Assassin's Silence

by Ward Larsen

  He was staring bleary-eyed at the fuel gauges, which had become a clock of sorts, when Walid came forward from the cockpit bunk. The Druze stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “When do we land?” he asked.

  “Ninety minutes. Come take a shift, I am getting tired.”

  Walid sank heavily into the copilot’s seat. “I think I have logged more flying time in the last two days than in four years of flying for the Syrian Air Force.”

  “Perhaps so—but I wouldn’t bother putting the hours in your logbook. Once this is done, neither of us will ever fly for hire again.”

  Walid chucked wearily. “True. But in two days, if we want to fly again, either of us could buy a private jet.”

  Tuncay might have smiled if he’d had the energy. He punched a button on the center instrument console. “The controls on this navigation selector are worthless.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied a contrite Walid, apologizing for the third time. He had earlier toppled a can of Coke he’d set on the console, and despite a ten-minute blotting session with a package of napkins, the control head for the number-two VHF navigation receiver remained a sticky mess. The rest of the cockpit was hardly better: food wrappers and magazines tossed on the floor, an uneaten sandwich moldering behind one rudder pedal. It was the kind of housekeeping one would expect from owners who had no financial stake in their home. Or in this case, owners who knew their home was on the brink of condemnation.

  Tuncay added, “The number-two autopilot has tripped off twice, but it seems to reset. And your radar altimeter is useless.”

  “Do we need it?” Walid asked.

  Tuncay swept his hand in the air as if sweeping the question aside. “Of course not. We are limping along, but none of that matters. If we can keep two of the three engines running and lower the landing gear a few more times, our mission will get done.”

  “When do we go north?”

  “If all goes to plan, one more fuel stop, and then we will make our dash. Hopefully the chemist and the Israeli will have everything complete on their end.”

  “I’m not sure I trust them, the chemist in particular. You think such a man will be able to carry through on his part?”

  Tuncay stood and took his turn to stretch. “Will any of us?”

  The two pilots, who had met only months earlier, exchanged an awkward look. “He is Sunni,” said Tuncay, trying to lighten the mood. “Have you ever known a Sunni who was not trustworthy?”

  Walid could not contain a smile. His captain went to the bunk, and for amusement he typed the coordinates of their next destination into the flight computer. Two thousand, nine hundred and seventeen nautical miles on a zero-six-one degree bearing. Six hours of flying time, more or less. After that they would have only two more flights in the old jet, each shorter than the previous.

  And each progressively more perilous.

  He was erasing the coordinates when an alarm suddenly sounded. A wide-eyed Walid stiffened in his seat, but then relaxed when he realized it was only the autopilot disconnect warning. The big jet drifted lazily to port, a shallow bank that Walid easily countered using the control wheel. Manual flight was always available as a backup, but tedious and rarely used in the age of automation. He reengaged the autopilot and it came online smoothly. The big ship righted, once again flying herself.

  Minor crisis averted, Walid pushed his seat rearward. He put his heels up on the instrument rail, reclined his seat, and did his very best to keep his eyes open.

  FORTY

  When it comes to building assassins, Mossad leaves no stone unturned. Slaton remembered the signals intelligence training block well. It had lasted two weeks, and of that, three tedious days were spent on hardware. He could still envision the engineer who’d come to their classroom on the second day, an unreservedly nerdish sort who had droned for eight hours about effective radiated power, atmospheric attenuation, and antennae directivity. The prospective assassins in Slaton’s group—there were five to begin—gave the bookish little man no end of hard stares, making the point that they would rather be out on the tactical ranges shooting something.

  As it turned out, the engineer’s painfully arid briefing had been deliberately orchestrated. The next day the commander of the training detachment was the first to enter the room, followed closely by the engineer. He explained that those who’d kept focus the previous day would be glad they had. The engineer gave a hard stare of his own, or the best he could manage, as the practical exam was issued, along with a promise that a passing grade was mandatory for anyone wishing to continue along the road to becoming a kidon.

