy. He was at least six-foot-seven, maybe taller. Ben-Levy watched him squeeze into the chair. “I’m here as you requested.” The big man’s frame made the chair look like a footstool. His eyes, an intense sky-blue, stared at the spymaster.
Ben-Levy nodded. “The mission I told you about. If you choose to take it, I’ll remove you from the IDF, promote you to major, and assign you staff from the Institute. You’ll work for me in SHABEK.”
Shimmel shook his head. “I haven’t any interest in killing terrorists one-by-one when I can kill them by the scores. A tank is more direct and brutal.”
Ben-Levy nodded. “This mission is vital to Israel’s continued existence. It’s urgent. What I want you to do might end the lives of many more enemies in a single strike. Possibly millions. Interested?”
Shimmel shrugged. Maybe he didn’t believe what Ben-Levy said to him. But he nodded and faced Mother. “Sure. Tell me more.”
The older man shook his head. “I can’t do that unless you join me in SHABEK. National security.”
Shimmel’s hands dropped to his sides. He frowned. “National security? Hah.” But Mother could see the wheels turning in his head. Shimmel had a reputation as the smartest tactician in IDF. “Very well then. Make this official.”
Ben-Levy nodded. “As you wish.”
When Ben-Levy laid out the mission parameters, Shimmel’s eyes bulged. He read the contents of the yellow file folder through, end-to-end, several times. “This is unbelievable. Are you sure?”
The spymaster nodded. “I think you’re the only person we have who can do this. There’s a team in the third-floor conference room waiting for you to brief them, right now. The team must be in place in under twelve hours, before they are ready to launch the submarines. How soon can you leave?”
“Now. No time to waste.” Shimmel rose and smiled. “Thanks for this.”
Leaving the basement, Avram clutched the slim file folder in his left hand. He saluted a major as they passed, and pressed the elevator’s call button.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, but halfway through entering the number, he stopped. No one could know where he was going or what he’d be doing. Not even his wife. Instead, he sent her an email:
Darling Sharon,
I will be gone on business for at least three weeks. Can’t tell you the details, but this is a rather mundane assignment. Take care of yourself and little Golda until I return. Lovers always.
Avie
Shimmel approached the room Ben-Levy had sent him to. He opened the door, and stood in the entrance, absorbing the mood of his team. There were over fifty men and women in the large mission center, all seated, talking and joking with one another. It looked just like any IDF briefing, but with one difference. These people weren’t just out of uniform; they all looked like Arabs. Most had served in deep cover in countries like Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Syria, and all were dressed in Arab garb.
Many stank of stale perspiration. Only three women were present, all in Western garb of jeans and blouses.
He walked to the podium and opened the yellow folder. The silence was sudden. “You will refer to me as Aziz Tamil. We will be traveling together to Vladivostok. We will locate and steal two nuclear submarines from the Muslim Brotherhood after they pay the Russians for them. Each of you has a skill set making you essential to this mission. I will further explain our mission after we are in control of the subs. Until then, talk to no one but yourselves or me. Should anyone ask you questions, answer them in Arabic. Each of us should seem to not know the others. It must seem as if we’re all traveling alone on business. Once we arrive at our destination, reform by baggage claim. We’ll travel separately by taxi to the Hotel Visit, where they speak several languages, not just Russian. After we check in, find my room. We’ll gather there and Mother will update us on the mission. Any questions?”
Shimmel knew there would be none. From the folder, he removed a rubber-banded stack of travel billets, each in its own envelope, including tickets, cash in three currencies, and requisitions for handguns and ammunition, to be honored by the armory in the basement. These he handed out, calling each of the team by name. Within an hour all of them were in a school bus rolling toward Lod Airport.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Knevichi Airfield,Vladivostok International Airport,Vladivostok, Russia
September 16, 5:42 p.m.
