by D S Kane
They’d repeated their border intrusions, posing as Russians in Luozigou, on the Chinese border. Then they’d traveled several klicks west to Xinkai, China. Here they crossed the border and trekked northeast to Poltavka, Russia, and then west. Again they crossed the border, to Sanchakou, China. From there they’d marched southeast to Korfovka, Russia, then east to Dongning, China, where they were now. At each destination they stayed as long as it took to set up the mines, hack into whichever government’s computers they targeted, watch the mines explode and soldiers die, and then journey to somewhere safe where they waited for darkness.
Drapoff found the list of destinations dizzying. It was a cook’s tour of the border towns of both countries. Mountainous dirt roads covered with razor wire, deep majestic valleys, where he could see tiny villages and larger cities. They stole vegetables from the fields to complement their diet.
Now, they had one stop remaining, south in Daduchan, China. When they were done, they’d use their secure satellite phone to check in with Mother. If they’d created adequate confusion and anger in both governments, as intended, they’d head southeast into Russia’s Primorye Maritime Territory, find the boat they’d camouflaged and hidden, and take a series of planes back to Tel Aviv from Vlad.
If Ben-Levy told them it wasn’t good enough, they’d signal for an air drop of additional weapons and food, and continue disrupting the China-Russia border.
Drapoff raised his arm, drawing Dushov’s attention. “Ready now, the data have been inserted.”
Lester nodded. “Let’s get out of here. I found a good place to observe, one klick west.” The five covered their tracks behind them as they left the area.
As they moved away, a border patrol began scaling the hill where they’d had their camp.
The train crossed the Northern Caucasus Mountains, heading toward Grozny, Chechnya. Tariq Houmaz watched the landscape creep by. There were enough abandoned, rusting, crippled tanks to fill a museum. He peered through the window of the train as they passed landmine markers, dense forests, and dark lakes. The train climbed along a ridge and he saw the Sunzha River.
Beyond, he could now make out Grozny. He remembered the name of the city meant “fearsome.” Houmaz chuckled. The Russians had put down a massive rebellion here just after the fall of the Soviet Empire. Not so fearsome now, eh?
The train slowed, rolling past Severny airport as it neared the station. All he could see was an old aluminum-sided building. He cursed fate as he waited for the train to stop. There’d be nothing here, he guessed. No food vendors, and possibly no restroom. He debarked past the ticket counter in the small station house. Was I deceived by Aziz Tamil? Paranoia, he thought. Comes with the job.
There was a restroom, and it surprised him how clean it was. As he used the sink to wash his face, he planned his next series of operations. He would have his force in the caves near the village of Upper Pachir, Afghanistan, build several big bombs, dirty bombs. He’d arrange to have them transported for detonation in the largest cities of America. He’d use the new hard-to-detect explosive materials his mole at the Ness Ziona had poached for him. Houmaz stifled a laugh, remembering the fool thought he was from the CIA.
But his mind pushed back, obsessing about Vlad. What had happened to the subs? Had they been stolen? He needed to know if his suspicions were correct. He’d planned for two years to buy them, and he prayed to Allah they were in the hands of men his brother had arranged to ride them back to Palestine. But, if they’d been stolen from him, he’d want to find another way to complete the mission he’d started two years ago. And, he’d have to make many adjustments to accommodate his failure to acquire them. Without the subs, how could he eliminate Israel first, before he attacked America?
He found a wrecked car the people of no other place would call a “taxi.” The car was almost as old as its ancient driver. He paid the man to take him to the airport.
His next destination would be Kabul, Afghanistan. So close to his mountain camp. Soon, he’d be united with his mujahidin. He always felt safe there, sheltered in the cool limestone caves.
The airport was a set of old brick-and-mortar ramshackle buildings. He found the ticket counter and purchased a ticket to Kabul, then used the urinal. In the station building, he looked for a food vendor. There were none open at this hour. Glancing at his wristwatch, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. “Pesi? It’s your brother. You told me Aziz Tamil had never been seen. You said he always uses cutouts. What did you find out about the face I sketched, photographed, and emailed to you?”
