by D S Kane
Avram touched Jon’s shoulder. “Just listen first.”
Jon muttered, “And hear more lies?”
Avram shook his head. “Wait. It won’t hurt for us to listen.”
Jon clenched his fists.
Gault returned to the table and sat back down.
Jon pushed his chair farther from the table, preparing to get up. “I don’t believe half of what you tell us. Go now, or we will.”
Gault smiled. “Just listen before you decide.” He looked at each and waited. “I set him up for you. All you have to do is be where I tell you he’ll be, and then…” He rose from his seat. “I’ll call your cell, Jon, when it’s time. Probably in a day or two.” Gault rose and disappeared from the restaurant.
William frowned. “Now I know why you don’t trust him. He’s as sleazy as they come. Lost my appetite. If he found us, it’s not safe here. We’ll need to find another place to stay. He probably intends to tell Houmaz he saw us here.”
Jon nodded. William, Avram, and he worked well together. All seemed to have the same thoughts at the same time.
The three walked from the restaurant in lockstep.
Gault boarded the United Airlines plane bound for Washington, DC. After finding his seat, he flagged down the flight attendant and ordered a black coffee and a stack of snacks. While he waited for the food, he punched a number into his cell phone. “Mark? It’s Bob.”
Mark McDougal, the agency’s Assistant Director, Middle Eastern Operations, asked, “Did it work?”
“I believe so. Congratulations. Either way, we win. How long before I move the next piece on the board?”
“Not yet. When you get in, go home and get some sleep. Be at my office tomorrow afternoon.
Say, 2 p.m.” The call terminated and Gault smiled. Maybe this would be enough to earn him the long-overdue promotion to team manager. He hated black ops.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the alternative outcomes. Yes, either way, we win. I win.
The Golden Tulip Seeb Hotel on Exhibition Street was just obscure enough to quell Jon’s sense of paranoia. If necessary, they could sneak out a door from the stairwell, exit the garage, and walk to Seeb in less than fifteen minutes.
And it wasn’t exclusive or sought after. As they stood at the registration desk waiting for a clerk to check them in, Jon scanned the area around them. Not crowded. Well, that might be a problem. They’d be seen, and probably remembered, every time they walked through the lobby.
They walked toward the elevator, passing its restaurant, the Côté Jardin. French. Good enough.
They’d taken three rooms on the fourth floor. Jon stood in front of one of their rooms and pointed to the door. “Whenever we first enter a room, we all go in armed and ready.”
William shook his head, not buying into using a gun.
Jon raised his palms. “Better safe than sorry.”
There was no one in Jon’s room and they left it with a gray thread in “armed” position. They repeated this process for Avram’s and William’s rooms.
Within a few minutes, they were all gathered around the desk in Jon’s room.
Avram said, “We need to make a new plan that assumes Gault is setting us up.”
William opened his attaché case and set up his notebook computer. “I have a wireless signal here. Let me find out what Gault knows and what he was told to do.”
Jon smiled. “You’re going to hack his agency. Aren’t you?”
William nodded. “Duh!” And he started keying, faster than Jon imagined anyone could. “Hey, Jon, Gault knows we’re in the city and I’m sure he’ll find a way to track us if we go out. So, order room service, will you? Figure this will take at least a few hours.”
It took all night and half the next day. As William came across facts of interest, he read them to his team members. “Here’s one. Gault reports to Mark McDougal, an Assistant Director. Did you know they’re called ‘Ass Dires’? And here’s the log of their conversations. Well, guess what?” He stared across at Avram, then at Jon. “An email from Greenfield, the Dire, to McDougal. It orders our good friend Mr. Gault to set up Houmaz, and also us. If Houmaz kills us, he’ll owe his life to Gault et alia. And if we kill Houmaz, Israel will owe a favor to Gault and his friends. Either way, they win.”
Sandwiches arrived. Wing chewed while he keyed. He said, “Hot damn,” and both companions rose from their seats, but he held up his hand. He took a deep breath. “Look at what I found deep inside Gault’s agency. Wow! I could never have guessed. The setup of us and Houmaz? It’s just a diversion. What Gault’s primary mission is, well, it’s to steal the subs from Israel.”
