by D S Kane
She turned and faced him. “Whatever.” She walked to the pile of clothing on the floor and picked up her panties and bra. “My father owns two restaurants. You own nothing.”
He pulled several bills from his wallet and placed them at the edge of the bed. “I don’t need to own. I rent. Here’s yours.”
She shook her head. “You pay me well enough, but it is better to own.” She finished buttoning her sundress and pocketed the cash in her purse. “You can afford to own. Think about it.”
He nodded, zipping up his pants. Was she proposing marriage? He wasn’t interested. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
She nodded back. “Same time. Yes.”
He heard her close the door as she left. Finishing the top button of his Oxford shirt, he picked up the cell phone and viewed the unanswered phone call on its screen. “Damn.”
About the time the elevator doors opened on his apartment’s floor, Jon’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He stared at the screen. “Ah, William. Thanks.”
“What’s so damn important?”
“Remember that little project you did for me and mine a while ago?” He unlocked his apartment door, entered, and closed it behind him.
“You mean the one your Mother had me do? The one that caused that bitch to steal my equipment? All my files? My entire life? Yes. So?”
“My handler thinks you might become a threat. She asked me to assess the risk you pose. I—”
“You what?” William’s voice was a loud bellow. It was the first time Jon ever heard the hacker raise his voice. “You think I might be a risk?”
“Please, calm down. Not me. But since you aren’t interested in working with us, they worry about the vast amount of knowledge you have about our operations.”
“Well, fuck you very much, Jon. Look, our arrangement is a standoff. If I pull the trigger on you guys, I’d be exposing what I did for you, and that would get me killed. My father would have me murdered in order to survive. His government in Beijing terminates traitors.
“Jon, you must know by now I have a ‘life insurance policy.’ If I go missing or die, everything that was in my computer goes public in a big way. Don’t tell me you didn’t realize that. So let me remind you that you guys need to keep me alive. I’m not suicidal. Like you.”
Jon placed his keys on the tiny end table in his dining area. He loosened his tie. “Right. Well, remember, you were the one who told me to give my handlers the file you hacked from the US intelligence agency where the little thief used to work. Now I need to know if there’s anything you didn’t tell us.” He sat at the tiny dinner table.
William’s voice was once again at its normal level. “I copied her entire file from the agency. She’s good, a decent hacker, but not in my league. From her file I know she was trained to handle herself in dangerous situations. My guess is she’s able to kill without thinking about it. She popped the locks on my front door. From the lack of any markings, she used a bump key. So she’s a burglar. Remember the video I gave you? She’s efficient and fast. She devastated my life in less than five minutes.”
“And yet, she missed the new technology cam on your kitchen table.”
“Jon, I have cams mounted in places no one would ever suspect. Many are dummies. And yet, she missed just that one. There was no way for her to know what it really was. What you should be worried about is that she took several years of data from various operations, including all those I’ve done for you and the rest of Mossad. Now, she has all that. Luckily, I have offsite backups. But she may also know about them. So I moved the backups to other offshore servers that night.”
Jon grabbed a frozen dinner from the freezer and pushed it into the microwave. He paced to the table. “I assume there’s a photo in the file you hacked. What’s she look like?”
“Brunette, military buzz-cut, about five-foot-seven and so thin I could almost see through her. Athletic, muscular build. Probably about forty-five kilos. From her photo, I think she has a pretty face.”
The microwave bell rang. Jon picked the dinner out and grabbed a fork. “What else do you know? Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
“Well. Uh, yeah. I was curious. I don’t normally read client files, but because she’s dangerous, I read every one of the tech files I stole from your Silicon Valley chip manufacturer. They’re very interesting. Seems the blueprints are for a nanobug. It’s called Bug-Lok.”
Jon stopped the fork just before a load of food could enter his mouth, “Huh?”
“A nanobug. An ingestible, injectable listening device, so small it wouldn’t ever be noticed, not even in autopsy. And it comes configured with a transmitter, a GPS, and has an optional compartment to carry a small amount of a new ricin derivative. To kill the person carrying it after they’ve served their purpose. It’s designed to find its way into the bloodstream, work its way upstairs, locate and connect to the auditory and visual centers in the brainstem using a chemical binder. Understand?”
