by D S Kane
The earbud’s voice in Bob’s ear was scratchy. “Roger.”
“Well, what do I do? What’s next?”
“I’ve nothing real to suggest. Perhaps, prepare for the revolution. When you get to the hospital, there will be a car waiting. Get back to Control as soon as you can.”
“Are there more in operation here today?”
“No, not here.”
Bob knew what was coming. But he had to ask, anyway. “Where, then?”
“Everywhere. Thousands. More than we can handle.”
Bob shrugged. He knew it was too late. Something should have been done years ago. Now the United States would pay a heavy price to continue its existence, with either many thousands of young people’s lives terminated, or the numbers of the rich and powerful taken down several notches. Bob suspected both things would happen, and not nearly enough to end the problem.
At the hospital, Bob waited by the ambulance until a security detail arrived and took over management of the two captives. The captives and their detail moved into the hospital corridor while Bob waited and watched from outside, under the emergency room awning. Snow continued blowing. He shivered.
An armored car stopped by the curb and its door opened. The backstop waved to him.
Bob got in. “I’ve got a feeling this is going to be the only easy day for a very long while.”
The backstop nodded. “Well, duh, you think?”
The car sped to the airport.
CHAPTER 6
Red Duck Café,
D Street, Washington, DC
February 14, 3:22 p.m.
Misha Kovich sipped an espresso while sitting in the darkest region of the coffee bar. His fingers caressed the crystal of his Russian Tank Commander’s wristwatch. It had never been accurate, but he loved that ancient timepiece. He’d taken it off the wrist of a dead KGB officer over two decades ago.
The man who had set up today’s meeting referenced Misha’s prior employer, the Russian KGB from the days of the Soviet empire. That mention established the contact’s creds. During the fall of the empire, his brother Kiril had fled with his pregnant wife Natasha, but Misha changed his name to Kovich from Sashakovich and remained in Russia. He’d worked for the Russian mafiya for over a decade, until they had tried to assassinate him.
Misha had fled Russia and grown fat in America. He’d changed the shape of his face so many times in Russia, using plastic surgery. Now, after a final surgery to reset his face to what it was once, long ago, he found no way to conceal his age. Staring at his reflection, he saw his graying hair and beard, wrinkles like canyons around his eyes. He thought, life is never kind or easy for a spy.
His new life had made him soft. When he learned secrets his siloviki bosses thought it was too dangerous for him to know, Misha had no choice but to flee to America. That was six years ago. Now he was employed by the company his niece Cassandra Sashakovich—Kiril and Natasha’s daughter—had started. He was responsible for weapons and matériel acquisition at The Swiftshadow Group, in Washington, DC.
He stared again at the watch. The man had said it was urgent. But whoever it was, he was late. Misha wondered if the man had met trouble. Didn’t matter. It was time to leave.
He signaled the waitress, who delivered his check. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and picked up the check. A small scrap of paper fell from below it. His lips moved as he read the words scribbled on it.
Send a courier to the Ottoman Imperial Hotel in Istanbul next Thursday at noon. Have them pick up a package at the reception desk and follow instructions in the note within.
Misha almost laughed. Decades since he’d been a spy. And now, it seemed, he was being thrust back into a cloak-and-dagger modus operandi.
He rose from his seat, dropped some cash, and donned his parka. He headed out into the bitter cold and back to his office on K Street at The Swiftshadow Consulting Group.
He knew who to send to Turkey. Yes, Gault would be the perfect person. He’d been stationed in Ankara when he worked for his previous employer, the now-defunct unnamed intelligence service run by Gilbert Greenfield.
Gault had just returned from an assignment in Raleigh, North Carolina, dealing with a bunch of suicidal college students. When the group turned out to be a national movement, the FBI had taken over. Nearly ten thousand dissidents had been rounded up and were now being held in a detention camp in the Wyoming wilderness.
* * *
Avram Shimmel sat at his desk and scratched his chin. “You trust this source?”
