GrayNet

by D S Kane

  Corporal Lisa Orley was as French as her sister, Sylvia Orley, the merc who Alister had heard now claimed she owned William Wing. But Lisa was much shorter and quieter. Older than her sibling by almost a decade, she was a venomous woman who rarely spoke. Her expertise was hand-to-hand combat and she enjoyed killing.

  McTavish closed the personnel folder he’d just reviewed, and rose from his seat. “Time to go. We’ll take two taxis to our hotel, the Golden Tulip Andalusia Hotel on Olaya Main Street.”

  * * *

  In preparation to support both of the missions, a few days before, Michael Drapoff had flown to Tel Aviv with Major Ralph Giondella, where they planned to use Drapoff’s Mossad contacts and technology to jam all communications to and from Riyadh while the assassinations took place. The two had done exactly that, together, during the previous Riyadh operation that resulted in the deaths of the two older Houmaz brothers. But Drapoff, a yahalom, was sure that last year, silencing Riyadh and Nangarhar was a cake walk, compared to Riyadh and Tokyo

  Their commercial flight on El Al arrived before noon on a clear autumn morning when the temperature in Tel Aviv still felt comfortable. Giondella checked them both into Deborah Hotel at 87 Ben-Yehuda Street, at the city center, while Drapoff took a taxi to Mossad headquarters in Herzliyya. Drapoff was eager to get the Mossad’s yahalomim working with him and Giondella as soon as possible.

  Drapoff walked through the lobby of the Mossad’s offices. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief as he watched the taxi leave. It was warming fast. The building he’d entered blended into the city, appearing to be a high technology office. He took the elevator to the basement, where armed security guards met him. “Shalom, David,” Drapoff said to the taller one. “I’m here to see Colonel Geller. And there will be another joining us, Major Ralph Giondella. Shimmel arranged this.”

  In response, Private David Dory nodded and beckoned Michael to walk to the security desk.

  Drapoff lowered his arms when the private had finished running an electronic scanner over him for explosives and weapons. Dory shouted, “He’s clear,” over his shoulder to the other armed security guard, who opened the massive steel battle door. Drapoff entered and took another elevator ten stories further down, deep below the sub-basement.

  As Michael emerged from the elevator, Jacob Geller smiled as he approached. “I got the brief from Ben-Levy yesterday. Welcome, Michael. It’s been a long time. We’re to do exactly what we did for you a few months ago?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Well, it won’t work. Mossad’s Directorate of Operations determined that the Saudi Government has just completed a total upgrade of their global telecommunications servers and we haven’t yet figured out the quirks in their new specs. They started the process as a result of your attack on the Houmaz compound, and it’s been rushed into place. We don’t know its vulnerabilities. The best we can provide will be about fifteen minutes of blackout. Whatever you do must be completed during that time frame or we won’t be able to guarantee cover.”

  Surprised, Michael realized that the plan they had devised, with timing specific to the minute, would now have to become precise down to the second. He thought, fifteen minutes. During that time the assassinations of both Maru and Houmaz must occur, because that’s the only time we can guarantee that any call from Maru to Houmaz will be prevented. He shook his head. “It’ll be like shooting at a specific speck of dust on the needle in a haystack.”

  Drapoff called McTavish and told him. He hoped Schmidt hadn’t heard the call on the cell phone’s speakerphone. He was sure she’d worry about it and possibly do something stupid.

  Then Drapoff called Shimmel. Shimmel asked, “Are you ready to extinguish telecommunications?”

  “Uh, General, we have a problem. Solvable, but not good for us. You see, the Saudis have installed an upgrade to their global telecommunications, and…”

  * * *

  By 8 a.m., Shimmel had dressed and took the elevator to the lobby. He crossed the street and visited a nearby copy store—the Japanese version of FedEx Office—and completed constructing the “evidence” they would plant at their Tokyo hotel and at the crime scene. The day was cloudy when he arrived. Shimmel walked to the counter. “Does anyone here speak English?” One of the store clerks came forward and smiled. The general pointed to his cell phone, and merely said, “I need to print several documents of a competitive nature. Therefore, I must do the printing myself. Microsoft Word files.” With the clerk’s help, they did just that, Shimmel had the clerk count the pages, leaving his fingerprints on every sheet, and returned to the hotel room before 9 a.m.

