by D S Kane
As he moved through the empty aisles of the souk, William was shocked to find he could only see what was directly in front of him. His sense of smell had vanished and his hearing was muted. The wet area in the crook of his elbow throbbed. Rats! The blood was seeping slowly, so it must not be critical. But seeing it made him dizzy. He turned his head left and right around him. He seemed to be alone. He bolted, sprinting for the entrance and the safety of the street.
As he breached the souk’s exit, William could hear sirens closing on them. Reaching Al Fursani Street, he turned south onto the Muttrah Corniche. Avram caught up, sprinting, and William could see Jon draped slack across Avram’s shoulder. The other five coverts from Israel trotted several feet behind, facing the souk with their weapons pointed back just in case.
“Avram, is he breathing?”
“Yeah, but not for long if we don’t get him to a doctor. Get us a cab!”
William ran out into the street and stood in one of the traffic lanes. He pointed his gun at the driver inside a car moving toward him. He used his other hand to motion for the driver to stop. But the cab barreled right into him.
He woke from his nightmare, his body bathed in sweat. He was hyperventilating. Beside him, Lily snored.
When Jon opened his eyes, bright sunshine poured through the window. He faced away until his eyes adjusted, then rose from the sofa bed. Ling was gone. He used the tiny shower stall, making the water as hot as he could stand it, then as cold as it would go. Dressing, he entered the living room. Mousey Tongue rubbed herself against Jon’s leg and once again he picked the cat up, petting it until it purred. He explored the remainder of the apartment, finding a clothes washer in a closet, but no dryer. He remembered hearing that dryers weren’t widely available in Hong Kong or China either. Looking out one of the windows, he could see the harbor, and clothes hanging on lines out most windows, even the skyscrapers.
William walked in from the kitchen and handed him a cup filled with black coffee. “Jet-lag will kill you if you overdo it.”
Jon let Mousey Tongue jump to the floor, then sipped the hot liquid. “Thanks. I’m just glad it’s not tea.” He walked to the window and faced the harbor view. “Can you take the day off? I’ve never visited your beautiful, exotic city.”
“No. I’ve got work and deadlines. I can give you two hours, but it will have to be here.” He pointed to the fridge. “Brunch while we sit and talk.”
Jon scanned the apartment but couldn’t see or hear William’s companion. He assumed they were alone. He tilted his head in thought. “William, what happened to make you so angry with me?”
William sat and looked away from Jon. His voice was soft, as if it was tinged with regret. “I think I’m in danger now, because of what I did for your ‘Mother.’ I’m in over my head.” He looked at Jon and his voice grew a harder edge. “And it’s your fault. Before I met you, I’d never done anything the least bit dangerous. Now, what am I supposed to do?”
Jon sat at the table. “I’m sorry. But as I remember, when we were at the Souk, you asked for the gun. I’d asked you to go home and leave us.”
William’s head snapped forward. Staring at Jon, he said, “Had I gone, you’d be dead now. I saved your fucking life.”
“And I’ll forever be grateful.” Jon sighed. “Please forgive me my sins. You know who I am, what I am. But, look, you and Avram are my only friends. If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
William faced away. He whispered. “Yes, I know, friends and secrets forever. Rats! Someone has a copy of all my secrets. Everything. I’m not equipped for this. What if my father finds out? What if he already knows? I’m dead.”
“I can offer you protection.”
“So I can live my life as your hostage in Israel? Absolutely not. Get me my life back.”
Jon sighed. “I think the assignment Mother offered you might do just that.”
“That’s a crock.” He stared down at the floor, shaking his head. “Crap. This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He opened the freezer and took out several plastic bags. “Okay. I promised food. Dim sum brunch. But while we eat, you have to tell me exactly what Ben-Levy asked you to have me do this time.”
“His call sign is ‘Mother.’ Mother wants you to hack proprietary secrets from a high-tech firm in Hong Kong that stole secrets from one of Israel’s high-tech weapons contractors in California. You completed this assignment once before, but it’s somehow become undone. Do it again.”
