by D S Kane
Of course, should Israel ever be subjected to attack, the Jericho Sanction commences, making every oil-producing country in the Middle East radioactive, whether or not we have the subs. Not including the forty ICBMs with twenty-megaton atomic warheads present on those subs, Israel still has over two hundred fifty nuclear missiles of its own. The safest disposition of these submarines is with us, unless you wish Israel as your enemy.
Before today, Israel has always thought of itself as America’s ally and has shared intelligence with our American intelligence partners. Attempting to take possession of the submarines could create terrible public press and diplomatic turmoil, with myriad unforeseen consequences.
The message wasn’t signed, and the steps Drapoff took to insert it into MI-6’s computer system left no way to track back its actual sender or point of origin. He pressed the button and transmitted the message.
As Michael rose from the seat, Ben-Levy returned to the office and touched his shoulder. “I have another mission for you and the team. How soon can you all be ready to travel?”
Drapoff pointed to the go bag he’d dropped on the floor, containing the barest essentials for immediate departure. “Ready now. Where to?”
As his plane crossed the Mediterranean toward Kuwait, Bob Gault’s cell phone buzzed. He scanned his cell’s screen and frowned. McDougal. It must relate to one of his two assignments, either the set-up of the Three Stooges or the sub-theft, “Project Shitbag.” His team for the latter assignment was on its way to Yemen.
He pressed the Receive Call button. “Gault.”
“Bob, I’m calling off your submarine-theft operation. Your SEAL team is returning stateside from Yemen as we speak.”
Gault wanted to ask why, but remained silent, thinking, somehow, the gods have saved my ass. That mission was never going to succeed, and its failure would have ended my career. “What about the Three Stooges?” This one was a mission he desired.
“Proceed on that one. When will things be set up?”
Gault focused on the PERT chart he conjured in his head. On the timeline, everything was on schedule. “Very soon. I sent messages to Houmaz through blog entries just before my connecting flight left Paris. I expect him to post a reply within hours.”
“Good. Call me when it’s over. McDougal out.”
Gault thought he’d name this part of the operation “Gunfight at the Muttrah Souk Corral.” He chuckled. When he landed in Kuwait City, he’d need a flight to Oman. He called Yemeni Airlines and cancelled his flight from Kuwait City to Aden, Yemen. His next cell phone call was to Kuwait Airlines. Although the two countries were both on the same peninsula, it was too far and too dangerous to drive. But, he was in luck; they had a flight leaving less than two hours after he landed. He booked himself a seat.
Gault set to work as the aircraft descended toward the runway. Now he could be present to oversee the slaughter. He had no hatred for Houmaz. The man was just a chess piece. While he admired the Israelis for their toughness and resiliency, the events to follow were his best hope of being promoted. After over ten years as a case officer, he was tired of working the field.
If I’ve got to run a black op, it’s always best to be part of one where every outcome was a win for me.
Life is sweet.
Jon’s cell phone buzzed. He scanned its screen. Gault. He pressed the Receive Call button. “What’ve you got for me, Mr. Gault?”
“I’ve set it up. Tonight at ten at the Muttrah Souk. Houmaz may be alone, but I doubt it. Our intel indicates he’ll be there to receive an arms shipment. So his helpers might be there just to tote the crates. The delivery is to Al Fursani, the rug merchant, close to the entrance from Al Wadi Al Kabir Market. By that time of night, it should be empty as a ghost town, except for them.”
Jon’s mind automatically generated equations modeling the alternative outcomes, the many ways Gault could set up him and Avram in a labyrinth as full of twists and turns as the souk. “Thanks. I’ll call you when it’s over.” He terminated the call, sure that Gault would now call Houmaz to set up the other side of the skirmish.
Jon heard a knock on the door. He pulled the safety off his Beretta and walked near the door. When he peeked through the peephole he saw several faces he didn’t know. The man in front was tall and had black hair and a moustache. He turned and whispered to Avram. “Visitors. No one I know.”