Sitting at the front of first class, Tariq Houmaz was the first person hurrying off the Aeroflot plane from Moscow. He took a deep breath and coughed from the foul-smelling air that polluted Vladivostok. The terminal looked brand new, but it smelled like sneakers left to ferment for months in a moldy garbage bin. And having traveled several days almost nonstop, Houmaz felt filthy. His own stench was obvious, even to himself. His shirt stuck to his back as he moved toward the terminal’s exit.
He took a taxi to the center of the city, where he found a branch of the Bank of Trade. He entered and waved to a bank officer. The man smiled and led him to a desk in the back of the branch. “How can I help you, Mr., uh…”
“Tariq Houmaz. I have an account at your bank in New York and wish to arrange an internal transfer of funds to an accountholder whose account is at this branch. Can you do this?”
“If you have proper identification, of course we can.” The man held out his hand. Houmaz pulled some papers from his pocket. “How much do you wish to move?”
As he sought a taxi, Houmaz pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He got into the back seat and read its travel directions to the cabbie. His next stop would be the wharf. On one of the piers where the Russian mafiya had a warehouse. There, a man named Nikita Tobelov would arrange delivery of the submarines to him.
He’d wanted to meet the crew Tobelov had trained, before meeting the Russian, but the Aeroflot flight had taken an extra day to arrive and now he’d have to postpone meeting his submariners.
Their commander, Aziz Tamil, was one of the most notorious and feared terrorists in Mohammed’s Martyrs’ Brigade. No one had ever seen him. At least, no one still living claimed they had. The honor of meeting the man who’d murdered scores of Jews brought a smile to Houmaz’s face.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Earlier this day, he’d sent a coded message to the legendary Tamil using the Al Jazeera blog to reschedule the meeting with him. But when he visited the blog, there was no response from Tamil.
He’d have to ask Tobelov about it.
And he’d also need to pay for the new electronic countermeasures the Russian had promised. They were as expensive as the subs, but the new technology made them undetectable.
He felt a wave of heat as he left the terminal. And as bad as the air was in the terminal, outside the odors of petrochemical effluent had him coughing. He decided he hated Vladivostok.
The taxi let him out at the shoreline. He could see the warehouse and the office on the top floor where he expected Tobelov to be waiting for him.
As he reached the wharf, he stopped to study it. Fear made him cautious. He noticed two guardhouses, one on either side of the pier about fifty feet away. Soldiers emerged carrying AK-74’s, the newest upgrade to Kalashnikovs. The men demanded his identity papers.
Houmaz held up the backpack that had been resting between his shoulders. He was slow removing it. He unzipped the top compartment, held it open so they could see inside it. A surge of adrenaline boosted his pulse and narrowed the focus of all his senses. He reached in with two fingers, keeping the remainder of his hand where the armed men could see it. He removed a tiny satchel, its tag wound around his fingers, and handed it to one of the soldiers.
In seconds, one of them spoke to him. Even with his hearing dimmed from the adrenaline rush he could tell they were speaking Russian, a language he didn’t understand. He raised both hands, palms up, to s
ignal his lack of comprehension. The bigger of the two slapped the ID back into his hand and grabbed him by his shoulders, pushing him further along the pier until they all reached the warehouse door.
The other soldier knocked on the rusty door. When it opened, a man inside flashed a predatory smile at Houmaz. “Welcome.”
He spoke English, and Houmaz relaxed his shoulders, since he also spoke English. “Who are you?”
The man extended his hand. Houmaz shook it, waiting for the man to speak again. “Come inside where it’s cool.” The man pointed inside. “I’ll make us a pot of tea.” He turned and led Houmaz inside. “I’m Nikita Tobelov.” The Russian was in his mid-forties, bald and thin, his lower face covered with a Van Dyke beard.
Houmaz nodded and followed him up a metal staircase into an office. As promised, there was a tea kettle boiling over a sterno stove. One of the soldiers served them cups filled with the beverage as they sat.
“Tea will make our business dealings more civilized.” Tobelov smiled, but it looked more to Houmaz like a sneer.
