by D S Kane
Chapter Thirty-One
Jon Sommers’s apartment, Ottobrunner Strasse 17, Munich, Germany
August 8, 7:43 p.m.
As Ruth’s eyes began to glaze, Jon fell into a state of shock. He knew she would die no matter what he did. Not enough time for an ambulance even to arrive. He clasped her close to him, and told her how he loved her as her pulse went from thready toward death. “Ruth, I’ll find Tariq Houmaz and kill him for you. Promise.”
But she was already gone.
Jon held her corpse in his arms. He lifted her body from the bed and held her even tighter. He could no longer see through the veil of tears that flooded from him. It took minutes, but his mood shifted. His anger welled higher than his grief, and he clenched his lips and screamed.
He lowered her back to the bed, remembering how he’d tried seeking vengeance after Lisa died. It hadn’t worked.
What if it had? Was there a God? If he’d succeeded, would he have been damned to Hell for murdering a human being? He’d never killed before even though he’d tried.
He wiped the tears away and felt a war of intentions within. Maybe he’d be better off turning the other cheek. Running away from the cycle of vengeance and lies embedded within the world of espionage.
Could he do that? Could he save himself? If he did, what would he become?
Jon called the Berlin station of the Mossad. “It’s Jon Sommers, ID number aleph-gimel-bet-aleph, call-sign Quicksilver. I need a cleaning crew, ASAP. Ruth Cohen has been murdered in my apartment.” He gave the station clerk some details. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he ripped off his bloody shirt and grabbed a fresh one from the closet. He dressed and left his apartment for the last time.
He found a cab and dropped into the seat. “Airport.” He called Avram. “Ruth’s been tortured and murdered. The way it was done, it must have taken a lot of time. They left her to bleed out. Houmaz’s signature was cut into her while she was still alive.”
“At least when he murdered my wife and daughter, it was quick. Jon, you must stay strong. Use this to destroy them rather than letting them use it to destroy you.”
Jon wiped his face on his sleeve. “No. There’s already been too much death. I’m out of here. Forever. Maybe you should stop trying too.”
Thousands of miles away, Avram’s voice sounded tenuous. “Really, Jon. Why? You have more than enough reason to find and kill him.”
“I can’t bring myself to kill anyone. I’m already going to Hell.” Then the real reason for what he was trying to do hit him hard. “The more I try to kill him, the more innocent people Houmaz kills. People close to me.”
Avram’s voice grew more intense. “And if we don’t stop him, there’ll be even more deaths. Thousands. The man builds bombs. How can you live with that? It’s not a personal thing. It’s business. Someone must kill him. We’re the ones who know him best.”
“But—”
“Don’t get close to anyone else, ever again. But find and kill him.”
Jon terminated the call. As the cab sped away from his apartment, he felt beaten.
As he stood in line at the ticket counter, his breathing slowed.
He shook his head. He knew Avram must feel hatred for Houmaz, mustn’t he? He’d been hunting the bomb maker for almost a year. But the former major never showed emotion. Jon realized the probability of Avram finding and killing Houmaz without help wasn’t big, and only Jon and William could improve the odds by providing the skills and help he needed and lacked.
Avram had trusted Jon, but now Jon abandoned him. William had demanded Jon stop looking for him. The three friends were now separated, each an incomplete piece without the other two.
He remembered how he’d felt when Lisa abandoned him after she swore she and he would be together for the rest of their lives. How his parents died in the car accident that wasn’t quite an accident. Now, Ruth was gone forever. All the people he loved had been murdered.
Which is the worse sin? Kill a terrorist who murdered my parents and my soul mates, or abandon my best friend to a dangerous mission without my help? Help that might save Avram’s life, as Avram had once saved mine? “Shit.” He’d been ready to leave this alone.
Now, as he thought more about it, he wondered if there wasn’t a better way, a way to achieve both objectives. Maybe he could help Avram with better plans.