Misha shook his head. “He demonstrated his creds. But there are the Moscow Rules. First rule: Trust no one.”
Shimmel frowned. “Then why should we bear the cost of sending an operative? It could be nothing more than an expensive vacation. And Bob Gault? He’s still on probation. The man has an attitude and a history.”
Misha shrugged. “He knows the country. I have dealt with him. He’s reliable and right now, he’s available. Look what he just did in Raleigh. Avram, I have suspicions about this contact. The person who wrote the note made it appear he or she is former KGB. No one in Russia would contact me unless it was urgent and I was their only hope of completing a mission without letting hostile forces know.”
Avram shook his head. “That’s bullshit.”
He was silent a moment, then shrugged. “Okay. I’ll give you a few inches of rope. Send Gault.”
* * *
A few days later, Bob Gault dropped his suitcase off with the deskman at Ottoman Imperial Hotel in the old city of Istanbul, Turkey. He was jet-lagged from the eleven-hour flight. A howling baby had occupied the seat directly behind him. He just wanted to grab a few hours of sleep before proceeding to business.
“Something was left here for you,” the clerk told him, and handed him a package. In his room, Bob opened the package. There was clothing, lots of it. A costume. He read the note inside. There was no time now for sleep.
Another hour passed while he prepared. The instructions were very explicit regarding location and time for their meeting. He walked three blocks in the cold air, past tourists and locals. A troop of school children swamped him at one corner, a tour guide speaking German to about ten tourists blocked him as he negotiated his way past Topkapi and its palaces.
In a public toilet just outside the Blue Mosque, Bob Gault slipped into the ridiculous disguise. He looked like a clown in the fake beard, turban, and purple vest, rather than like a man in Istanbul off to prayers. He had to draw his breath in tight to don the costume. He took one brief look in the mirror and shook his head. Then he trudged from the public rest room into the square outside the enormous mosque. The turban and purple vest were a joke. No one would believe he was there to pray.
He entered the huge vestibule of the mosque, took off his wingtip shoes and dropped them into a plastic bag one of the men handed him. Then he slipped through the doors along with nearly a thousand Muslims, to answer the call to evening prayers.
He found an empty section on the intricately woven tulip rug and dropped to his knees. He pretended to pray, his eyes scanning the area around him for the contact he was to meet. No one looked like they were interested in him.
After half an hour, the prayer session ended and he left the mosque along with everyone else. Something had gone wrong. Whoever he’d come to meet hadn’t been there. He’d traveled over seven thousand miles and accomplished nothing.
He entered a different public restroom. But as Gault stripped off the costume, a small thumb-drive with a piece of paper taped to it fell from one of the pockets of the purple vest. It hadn’t been there when he picked up the package containing the costume at the quaint hotel. He scanned the note and felt his heart thumping faster.
Swiftshadow courier,
I used to work for the Russian mafiya and am familiar with your firm and its work products. The intel I am giving you is bona fide and accurate. Should you wish, I can provide you with further details at another time.
I have obtained i
ntelligence indicating the Russian government may be preparing to invade the United States. They have courted a powerful partner, and although I cannot prove it, it appears to be China. They plan to use logic bombs to disable all communications within the United States sometime within the next two months and then bring down the nation’s power grids.
The thumb-drive contains files with proof of my conclusions. You must decide who to tell about this.
Gault scratched his chin. He had no computer with him and no way to access what was on the thumb-drive. He’d no way of knowing if the intel was valid. He had more questions now than before he’d arrived. He decided to tell Avram Shimmel. He didn’t trust using his phone for this; he’d have to do this face to face. He pulled the note from the thumb-drive and used his cigarette lighter to light up the message, dropping the flaming paper into the sink. After he washed the ashes down the drain, he placed the thumb-drive back in his pocket. Then he walked back toward the hotel, carrying the costume under his arm.