The voice in Riyadh said, “No direct hits. Not enough data. When you get to the village, I’ll transmit the faces and names that are close matches to the drawing you sent me. But Tariq, there are close to a thousand in our records.”
Tariq Houmaz saw the jet begin loading passengers and he made his way to the line. “No matter. Thanks. Send my driver to the airport. I’ll be touching down sometime tomorrow, Allah willing.”
He still wasn’t sure if he’d failed or succeeded. If indeed the man he’d seen was Aziz Tamil, he’d have a new piece of intel he could use to force the man to do his bidding. But if he’d been tricked…His rage escalated and his clenched fists turned white.
He took his seat on the plane and counted the hours until he was safe. He’d pay them all back. An eye for an eye. Israel first. Then, the United States.
Chapter Thirty-Two
MI-6 headquarters, London
September 20, 4:15 p.m.
Sir Charles Crane stood at attention, forcing his face slack to disguise his sense of frustration. “Sir, we have no proof.”
“Then get it.” The Associate Minister of Foreign Intelligence rose from behind the oak carved desk that had once been a door to the galley of a tall ship. He smiled, examining his fingertips as if the favor he asked was trivial. He was ancient, portly, and it seemed to Crane that the man was more interested in his orchids than the spies he commanded and the intel business.
He was a man no one outside the inner circle of government knew. Even his name was false, and he’d never had his picture taken. Unlike the others in the department, he ran operations that were strictly off the books.
Crane shivered in the warm office. God, I fear this man. He took a deep breath. “We’ve tried. But after the loss of our two coverts in Vladivostok, there was no one nearby who could help us in time.”
The other man walked to the windowed wall and watered several orchids. He held the small pot in left his hand and brought its flower to his face. After sniffing it, he faced Crane. “That’s too bad. What do you want me to do with these unproven allegations?”
Crane stiffened. “A mission. We need to bring Sommers in. He’s the only one who knows for sure what happened.”
The minister turned from the flowers to face his servant. “And what if he isn’t of a mind to cooperate?”
“I recommend we get the intel from him any way we can.”
The minister’s face swiveled sideways. “Chemical interrogation? Waterboarding? You mean torture.”
Crane almost bit his lip. “Ah, well, yes. We could call it something less heinous, but that’s what I suggest.”
“Let me see if I get this. You bloody well want us to rip open someone we’ve invested time and money in. Someone we’ve lost coverts to protect. Because you believe he’s still working for the Jews. And you think he might have masterminded the theft of two nuclear subs from the Russian mafiya?”
Crane shook his head. “No, not exactly. We think his team stole them from the Muslim Brotherhood.”
The minister’s face went crimson. “I don’t care if they stole them from bloody Santa Claus. The point is that Israel might have the subs now, and use them to implement the Jericho Sanction. If so, the genie has left the bottle. And you can’t even tell me if that’s true.”
“Uh, yes. But we can find out. If we mount a recovery mission for Sommers. Sir?”
“Absolutely not. We’
re in past our hip-boots in a bucket of shit. No way I want us in past our chins. Pass your assumptions on to US intelligence and let them go wankers on it.” The minister picked up another flower pot and held it close to his face, scrutinizing its orchid.
Crane winced. Once the Americans got started on this, it would all be out of his control. He raised his hand in protest.
The minister shook his finger and turned away.
The meeting was over and Crane had his orders. As he left the office, his head fell.
Bob Gault stood at attention, blinded by the sunlight coming in from the window. Washington was way past hot, and it was a sauna on the street. Just the walk from the cab to the lobby of the agency’s headquarters had left perspiration marking Gault’s underarms. Mark McDougal looked like he’d been up all night. He hadn’t invited Bob to take a seat. A bad sign. “You wanted me, sir?”
“Yeah. Bob, I just got this cryptic message from one of our British counterparts. Says you were involved with the rescue of a Brit in Singapore. We never gave you any rescue assignment. You were just in Singapore as a courier. Explain.”