  The aspiring killers were given a detailed list—twenty-five varied types of antennas—along with a smartphone. The engineer who’d been so rudely treated the day before was allowed to issue the time hack, and off everyone went. The trainees had seven hours in which to photograph a specimen of each of the twenty-five aerials. Slaton would later reflect on how well-designed the exercise was, requiring not only recognition of the various transmitters, towers, and dishes, but also a working knowledge of where each might be found. It also told the instructors who had been paying attention on the dullest of days, a subtly vital skill, and served as a practical exam in field photo-surveillance. Most importantly, the seven-hour limit added an element of pressure.

  When the day was done and the results graded, only two trainees remained. Two had failed to locate all the required types of antennae, and another was let go when he was arrested outside an Israeli Air Force base—a military policeman on regular rounds had spotted the man taking pictures. David Slaton was a survivor, and now, years later, he found himself still using what he had learned.

  His survey of Kosmos had begun on the dock in Larnaca. Certain electronic devices could be tied to the shape of their antennae—the distinctive whip of a marine VHF radio, or the rotating bar of an open array radar. What Slaton did not see was more relevant—no white dome to signify satellite connectivity, which was presumably beyond the means of a tuna-chasing smuggler.

  Less apparent, and more worrisome to Slaton, was the possibility of handheld devices. Demitriou probably did not have a satellite phone, again for economic reasons, but a mobile phone was a near certainty. Given that Kosmos was presently forty miles from the nearest shoreline, they were beyond the coverage of any cell tower—typically ten to fifteen miles from shore for voice, slightly more for text. That isolation would end in the early morning hours as they approached the treacherous coast of Lebanon.

  Standing at the washbasin by Kosmos’ foul-smelling head, Slaton ignored the cracked mirror in front of him. Mossad had also given lessons on changing appearance, a segment far more entertaining than the engineer’s and taught by a woman who for twenty years had spackled some of the most famous faces in Hollywood. That training was useless tonight. He was fair-haired and, in spite of his Maltese tan, relatively light-skinned, with gray eyes and Nordic features that spoke far more of the Baltic than the Mediterranean. Even with professional makeup, contacts, and hair dye, he would need a very dark evening indeed to pass as Lebanese. A generation ago he might have resorted to a full jellabah to mask his appearance, but these days in Beirut one saw more Nike and knockoff Vuitton than traditional robes and sandals. Fortunately, in an ode to globalization, Slaton could present himself for very near what he was.

  Since the end of the July War with Israel in 2006, Lebanon had rebuilt much of its tourist infrastructure. Seaside hotels were back in business, their swimming pools clogged with well-heeled European families. Farther inland, rooftop nightclubs and hookah dens shared equally in the profits of peace. Best of all—February was always a high month.

  During his brief excursion into the shops and salons of Foinikoudes Beach, Slaton had purchased a dark Ralph Lauren shirt and Zanella trousers, and a pair of comfortable Bruno Magli loafers. These tags of quality, if lost on his pelagic captain, would openly support the image of a well-to-do European reveling in the charms of western Lebanon. Slaton completed his ens
emble with a light jacket of more egalitarian taste, in the pocket of which was a set of wraparound sunglasses and a knit watch cap. The brown jacket also had a blue zip-out liner with a hood. In sum, he would look like any of a thousand tourists, yet could change his appearance in seconds with a half-dozen permutations.

  He checked that his pockets were zipped and secure, and before going on deck Slaton coiled his last acquisition, from a Larnaca hardware store, into his back pocket. In stagnant air that reminded him of an automotive garage, he stood still and listened carefully. He heard an empty gin bottle rolling back and forth on a railed shelf, keeping time to the seas outside, and the steady hum of Kosmos’ old diesel. From the wheelhouse above came the tin-echo blare of pop music on AM radio—a receive-only device that was not a concern.

  Slaton’s magic number was twelve—the distance from the coastline, in nautical miles, where they became vulnerable. It was the internationally recognized territorial boundary, and while “innocent passage” was permitted within, this came at the price of occasional boarding inspections by Lebanese coastal patrols. Outside twelve, Kosmos was safe. Inside, even a Cypriot-flagged fishing scow was fair game.