William’s face reddened. “That’s all? Last time I did it, when I returned from a visit to my family, someone had broken into my apartment and looted it. Someone dangerous. Who does she really work for? How dangerous are the ones who had her steal my secrets?”
“She? Do you know who it was?”
William glared back. “Of course, you idiot. From the video I recorded of her visit, I tracked her down. She may be dangerous, but I am too, when it comes to hacking. Cassandra Sashakovich. It took a lot of digging, but I was able to hack my way through several intelligence services. She works for Gilbert Greenfield’s unnamed agency. Or she used to. They burned her. Now she’s a rogue, even more dangerous.” He shook his head. “Too dangerous for me to do this again.” He wiped his mouth.
“Yes, I see why you don’t want this assignment. Can I have a copy of the video?”
“What for?” William faced away from Jon, his fingers tapping the gold fountain pen against his table.
“Mother. Maybe the Mossad can figure out what her handler’s intentions are so you know what you’re dealing with. How’d you get her identity?”
“She wore plastic gloves but I still found her DNA.”
Jon smiled. “How’d you manage that?”
“I watched the video. She petted Mousey Tongue. When she put Mousey on the couch in the living room, she got her face too close to the couch. She spoke to Mousey. Just a tiny speck of saliva hit the couch. She’s mildly allergic to cats. Got it using the jammer-scanner.” William produced several sheets of paper from his pocket. “Here. Her entire file, courtesy of Gilbert Greenfield’s intelligence agency. It’s the one Bob Gault works for.”
Jon remembered Gault. The American spy had set up Avram, William, and Jon in Muscat. “Gault. Very duplicitous liar. He saved my life and then fed me to Houmaz the night you saved me.” He scanned the page. “Wow. Sashakovich has ten kills, all from Palestine, Syria, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia. A warrant on her from Riyadh for murdering someone. And she’s a hacker, as well. Twelve major thefts from Middle Eastern banks. She did the Bank of Trade three times.” He shook his head. “She’s formidable.”
“Yeah, well, you seem to need lots of saving. Give that file to your ‘Mother.’ He’ll know why I’m so skittish. So for now, it’s no deal. If I ever work another Mossad assignment, I’ll want triple my usual rate. To compensate for the danger. Got it? Get Mother’s approval for that.”
Jon shrugged his shoulders.
William faced Jon. “Let’s say Mother can offer me what I want. What’s so special about this software he wants me to steal?”
Jon shrugged again. William can be paid to play? He tried to conceal his surprise.
Over sticky rice in lotus leaf, har gow, Shanghai dumplings, char siu bau, and siu mai, Jon offered alternative arrangements to Mother’s demands. As he rose to leave, he frowned at William. “I’m truly sorry for involving you last year. I really didn’t know you then. But now, you’re one of my closest friends. I trust you, and there aren’t many I can say that about. Thank you for meeting with me.”
William glared back. “Yeah.” He sat motionless for seconds as if he was thinking about something. He rose and hugged Jon. “Look, we’re okay. Despite everything, you’re still my friend. So keep me out of Mother’s business. Okay?”
Jon nodded. “I’ll run blocking for you, as best I can.”
William plucked a char siu bau from the bamboo container, dropped it in a plastic bag and handed it to Jon. “A tasty snack for the trip.�
�
In three hours later, Jon waited at the airport gate for his flight back. He punched a number into his cell phone. “It’s Sommers for Mother.” He waited as the call was terminated for a secure connection.
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed. “Status?” The voice was gruff as usual.
Jon faced away from the crowds in the airport and covered his mouth with the phone. “I’m sending you a video showing the identity of the woman who broke into William Wing’s apartment. She took everything in both his disk drives. I’ve seen the video. We’ll talk when I get back to Munich.” He terminated the call before Mother could reply, then sent the video.
