Yosef pulled two miniature cameras from a pouch, checked their batteries, and attached them along the curved wall, pointed at the blast door. Using black spray paint, he attempted to blend them into existing graffiti, camouflaging them.
The cameras had been tested in southern Israel’s Timna Valley, where copper ore has been mined since the fifth millennium BC. They were capable of sending images from underground for as long as their batteries lasted, fifteen days.
He pulled his scuba gear back on and dropped into the channel. When he reached the bay, he found his visibility even more restricted. The sun was setting. At best, he could see perhaps nine inches in front of his face mask. When he extended his arms to pull himself forward, his hands disappeared.
He decided to swim closer to the surface. A spiny dogfish appeared, startling him. Another. He had swum into a school of the world’s most common smaller sharks. Despite the fishing captain’s grousing, the fish surrounded him. A bump against his thigh. He swam faster, hoping to pass through them.
They seemed to be swimming with him, so he turned upright to allow them to pass by.
A sting. In his right thigh. A jab, followed immediately by another. Needlelike. Not a shark bite. He reached down to swat. A third painful puncture. He decided to swim deeper, but his hands didn’t respond. His feet froze.
Yosef felt vomit rising up from his stomach, bursting from his mouth and out into his air regulator as he began to sink.
Twelve
Taras Aleksandrovich Zharkov wasn’t surprised when dignitaries from the Bulgarian Ministry of Economy were waiting at Varna Airport to welcome him. The Russian oligarch had revealed plans to construct a four-hundred-room luxury hotel on the shores of the Black Sea—a convenient excuse for his frequent trips to the region.
During the next three days, Zharkov consulted with architects and paid bribes to governmental officials. Adequate time for his superyacht, the Red Triumphant, to reach port. Zharkov ended his visit with a lavish party on the largest private yacht in the world, at six hundred feet. VIPs were ferried aboard via two helicopters. Partygoers danced in the ship’s disco hall to the beats of Bulgaria’s best-known DJ. Topless models soaked in four hot tubs. An unending supply of Dom Perignon White Gold was poured. Zharkov mingled until dawn.
Twelve hours after his last guest had departed, the Red Triumphant sailed across the Black Sea toward the Crimean coast near Sevastopol. It was time for the actual purpose of his trip.
Once anchored, Zharkov ordered the yacht’s DeepFlight Dragon personal submarine to be lowered into the water. A man joined him in the two-seater, which the oligarch piloted underwater into Balaklava Bay. Within minutes he’d entered the concrete canal that led to the former Soviet submarine base. Its blast door opened.
The submarine rose to the surface, and Zharkov popped its clear bubble dome. He struggled to pull his chubby frame up the metal ladder onto the concrete dock, and was winded by the time he was standing on it. The mini submarine’s second occupant hurried up behind him.
“Welcome,” Commander Boris Petrov said, greeting Zharkov and his companion. The Iranian general Firouz Kardar was standing on the dock next to Petrov.
“General,” Zharkov said, “wonderful to see you. It seems you made the delivery on schedule.”
“I arrived yesterday,” Kardar said.
“I put it in the same room where the Soviet nuclear missiles were kept,” Petrov said with a sly smile.
Kardar looked past Zharkov at the stranger whom the Russian billionaire had brought with him in his mini submarine.
“Who is this?” Kardar asked.
“An Armenian nuclear scientist,” Zharkov said, without bothering to formally introduce him. He turned to the scientist. “Go with Commander Petrov to authenticate my purchase, and do it quickly.”
“Follow me,” Petrov instructed, leading the man from the dock.
“General,” Zharkov said, “there’s something beautiful I wish for you to see.”
“I need to return to Tehran as soon as possible,” said Kardar. “With full payment.”
“Yes, yes, but first, come with me.” Zharkov led him along a tunnel large enough for a city bus to drive through. It curved sharply, a Cold War precaution to deflect nuclear blast waves, before entering a massive cavern. Zharkov waved his arm toward a Romeo-class Soviet submarine docked there. “This is the Golden Fish,” he proudly announced.