Avram’s brows arched. “Are you positive?”
“Hell, yeah I am.” William pointed to the notebook’s screen and turned it around so they could see it.
Jon pounded his fist on the desk. “Bloody fuck! I’m calling Mother.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gilbert Greenfield’s unnamed intelligence agency headquarters building, K Street, Washington, DC
September 23, 2:26 p.m.
McDougal paced the room, the phone against his ear. “Sir Charles, we understand you put out a burn notice on Tariq Houmaz.”
Crane confirmed this.
“I’m just calling to tell you we picked him up. Please comply. Drop your execution order for him.”
The voice asked a question.
“I understand your concerns. But the problems he created are now ours. We’ll take care of everything. How do you contact him?”
McDougal listened. “Yes, of course. I’ll get you a seat at the table. Everything ECHELON finds regarding Europe and Asia will be escalated to MI-6 with top priority.”
Crane wanted more.
“Be reasonable, Sir Charles. Getting that intel will raise the entire posture of our relationship past the deniability level. Please, now, I’ve offered you something significant. How do you contact him?”
Crane’s voice sounded cooler. Something about coded blog entries in one of the Al Jazeera website pages. McDougal scribbled notes on a pad. “Thanks. We owe you one.” He terminated the conversation and thought for a second about Gault’s plan. The entire concept of running their own terrorist might have some merit.
McDougal placed another call. “Bob, what’s your status with the ‘Three Stooges’?” He always found the call signs Gault assigned to opposition ops teams a hoot. Bob had given the Israeli assassination team a nasty call sign, and thinking of what he’d designated for the individuals themselves had him chuckling: Moe. Larry, and Curly! “Sorry. Status?”
He held the phone to his ear, listening. “Good. Commence the op. Here’s how to contact Houmaz.” He repeated what Crane told him.
After his morning prayers in one of the café restrooms, Tariq Houmaz read the Al Jazeera blog website from a rent-a-computer within the Muttrah Souk. The souk had grown into a huge labyrinth and was now the largest indoor market in Oman. Houmaz had found several ad hoc entrances in addition to those most tourists used. Tourists and native customers walked its halls buying food, clothing, and tourist items. To get to the café he’d had to dodge rolling garment hangers wheeled by merchants shouting warnings as they spun around its corners. He admired the ceiling of the indoor section, ancient carved wood and peeling plaster.
The blog he found on the Internet contained over two hundred entries calling for his beheading. It was the Sharia punishment for murder. His hands clenched into fists, taking deep breaths to keep from throwing the coffee cup he’d been holding. The hotel where those hunting him were staying was a short taxi ride away. The American spy, Gault, was tracking them for him.
But he wasn’t ready yet. He took the last sip from his coffee, rose, and exited the café into the long hallway. Roaming the souk, he found a cell phone store and bought several for cash. In an hour, they might be traceable. But he could use each once and then throw it away.
He walked into a distant corner of the store and punched a number
into the new cell phone. “Pesi, it’s Tariq. I need you to place a few messages into the blog. I can’t. It would take too long and I don’t want to be in one place for more than ten minutes. The first one is most important. Explain what happened to me in Vlad. Say it’s not my fault, the Israelis posed as my submariners. Tell them we were infiltrated by the Mossad. Say we have found and executed the mole in our organization. Pesi, I believe there is at least one, but maybe more. Probably some Mossad deep coverts. Find out who they are and detain but don’t kill them. I want to question them myself, when it’s safe for me to return.”
He listened to his younger brother for a few seconds on the burner cell. “That will work fine. I have obtained a new sponsor for our future operations. The man is a professional spy and a poor liar. He may be testing me, or he may be setting me up. Either way I have no better alternative. I’ll just have to do his bidding.”