  He called Drapoff. “Please begin the countdown now. We’re about to call Maru.”

  Just after 9 a.m. Tokyo time, 3 a.m. Riyadh time, Cassavilla called Maru, and speaking Japanese very slowly in a sugar-sweet voice, he told Maru, “My name is Abdul Hassain. Achmed Houmaz sent us as a special delegation to meet with you and help you create bids that will garner the approval of the Saudi Ministry of Economy and Planning. There are two of us traveling together, myself and a woman named Ayla Khan. We work for the Ministry. When and where can they meet? We need to discuss wrinkles on bidding, billing, and building in Saudi Arabia.”

  When Maru went silent, Cassavilla added, “We’re only here for a few days, and must return to Saudi Arabia as soon as possible. We’ve never been to Japan before. Ayla and I were thinking of doing some sightseeing. Neither of us is likely to return to Tokyo anytime soon. We plan on visiting the Meguro Parasitological Museum today after lunch. Can we meet there at 1 p.m?”

  This time would be ideal for the Riyadh team since it would be 7 a.m. in Riyadh, still too early to call Houmaz.

  He assumed Maru would ponder how his security could monitor the meeting. “Yes. I can be there. We can walk outside for a few minutes while you explain how your procedures differ from those in Japan.”

  As he hung up, Shimmel tapped Cassavilla’s shoulder and nodded. “I’m surprised he agreed to our suggestion. His sense of humor must rule him more than I thought. Now I’ll call Major Giondella in Israel. It’s almost 5:30 a.m. in Tel Aviv. He and Michael Drapoff can get Mossad started with the communications blackout. They’ll stop all telephone and email into Riyadh just before the start of the business day in Riyadh at 7 a.m., to keep Maru from confirming our presence with Houmaz. Please tell the others to prepare for phase two of our mission.” He rose from the desk chair and walked to the window. It was 10:28 a.m in Tokyo.

  Shimmel sent Corporal Charles Isley to enter the museum and position himself inside the men’s room with a Bluetooth headset in case one of Maru’s bodyguards visited there.

  With a layout of the museum in his head, Shimmel had Corporal Billie-Jo Casselton, their best sniper, scout the surrounding buildings. She found one with an unlocked door to the roof. It had a clear view of the museum entrance a few doors away on the corner of Shimomeguro. Casselton bolted the roof door behind her and took up her position on the rooftop, then used her cell to call Shimmel and let him know she’d completed her set-up.

  Less than fifteen minutes after the telephone call Shimmel checked the last box on his printed version of the plan: they were ready.

  Casselton sat on the roof, eating a take-out bento box of sushi and fried tofu from the coffee shop in the building’s lobby. Isley stood on the seat of one of the bathroom stalls with a syringe filled with a mild tranq to put a bodyguard to sleep if it was required. Boric and Cassavilla returned from lunch at the coffee shop and entered the museum, touring and waiting for the arrival of Maru and his bodyguards.

  * * *

  Sandra Schmidt sat in McTavish’s hotel room in Riyadh, along with the rest of the team. Everyone was dressed in business suits, since they were all going in as management consultants for Brewster, Jennings and Associates from Boston. Their cover “client” was the Saudi Ministry of Economy and Planning on University Street in Riyadh, and their “assignment” was to conduct a s
tudy on the long-term effects of Saudi Arabia’s petroleum refinery vent gasses on global warming. Schmidt worried about the technology to be used in the assassination. She was assigned the role of terminator, something she’d never done before.

  Wing had hacked into the calendar that Houmaz’s assistant, Shariff, maintained for his boss. William entered the assignment into the Ministry’s records and set the meeting for the start of the business day. Of course, the team had no one of Jewish descent for obvious reasons.

  To make the death of Achmed Houmaz look like an accident, their plan called for a haldol cocktail, including a lethal dose of fentanyl, an “undetectable” poison, a few molecules of ricin, and a small amount of botulism. The drug would be delivered via a battery-operated Medi-Jector needleless syringe gun, ensuring a “clean” assassination. The cocktail was developed by Mossad in Israel, at the Ness Ziona.

