When Shadows Collide (An Arik Bar Nathan Novel Book 1)

by Nathan Ronen

  “Roger, zero-seven. Start following them,” Arik confirmed from the tactical HQ vehicle. “Zero-eight team, who had a possible identification of the target heading in the opposite direction, keep tracking the possible target heading south from the mosque. Zero-one, stay where you are. He might exit at the last minute.”

  Alma had a strange feeling. Since the zero-eight team had not visually identified the target’s face, she knew she had to do something. She put on the special glasses that transmitted everything she saw to the central command post, but was wary of getting up from the wet sidewalk and risking attracting the attention of anyone who might be keeping watch on behalf of the target.

  “Zero-eight, is it possible that your target is wearing the same open brown sandals?”

  “I can’t see from this distance.”

  Alma was certain that if she had indeed seen their target, now dressed as a woman, he would do anything to sneak out of the area without being followed. This was classical operational thinking. If someone like that, so close to the final stage of his attack plan, was making such an effort to evade those tracking him, it meant he was on the verge of carrying out an attack or going into hiding before the attack took place. In either case, it wasn’t looking good.

  Her mind was racing at full speed. He probably has additional people helping him and alerting him, so I have to know exactly how to get out of here and follow these two, who now look like a pair of devout Muslim women, while I’m certain that at least one of them is definitely a man under that burka. Is this the target? How can I be sure?

  The two-way radio was flooded with requests for updates from the operations room to the team members regarding “potentials”—people resembling the target, and their elimination as suspects.

  On the other side of the street was a store selling baby clothing and accessories. Alma rose to her feet slowly, heavily, peering into the crushed coffee cup that contained several coins tossed in by generous donors. She rattled the coins, leaving the cup on the sidewalk, and then began heading toward the store. The two burkas were still striding away from her. They were progressing at an unusually rapid pace, bypassing the other pedestrians. Alma needed to pick up her pace.

  “Command, this is zero-seven. I’m following the two females in burkas. One of them looks fake to me.”

  She looked left and right, then carefully placed her rag doll in a shopping cart, leaving it behind. She needed that hand in case she had to whip out the Glock pistol affixed to her thigh through a hole in the pocket of her abaya.

  She looked at the store window, pretending to check the price of diapers while using the window reflecting the two burkas as a mirror. Crossing the street, she began to head north following the two burkas, which were about fifty yards ahead of her. She was afraid they would slip away, a fact that would only enhance the near-miss sensation she was experiencing in regard to the two figures.

  “Control, this is zero-seven. I’m continuing along with these two potential targets, heading north.”

  “Roger, zero-seven. You’re on your own pending further developments.”

  “Zero-one, this is Command,” Arik said.

  “This is zero-one, over,” Tal replied.

  “I want you to take your lookouts and my people into the mosque and search all of it with them. It’s possible that the target’s just misleading us and letting us chase a ghost while he himself is hiding in the new storeroom, or elsewhere. Report back to me.”

  “Roger,” Tal said, getting up while issuing a series of commands to his people.

  Arik knew how to track targets. He taught new field agents the art of tracking at a class in the College of Intelligence. He knew the system worked according to the iceberg theory: if you found one rival, that meant there were thirty others hiding away, blending into city life and behaving like ordinary residents, effectively invisible.

  Alma, still dressed as a homeless panhandler, found herself alone, without the Graces team by her side. At that moment, she felt she had lost the support and confidence provided by her backup team and the authority figures at the command post. She had been assigned an important task outside the mosque, observing the women entering and exiting the building, and for some reason, she had a feeling she had dropped the ball. She knew the team trusted her, but she had a hard time avoiding the feeling that she had screwed up. On the other hand, as a young yet professional agent, she knew she needed to watch out for the tendency to tell herself a story and then stick to it. The Mossad had taught her to question and double-check everything that seemed obvious for fear that it might turn out to be intentional misdirection.

  Her challenge was to rapidly change her appearance. She had to transform from a Muslim, homeless beggar into an ordinary young woman on her way home. She would then have to close the lengthening gap separating her from the two blue-clad figures, who were quickly walking away.

  It was hard to change her appearance on the street, while walking, without attracting attention. Luckily for her, it was garbage collection day, and the streets were full of trash cans and receptacles. Alma waited on the other side of the street, behind a group of cheerful people who were vigorously drinking from beer cans, as if they were still inside the pub. She quickly unzipped her disgusting abaya dress, removing the hijab from her head. As she passed by the garbage can, she raised the lid swiftly and silently and tossed the items of her traditional Muslim outfit inside before gently lowering the lid. She was surprised to hear the group behind her cheering as if she had just renounced her religion. Her new drunk friends hurried to invite the “ex-Muslim” for a pitcher of beer.