Kardar eyed the submarine, noting that it bore no identifying numbers or insignias.
“Its name comes from a Russian fairy tale,” Zharkov continued. “Do you know it?”
“No.” Kardar checked his watch.
“From a Pushkin poem,” Zharkov said, still admiring the vessel. “A fisherman catches a golden fish. The fish offers to grant him any wish in return for being set free. The old man asks for nothing, but when he tells his wife, she sends him back again and again to the fish with new and bigger demands. A larger house, more money. Finally, the woman wants to replace the fish as Supreme Ruler of the Sea.”
Zharkov looked for a reaction, but Kardar’s etched scowl remained unchanged.
“The angry golden fish takes away everything he has awarded the couple. He punishes them for their greed, thrusting them back into poverty. Just as my golden fish will punish the greediest nation on our planet.” He smiled smugly.
Zharkov noticed his guest appeared uncomfortable breathing the damp air that smelled of oil and diesel fuels mixed with the odor of specialized rubber paint which workers were applying onto the submarine’s skin. Kardar removed a white kerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his mouth.
“You should have seen my golden fish before I rescued it,” Zharkov chattered on, ignoring Kardar’s uneasiness.
“I assumed it was left by the Soviets when they abandoned this old structure,” Kardar said, hoping to hurry the conversation.
“No, no, I found this submarine in a Krasnoye Sormovo salvage yard.”
“You sailed it here without being seen?” Kardar asked, surprised.
“No, no. The Atlantic is too carefully watched. I cut it into pieces and transported it on trucks through Russia.”
Kardar stared at the nearly two-thousand-ton ship. “How was that possible?”
“With enough money, General, everything is possible.” Zharkov laughed. “Would you like to inspect my golden fish?”
“I fight on land. Not in a metal tin made from scrapyard pieces.”
“Ah, my friend. You underestimate Commander Petrov’s skill and what he can do with my money. He has taken my golden fish on three test voyages, and each time disappeared from those tracking him. What you see is better than the original ever could have been.”
Kardar watched workers scampering to load the submarine with supplies. “You bought an entire mountain base,” the Iranian said. “You bought a scrapyard submarine. You are paying Commander Petrov and these men. Now I am delivering an item to you at a cost of a half billion US dollars.”
“General,” Zharkov said. “Do not spend my money for me, or question my motivation. I do what I do because I will profit handsomely from it. Otherwise, why would I do it? That is enough for you to know. If I take no profit or pleasure from what I do, why do it?”
“You will find a way to profit from this, despite the costs?”
“There is always a way to profit from another man’s suffering. Now, enough talk about money. Please join me in Commander Petrov’s office, where we can enjoy libations and celebrate.”
“As a devout Muslim, I do not drink alcohol. You know this.”
“Yes, that is why I will drink your share.”
The Russian escorted Kardar down a corridor to a door that opened into a brightly lighted office. Freshly painted light-blue walls. Thick brown carpeting. Built into one wall, a floor-to-ceiling aquarium filled with dozens of exotic fish.
Kardar examined the aquarium while Zharkov went to a liquor cabinet and filled two crystal glasses with bourbon before floppin
g into a seat covered with alligator hide, one of four matching chairs in the room. “A nice job of interior design,” he said as he lifted his first glass. “Impossible to tell that we are inside a mountain.”
Kardar tapped on the aquarium’s glass face. “As a child, I always wanted a fish tank,” he said. “These are tropical fish. Not from around here.”
Zharkov shrugged. “I eat fish.”
“What will happen to these beautiful specimens when Commander Petrov leaves here?”
“This entire underground base will be burned clean. Scorched by fire, so only the concrete will remain.” Zharkov finished his first glass. “I guess you could say the contents of that aquarium will participate in a fish fry.” He chuckled at his joke just as the office door swung open.