Gault’s brows arched. “Well, uh, two of their coverts called and begged assistance. And in the name of improving foreign relations, I helped them retrieve one of theirs. We saved his life. I called you first but it was the middle of your night and, uh, I was sent to your voice mail. No way I could leave a message, and they claimed it was urgent, so I—”
“Shit, Bob. I don’t care if it was urgent. You overstepped your bounds.” McDougal’s face glowed red.
Gault knew no one ever claimed to have seen his boss lose his temper. He swallowed hard, realizing he couldn’t tell McDougal what else he’d discovered. There just wasn’t enough proof that the Israelis stole a set of subs from the Muslim Brotherhood and were planning to assassinate Tariq Houmaz. It would just provoke McDougal even more. For all Bob knew, McDougal might be aware of these things. He took a deep breath and prepared for whatever his boss would say next. “Sorry, sir.”
“Sorry? Do that again and you’ll be posted to cover a Girl Scout troop in Antarctica.” McDougal shook his head. Then he seemed to stare right into Gault’s soul. “You ran an off-the-books mission. My contact in MI-6 is in a foul mood. He claims the man you helped save was present when the two coverts you helped to save him were murdered. Don’t yet know if the Brit you rescued is the killer but I’m guessing he was.”
The blood drained from Gault’s face and his knees grew weak. “You mean Michael O’Hara murdered the two MI-6 coverts?”
McDougal continued staring at Gault. Shook his head. “Yes, Bob. And you played the star role in this mess.”
McDougal took a single sheet of paper from the manila folder on his desk. “The Brits think the Israelis stole two submarines from a Muslim Brotherhood bomb maker named Tariq Houmaz. The Israelis have some far-fetched plan to nuke the entire Middle East if they’re ever wiped out or if a nuclear device ever explodes in Israel. I told Director Greenfield and he spoke with the President. POTUS wants those subs. The United States couldn’t survive if the entire Middle East became radioactive.” The man scratched the top of his head. “Look, I’m gonna give you a chance to regain face with me. I’m assigning you a team. This is top priority. Get on it right now.” He handed the paper to Gault. “Read it and leave it.”
Gault scanned the page he held. He braced himself, fists clenched around the single sheet. An impromptu mission with no planning and little probability of success. His promotion was gone in the toilet now, and his career might follow it down. He nodded. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
McDougal handed him another page, a roster with twelve names on it. His team. The only one he knew was a hacker he’d had problems with in the past. He’d never gotten along with Lee Ainsley, and he suspected the man would see this as a chance for payback.
Here it is, Gault thought. My new assignment. The mission from hell. In his mind he named this black operation “Project Shitbag” as he left his boss’s office.
Yigdal Ben-Levy walked around the chalkboard in the tiny basement office, scratching his chin though his beard. He drew a schematic of the problem. Sort of a Venn diagram, but using roughly drawn boxes in place of the usual circles. The lines connecting some of the boxes indicated the relationships among their events. The text in some of the boxes contained descriptions of missions he’d initiated.
He sketched Jon’s new intel into its own set of boxes alongside the ones that had been there before.
Box one was labeled “Weapons Source.” The Russian mafiya sold weapons to anyone who had enough cash. The source of this intel was Mossad’s Intelligence Division.
Box two was labeled “Cash Source.” The Muslim Brotherhood was receiving large payments from someone unknown, and using the cash to buy weapons of mass destruction from the Eastern District of the mafiya in Vladivostok. The source of this intel was Amos Gidaehl, Jon Sommers’s predecessor, now presumed dead. Ben-Levy hadn’t learned who was funding them but suspected either MI-6 or the United States. Iran couldn’t spare enough cash for this operation, and he’d also ruled out the Saudis since it would have taken several princes to afford it, and he believed such a large group wouldn’t be able to keep this secret. Whoever it was had assassinated Gidaehl before he’d had the chance to complete his mission and relay the details to Mother. Why would a Western intelligence agency fund the Muslim Brotherhood?
Box three was labeled “Leverage requires proof.” Of course, if he could prove either the Brits or the Yanks had funded the Muslim Brotherhood, he’d have untold leverage.