Jon swallowed a bite of stew. “No. Wouldn’t that be a pretty big device?”
“Not any more. Whoever designed this made it one-twentieth the size of the head of a pin. It’s way past the state of the art. So I think it’s your guys who designed it. DARPA was defunded years ago. All they do now is manage projects and subcontract advanced weapons manufacture. Sounds like the Americans called your Ness Ziona folks and had them craft the device. And then, before they had to pay the Ness Ziona, they stole it. And sent it to Stillwater Technologies to manufacture.”
Jon dropped the fork on a napkin. “Damn.” He thought for a second. “Show me. Do you have the documentation?”
William said nothing. Jon waited. “Yeah. I have a video of one of the tests. I’ll send it to your phone.” Jon heard William terminate the connection.
In less than a minute, His cell beeped. Jon watched the video and listened to a researcher with an Israeli accent. “Lev Robinson, May 26, 4:30 p.m. We administered Bug-Lok to the subject via a halal tuna fish sandwich. Prisoner 367-BL-22, Bug-Lok sample lot 26 aleph. In two hours, we could see this from the Bug-Lok, left side of split screen, and this from the helmet monitor the subject was wearing, right side of screen.” The images were roughly the same, with the colors more saturated coming from the helmet cam. “Listen to the sounds the subject hears.” Jon heard a train whistle and some rock music. “Now, listen to the same sounds recorded in the room.” He couldn’t tell the difference.
This device was far beyond any spy tool he’d ever heard about before. He wondered how much it would change the intelligence world. And the answers came flooding into his mind in a rush. There will be no way for anyone to conceal secrets. No way to lie. Enemies can be found with ease, and their truths unveiled without interrogation. He hated being lied to, but Bug-Lok would stop that. His handlers would continue running spies like him without worry he’d keep the truth from them.
Worse, competing intelligence communities would use it against each other and against the leaders of enemy countries. Who could be so stupid as to think this would remain the exclusive domain of the country that developed it? He wondered if Greenfield’s agency had officially gained the blessing of the United States government. Almost certainly not. Deniability.
His cell buzzed as the video ended. William said, “I have another video. You have to see this. I’ll send it to your phone.”
Jon heard another beep and opened the file. A short, bearded man in his early thirties wore a lab coat and stood facing the camera, pointing toward a large screen television. “Prisoner 367-Bet-Gimel-22, is playing solitaire.” The scientist must be Lev Robinson. The scientist pressed a button on a remote control. “I’ve just administered the terminal dose of the ricin derivative. It should take only ten seconds to begin acting on the subject.” Jon saw the prisoner’s face grow red, saw his hands whip to his throat, and watched as the man’s eyes bulged. The prisoner fell to the floor and convulsed for several seconds. Robinson announced, “His pulse is now zero. His body tempera
ture is steady, no, falling one-fiftieth of a degree.” The video ended.
Jon knew he’d have to do whatever it took to contain this. He was sure he’d need William to play a key role. “Okay. Listen, in order for me to convince my handler that you’re still sincere about protecting our secrets, you need to tell me you’ll continue working with us. Got it? So, please, please tell me you will. Even if it isn’t true.”
“Sheesh, Jon. I don’t do danger.”
“Yeah. There is that. Maybe I can find a role where you can help us exclusively as a hacker. Okay?”
“You owe me. Not just as your friend.” William terminated the call.
Now Jon would have to contact Ruth again.
Chapter Ten
Neue Trading Company, 211 Oranienburger Strasse, second floor, Berlin, Germany
June 26, 4:46 p.m.