With Ruth dead, did he have anything left to live for? No, he had nothing left to lose.
He was too close to this. He tried to be objective, to use logic. He needed to think about his situation mathematically. Could he? He took a deep breath. No, confusion still ruled him.
What if killing Houmaz required Jon to die? So be it.
But what if lacking Jon’s help caused the deaths of William and Avram, his only two friends? After the deaths of Ruth and their baby, could he live with himself if he caused Avram and William to die? Was the probability of them dying while trying to kill Houmaz without Jon’s help greater than with his help? And what if they all died and Houmaz still survived. What if it was all for naught?
Confusion.
Jon knew Avram wanted to form a mercenary army. Could they somehow find a way to determine where Houmaz was and what he was planning next? That had always been William’s job. Jon shook his head. It was too much to think about.
The taxi stopped at the airport terminal. He’d been thinking of fleeing, going somewhere unrelated to his role as a spy with the Mossad, or where he’d dealt with MI-6, or Washington, DC, where Gault worked. Someplace unmarked by his work. But when it was his turn, he bought a ticket to Tel Aviv.
Tormented, he paced the airport gate. He felt devastated, beyond redemption. He was sure there was no way he could ever be whole again. He wanted revenge, but revenge wouldn’t accomplish anything. He’d have the flight to think about his next move. But that might not be enough time.
The plane boarded, and as he walked toward his seat, a plan began to form in Jon’s head.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Israeli Embassy, 3514 International Drive NW, Washington, DC
August 9, 10:17 a.m.
The new office was too large and too full of light. Yigdal Ben-Levy blinked. He felt exposed as he peered out its huge bulletproof Lucite windows. So many trees. Gorgeous, but bad for security. Excellent cover for a sniper. He found the view of the Washington Monument pretty in the distance, but nothing here could make him feel comfortable. He drew the curtains before sitting at the ornate desk.
He knew why he’d been promoted. It was to remove him from the spy service. The Prime Minister was tired of him, impatient with the way Yigdal had cut him out of the loop whenever he’d found it inappropriate to deal with the government before authorizing a mission. And Mother had failed too many times.
The PM had appointed Samuel Meyer, a more compliant spymaster in his place. He grimaced. Mother had told the PM that cutting him out of the loop was the only way he could keep missions secure. The Knesset was a sieve.
Exile. He’d done this to himself.
He knew in his heart he would still have a hand in the Mossad. He steeled himself to his first task: organizing himself to head a small informal group within the Mossad, running missions not even Oscar Gilead knew about.
He unpacked the last box of his possessions. The ghost of Aviva Bushovsky danced around the room, laughing at his arrogance.
When her alarm buzzed, Shulamit Ries yawned and pulled herself out of bed. She hadn’t had any real sleep. Every time she heard any noise, she woke. And this cheap hotel on the outskirts of north Tel Aviv was noisy during rush hour. She splashed soap and water across her face and donned the clothes she’d worn yesterday. In the mirror, she looked a mess. One last thing to do here. She punched Mothers number into her cell. The call terminated at pickup and in a few seconds the return call buzzed.
“It’s Mother. Now I have time. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“My car was tampered with. A bomb, set by one of Houmaz’s killers. My cove
r is blown. We have to talk about my future.”
The pause on the other side of the line was longer than she expected. “I understand.”
She took a breath and held it. There was a chair across the room. She sat before answering. “I called it into Shabak. They found a clear print on the car underneath the transmission. Belongs to Abdul Fazad.”
“Fazad. I know his work. Where are you now?”
“The Bell Hotel.”
“Shula, I’m no longer in Israel. I’ve been promoted into the Dip service. I’m in Washington, DC.”
She saw her face pale in the mirror. “No! What do I do?”
“It was announced late yesterday. Samuel Meyer is my replacement. I’ll call him right now and get you into his office as soon as you can get there. Don’t drive. Leave the car where you parked it. Ruth Cohen was assassinated using sharia torture. You understand the danger? Clear?”