Avram drew his handgun and moved to the other side of the door. He looked through the peephole and smiled. “They’re friends.” He opened the door. “Shalom, Michael. What brings you here?”
Michael hugged Avram. “Shalom. We’re all sorry for your loss. She was a wonderful woman, putting up with all your bullshit. And your adorable little daughter. We also miss them. We just returned from the border between Russia and China. A mountain range the residents of both countries call the Bloodridge, due to the wars they’ve had over the centuries. Mother thought you could use some help.”
Jon’s mind snapped into focus at the mention of Rimora’s last word. If this is it, why is Mother trying to keep China and Russia at each other’s throats? And, as he thought the question, a possible answer occurred to him. The Russian government was filled with siloviki, a gang of former KGB agents who now occupied the Kremlin. And, the same siloviki also run the Russian mafiya. I wonder if Bloodridge was designed to keep the mafiya from selling the Russian arms because they might need them in an imminent war with China? Could this be it?
Drapoff entered the room. Behind him, Lester Dushov walked in, carrying a black satchel and his go bag. When all five had entered the room, Avram closed the door. Dushov grinned at William and Jon. “We’re in the SHABEK division. When we were in IDF years ago, Avram was our commanding officer. I know you, Jon, from your photo. Who’s he?”
William answered. “I’m their hacker. William Wing. Who are the rest of you?”
Dushov dropped his satchel and go bag on the floor. “I’m Lester Dushov. I’m the group leader for my team. My special area is poisons and interrogation chemicals.” He pointed to his crew. “Michael Drapoff, our hacker and telecomm specialist. Ari Westheim, martial arts. JD Weinstein, explosives and guns. And Shimon Tennenbaum, our sniper.” They walked in behind Lester.
Weinstein closed the door and pointed to the satchels. “Claymores and flashbangs, night-vision goggles, guns, and ammo. It’s a good way to carry nasty things in public and still be undetected.” He faced Shimmel. “Sorry about your loss, Avram. Sharon was a great woman. And your daughter. A tragedy.”
Avram frowned. “Thanks.” Tears formed in his eyes. His face went rigid. “I want to see Houmaz die.”
Jon nodded and patted Avram’s shoulder, but all the time he was thinking about Bloodridge.
Michael pulled open his bag and removed a stack of fabric. “I brought us all Hawaiian shirts treated with Liquid Armor. These are new, no more Jimi Hendrix. These have different scenes on each.” He scanned the room, and walked to where he could see the screen of William’s computer. “Uh, what’s the plan?”
Avram shook his head. “With you to help us, we can design a better plan.”
Jon looked across the table at Avram, feeling the man’s grief echo against his own. “We’ve just enough time to change the plan. But we’ll still need to arrive with all our equipment no later than one hour after sundown, so we can set up.”
Dushov nodded.
Jon faced William. “And, as for you, it’s now time to pack your bags and fly back home to Hong Kong.”
William frowned. “Change in plans for me, too.” Jon felt surprise and stared at William. His face seemed somehow both harder and softer. Jon couldn’t tell what his friend was thinking, but something had refocused and changed in William as he spoke. “No way. You two and me, we’re a team. Shit, man, I never thought I’d find myself saying something like this. But, I’ve been thinking about what I stand for, and what my life is worth.” He seemed to focus on something deep within himself. The words came out slow, but filled with pu
rpose. “Look, guys. I’m probably the worst shot on the planet. Doesn’t matter. You’re going to need every hand. So give me a gun. I’m going with you.”
When he picked up the gun, he looked at the Mossad team. “Uh, can any of you tell me how to make this work?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Along the Muttrah Corniche, Muscat, Oman
September 24, 6:54 p.m.
It was a short walk from their hotel to the objective. As Jon and his team drew near, he realized the Old Muttrah Souk projected a more menacing presence after nightfall. Each carried a map of the place, although the minor alleyways were missing. They approached from Al Bustan Club, where they’d eaten a quick meal.