Ruth Cohen sat in her office, the late afternoon sun lighting her desk through the window across the plaza from the Neue Synagoge. She read the arriving email and cursed. So Willie Wing knows everything. And worse, so does a rogue operative of Greenfield’s agency. Oh, fuck. She reached into the inbox on her desk and fingered the bill of lading containing an encrypted message. It took her less than five minutes to decode. Now she had a record of all William Wing’s bank accounts. Most were numbered, but Michael Drapoff was an excellent yahalom and a better heth, logistician. It had only taken him hours to find them for her. She paced her office and pulled out her cell phone. “It’s Cohen, ID number BSC-7081. Get me Mother.”
The call terminated and she walked to the window as she waited, looking out at the Spandauer Vorstadt. Nearly eighty years ago, Adolf Hitler rode in a parade celebrating the incarceration of Jews in concentration camps before the start of World War Two. Ruth believed it could happen again.
Her phone buzzed. “What?” Mother’s voice sounded like snapping sticks.
She paced her words with deliberation. “Willie Wing told us the truth. His computers contained records of everything he’s ever done. Cassandra Sashakovich has it all.”
“Every assignment? Are you sure?” She could hear his tension steaming through the telephone line.
Ruth steeled herself. “Yes. And she also has copies of the project plans and specs for Bug-Lok. Plus two videos of successful tests.”
“Where is she?”
Ruth had waited for Mother to ask what Bug-Lok was. But the tone of his response meant he knew all about the device. What is it? Is it one of ours? But of course it is.
“Dunno. She’s gone rogue. According to Wing, the Muslim Brotherhood is hunting her.” Ruth knew what he’d say next. She took a deep breath.
“Find her.” His voice was cool, slicing through her. She flinched. Yes, he was true to form.
She let the breath out. “I’ll need a team. Can you obtain authorization from the Prime Minister?”
“No! Not a kidon team. She may be someone we can use. A weapon. Never destroy a weapon until you know it’s going to be pointed at you. Just find and surveil her. You have my authority to do just that. Tell me where she is. Then, await my orders. Clear?”
“Yes.” She’d spat the word out, but hoped he hadn’t noticed her anger.
“Do it now.” She heard him terminate the call.
Ruth stood holding her phone, her teeth clenched. “Bastard.”
She thought of her reasons for accepting the promotion to station head in Berlin. It was considered a “training post” for further advancement. The Germans were cooperative with the Israelis, more so than anyone else in Europe. Her appointment meant she’d been marked as a rising star.
But the thought of being close to Jon made her shiver. He’d been so soft when they’d first met in London, sweet and naïve. He’d changed during the mission when he hunted Tariq Houmaz. He’d developed a reputation in the Office as a bright and logical thinker. A thinker with a temper. What most drew her to him was his sense of loyalty to his friends and his passion for justice. She knew he’d gotten that from Lisa before her death. And Lisa was the closest to a friend Ruth had ever had at the Office.
Had that figured into Ruth’s decision to accept the promotion? She would never be sure. She could tell he wanted her, and it was more than sheer lust. The rules forbade them to love each other, yet it happened often and the Office never enforced its regs. She wondered if she could restrain herself. She wondered what her true feelings were.
Ruth shook her head to clear it.
Yigdal Ben-Levy paced near the door of his office in the newly opened headquarters building in Herzliyya. His desk and the whiteboard were still there, along with a folding chair, but almost all of his possessions were in boxes, ready to ship to the embassy in Washington.
He stared at the whiteboard diagram with the title “Bug-Lok,” at the back of the room. It was filled with notes he’d been making since he arrived back from Washington. He picked up a marker and added two words on the board, under the box labeled “DARPA.” Gilbert Greenfield.
He knew what the stolen technology was designed to do. He’d worked with Lester Dushov on its design. Mother had requested most of the functions, serving to push the old concept of Promis, the computer system Mossad had designed to track terrorists from their telephone and Internet use. Promis dwarfed the NSA’s old ECHELON system, from which it was stolen and copied. Bug-Lok was a quantum jump.
What he’d intended to deliver to DARPA was a defective device that merely killed the person ingesting it. The other functions in the DARPA version were to be disabled. When the Ness Ziona pushed its design beyond the original concept, he’d ordered the Israeli scientists to say it was too complex to make reliable. But even the crippled version was far too nasty. He looked at his half-empty coffee cup. Imagine. Coffee as an assassin’s weapon. He feared his creation.