  While recovering in a Tel Aviv hospital from his gunshot wounds in Maui, Dushov had gotten one of his contacts there to FedEx a container of the poison to the hotel they’d be staying at in Riyadh, along with the Medi-Jector. The drug had to be injected into the carotid artery to have immediate effect.

  Schmidt had argued to simply use air in the battery-operated syringe, since that low-tech version of this assassination was almost foolproof and nearly undetectable. But Dushov had said “No. If they conduct an autopsy, it’s possible the bruising and especially clotting at the injection site will show more obviously with air than with the Medi-Jector cocktail.”

  She quietly fumed. So now there’s one less thing that can go wrong in autopsy if we’re successful in killing Achmed Houmaz. And—at the same time—there’s now one more technological thing that might go wrong if anything associated with the delivery mechanism fails to work.

  Schmidt worried about the battery in the jet injector and kept turning it on to make sure it still had enough juice. Surely they’d all get beheaded after torture if this high-tech chemical didn’t work as expected.

  McTavish said, “This mission looks easier than Shimmel expects, so stay alert and in focus.”

  She nodded along with the rest of the team. They were all aware of the potential for death following mission failure. Still, she thought, it’s a straightforward mission, all things considered.

  * * *

  McTavish knew he was brilliant at just one thing: battle tactics. But there was no skirmish here, and no tactics were necessary. It was just an operation. A black ops surgical strike, to be sure. He’d never been involved in an assassination.

  Not a man normally affected by potential outcomes, this time he fretted as his team sat there in his hotel suite ready to go.

  Their plan would have two of the team present the draft outline of their report to Achmed Houmaz, at the Ministry of Petroleum and Mineral Resources at the offices on Airport Road. Their appointment was set for 7 a.m. Schmidt would excuse herself to go to the rest room, but come behind Houmaz and administer the poison to the side of his neck, using the jet injector nested in the cuff of her suit jacket.

  It would take Houmaz less than a second to realize something was wrong, but by that time his lungs would have stopped working, keeping him from calling out. The Mossad estimated time to immobility at less than a second and death at four to five seconds. The poison would dissipate in about two hours, decomposing into compounds normally found in an older person with minor kidney problems. Any autopsy would show a myocardial infarction.

  In McTavish’s hotel room the mercenaries gathered and prayed for the success of their mission. The Major wondered if praying for the death of someone was sacrilegious. They had just over a half hour to complete their mission. The telephone lines in Saudi Arabia would be going out soon.

  As dawn brightened the city, McTavish’s cell phone rang. He heard Giondella say, “The clock will begin ticking in thirty minutes. Get your asses in gear.” McTavish looked at his watch: 6:28 a.m. They all hurried from the hotel room, through the lobby and out into the street. McTavish scanned the hotel driveway. Where were the taxicabs?

  CHAPTER 35

  November 6, 10:58 a.m.

  Meguro Parasitological Museum,

  4-1-1 Shimomeguro, Tokyo, Japan

  Using their Bluetooth headsets, Shimmel reminded the team about the telecom problem. “We have one shot in a very narrow window.”

  Corporal Billie-Jo Casselton smiled at his unconscious pun as she watched the corner below for Maru’s arrival. Just after 1 p.m., she saw a group of seven Japanese, all but one of them with an obvious bulge in the waistbands of their smartly-styled charcoal gray suits, indicating handguns.

  Casselton lifted her M40A3 rifle and peered through the AN/PVS-10 scope at the only person in the group not armed. From the photos Shimmel showed here before she left the hotel, she knew it was Maru. “General Shimmel, I’ve got him centered for the kill shot.”

  Shimmel said, “Okay. Hold until I tell you to go.”

  Casselton silently cursed. How long before Maru moved and her perfect shot fell away?

  * * *

  The Riyadh team exited the taxi and went through security at the Ministry’s building. They entered the elevator. Less than a minute later they were outside Houmaz’s office. Shariff, his secretary, had them wait for almost five minutes while the director finished an earlier meeting. McTavish pulled the GNU Radio from the pocket of his Watson-Freeman pinstriped suit and contacted Shimmel and Drapoff via a conference call. He whispered, “We’re still waiting for Houmaz to call us into his office. I’ll need operational silence on telecom for an extra five minutes, possibly more.”