  He went above and found Demitriou at the helm.

  “How close are we?” he asked.

  “Thirty miles,” the skipper answered.

  Slaton scanned ahead, and could just make out faint lights on the highest hills. He moved next to Demitriou to study the horizon, and also the VHF radio controls near the helm. There was a bulbous microphone with a thumb-lever for transmitting. The radio was powered up, but the volume dial was turned to zero. Demitriou had both hands very deliberately on the wheel.

  “We will reach the coast off Aarida by three, well before sunrise.”

  “You’ll be back in port for lunch.”

  “Sunset,” the big man corrected. “I must catch dinner on the way home. If I return to port empty-handed, there might be questions.”

  “Questions about where you’ve been? Or about your proficiency as a fisherman?”

  “Neither one serves me, so I will put both to rest.” Demitriou looked him up and down. “You think you can pass for Lebanese looking like that?”

  “Hardly.”

  “How will you swim ashore in such clothing?”

  Slaton responded with a circumspect look and said, “You haven’t asked about the second half of your fee.”

  To his credit, the smuggler answered quickly. “I assumed it would be the same arrangement as last time. After your safe delivery, one of your friends will find me at the docks.”

  Slaton thought, but did not say, Only you’ve realized that I don’t have any friends this time.

  He saw a moving map display on the main console. The boat was old, but Demitriou, like all fishermen these days, could not rely completely on the old ways. Slaton reached for the display controls, and the skipper watched closely but didn’t protest. He expanded the map until the coast of Lebanon was fully visible at the right edge. “I’ve changed my mind,” he announced. “Put me ashore here.” He pointed to a stretch of coastline midway between Tripoli and Beirut.

  “What? No—we have an agreement. The patrols are too heavy in that area.”

  “The course is one-three-zero degrees, Captain. Steer it.”

  Slaton watched the rising lights in the distance, now a string of flickering jewels above the coal-black sea. He waited for a protest, but the old whiskey compass near the ceiling began to swing. Then he saw something more troubling. Demitriou’s far hand was on the VHF microphone—he wasn’t holding it, but his knuckles were discreetly pressing the transmit button.

  It was just as Slaton had feared. He knew where he’d made his mistake. He’d had the Nicosian isolated at the dock, but then allowed him to take the money to the harbor shack. Eighty seconds. Longer than it would have taken to simply lock the money in a safe. Not long enough to have counted it. Slaton doubted there had been time to call anyone, so Demitriou had probably told a friend, perhaps the young deckhand. Told him where they were heading and when they would arrive. He’d probably scribbled down a VHF channel—with the transmit button pressed, as it was now, the radio would serve as a homing beacon.

  Slaton could only speculate on the rest of the betrayal. The information had likely been forwarded to a contact in Lebanon—smugglers in these waters could ill afford to take sides, so Demitriou would have contacts on both shores. There were people in Lebanon who would pay far more than five thousand for an infiltrating Israeli commando, a bounty guaranteed by the fact that a state of war had existed between the nations since 1973. In that moment, staring through a salt-encrusted windshield, Slaton’s view of his situation hardened, and he knew there was but one option. For the second time in his life, mutiny.

  Demitriou seemed to read his thoughts. He made a subtle move, his far hand snaking into a storage bin.

  Slaton did not hesitate.

  With concise movements, he half-turned away from Demitriou, then rotated back to deliver a vicious elbow to the shorter man’s temple. The big fisherman hit the deck like a dropped anchor, conscious but stunned to inaction. Slaton rolled him facedown, put a knee in his back, and from his back pocket extracted a handful of plastic zip ties. He’d bought the heaviest gauge available, half-inch bands with enough tensile strength to keep the ship’s engine on its mounts. Demitriou mumbled incoherently as Slaton bound his wrists behind his back and looped the ties through an unused belt loop. Finally, he secured the captain against a stanchion.

