by D S Kane
Cash deposit at Bank of Trade branch in Munich, transferred through Dreitsbank acting as correspondent bank to Bank of Trade branch in Riyadh, amount in USD equivalent is $200,000.
Jon gripped the paper as he saw the name of the account holder of receiving bank account: Sigmund Tahir. William had already figured out and told Jon he thought this was an alias for Pesi Houmaz.
Identical amount transferred through Dreitsbank Munich to Grund Bank in Bern, account holder: Antron SA, near the town of Gals, Canton of Bern, Switzerland.
Mr. Stamphil, I need to speak with you soon. Dreitsbank is involved in something evil and I need your help.
Jon grimaced. The activity at the Bank of Trade was something Mother needed to know about. What was the younger Houmaz brother doing? If it was a weapons purchase, he’d need to know more. Was that what Ms. Schlein wanted to talk with him about? He sighed and walked to William’s room where he knocked on the door.
“I need some intelligence from you. Preferably before we take our next walk on the wild side.” He showed the email to William.
William read it several times, his face more and more agitated. “Oh, fuck. I think I know what’s going on here and you won’t like it.” He walked to his desk and reached under it to grab a pad of paper and a pen from his attaché case. “Here.” He drew a flowchart. “I hacked Antron when I got Pesi’s email. They’re a weapons manufacturer and supplier, but most of their money is from experimental weapons development. How much you want to bet the younger Houmaz is having them backward engineer a Bug-Lok type device?”
Jon shook his head. “How could they do that? You have nothing to indicate that might be true.”
“Yes. But my scenario is worst case. They could reverse engineer a Bug-Lok device if someone gave them one to test. The Americans are stupid and arrogant enough to believe they can control the Houmaz family. My guess is they gave Tariq a unit and asked him to test it. He handed it off to his brother. Just a guess. But if it’s true, the result is worse than if I’m wrong and we fail to tell your Mother person. Just call him and pass this on. Let him make the decision.” William turned away.
Jon’s entire body went slack. “Fuck.” He walked from William’s room and returned to his own. After closing the door, he punched Mother’s number into his cell, identified himself, and waited for a secure call-back.
“What?” Mother’s voice seemed bored and angry at the same time.
“I have new intel for you.” Without giving the man time to ask any questions, Jon read the email to Mother. He knew the call was being recorded, so if Mother wanted someone to follow up with the information, he could just forward the recording.
When he was done, he could hear Mother breathing on the other side of the line. “How reliable is your source?”
Jon arched his hands together, his fingertips touching his chin. “Dunno. She thinks this is a security audit and she’s hoping that she’ll be fast tracked for promotion at the bank if this works out.”
“I need to think. Postpone the mission until you hear from me.” The line went dead.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charles Crane’s flat, 38 Vauxhall, Stantonbury, Milton Keynes, UK
July 31, 1:45 a.m.
Sir Charles Crane pulled the cell phone from his nightstand as soon as he heard it buzz. He yawned and pressed the Accept Call button and rose from his bed. His view of the Thames River calmed him. “Ms. Schlein. I’ve been expecting your call. But I expected it this afternoon.”
From the headquarters of Dreitsbank, Gunda Schlein’s voice seemed agitated. “I’ve cooperated. I gave Stamphil the story you fed me. Are we done now?”
Crane scanned the Parliament building across the river. “Not yet. Tell me what his response was.”
“Response? I sent him an email. No response. I don’t even know if he read it.”
Crane frowned. “Well. Let me know if he replies. In the meantime, I don’t require anything further. If I do, I’ll be in touch.” He terminated the call. She was becoming troublesome. He wondered if pursuing her had been worth the effort. She hadn’t met him face-to-face, so there was no danger of being exposed. Or was there?
He lay in bed, wondering how much she’d guessed. Thirteen years ago, Jon Sommers’s father, Abel, had worked at the British Trade Mission in London. His beautiful wife had often been with him. As a young case officer in MI-6, Crane had trusted them. They hacked into the MI-6 servers and stole intelligence specifying that Syria was building nuclear bombs. Two weeks later, Israeli jets bombed the Syrian nuclear research factory to dust. The Syrians assassinated Jon’s parents, and Crane was demoted for inadvertently helping the couple steal state secrets. It had taken Crane’s career a decade to recover. He hated Sommers for what his parents had done.
He hated the Israelis.
By noon, Ben Gurion Airport was as busy as it ever got, taxis and vans jammed at the curbside for drop-offs and pickups. Lev Robinson hefted the suitcases from the trunk of the taxi, not waiting for the cabby to get out of the vehicle.
From his seat in the Chevy van two cars back, Michael Drapoff drummed his fingers as he watched, his hand fingering the Mossad credentials in his pocket. He was close enough for his earpiece to pick up every word the Robinsons said.
“Where are we going?” Miriam Robinson’s voice cut through the babble of voices in many languages. A jet roared overhead drowning out Lev’s reply.
“Why?” Her face was wrinkled with confusion.
Lev whispered into her ear. His impatience was visible.