Walking north on Al Fursani Street toward Al Wadi Al Kabir Park, they passed along the Muttrah Corniche on their left flank. Jon located the main entrance, just past the doorway to a silver and jewelry shop. He faced William. “Look, I can’t let you join us. You’ve had no training. It would be suicide.”
William opened his mouth but Jon cut him off. “Sorry. I can’t have your death on my hands. I’ve been responsible for too much death.”
William clenched his teeth. “I’ll wait here. Outside. If things go south, I can help you escape. I won’t go inside. You have my word.”
Jon stood still, thinking. “All right. I have your promise.”
William smiled. “Yeah. Enough. Go hunting.”
Jon nodded to the others. He pointed left. “That way.”
William stood outside, looking in. He paced for a few seconds. Then he scanned the souk as he entered, looking at the map. He traced his finger over their route. It was a labyrinthical path through the narrow corridors, through six intersections to the point where the hallway widened just in front of their destination: Al Fursani rug merchant. As he stood staring at the map, he memorized the path.
Jon had divided them into two teams. Jon, JD, and Michael were team one. Avram, Shimon, and Lester were team two. For the trip to the rug merchant, they marched as a single group. Framing the entrance to the passageway into the souk was a tall tiled arch, flaked with gold and silver. According to the notation on their map, its roof was built of ancient wood. It was a flammable labyrinth.
As they walked single file inside, Jon’s eyes darted around the corners of the narrow hallways and twisty passages, filled with shoppers. Business was just now starting to wind down for the night.
Merchants were hawking their exclusive baskets, traditional wool carpets known as kilims, wall hangings, clothing, spices, and jewelry. The souk’s interior hallways were close and well lit. And, the air was thick with the heady fragrance of perfumes and aromas of burning frankincense.
Jon scanned the path in front, between the flanking merchants stalls, looking for threats. As they approached an intersection in the maze, he peeked around at both directions of the choke point. He took a breath and stopped. So far, nothing threatening.
Jon had marked their destination on the tourist map with a neon-colored permanent marker. He led them northwest to their next site, an intersection studded by a café and a spice shop at opposite corners.
His wristwatch indicated it was now 8:54 p.m. “We’re close now. Let’s find a place where we can conceal ourselves for forty minutes until we’re sure Houmaz and his team has had time to enter the rug merchant’s shop.”
Avram pointed to a clothing dealer who was locking his stand. As the merchant walked away, the three in Jon’s team and the three in Lester’s moved behind the closed stall.
Soon, silence reigned.
At 9:30, Jon saw movement on his flank. He dropped the safety off the Beretta and took aim. Staring at where he’d seen the movement before, he started to squeeze the trigger expecting Houmaz’s men, but realized it was William.
He lowered his weapon and stared at his friend. “William, your word is crap! Why?”
William’s face was a frozen mask. Jon could smell the hacker’s fear. “I can’t let you do this without me. I want to freakin’ help!”
Jon shook his head. “All right, follow me. And follow my orders, or I’ll kill you myself.” Jon watched William stare at him in fear and it echoed against his own fright. He was sure Gault had led them into a trap. Were Houmaz and his men here and ready? There was no way to tell.
By 9:35 p.m., the souk was empty and silent. Jon pointed to his wristwatch. “Time to plant the Claymores.” He pointed to the map, his finger touching the spot near the top center where the rug merchant was. “These intersections, as we agreed. Around the entrance to the rug merchant, at the first set of intersections.”
Ari and Shimon divided up the mines. Each was a military gray rectangle, about ten by eight by five centimeters, and weighing about one kilogram. The fuse was electronic, with a red USB port for a timer and a green LED for its cell phone trigger.
Jon touched William’s shoulder. “Wait here. If we need you, I’ll yell.”
William’s face fell. “But, Jon, why—”
“My orders, William. Follow them. Sheesh!” Jon skirted away from the merchant’s stall, motioning for Lester, Ari, and Michael to follow him.
William crouched behind the stall by himself. “Fuck.”
Avram nodded at Shimon and JD. They followed him, circling the intersections surrounding the rug merchant. JD crisscrossed between the groups, deploying a network of infrared tripwires.