“Yes.”
Her hands shivered and she let out the breath she’d been holding since he told her where he was. “Right. I’ll get going now.”
She heard the termination of the call. No time to even brush her teeth. Move, now!
Shula stood and walked to the door to exit the room. When she twisted the knob, she heard the characteristic click of a bomb arming device. It must be wired to the doorknob on the outside of the door. Any further motion of the knob would detonate the explosive. She held the knob tight and unmoving in her left hand.
If she let go of the doorknob, she’d be blasted into shreds before she could move outside the bomb’s destructive perimeter. Hold tight to that knob! Her cell phone was in her other hand. She moved it close to her mouth and used her nose to tap the Redial button. When the secure call came in, she used her nose to tap the Accept button. “Listen fast. I’ve triggered an explosive attached outside the hotel room’s door. I’m in room 202, holding tight on the door knob. Send the bomb squad. Fast!”
Mother’s voice was as cool as ever. “Done. Hang in, Shula.”
Standing at the door with her hand sweating tight against the knob, Shula wondered how they’d tracked her. She’d run a surveillance detection route as she always did, looking for someone following her. They must have tracked her cell.
Now she knew they were better than she was.
The fog outside the coffee shop made it difficult for Avram Shimmel to see if he’d been followed. But it would also give anyone trying to follow him a problem. Such was the morning this day in Monterey, California.
The fog dissipated as they stood in line. Sunlight now sparkled through the windows.
“Jacques, thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“It has been too long, my friend.” LeFleur’s obsidian skin reflected the sunlight, almost blinding Avram. “What is this urgent matter you spoke of?”
“I have a business opportunity for you.” Avram smiled at the barista. “Two espressos and two French crullers.” He pulled a few sheets of paper from his pocket. “Please read.”
LeFleur scanned the pages in a rush. “These are an employment contract. But you must know I’m on the faculty of the Naval Postgraduate School. I’m teaching guerrilla tactics and counter-response this semester.”
Avram leaned in close to LeFleur. “Which you learned from me when I taught you here three years ago. Yes, and you were my best student. I’m forming a mercenary army. You can finally get back to combat. Not teaching combat but waging war. Would you not like the opportunity to challenge yourself against real enemies once more?”
LeFleur remained silent for almost a minute. He smiled. “I missed you, my friend. Let me spend a few minutes with these pages.”
Avram nodded. He knew he could close the sale. He prepared for Jacques’s questions about the details. Once he had LeFleur signed on, he could move on to Giondella and McTavish, and they would help him with the recruits. With luck, it might take him just a few more days.
From an outdoor café across the street in Tel Aviv, Abdul Fazad watched the action at the Bell Hotel. He’d expected to hear an explosion. Nothing. Then, as he thought his plan thwarted, he saw an armored wagon and an ambulance park in front of the hotel and three people from the wagon don protective gear before entering the building.
He’d have to stay and watch. If they were able to disarm the booby-trapped device, it would never make the news. He walked to the counter and bought another espresso.
Shula felt the sweat drip down her arms. She’d been waiting for almost an hour and nothing had happened. Which, she thought, is a good thing.
The window of her third-floor room shattered, almost causing her to release the knob. Her heart thumped hard against her chest. Then from behind she heard someone grunt their way in. “I’m Tamara Harris. We’ve been working on the door and found too many booby-traps to disarm it.”
She heard footsteps. The woman was right behind her. “What now?” Shula was more conscious of the odor of the perspiration from her armpits. Sweat had also begun to drip from her forehead into her eyes.
“I have a roll of duct tape. Let me get a bit closer. Can you shift to the right?”
Shula nodded and crushed herself against the wall. Harris ripped a piece of tape and was about to use it to secure the doorknob from movement when her cell buzzed. She handed the strip to Shula and accepted the call. “What? Really? Okay, well, that changes things.” Harris grabbed the tape roll and began spreading it across the knob while she spoke to Shula. “Look, there’s a timer. My team leader says there are only twenty seconds left. I’ll finish this, then exit. You get out the window, now, first. There’s a ladder. Get to the ground. Now!”