“You’re admiring my aquarium,” Commander Petrov said as he entered with the Armenian physicist. “Most don’t see my personal favorites.”
Petrov strolled next to the general and pointed at the bottom of the huge tank. The general followed Petrov’s finger but saw nothing.
“The translucent tubes poking from the floor, like tiny horns,” Petrov said. “They are sensors from buried mollusks.”
“Commander,” Zharkov called out from his chair, where he was sipping his second bourbon, “why don’t you get one of your mollusks to show our guests?”
Commander Petrov opened a narrow door that allowed access behind the tank.
Turning to the Armenian, Zharkov asked, “Will the device that General Kardar delivered go boom?”
“Yes, it is a nuclear bomb.”
“And its blast ratio? Will it accomplish the requirements that I have given you?”
“Based on the schematics and my examination, it will—theoretically.”
“I don’t pay for theoretically.”
“Then yes, it will produce a nuclear explosion powerful enough to accomplish what you require.”
“Detonation?”
“The device has been fitted with a remote-controlled detonator that uses a numerical code.”
“Excellent.” Zharkov rose from his seat. “Time for your payments.” Still holding his drink, he walked toward a computer on a nearby desk, but paused when Commander Petrov reappeared, clutching a six-inch-long shell that he’d plucked from the aquarium. The shell was pearl-white, speckled with brown spots and lines, like a monochrome stained glass window.
“Conus textile,” Petrov announced.
“I believe,” Zharkov said, “my Armenian guest would like a closer look.”
“Feel how smooth its shell is,” Petrov said, approaching him.
Commander Petrov raised the large mollusk to eye level and began to violently shake it as the scientist bent back his head.
Petrov jammed the snail against the Armenian’s neck. A harpoon made from modified tooth matter shot from the mollusk’s mouth, piercing the scientist’s skin near his jugular.
“Ahhhh!” the Armenian screamed. “What are you doing!”
“When you agitate Conus textile, it becomes aggressive,” Petrov replied, pulling back the snail. “In a muscle spasm it fires its only weapon, thinking it’s under attack, making it one of the most deadly killers in the oceans.”
The dumbfounded Armenian grabbed his puncture wound, staring in disbelief at Petrov, who again thrust the mollusk toward him. Its harpoon struck the scientist’s hand, which he was holding over the wound on his neck.
Petrov took a step backward with the mollusk.
“We think of snails,” Zharkov said, “as being slow, only good when bathed in butter and sautéed. I certainly didn’t see them as predators until Commander Petrov enlightened me.”
Petrov said, “Like all Conus textile, this one’s venom is toxic—a nerve agent.”
The Armenian scientist tried to speak, but no words came out. His legs went out from under him. When his body hit the floor, it began to shake.
Still clasping the mollusk, Petrov walked to his office door and hollered to three workers. They carried the still alive but paralyzed Armenian away.
“Killed by a snail,” Zharkov cheered, clearly amused. He shot Kardar a stern look. “When Commander Petrov told me he had used one of his deadly snails to kill a Mossad agent spying on this base, I was skeptical, so I asked for today’s demonstration.”
“A Mossad agent came here?” Kardar asked.
“I suspect he came because someone in Iran told them about my base and submarine.”
The general’s eyes darted between Zharkov and Petrov, who was still holding the deadly snail. Kardar was unarmed, having been asked to surrender his pistol when he’d arrived at the underground base.
Zharkov noticed. “Commander Petrov, it’s time to put your killer snail back into its tank. You are making our guest nervous.”
Petrov disappeared while Zharkov continued his conversation with the Iranian general. “The Golden Fish is not fully ready, and now I have the Jews to deal with. How do you intend to keep them from disrupting my plans?”
“You can’t blame me for the actions of the Jews,” Kardar snapped.
“But I do.” Zharkov emptied his second glass. “You see, my friend, the bomb you have delivered and this base and submarine will be of no use if the Israelis or the West arrive before Commander Petrov is ready. If you wish for full payment to Tehran, I’d like to hear your suggestions.”