  From Tokyo, Shimmel replied, “Not likely. We’ll begin our op in three minutes. If we went by the original plan, you’ll have two minutes after we start our mission to complete yours.”

  Drapoff interrupted them on the party line from Tel Aviv. “I think I might be able to squeeze you another five.”

  Less than five hundred miles away, McTavish looked at his wristwatch. They would now have just under eleven minutes to complete their mission. “Okay. Please do, Michael.”

  Seconds later, the receptionist took them into Houmaz’s office. McTavish and Houmaz shook hands. The major looked around as the receptionist left and closed the door. The office was huge, decorated to look like the inside of a Wahhabi desert tent. Houmaz motioned for them to sit at a large brown leather couch and he sat in a plush armchair across a coffee table from them.

  Still standing, Sandra Schmidt asked, “Is there a slide projector and screen that we can use to show you the report?” Assembling a slide show would give her a way to work herself behind the Arab for the kill shot with the Medi-Jector.

  Houmaz replied, “No. Just give me the report and tell me what is in it. No formal presentation is necessary. I’m busy today. I’ll read the report when I have sufficient time. Several urgent matters have come up.”

  Schmidt looked at McTavish. He blinked his eyes twice, the signal for her to proceed with the kill. She gulped. “I need to use a rest room. Jet lag, and I haven’t yet adjusted. Where?”

  Houmaz frowned, pointing to a door behind him. “Go.” Just then his phone rang and he reached behind him to pick up the receiver. “Yes?”

  As he turned back, Schmidt got up and slowly walked behind him. She touched the right sleeve of her blouse with her left hand and the injector slid into her palm just as it should. She came closer, right behind him.

  She pressed the arming button. It failed to show its green LED. Didn’t work! She shook her head at McTavish as she left to enter the restroom.

  Moorish-style tiles decorated the walls of the huge, ornate restroom. Schmidt set down the injector and examined its battery connections.

  With the battery drained from her too-frequent testing of it, she needed a way to override the dead battery and work the injector manually. Schmidt cursed silently. No way force the plunger; it was integrated into the mounting so that it would function only through the battery. She removed the battery from her cell phone and tr
ied to force the connection from that to the syringe, but was short about one inch of wire. She ripped apart her cell phone trying to recover a bit of wire, but the connections were wired directly into circuit boards and used no wire. “Fuck!” she whispered.

  She flushed the toilet for effect and returned to the office. As she emerged behind Houmaz, she shook her head and silently mouthed the word “NO.”

  McTavish thought about alternatives open to him. He’d never thought of a back-up plan, and knew of none that might work. No way to make it look like an accident, and if it didn’t look accidental then the Saudis would suspect Cassie was responsible for Houmaz’s death. He looked at his watch. They had less than seven minutes before telephone communications would be restored. If they left right now, they’d have five minutes to exit the office-building, find a taxi, and race for the plane to get away from the scene of their failure.

  McTavish, gulped, and extended his hand to Houmaz as he rose from his seat. The rest of the Riyadh team rose with him. “Thanks for letting us hand over the report face-to-face. So much more personal this way. We know, Director, your schedule is full.”

  Houmaz shook McTavish’s hand, looking somewhat mystified at their swift departure. They exited in seconds, and before he could pick up the report, his phone rang yet again.

  * * *

  When Shimmel ended the conversation with Drapoff, he watched the Japanese gangsters, waiting for the right moment. The gangsters stopped at the corner. Maru looked at his wristwatch and said something. Most of the bodyguards chuckled and laughed in response. As they laughed, they moved away from Maru, leaving an unobscured shot. Shimmel said, “Kill him now!”

  Casselton closed her eyes in meditation for less than a second. Maru stood in the center of her shot. She slowly squeezed the trigger, and watched through the scope as Maru’s head exploded in a blur of blood.

  “Leaving now, sir.” As planned, she terminated the call, dropped the rifle atop some papers Shimmel had given her, written in Arabic, and then ran to the door to exit the rooftop. She opened the door and ran down the stairs as fast as she could while she removed the surgical gloves from her hands, placing them into a zip-lock bag and then put the bag in her pocket. She pocketed her Bluetooth ear bud.