Her arms dropped to her side and the suitcase she’d dragged behind her slid away.
Lev pointed to her with one hand and waved the other. She shrugged and fetched the suitcase.
“They’re headed into the terminal. Toward El Al. That should make your job easy.” Drapoff terminated the cell phone conversation with Lester Dushov inside the terminal and unbuckled the seat belt. He sauntered through the terminal doors and maintained his distance, about ten meters behind his quarry.
A few meters ahead, Dushov stood in line right behind the Robinsons.
Drapoff joined him. “Thanks for saving my place in line.”
Dushov smiled. “No problem.”
Lev Robinson reached the counter and pulled two suitcases onto the luggage scale. “You’re holding two boarding passes for the 3:16 p.m. to London in the names of Miriam and Lev Robinson.” He dropped two passports on the counter in front of the ticket clerk. Miriam tugged his sleeve and babbled in his ear. From what Drapoff could discern, she remained disturbed about his reasons for the trip.
Dushov held up his Mossad credentials and waved them at the clerk. The clerk nodded back. “One second, sir.”
Lev turned to see to whom the clerk was referring. Dushov smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, might we have a word?”
Drapoff watched as the air seemed to leave Lev’s lungs in a gush.
Lev hung his head. “Right. I guess it’s over.”
Dushov muttered under his breath, “You bet it is.” The four left the terminal together, with Lester holding the Robinsons’ passports and boarding passes.
Twenty minutes had passed since they arrived at the parking garage below a modern office tower in Herzliyya. The two men gently held his arm as they guided him past the endless empty parking spaces to the single blue metal door. A bearded, white-haired man in a black blazer opened it. Lev Robinson saw a wall of glass on the building side of the room as the door closed softly behind him.
Robinson wondered why they treated him with such courtesy. As he scanned the area in the gray room, its Formica table and hard-backed folding chair where he sat, he thought of his wife. Where had they taken Miriam?
The door opened and the middle-aged man who had identified himself as Lester Dushov walked in, carrying a leather case. He placed the case on the table and tapped it. “We don’t have to use any of the tools I brought. If you cooperate fully, you can walk out of here undamaged. Otherwise…” He popped th
e lid on the case and withdrew several blades, a few vials, and several syringes.
Robinson swallowed hard. “You know what I did?”
“Of course we know.”
“Then what do you want from me?” He felt afraid, and once more wondered what was happening to Miriam. Had they shown her the case of torture tools?
Dushov walked to the glass wall and closed its curtain. “Now, we’re alone.” He flicked a switch on the wall near the door. “Totally alone. No recording devices.” He pulled a pad and paper from the case. “First, write your confession. Describe everything. Every event, every person you contacted, what they asked and what you delivered. When you’re done, knock on the door and the guards will have me return.” Dushov picked up the attaché case, flicked the switch by the door, and left the room.
Drapoff stood in the outer vestibule watched the hidden camera, and scanned several LCD meters. “Well, he’s afraid. I think it’ll work out fine.”
Dushov nodded. “He’ll want assurances that we won’t hurt his wife or terminate either of them if he helps. Mother already gave me permission to offer that. I’ll update him soon.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “We’ve completed phase one. We are at the start of phase two.”
“Hurry.”
Dushov watched his victim on the hidden camera. Robinson was printing words on the pad.
Dushov waited until Robinson tapped at the door. When he opened it, the look on Robinson’s face was a combination of exhaustion and defeat. Dushov took the pad from his captive and scanned the words. He nodded and left. He waited several minutes before reentering. “Dr. Robinson, there’s one thing missing from your confession. What’s the name of the person you worked for?”
Robinson shrugged. “I don’t know. I never actually met the person.”
Dushov kept silent for a few seconds, studying his captive. “So your conscience made you betray your country to someone you never even met?” He left the room.
Yigdal Ben-Levy scanned the video of Lev Robinson on his computer monitor. After seeing it three times, his instincts had him convinced Lev Robinson was a single mole, working alone, run by a handler he’d never met. Exactly what was in the confession. He’d single-handedly stolen everything that they’d lost. All their secrets.
His cell buzzed.
He pulled the phone from his pocket. “You’ve turned him? Good. Lester, recycle him. We need Robinson to get us to his handler. Use his wife as collateral.”
He listened to the response. “Exactly. Do it fast.”
When they led Lev Robinson from the building to a waiting van in the Mossad headquarters underground garage, the canvas hood was still closed around his head. Once he was seated and the van was moving down the street, Lester Dushov pulled the hood off. Robinson blinked in the bright sunlight.
He turned to his captor. “I thought what I was doing was for the good of Israel. Understand?”
Dushov shook his head. “You were misguided. What you did was treason.”
Robinson’s eyes flashed intense denial. “Those settlements will soon be the cause of our worst war.”
Dushov took a step away. “You had no right to betray your home.”
“What about Miriam?”
“It’s safer for her if we hold her in a secure place. When you’ve completed your work, we’ll reunite you both and send you someplace where you can be together.”