He heard Pesi urging him not to risk his life and he chuckled. “I make my own choices. This is an opportunity for me to send a message back to the jackals at Mossad, so I’m using the opportunity. But I’ll need your help. I need you to recruit a team for me. No one who’s seen my face, so you can’t use my training ground near Upper Pachir. Your best bet is one of the mosques near you in Riyadh. Figure at least five or six, and have them dress as businessmen. I’ll meet them at the Zilo Café in the Muttrah Souk in Muscat tomorrow evening after prayers. Tell the team my name is Aziz Tamil. Yes, that’s correct. So far, the Israeli’s haven’t made a claim. Make your men believe it.”
It was well into the night. Ben-Levy was in the back seat of his limo, being driven toward his home near Haifa. He scanned his notes from the Research Department concerning developments along the border between Russia and China.
He saw the caller’s name and pressed the Receive Call button. “What?”
“This is a daylight alert, Mother,” said the voice, using the term for the highest-priority alert. “I have intel you need.” Ben-Levy was about to terminate the call when he heard Jon say words that chilled him. “Seems the bloody Yanks are going to steal the subs.”
“How did they find out about them?” Mother sank into the car’s seat as the air left him.
“Dunno. But, I’ve recruited a hacker into my team. One you mentioned once. We hacked the Feds’ systems.”
“You hacked—”
“Yes. Don’t know what you can do to keep the subs, but whatever it is, don’t wait too long. There’ll be SEAL teams on their way soon.”
Ben-Levy thought for several seconds, his breath sounding in the phone. “Thanks. I’ve something for you. Consider it a trade. I know how Houmaz’s handlers communicate with him.”
“What?”
“Go to the Al Jazeera website and follow the link to blogs. One of our resident hackers, Michael Drapoff figured this out before we sent him out on assignment two months ago. They use the blog named ‘Israel.’ Coded messages. I’ll send the configuration they use to your cell phone as an email attachment. Their code words, their countersigns. Happy hunting.” He terminated the call and crafted and sent the email from his cell.
The car trip home took over an hour. Ben-Levy sat still in the back seat. Will the United States become Israel’s enemy? What steps can I take if this is true?
Within a few minutes he came to a realization: he already knew that the funds to acquire the submarines came to the Muslim Brotherhood from a mix of the Saudi royal family and MI-6, and that the Brits hadn’t realized what the money would be used for.
But the Americans hadn’t been duped like the idiots in MI-6. What if the Americans had compromised the original setup of the Jericho Sanction? What if the Americans had found a way to circumvent its functioning? The subs were the newest and closest to foolproof piece of the plan. But if the Americans managed to steal the subs from the Israelis, what would happen? What if the subs were now the only way the Jericho Sanction could be implemented?
As Avram closed the door to the bathroom, William looked up from the notebook’s screen. He closed the lid and faced Jon. “Jon, there’s something else important here. For the longest time, I wasn’t sure what to do with this intel.”
Jon stopped pacing the room. “What?”
“Before you called me the first time, I’d been doing some work for my father. Rummaging through the computers of Russia and China. I had some help from the Chinese government’s cybercrime unit, but they were useless. Anyway, I found it was Mossad. A false flag operation. They’ve been hacking into Russian and Chinese government computers, trying to start a border war. I’m not sure why. You have the connections within Mossad. Can you confirm it for me? Can you tell me why?”
Jon reached out for a chair to steady himself. “Are you sure?”
“Shit, Jon, I had the help of an expert, the best hacker on the planet. She did the heavy lifting. What I told you is irrefutable.”
Jon scratched his chin, thinking. “Betsy ‘Butterfly’ Brown. Correct?” He thought hard. This would be trouble, of that he was sure.
He remembered what he’d been taught about Israel’s national policies. No, he didn’t know enough or understand what the changing imperatives could be. He knew little of the people involved. What about Mother? Was Ben-Levy behind this?
Wing’s voice was just above a whisper. “Yes. Betsy Brown. Well, Jon?”
“Uh, shit. Do us both a favor, William. Keep this to yourself until we figure it out together. You and me. No one else. And tell your super-hacker not to tell anyone. Got it?”