As he walked, he was preoccupied by the intel he’d just received. He pondered the possible implications of this new knowledge as he returned back toward the hotel, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk.
* * *
Dmitri Sokol followed Gault. He quickened his pace until he was three paces behind his target. When Gault stopped at the corner to wait for the light to change, Sokol flicked his umbrella into Gault’s left calf and then came to a stop. He waited for a few seconds while Gault turned to face him. It only took seconds more for Gault’s arms to flail around his head.
When Gault fell, the hunter searched the man’s pockets, grabbed the thumb-drive, and left the scene. He watched from a coffee shop as someone called for an ambulance. But he knew his target would be dead within the next minute, and the poison would dissipate from the victim’s body within the hour.
Mission accomplished. Now to finish his other assignment. As he walked toward a taxi stand, his cell chirped. He scanned the email on its screen. A third assignment. The Russian president wanted him to meet with a group of Chinese diplomats in Washington. But that was where he was headed anyway. It was where Cassandra Sashakovich lived.
* * *
Ben-Levy sat in the medical office within the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC. He coughed and wiped his mouth, leaving a red smear on the tissue. Seeing the color, he shrugged. The ghost of Aviva Bushovsky danced around the former spymaster and stuck her tongue out at him.
The doctor remained sitting at a desk across the room. “Yigdal, I have told you all there is to know. You are very sick.”
Ben-Levy shook his head. “Not merely sick. I’m dying.”
The doctor didn’t reply.
“How long?”
The doctor reached for a blank prescription pad on his desk. He picked up the pen and held it as he spoke. “The chemo is no longer working. Surgery isn’t an option. As for radiation therapy—”
His voice filled with a well-controlled rage. “How long?”
“Maybe two months. Probably a lot less.” The doctor’s voice softened. “It will be painful. You belong in the hospital.”
Ben-Levy’s voice was barely a whisper. “No. I will die working.”
He left and took the stairs back up to his office. Pain throttled his gut. Inside his office, he stumbled to his chair, gripping his stomach.
“Damn.”
The ghost of Aviva Bushovky appeared in front of him. “Soon you will be with me, uncle.” She grinned at him. “Soon we can dance together.” She pirouetted and bowed.
The ghost had been his constant companion since the day after she was buried. He’d played a part in her murder.
The head of the Mossad had forced Yigdal to terminate his niece for becoming a double. She claimed MI-6 threatened the life of her fiancé, Jon Sommers, and if she declined, they’d come for him. To save him, she been doubled to work with MI-6. Since Yigdal had sent her to London to bring Jon back, he felt responsible for her death.
That modest mission had gone so badly. He bore the guilt of many deaths, but having a part in the termination of his closest living relative was a curse he’d found difficult to live with. He leaned toward his desk, away from her translucent body. He ran his fingers through his thinning white hair as tears pooled in his eyes.
That’s when he saw it: an incoming email on his computer screen, coded “daylight priority.” It had been over a year since anyone had sent him an intelligence report. He was no longer assistant director for the Mossad and project liaison with Aman, the Israeli military intelligence directorate.
When had the email arrived?
He’d been away from his office at the doctor’s for over an hour. Who would do this?
He opened the email and read it:
I have intelligence you should be aware of. The files attached are taken from a thumb-drive I came to possess. The reports have this title: “Research Project ID 74-831.”
I read the report and I believe they relate to a series of past proxywars that will turn into a possible global war.
He opened the attached files and donned his reading glasses. He scratched his close-cropped white beard, scanned a few lines, and stopped. His lips pursed, but not with pain.
The first line on the top page said it all. “Chinese CSIS and Russian mafiya are ready to partner to destroy America using false flags, cutouts, and proxywars.”
He read the bottom of the email that the report was attached to. Something about a courier the Mossad had contracted from The Swiftshadow Group. Yigdal knew their president, Avram Shimmel. In fact, years ago, the original funding for the group came from Yigdal’s own black operations budget. That must be how his name was listed as one of those who received this report. Someone thought he still controlled what his protégé was doing. He’d have to contact Shimmel.