The edges of this box intersected boxes for American intelligence and MI-6. But now, he didn’t have the proof.
Box four was labeled “Steal Subs.” He’d found a way to stop the sale of the subs to the Brotherhood—if Shimmel and his team succeeded in delivering the subs to the Gulf.
Box five was labeled “Border War.” His mission was to shut down the Russian mafiya’s ability to conduct their arms-sales business. If he was correct about the Muslim Brotherhood’s source of funds, any alternative course of action he took would soon make things sticky for their funding source. He’d designed Operation Bloodridge to shut down the mafiya’s export sales forever. He hoped the mission might be enough to convince the Russian government that the mafiya’s weapons were needed at home just in case the border war with China escalated into a full-scale hot war.
He’d mounted Bloodridge as an off-the-books operation without the consent or even the knowledge of either Oscar Gilead, Deputy Director of SHABEK, or the Prime Minister. His team of coverts, Lester Dushov, Ari Westheim, Shimon Tennenbaum, JD Weinstein, and Michael Drapoff were now on the border between China and Russia in what the Mossad called the Bloodridge Mountains, causing trouble for both countries, and keeping the confusion in Moscow escalating.
He referred back to box two. How could he stop a foreign intelligence agency from funding terrorists off the books? He needed proof. He smiled with a new thought.
He drew another box, labeled “Proof,” overlapping pieces of each of the others: If he couldn’t find it, maybe he could manufacture fictive proof. He’d done as much before. After all, it was Mossad’s motto: wage war by deception.
As he stared at the overlapping portions of some of the boxes, he wasn’t so sure that Houmaz was necessary now, after the sale of the subs.
Moving back to take in the full picture, he thought, no one has any idea what I’ve sacrificed. My own blood, my family. Maybe Houmaz is more trouble than he is worth? What if Jon is right?
Within minutes of the time his driver stopped the armored Hummer in front of the Tora Bora caves, Tariq Houmaz was jogging through the vehicle’s dust trail and into his home, a shallow cave partitioned into several rooms with plaster walls. He grabbed the secure satphone from a desk drawer and a folding chair from his makeshift office and walked back outside where he could get a signal. He retrieved his email, containing a huge file of photos sent by Pesi Houmaz from Ri
yadh. Excellent. Now he could find out who the man calling himself Aziz Tamil was. He took a deep breath and examined the first image.
The photos of Tamil candidates were endless. As the afternoon faded and cooled, he considered one picture after another, rejecting each and moving on. At dusk, he stopped for a break and scanned the mountains. He cursed. One of his militia brought him a dinner of smoked lamb shoulder and bulgur. He ate it fast, but savored the flavors of home cooking. When he finished, he took out a flashlight and was back to the photos of suspects.
Houmaz was up all night. Just before noon the next day, he saw one that made him frown. An IDF captain, Avram Shimmel. A tank commander. He scratched his head. Not Mossad. But the photo was the same image as the man called Aziz Tamil. He had his proof. His face reddened. The Jews had stolen his submarines.
He shook with rage and took a deep breath to settle himself. Rising, he walked to the officer who’d served him dinner last night. “Khalid, call my brother in Riyadh. Have him send me a washed Israeli passport and an air ticket to Cairo. And have him get me personal intel on Avram Shimmel and his family. Everything.”
Yigdal Ben-Levy’s phone rang. He walked from the chalkboard to his desk, taking an extra second to clear his head. Then he answered. “Ben-Levy.”
“It’s Avram Shimmel. We’re off the coast of Muscat and I just left the subs. They’re submerging and in seconds they’ll be undetectable. All the provisions from your supply boats were loaded. The subs will be patrolling off the coast of Yemen until further notice, as you ordered. I’m done here.”
“Good. I have an exfiltration team waiting for you. Look for them along the Muttrah Corniche, outside the entrance to the Muttrah Souk. They’ll be in a moored fishing boat named ‘Shariff’s Smile.’ Make your way back to Israel. We’ll celebrate when you arrive.”
“Whatever. Should take me a few days. Shimmel out.”