“She won’t. But don’t you betray me. Don’t tell anyone I was the one who told you. And don’t hang me out to dry. I’ve got an insurance policy. All the secrets I’ve ever hacked. Everything worth anything. Much of it involves my work for the Mossad. If I disappear or die, if I don’t or can’t enter a specific ever-changing password into a specific website every so often, the computer where I’ve stashed the pile of goodies will vomit forth everything. Send all the stuff to everywhere, from Al Jazeera to the Washington Post to Sixty Minutes. Understand?”
“Yeah. We’re good.” Jon realized he needed something just like this for his own protection. He smiled. “Thanks, William. What’s your father’s name?”
“Xiang Wing.”
Jon considered the impact this intel could have on Chinese relations with Israel. “Please don’t tell him what you know until I tell you. Okay?”
Wing frowned, his eyes unfocused for a moment. “Well, okay. Sure.”
Jon remembered the last word that Rimora mentioned in her dying breath: Bloodridge. Did it have any significance here? Jon wished he knew. This was all so Byzantine, it was just possible the spymaster had designed it. If it was true, Jon now had a tool he could use to level the playing field with Ben-Levy. He leaned close to William. “And, come to think of it, I need yet another favor.”
“Shit, Jon, I don’t have time for—”
“Please. Just listen. I’ll pay for it.” When William said nothing, Jon nodded. “Okay. Can you create a similar life insurance policy for me? Website and password?”
Wing nodded his eyes questioning. “You don’t have one? Hah! Sure. Easy.”
Jon thought about the secrets he’d place within his “insurance policy.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Yigdal Ben-Levy’s office, basement of Mossad headquarters, corner of Hasadnaot and Hamenofim Streets, Herzliyya, Israel
September 24, 2:33 p.m.
Bone tired, Ben-Levy paced the small room, stopping to stare at the chalkboard. I’ve been over this so many times. Still haven’t got a usable plan and time is running out.
A knock on the door pulled him from his private world. “Come.”
The tall, thin man with black hair and a moustache cracked the door open and smiled at Mother. “We’re back. Lester, Ari, JD, and Shimon went directly home. Lester sent me to check in first.” Michael Drapoff’s eyes wandered to the chalkboard. “Oops. You’re busy. Uh, call Lester w
hen you want to debrief us and he’ll get us all here.” He turned away.
Mother took a step toward Drapoff. “Wait, Michael. I could use your help. You’re the best hacker we have in house. Maybe you can tell me what will happen if I try each of these alternatives.” Ben-Levy pointed to the other chair in the room, then sat in his own.
“Sure.” Drapoff walked to the board. He ran his finger just above the chalk lines several times in multiple directions, and pursed his lips. “Your best alternative is this one.”
“Why? Why hack MI-6 and plant the message there? Why not just talk to Sir Charles on the phone? Or send it as email to McDougal?”
Michael sat. “McDougal? That won’t work. He’ll never forward it up the chain of command. I’m sure his op is off the books. And if you talk to Crane, the verbal message might be garbled in transmission. Hell, Crane may even decide to ignore it. But if you leave Crane a text message he can forward on to the White House, it puts the message in over McDougal’s head. The email leaves a permanent, indelible mark within the British government’s servers. Evidence. Creates a fait accompli. Crane has to follow through.”
Ben-Levy closed his eyes. “I think you’re right. Thanks for a second set of eyes. I’ve been staring at this for over an hour and I’m brain-blind.”
“Uh, do you want me to plant the text?”
Ben-Levy smiled. “Yes.” He pointed to the computer behind his seat, and the message on screen he’d typed into it an hour earlier. “Just find the right place to put it.” He walked out the door. Michael sat behind the desk. Once again, he read the message on the screen:
As you know, Israel has two nuclear submarines it captured from Tariq Houmaz, one of MI-6’s former Muslim Brotherhood assets. We also have hard evidence indicating the United States funded the purchase of those subs through its bank accounts at the Bank of Trade, and that the terrorist who purchased the submarines was an unlisted covert agent of both the British and the American intelligence services. Even if you could find some way to prove the evidence is untrue, were it made public, Congress would be forced to investigate, creating a messy scandal for the President and the British Prime Minister. If any attempt is made to take the submarines from us, the evidence will be released to every political blog and website of importance, and to the global press.