He tried to keep the Russian from noticing he felt wary and ill at ease.
“I have transferred the remaining funds in US dollars as we agreed. I have the confirmation.” Houmaz reached for the pack and unzipped its side compartment. He pulled out a single sealed envelope. “Two hundred million.”
“And the payment for training your crews?”
“Twenty million. It’s confirmation is included in the envelope as a separate internal transfer.”
“What about the cash for the state-of-the-art electronic countermeasures?” Tobelov sipped his tea.
Houmaz raised his brows. “Are they installed in the subs?”
“Da. The devices make the water around the moving submarines appear to flow with the tide. Brilliant, and worth much more than I agreed to. The irony is that the Israelis developed the counter-surveillance masks at their Ness Ziona research facility in Tel Aviv.” Tobelov laughed.
Houmaz chuckled as he discovered this new detail. “It’s in a separate transfer.” He handed the other sealed envelope to Tobelov. He sipped his own cup of tea. It was lukewarm. “Where and when do I meet Tamil and the crew?”
The Russian’s eyes focused on a faraway spot. “They are currently on the beach, twelve kilometers west. But you should just come here, at the warehouse, at dawn, the day after tomorrow. I’ll send you instructions for the countersign using a dead-letter drop. Old rules. Moscow rules. A tree slick at the railroad station. Details on a note. Midnight, tomorrow night. Tamil will bring your crews to the beach. When we signal from one of the subs, they’ll paddle out on rafts. Our crew will exit the subs and take your rafts to shore. Your crews will board both subs with Tamil and take over. Clear? I assume you will return to shore with my men and travel home by yourself. Yes?”
Houmaz didn’t answer, worrying about letting the Russian know his plans. Instead, he rose to leave.
Tobelov touched Houmaz’s sleeve. “One more thing you should know. There are some political machinations in Moscow Center that will make any future dealings we have more costly for you. The government wants to take back control of all major weapons sales from us. They claim some sort of national-defense emergency is brewing. I think they’re behaving like old women. But it is what it is. So, consider this sale a gift. I pushed it through before they revoked our power to sell.” Tobelov’s eyes were downcast. “Sorry.”
Houmaz wondered why the Russian was telling him this. Would this truly affect his future operations? Possibly, but there was nothing he could do about it. He focused on his present objective: get the subs. “No problem. You have sold me what I need.” Shaking Tobelov’s hand, he rose and walked down the stairs, exiting the warehouse.
As he walked off the pier, his mind drifted to other consequences. So close now. Soon, Israel and all it represents will vanish from the earth in a scorching blast of radioactive missile fire. Every Jew there, all dead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
National University Hospital, 5 Lower Kent Ridge Road, Singapore
September 17, 7:11 p.m.
When Sommers opened his eyes, the room was spinning. He tried to rise off the bed using his elbows for leverage, but stretching his stomach muscles caused the breath to leave him in a gasp. He dropped back, moaning.
“Clyde, he’s awake.” One of the Brits, the blond one, moved closer to him. Sommers wondered, what’s the other’s name?
The stranger who’d shot the bank’s enforcers moved next to him. “You probably don’t remember anything, but my name’s Bob Gault. I work for one of the US intelligence agencies. I received the request to reinforce your MI-6 buds, and was available when the rescue mission commenced. They invited me in. How you doin’?”
Sommers blinked. What he saw shifted out of focus and then back in. He swallowed. “Belly’s a bloody wall of pain. My mouth’s parched. Water, please.”
Clyde moved closer. “Sir Charles asked us to follow you. We were in the lobby of your hotel. We’d placed a camera in your room, and when those Arab blokes broke into it, we wondered at first if you’d invited them. We called Sir Charles for guidance, and he ordered us to help, but he believed we’d need additional assistance.” Clyde pointed to Gault. “We all returned just when they were starting to screw with you.”
“You followed me all the way from Manhattan?” Sommers realized that in his hurry to escape the bank’s enforcement arm, his counter-surveillance tradecraft had been deficient.