Robinson doubted this. He was sure they’d send him and Miriam to “a better place,” the term used by the Mossad to describe an unmarked grave in the Negev. “Will you let me see her once before you dispose of us? At least tell her how sorry I am.”
Dushov sighed. “If you work with us, we won’t terminate either of you. My promise. And you’ll be together. But you’ll be in a place where you can never hurt the state of Israel again.”
The van approached the Ness Ziona building where Lev had worked for almost ten years. Dushov uncuffed Lev’s hands and opened the van’s door. “You know what to do. And you know we’ll have you watched every second. Don’t fail us. Don’t fail for Miriam’s sake. Your lives depend on how convincing you are. Use the script we had you memorize.”
Lev Robinson nodded and backed out of the van. He frowned, realizing he’d screwed everything up. Being caught by the Mossad was a blessing in disguise. Maybe he could fix what he’d done. If so, this would be his only chance.
He walked into the lobby of the building and flashed his ID card at the guard. The guard nodded and ran a scanning wand over Lev’s body. Robinson’s eyes roamed the lobby and he noticed for the first time how shabby the building’s interior was.
He felt very old.
When he entered the crowded elevator, all he could think of was his fear of what might happen to Miriam if he failed. Instead of a quick, painless death, they might take their anger out on her.
The elegantly dressed gentleman walked down Euston Road toward Pancras Road for his meeting with one of his assets. His impeccable Burberry raincoat fit him to perfection. He used the closed black umbrella as a walking stick. It contained a single-shot .22-caliber round in its tip. Clouds driven by wind whorled through the sky and a light rain patted the top of his brown fedora as he crossed the street at the King’s Cross tube station. His cell phone beeped. He seemed confused, but found a sheltered overhang from a building awning.
He read the text: LD4H29WB E6IU9GC. He pressed a key to decrypt it. LRX BC. Lev Robinson needed emergency exfiltration. Blown cover. Crane cursed. Robinson was his, and he was running the asset off the books; no one else at his agency knew about this operation. No one else could touch him. Robinson knew too much about Crane to be left out in the cold. I will personally have to extract him, or terminate him. But termination might prove to be even more difficult. Damnation!
Sir Charles had been on his way to coax a newly developed asset into performing a difficult assignment. He punched in the asset’s number, ran an encryption program, and sent a message: “Meeting postponed for two weeks.” Next, he called his office. “825, call sign ‘mastercollector,’ get me on the next available diplomatic flight to Ben Gurion.”
Late in the afternoon, the next day, Lev Robinson waited at the supermarket in downtown Tel Aviv for his handler. Peeking through the fruit and vegetable bins at imported lettuce, domestic oranges, and other items on the made-up shopping list he was told to carry, he wondered why the man was late for this, their most important and final meeting.
From the corner of his eye he saw someone whose head was mostly covered by a hoodie sweatshirt. The man walked by him and dropped a scrap of paper into the lemons bin. Robinson waited ten seconds and picked it up. He ambled toward the checkout counter, but then moved as if he’d just remembered he needed to buy another item. He left the cart in one aisle and walked down another, then headed through the door into the room where the butcher was hacking a leg of lamb. He handed Dushov the note.
Dushov read it and nodded. “Your job is over. Wait here. It’ll be safe.”
Robinson looked at all the blood on the metal tables. He flinched. “Okay.”
Lester spoke into his earbud. “Michael, did you spot him? He’s wearing a black hoodie sweatshirt. Exited the front about ten seconds ago.”
He could hear Drapoff’s whisper. “Yeah. He’s gone to a car in the parking lot. He’s waiting for Robinson. Looks like he’ll expect Robinson to get in, and then he’ll terminate him.”
Dushov had reached the lot. He ended the call and placed another. “All units, converge on the olive-green Jeep Cherokee rental near the northeast exit.” He rushed toward the spot where the handler’s rental car sat. So did fifteen black-clad Aman soldiers, all wearing liquid-armor battle vests.
In seconds Robinson’s handler was cuffed and perp-marched into a gray van.
The captive covert, call sign “mastercollector,” sat in the chair Lev Robinson had occupied less than two days ago. Yigdal Ben-Levy stood outside the room, watching through a one-way glass wall. “Never would I
have imagined him capable of this.” He shook his head.
Lester Dushov smiled. “Why not? His agency ran the Houmaz brothers for five years before they finally decided to terminate them. And then Greenfield’s agency picked up Tariq. Mastercollector tried to double Jon Sommers, but we kept him from succeeding. He must have been desperate for a way in. What better resource than one of our weapons developers?”
Ben-Levy shrugged. “I know all that. But he and I have a history. I believe this is personal.” With that, he opened the door and entered the interrogation room.
Sir Charles Crane’s eyes rose. His voice was flat as he spoke to his adversary. “It’s been twenty years.” His hands, shackled to the legs of the table made a clanging sound as he sought leverage against the table. But the table was bolted to the floor.
Mother nodded and dropped the leather attaché case he held on the table. “You know what’s in here.” He pointed to the closed case. “We won’t damage you physically, but we will destroy your mind. Know that I will take personal delight in doing just that.”