Shula held her spot and patted the tape into place for several seconds. She wondered if it would even hold.
Harris screamed. “Get out now!”
Shula sprinted three steps to the window and forced herself out. Her head, then her shoulders and waist were outside. She gripped the ladder. Before she could finish pushing herself through, the door turned into an exploding rain of splinters and the room disintegrated around her. She felt her feet blow off the floor, her body flying into the street below as her world turned black as night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pisto’s Restaurant, Monterey Wharf, Monterey, California
August 9, 2:32 p.m.
Avram Shimmel chewed a forkful of fried fish when his cell phone buzzed. He held it to his ear and listened. “How do you know they’ll want my assistance?”
The harborside restaurant was empty during a late weekday lunch. Outside, the sky was shrouded in fog, further dissuading tourists.
The waiter brought Avram’s check and he pulled a credit card from his pocket. The waiter walked off with it.
Avram whispered into the phone. “Yes, I understand. But no one has seen her in almost six months. Yet you claim you know where she is.”
His contact said something which caused Avram’s brows to knit. “That’s a lot of money for just meeting with her.”
He listened to the other man’s reply. “Yes, I’ll take it. When Mr. Ainsley contacts me, I’ll arrange a meeting with him and Ms. Sashakovich.”
His handler terminated the call. Avram stared into the cell phone’s screen as if it was something evil. His handler—his benefactor—had offered assignments which gave him the cash necessary to construct the mercenary force. And the man had promised more. The work for Sashakovich would be the first test of his tiny army. It might take a month or more for him to kick them into shape, but the mission—if indeed it happened—would provide adequate practice and a butt load of cash.
He sat staring at the screen for several minutes.
Shula Ries could hear a regular chirping, about once every second. There was something caught in her throat and her legs felt numb. She opened her eyes. Hospital room. Heart monitor signaling she was still alive. Tube lodged in her mouth. Straps holding her down on the bed. At least she was still breathing.
Elizabeth Brown sat on one of the plush chairs in their hotel room
at the Mayflower in Singapore. Her bags were packed. William sat opposite her.
William’s face sagged. “So, if you consider everything, I lied to you. Lied by omission. I’m sorry. And I do want you. I…I love you.”
She shook her face. “Yeah. I know that. But if you want, I can take you to a place where you’ll be safe. With me. It’s a tiny town and there’s nothing nearby. No one would think to look for you there. Completely uninteresting. Great hiding place for a world-class hacker.”
His brows knitted. “You’d do that? For me?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yup. Little Wing, I love you back.”
He frowned. “Where’s this place you just mentioned?”
“Woodbine, Iowa. The only thing exciting in town is when the train comes through every night. Wakes everyone up every hour or so. Not one restaurant. I do get cable, though.”
She could tell he was thinking about this.
He smiled. “I guess so. Maybe I could learn to cook dim sum.”
They carried their luggage out the door to the elevator.
She pushed her elbow into his side. “Well, I hope you can. My cooking is for shit.”
Rendition. The aroma of stale urine was all Tariq Houmaz was aware of in the dark prison cell. Which country have they taken me to?
He sat wearing handcuffs on the filthy bed bolted to the wall. The cuffs were on a long chain bolted into the concrete wall. There was a sink that was also the toilet, a rank device that smelled of feces. The one-way window was translucent gray, so he could see nothing.
One of the guards knocked on the cell’s door. “Food.” A tray pushed through a slot in the door, onto a shelf on Tariq’s side of the cell.
Houmaz reached for the tray, hoping there was a plastic fork he could use to fashion a shiv. No, no eating utensils at all. It was just a sandwich containing some gray-looking meat and a paper cup filled with a brown colored soda. The sandwich tasted like it had been left to grow stale before they served it to him.