He read the file from cover to cover. What would someone want with diagrams of the electric grids for the United States and China?
Two hours passed without any pain.
* * *
Avram Shimmel paced around the gray steel desk in his office on K Street. It had been four days since Bob Gault was scheduled to return from Istanbul. He was sure now that his operative had met trouble. He thought of talking with Misha again but the old spy had told him everything. Twice.
No, whatever happened to Bob is something bigger than what I’d assumed. He sighed. Maybe I should talk with Sashakovich. She has a more devious mind than I have. She’d be a good reflecting board.
He picked up the phone. “Cassandra? I have a hypothetical. Can you spare a few minutes?”
“Sure. Wait a minute while I put Evan in his crib.” Just a few seconds passed. “Avram, you know I have a few weeks left before I’ll be able to spend days away from my infant. Couldn’t this wait?”
“Afraid not. Remember Bob Gault?”
“Course I do. That man is a worthless piece of shit, if you ask me. But you hired him after he’d told you he reformed.”
Avram thought, if he’s a piece of shit, at least he’s my piece of shit. “I believe he’s in trouble. He’s been out of touch for a few days past his return date on an easy courier job.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t turned? Sorry, I meant, turned again.” He heard her laugh.
He tried to ignore her attempt at humor, and stifled a sigh. “No, I’m not. I need you to tell me if you think anyone is looking to end him.”
She shot back her answer. “Most of Washington, especially all of Gilbert Greenfield’s former agents. They all hate Bob. They hold him personally responsible for the agency folding up and blowing away.”
Avram’s mouth formed an “ah.” He took a few seconds, considering how Bob had joined Swiftshadow, claiming he’d changed his world view. It had seemed a weak reason to Avram. “They hate him enough to kill him?”
“In Washington, everyone harbors nasty thoughts. The rule of thumb is never turn your back. Bob might have made that mistake.”
Avram stroked his chin. “Yeah. I guess tha
t must be it. Well, thanks. Enjoy your last two weeks. See you soon.” He could hear the infant’s cries.
She said, “I’ve got to feed Evan. Bye.” She terminated the conversation.
Avram found himself gazing out the window onto K Street. Below him, liars and cheats walked on the icy sidewalk to and from the offices of the lobbyists who ran the country. A land of lies and fiction.
What has really become of Bob Gault?
* * *
As Yigdal Ben-Levy completed his research, his eyes widened. He’d been with the Mossad from his college graduation until a few years ago. In his almost four decades as a spymaster, he’d never seen a threat this imminent or destructive. The archives were rich with details of the ongoing unintended consequences of the bellicose behavior of the Russians and the United States. Each had been guilty of inducing proxywars against the other, multiple times during the years from the end of World War I through the current day. This was the first time the war would be more direct.
He scratched his white-bearded chin. If the analysis was correct, the matter went far beyond the Mossad’s ability to deal with it. It might even be beyond the ability of the United States to stop. It might take the pressure of most of the world’s countries to stop it, all working in combination. The United Nations might be the best path. He wondered if that beast was as toothless as its behavior might indicate. If so, even that might not be enough, but it might at least mute the pending threat.
He walked to the conference room and closed the door. The only furniture beyond its huge walnut table and a dozen leather covered chairs was an old white board with an electronic stylus marker. He switched on the board and drew a rough series of Venn diagrams. He painted the top border of the board with the first of three dimensions: “Country of Influence.” He drew circles at the top for Russia, China, and the United States. The left margin’s vertical axis contained the header “Country of Operation” and here he wrote the names Germany, France, England, Korea, Vietnam, Pakistan, India, Israel, Iraq, Iran, Palestine, and Afghanistan. He marked each intersection point with the year of the proxy war’s occurrence, spanning from World War I through the current day. When he was finished, he took two steps away from the board and studied the diagram.