“You cannot hold back the half billion because of the Jews,” Kardar declared. “I have kept my end of our arrangement.”
“I can, and I will. But rather than discuss my options, let’s discuss yours.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Finally Kardar said, “I know of a way to distract the Jews. But it will cost you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I will hire a man to kill the head Jew—Julian Levi.”
Zharkov turned his attention to Petrov, who had just rejoined them. “Commander,” the Russian billionaire said, “our Iranian friend has just suggested I hire someone to kill the head Jew in the Mossad as a distraction. What do you think?”
“Killing Big Jules will not be easy,” Petrov said, in a cautionary voice. “He rarely leaves Israel and is always heavily protected.”
Zharkov turned his eyes back on Kardar, waiting for the Iranian to respond.
“It doesn’t matter if he is killed,” the general said, “it only matters that an attempt is made. That should buy sufficient time to finish here without interruption from the Mossad.”
“That could work,” Petrov said. “If you can find someone willing to commit suicide by attempting this murder in Tel Aviv.”
“The Jews are not the only ones with spies,” said Kardar. “The head Jew will be traveling to Italy in secret in four days to attend a family wedding.”
“That would make it easier. Is four days enough time to arrange it?”
Kardar glanced at Zharkov. “With enough of your money, everything is possible—am I correct?”
“This assassin cannot know about me. Or about Commander Petrov, or the Golden Fish. If he is captured—”
“He will not tell anyone,” Kardar said, cutting him short. “Whether he manages to kill the head Jew or fails, I will have him killed afterward. It is the best way to ensure secrecy. I will make all the arrangements.”
“How much will this assassin cost me?”
“Not as much as you might believe.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he is a Palestinian who hates the Jews more than any man I know.”
Thirteen
Big Jules Levi had just arrived at a private dinner party in a Tel Aviv penthouse hosted by one of Israel’s many billionaires when he received word that Mossad operative Chiram Yosef was dead. It was ten o’clock. The head of the Mossad spoke briefly to his wealthy host and his wife before excusing himself and returning to his office, where his deputy director, Isser Dagan, was waiting despite the late hour.
“What happened to Yosef?” Big Jules asked as he removed his dinner jacket an
d loosened the black bow tie from around his thick neck.
“A fisherman found his body floating in Balaklava Bay. We had not heard from him for forty-eight hours, so we already were on alert.”
“The cause of his death?”
“When the locals discovered he was an Israeli, the Russian government took control. Their representative has told us it was a freak accident. Yosef was poisoned while scuba diving.”
“An accidental poisoning? While swimming? Do the Russians expect us to believe such a story? What poison was used—ricin? Novichok?”
“The toxicology report identifies the poison as cone snail venom.”
“Venom from a snail? A snail was used to murder him?”
“The Russians are theorizing that Yosef either stepped on or brushed against a mollusk while swimming. Apparently this type of accident has happened before in the Black Sea. Although the number of mollusk poisonings is rare, a boy died last year roughly in the same location. The Russians insist it was accidental, and they are expressing outrage about his presence so close to the Russian naval base at Sevastopol. They have filed a formal protest against us, accusing Yosef of being a spy.”
“Have you been able to communicate with Ivy Tower in Moscow?”
“Fortunately, he sent us word without prompting when he learned about Yosef’s death. He said it was not the Russians who murdered Yosef, if in fact he was murdered. Our people also confirmed that mollusks can produce venom that has over eight hundred different toxic elements.”
“Any evidence of a hypodermic injection?”
“The photos that we received show bite marks on his leg. No other bruises or signs of force being used against him.”
“This was not some freak accident caused by a snail,” Big Jules declared. “Nasya Radi was murdered after mailing us a letter, and now Yosef turns up dead when we send him to investigate this closed base. Where is Gelleh Peretz?”
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