Jon walked to the end of the line and waited to board.
He hated being a cutout for Mother. He hated being forced to betray his friend. He hated lying to the Mossad.
Chapter Eight
Jon Sommers’s apartment, Ottobrunner Strasse 17, Munich 81737, Germany
June 24, 8:26 a.m.
Jon looked at his wristwatch as he brushed his teeth. He’d be late to the office. Again.
As he rinsed his mouth and dried his face, his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pants pocket and scanned its screen. The number was listed as “unknown.” It originated in Berlin, according to the cell. He drew the cell to his ear as he finished buttoning his shirt, locked the door to his apartment and headed toward the elevator. “Hello?”
“Jon, it’s Ruth Cohen. Remember me?”
He smiled as he pressed the button for the elevator. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” He took the elevator to the garage.
“I’ve just been promoted. I’m the station head for the Germany desk in Berlin. I’m God to you now. When can we meet?”
He’d met her in London last year soon after his fiancée was murdered. Ruth was a bat leveyha then. A honey-pot seductress working for the Mossad to discover the secrets held by the terrorists she slept with. She’d been sent to recruit him. How could she go from that role to station head in less than one year?
As the elevator doors reopened, he fumbled with his necktie, heading toward the Fiat.
He peeked under the car, checking for trackers and bombs before he opened the car door. “Do you travel?”
She said, “Uh-huh.”
“Best for the evening. How about dinner?”
“Where?” Her voice was breathy and urgent. Just as it had been last year. He stopped walking, remembering the feel of her flesh against his.
“Tantris. On Johann-Fichte-Strasse 7, in Schwabing. Can you find it?” It was Mossad’s money, so why not get the best? He chuckled.
“Actually, I’ve eaten there. You have expensive taste.” She paused. “When?”
He climbed inside the car. “I’ll make reservations for 6 p.m. tonight. Okay?” The Germans tended to eat late, so the restaurant would be nearly empty then. With luck, they’d have privacy. He closed the door, fastened the safety belt with his free hand, and turned the ignition. The engine growled.
He wondered what she wanted from him. He remembered that she liked to ask questions but avoided answering them. He’d have difficult work trying to get any information from her.
“Sure. I’m eager to catch up.” He heard her end the call.
While he negotiated the heavy traffic headed downtown, Jon had a chance to think about the change in his handler. Rafi Lev had been Germany station head for more than a decade. He’d never talked about retiring, and Jon had heard nothing about his being promoted or recalled. So why the change?
He exited his car in the bank’s underground garage and took the elevator to the lobby. Ten minutes late. After going through the security gate, he bought coffee and took another elevator to his floor.
He was among the last to arrive, drawing unwanted attention. A mousy young woman smiled at him. She’d been watching him for days and he couldn’t figure why. He’d ignored her until now, and she turned away as he paced past her repair supervisor station. He wondered if she found his avoidance upsetting. What if she wasn’t what she appeared to be?
He approached his office door and flipped his badge at the ID scanner. While he waited for the door to buzz open, he thought about the petite woman. Avoiding her had been his instinctual reaction. But now, it appeared this wouldn’t work. Was she attracted to him, or did she plan to use him to get her next promotion. Was she babysitting him, looking for a chance to find something she could leverage? Alarm bells rang in his head.
Inside his office, he took off his Burberry and popped the lid off his coffee. His lips pursed as he punched a number into his cell phone. “Sommers for Drapoff.” The call terminated. He tapped his fingers against the desk while he waited for the secure callback link. When the phone buzzed, he accepted the incoming.
“Drapoff is not available. I’m Churchill.”
“Right. Get me all that’s available on Gunda Schlein. Email this phone.” He terminated the call and pulled her file folder from the locked personnel drawer of his desk. He scanned its contents. She had perfect performance reviews. In three years at the bank, she’d gone from the secretarial pool to a supervisor position in money transfer.