“Actually, sir, we’ve followed you everywhere you’ve been for the last seven weeks. Including Sorab’s apartment in Karachi. Everywhere.”
Jon shook his head. But, of course. He’d been their puppet. And his tradecraft would never save him if he couldn’t even tell there were two king-sized brutes on his tail for this long a time. His formulas hadn’t anticipated any of this.
Clyde pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Sir Charles wants us to get your statement. To corroborate with what we’ve reported. Everything you’ve done, everyone you’ve seen or talked to. In return, we’ll provide Sorab with her visa. He still hasn’t sent it on to her.”
Jon nodded, hiding his rage. He took several breaths. “I thought you sent her the visa weeks ago.” He guessed if they’d lied to him about this, they’d lied about more.
He felt his face grow hot and faced Gault. Another liar. Studied the man’s face. And heard Lisa’s voice, warning him. He’s not trustworthy. I just know it to look at him. He made a decision. “I’ll talk. But not with him in the room. Your deal with me doesn’t include the United States.”
Gault’s face went from placid to red. He shook his head. “Right. Fuck you very much. You’re an idiot.” As he reached the door, he turned toward Jon. “Just to let you know, it was me that shot your ragheads. Clyde and Wilbur couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. So, for all my help in saving your wretched ass, I come away with nichevo to show my handlers. Thanks for nothing.”
Jon frowned. “I just don’t trust you. The Yanks have treated Mossad like dirt since time began.”
Gault shook his head. “You don’t understand. We can help you. I suspect you’re not done yet and you’ll need every assistance I can offer. How about it?”
Jon looked from Wilbur to Clyde to Gault. “No. I’ll pass.
Gault muttered a curse and marched out through the door.
Clyde slammed it shut. “Right, then. Your statement.”
When he slept he dreamed of Lisa. She smiled, but then reminded him he wasn’t finished yet. And next she was touching him, telling him she loved him.
When he woke, he thought about his situation. Once again, his cover here was blown. There might be others from the Bank of Trade hunting him. Singapore wasn’t safe, and Gault was right. He wasn’t finished.
The next morning a doctor visited his room and handed Jon a bottle of antibiotics. The doctor told him not to eat solid foods for at least two days. The stitches would dissolve within a week. The doctor begged him
to stay for at least two more days in observation, but Jon shook his head. “Don’t think so. Not safe here. Besides, there’s something I need to do.” But after the doctor left his room, Jon collapsed onto the bed as the room spun.
Three hours later, the doctor released him from the hospital, after first stating it wasn’t safe for him to leave. Clyde helped him up from the wheelchair.
Wilbur walked into the street to flag a taxi,
Clyde told Jon the room at the Mandarin Oriental was sealed by the local police, “so, you needn’t check out.”
Along with the two Brits he was now thinking of as “the twins,” he rode a taxi to the airport. The twins sat on either side of him. “Where to, brother?” Clyde was beginning to annoy Jon.
Jon remembered the intel he’d sent to both Crane and Mother. He conjured a plan, this time avoiding the mathematics that had failed him. The intel featured Vladivostok. Submarines. It was like a nightmare. “First get me Crane.”
Clyde punched a number into the cell and handed it to Jon.
“Crane.”
“It’s Sommers. Have you delivered Sorab her visa?”
“Yes. Our embassy sent a foreign service officer and picked her up. She’s in the embassy now, and she’ll be in London the day after tomorrow.”
Was this another lie? “Thanks.” He terminated the call and handed the cell back to Clyde. “I think Vlad is the best place to start. Take me to the airport.”
Wilbur tapped on the cabbie’s glass. “Changi Airport.”
Jon imagined Houmaz, meeting with a merchandiser from the Russian mafiya and sailing off in the conning tower of one of the subs, the other trailing close behind. He frowned and struggled to make a better plan, one that might actually work.
Israel might not have much time left before everyone there was incinerated.