His report to Greenfield that Bug-Lok was unreliable was met with a hacker stealing the real plans and delivering them to DARPA. His jaw clenched.
He’d had William Wing hack back DARPA’s copies of the plans. Then he’d had Drapoff replace the copy Wing held with the defective plans. Someone had stolen Wing’s copy of the defective plans. Cassandra Sashakovich. If she was working for the United States, did they now know that the plans wouldn’t work? Was Sashakovich the person who broke into the Hong Kong tech factory to steal their copy of the real plans? If so, did the United States now have a working version of Bug-Lok?
He also had another problem. Who was the mole who had infiltrated the Ness Ziona? And who did the mole work for? If the Prime Minister found out, he might see the theft as an act of war.
He picked up the secure landline. “Get me the Prime Minister. This is a daylight alert,” he said, indicating a highest-priority matter. Ben-Levy had served as a sniper in Oscar Gilead’s unit decades in the past, and Gilead was the only man Mother had ever feared. In the army, long ago, when Gilead had run Shabak, he had been a sadist of the first order. As prime minister, he looked like a kind old man, but Mother knew the truth.
Within a few seconds the phone buzzed. “What? I’m preparing for a meeting with the section head of Aman.”
Mother flinched. “There is a serious problem we must make a decision on right now. More important than military intelligence. I just need a few minutes.”
The silence on the other end of the line went on for a few seconds. “Okay. You have it. Is this a result of that mole at the Ness Ziona? Has he or she stolen something else?”
“Yes. Remember the Bug-Lok project?”
“Of course. Didn’t we stop our efforts on that?”
He braced himself. The Prime Minister was a Mossad alumnus. This would bring hell down on Mother. He squirmed. “Greenfield’s agency may have a copy of the functional plans. A woman who was one of his NOCs,” he said, using the term for “consultants” operating under non-official cover. “Recently fired, now working off the reservation as an independent. She stole it from our captive production company in Hong Kong.”
He waited for the PM’s reply. The
re was nothing but heavy breathing for a long time. “Find her. Do it off the books. Interrogate her. If you can, turn her. If not, use the Bug-Lok to end her.”
This was exactly what Mother had ordered Ruth to do. There was just one thing he could say. “Right. I’ll let you know what we find out. We’re also determining if there’s another mole.” He heard the PM mutter something unintelligible and then the call terminated.
In the folding chair across from Mother, he saw the ghost of his niece, Aviva Bushovsky materialize. She stuck out her tongue.
Whenever the pressures of his job became too much, he’d see her. As he stared at the spot where she sat, she dissolved and vanished.
Aviva had been the pride of his life. She’d become his protégée, a skilled and ruthless bat leveyha.
About a year ago, Oscar Gilead, then the head of Mossad and Ben-Levy’s boss, discovered Aviva’s work as a mole for MI-6. Gilead ordered Aviva terminated. And Yigdal Ben-Levy had made it happen. No one outside of Gilead knew Mother’s role in her death. He’d used three levels of cutouts to contact the kidon who’d planted the bomb. Ben-Levy had destroyed the only person he ever loved, his only surviving family.
Aviva, you knew what would happen. Love is a dangerous game, and you were warned about Jon Sommers. I tried to save you. But Gilead gave me no choice. And there is only one punishment in our business.
A tear formed and rolled down his cheek.
When Jon approached his apartment’s front door after work the next day, he noticed the gray thread he always placed inside the doorjamb lying on the tile floor. It should have remained in place until he or someone else opened the door. Therefore, he had an intruder either waiting inside his apartment or long gone. Shit!
Jon had no weapon, and even his knowledge and experience with Krav Maga, the Israeli martial art, might not be helpful if there were multiple assassins waiting for him. He crouched at the door to the fire stairs and looked through the window into the stairwell. No one was waiting there. He cracked the door, careful to make no sound.