Was she really that good? He scanned her employment application. There it was: her uncle was an executive vice president of the bank. She didn’t need Jon as a stepping stone. Either she was attracted to him or she was a spy. Either was dangerous. Damn!
He scanned the workflow patterns on his computer, and noticed the woman had a bulging repair queue of pending transfers, larger than anyone else. But he could see her standing and talking to one of the other workers as she stared at Jon’s glass office partition. Jon opened her queue. More than one hundred broken transfers to fix, each with a fatal error. Almost two hours of pending work. He routed all subsequent incoming repairs to the other terminals and decided to give her two minutes before he intervened to ask her what her problem was. As if he didn’t already know.
He examined every one of the funds transfers in her repair queue. Most were commonplace; a missing account number, misspelled account holder name, a Sunday date for the transaction. But there were several red-flagged transactions. He copied these to his own computer and then synchronized his cell phone and recopied them there. Seven transactions were from Iran to Russia. According to Rafi Lev, such transactions were often weapons deals. Since his last transmission to his now-former-handler nearly three weeks ago, he’d accumulated thirty-six such transactions. Almost all before Ruth Cohen took over.
His cell buzzed again. The email from Churchill stated Gunda Schlein was clean. Three years out of University of Frankfurt. Single. Living alone in an apartment in upscale Schwabing. But what if they were wrong? They almost never were, but how could a young woman three years out of school afford an apartment in Schwabing? He clenched his eyes shut in thought. “Damn.” While it might just be family money, he wondered if Churchill was wrong, if she was watching him because she’d been assigned to do it.
Could he double her? Making her a sayan to bend her direction and mute her as a possible threat. He scanned the repair queue. He’d have to be careful setting her up. Especially if she was already working as a spy for another country. Making spies into doubles was always risky.
Jon left the door of his office open and walked toward her desk. As he emerged, she noticed and scrambled toward her desk. “Ah, Fraulein Schlein. Please come to my office.”
She nodded and rose fast from her seat, tucking her hands into the pockets of her slacks. She walked behind him.
“Close the door, please, Fraulein.” Jon sat. He left her standing while he straightened a pile of papers on his desk. After thirty seconds, he looked up. “Oh, so sorry, please sit.”
She looked down as she placed her posterior into the seat. “Yes, Herr Stamphil. What can I do for you?”
He smiled. “I have a project for you. I believe the bank will be audited soon and our area will be one of the primary audit targets. They’ll be looking for electronic transfers that might be connected to te
rrorism. You understand the urgency here?”
She frowned and her left eye twitched. “I’ve heard nothing about a forthcoming audit. Are you sure?”
“My sources are impeccable. Probably about two months, maybe even sooner.” He stared at the center of her face and frowned. “Will you help?”
She looked down and to the left, indicating she would lie. “Yes.”
“Good, good. I knew I could depend on you.” He smiled. Shit. What is she really thinking? He decided to make it more interesting, if a bit more risky. “I need you to quietly search and document every one-off transfer for anything destined to or transferred from Iran or Saudi Arabia. Especially if the counterparty is in Russia or China. Can you do that?”
She looked up and nodded. Her hands stayed glued to her slacks. He was almost sure he had hooked her.
“Excellent. Your work must be accurate and the details complete. At the end of every day, send me an email with copies of all the data for each electronic transfer that comes from or goes to those locations. There shouldn’t be too many of them. And, please, keep this project a secret. If we can document the innocent transfers with an explanation and list the suspect transfers for the auditors before they arrive, it will protect the bank. It’ll look better for the department. I’ll give you credit for assisting me. But only if your work is perfect. Clear?”
“Yes, Herr Stamphil.” There was a drop of perspiration over her lip.
Now to seal the deal. “Thank you. And please call me Friedrich. Okay?” He smiled again and stared into her eyes.
Nodding her head, she smiled back. “Oh, yes. And you can call me Gunda.”
He rose and extended his hand. Her grip was moist. “Thank you, Gunda.”