William remained crouched behind the clothing dealer’s stand. He held a 9mm Beretta in his right hand, its safety on.
At 9:58 p.m., Jon returned. “Listen, William, it’s still not too late. You can still get your ass out of here. Save your bloody life.”
William responded by lowering the Beretta’s safety. He stared back at Jon.
Jon nodded. “Well, there it is. You’re in now, up to your bloody neck. Follow about ten feet behind me. If trouble finds me, I’ll move fast and you’ll need to go pace for pace where I do. Don’t fuck this up for me. Clear?”
“Yeah, Jon. Clear as mud. Where’s Avram and his team?”
“They’re on the other side of the rug merchant. The Claymores are set and all he needs to do is place the final wire into the arming mechanism. After that, anyone within the rug merchant’s perimeter will be trapped. All we need to do now is wait for Houmaz and his friends to make their entrance at the party. Once they cross the infrared tripwires for the Claymores, we’ll arm the mines and rain hell on Houmaz and his team.” Jon motioned for the rest of his team to spread out and take cover.
William noticed an ear bud on Jon’s left temple. “You guys are wired?”
“But of course. Just Avram and me. I didn’t bring but two. Sorry. Didn’t know we’d get help from the Mossad, and I didn’t know you’d remain on the team. Just stay close to me.”
Just then, every light in the souk went out.
Jon looked at his illuminated wristwatch: 10:01 p.m. and the souk was closing. He pressed the button on the side of his ear bud. “Night-vision goggles on now. And, ready the guns.”
William heard Avram’s reply even though the noise was mere leakage from Jon’s ear bud: “Hand signals only. No speech from here on.”
Jon nodded to William, pointing in the direction of their final destination. They inched down the hall, going from darkness to darkness.
While they walked, Jon wondered if there were hidden flaws in the plan. He knew Gault had set them up. Still he had no choice if he wanted another chance at Houmaz. He ran the measures and countermeasures through his head as he pulled the infrared binoculars from his pocket. So many things could go wrong. He scanned the rug merchant’s booth.
There was no one. Jon wondered if they’d somehow misunderstood what Gault told them. Were the spy’s lies accurate? He felt doubt and confusion, and found himself shaking his head. Would it all come down to the quality of his plan? A shiver of fear ran down his spine. What if Houmaz’s plan was better than his own? He couldn’t help himself. “Status?”
Shimmel’s voice through the ear bud was a whi
sper. “Silence. Either they’re late for the pickup, or—”
A silenced shot tore into the booth behind Jon. He flattened to the floor. Shit! Jon fought the adrenaline spike. He took a deep breath and examined the entry point of the bullet and tracked its general direction back toward its point of origin.
He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. The adrenaline rush bloomed, narrowing his vision, dimming his hearing. He felt his ability to reason fade into the dusty air. Shit! He thought about their position relative to that of the rug merchant’s store.
Jon shouted into the ear bud. “Avram. We’ve messed up. They’re way outside the perimeter of where we laid the Claymores, not inside! They’ve surrounded us! Don’t turn the Claymores on yet. Can you close the distance between us?”
A hail of bullets rained on them.
Jon felt a mix of fury and disappointment. He struggled to relax, knowing he needed to clear his mind. But it was no good. The voice in his head was babbling non-stop. He wanted to rip his head off. He closed his eyes and let the rush fade. Okay. I’m over it.
Avram’s voice came through the ear bud. “Jon, we’re on our way right now. Don’t shoot us. Twenty feet away, on your right, moving to you.” His tone seemed calm but Jon knew it was just Avram’s battle experience. He hoped Avram could make this work.
More shots pierced the booths of the souk, and most were silenced rounds, making it difficult for Jon to tell where they’d come from. He scanned the area and saw nothing. Perspiration drenched his palms.
He saw Avram close the distance and nod to his team member, Shimon. Jon said, “Turn the Claymores on now.” He motioned for them all to move away from the perimeter and take cover. They moved thirty feet away, behind the merchant stalls and locked containers.