  Slaton returned to the helm, and in the storage bin he discovered an old six-shot .45 revolver. It was big and clumsy, an elephant-pistol whose black steel had gone green, and whose barrel-mounted sight was severely bent. Still, it might have worked. Slaton had expected something like it—no smuggler worked these waters without protection, and it was also just the thing for taking potshots at nuisance sharks that might threaten a nearly boated prize bluefin.

  He emptied the cylinder of four bullets, threw them overboard, and put the gun back in the storage bin. Slaton checked the compass and set a new course, then pushed up the throttle until the tachometer hit the red line.

  * * *

  What Slaton could not know was at that very moment, one hundred and ninety-six miles over his head, an image of Kosmos was being logged by a satellite of the United States’ National Reconnaissance Office. It was called BASALT, a synthetic aperture radar bird nearing its perigee, the point at which an orbiting body is closest to the earth.

  Within seconds that image was devoured by computers at the NRO, which automatically scrubbed through a list of prioritizations. Kosmos was quickly identified—her length and beam and rigging were distinguishing enough, and she had long been on file as one of the thousand or so fishing boats that frequented these waters. The fact that she was approaching Lebanese waters caused barely a ripple. The NRO’s assets had very recently been tweaked with new commands, and in the next minutes along her elliptical path BASALT would scour every airfield in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan for a mysterious MD-10. Longline tuna boats, regardless of the waters in which they sailed, had fallen precipitously on the list of priorities.

  BASALT was not alone.

  For the last four hours America’s most advanced satellites and drones had been scouring the earth. They downloaded images using every manner of sensor, the variances in their products essentially a matter of spectrum: electro-optical, infrared, radar, laser. These results were pored over at first by computers, with the most promising results, along with those that remained ambiguous, forwarded to legions of interpreters at the CIA and NRO.

  It had already been ascertained that no fewer than two thousand airports existed across the world with a runway big enough to handle an MD-10. At that moment, 92 percent of them had been scanned by one method or another. The only airfields ignored were a handful of landing strips below 75 degrees south latitude—an arena that lacked regular satellite coverage for anything except ice sheets, and whose few airports harbored mor
e flightless birds than aircraft.

  As a subtheme, analysts determined that there were one hundred and twenty-two hangars on earth capable of swallowing an MD-10, thus potentially rendering their target invisible. The vast majority of these were owned by either airlines or maintenance repair and overhaul companies, legitimate and responsible businesses who one-by-one confirmed what was on hand in their shelters. There were loose ends, of course, and these were dealt with on a case-by-case basis. A shadow at an airfield in Sudan was eventually written off as a canvas decoy, the newly independent South Sudan trying to impress their tormentors to the north. An airframe on a taxiway in eastern Kenya raised hopes, but the aircraft was eventually identified as a derelict Russian model of similar size and silhouette.

  Across the globe, CIA field operatives were dispatched to take pictures of some sixteen large aircraft hangars, and friendly intelligence services were tasked to quietly scout another dozen. A U.S. Navy drone was diverted to fly past the open door of an aircraft paint barn in southern Iran, and an Antarctic geological team—a professor and two graduate students from the Scripps Institution of Oceanography who were preparing for a mission funded by NOAA, and whose communication suite was first rate—were quietly asked to peek into a cavernous maintenance facility that had been abandoned in southern Chile.

  By seven that evening, Eastern Langley Time, the count was down to thirty-six airfields, all in decidedly nether regions of the world, whose tarmacs had not been thoroughly canvassed. Nine hangars also remained whose contents were unaccounted for. Of these, four were in North Korea—and as such were under constant watch anyway—along with three in China and a pair in Siberia. None seemed likely prospects.

  In bunkers all around Washington, D.C. teams of image analysts descended into a collective gloom as they fired blanks in a rare full-court press. Some began to express doubts that the airplane they were searching for even existed, whispering that it perhaps had crashed in the waters off Brazil after all, and that a certain air accident investigator was off his rocker. The crash inquiry in Brazil was monitored from afar, but there were no new developments.