  Alma was left wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket over a cognac turtleneck sweater. She mussed up her auburn hair with her hand to spread it over her shoulders. From one of the trash cans, she retrieved a bag bearing the logo of supermarket chain Sainsbury’s, half filled with garbage, and hurried to follow the two burkas. At that point, she looked like an ordinary English girl returning home after doing some shopping.

  Alma spotted one of the figures in blue turning right, heading east, further down the next block, about a hundred yards away from her. She began to walk more quickly, trying to stay inconspicuous as she followed the exchanges over the two-way radio, which were becoming more chaotic and stressed out. There was still no sign of the target, although team zero-eight was checking out a vehicle whose driver resembled him, located several miles away. Tal had entered the mosque along with several of his team members for a thorough search to discover where the target had disappeared.

  Alma had to cross the street again while taking care not to walk into an ambush that might be lurking beyond the corner, a fear caused by the fact that the couple had split up.

  She decided to keep walking straight in order to avoid the street corner. Making her quick way down the street, she peered into several mirrors in colorful wooden frames that were laid out on the sidewalk at the entrance to a frame and glasswork store in order to see what was happening behind her back. At that stage, only one figure in a burka was standing there. Alma believed it was one of the two figures she had been tracking. Based on height, it was the man. Where the hell did the other one disappear to? her mind wondered frantically.

  It was a nightmarish scenario. She needed backup, but just as she was about to call for it, she heard the door of a house slamming behind her. Alma suppressed the urge to turn around immediately. She pretended she had stepped in dog poop, using the edge of the sidewalk in order to scrape the sole of her shoe. This gave her enough time to bend down, glance back, and try to see who had slammed the door. Her heart was beating at a crazy speed, and she hoped it wasn’t audible throughout the street.

  * * *

  79The mihrab is a semicircular niche in the wall of a mosque that indicates the qibla, which is the direction of the Kaaba, the Islamic temple in the holy city of Mecca, the direction that Muslims should face when praying.<
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  Chapter 56

  The Chase Through the Streets of East London

  Alma looked across from her and saw the man entering a car. His height was somewhere between five foot nine to six foot two, and he had the same slim frame as the target. He definitely appeared to be of Pakistani-Afghan origin, though he was clean shaven. She couldn’t be a hundred percent sure that he was indeed the target, though he was wearing brown sandals with no socks.

  “Control,” Alma said excitedly. “This is zero-seven. Possible identification of target, now clean shaven, entering a light green Toyota Yaris, partial license plate coming later.”

  Anyone who had been playing the game for a while developed acute awareness for changes in a target’s behavior. We missed our target at the mosque exit, Alma thought, because he changed his appearance. Now, in the place where he disappeared, I saw a different Pakistani, about equally tall, but clean shaven, without a beard.

  Her brain was racing madly. Did someone toss a decoy at me so I would follow him? she wondered. That’s one possible course of action. On the other hand, since the target is close to the final execution stage, is it possible that he went up to cleanse his body, shower and shave before he sets out to carry out a suicide bombing?

  Masha Kramer, at the operations center, agreed with her. There was a high probability that this was indeed the target, employing maximal operational security precautions and using a car he had not been observed driving previously. But she, too, was experiencing flutters of uncertainty regarding the too-short timeframe in which the subject could have had time to go up to the apartment, shower and shave.

  Maybe it’s actually someone else? she thought. Something about the timeline wasn’t quite right. But she did not share her hesitations with anyone. She wanted to tell Arik about the logical contradictions that her analytical brain had uncovered and began to dial him but changed her mind and disconnected.

  Alma had always tended to take on more than her share of responsibility. Some also claimed she had a big mouth. At that moment, she didn’t want to elaborate on all her deliberations to the big bosses, Arik Bar-Nathan, Tal Ronen, and the head of her team. Like a fighter pilot in the sky working alone, she needed to make a decision here and now. As far as she was concerned, it was a classical “commendation or demotion” situation.

  “This is zero-seven. Partial plate number Yankee Six Nine Six Oscar Tango. Base, Control, please confirm.”

  “Control, roger. All stations, full license plate number Yankee Six Nine Six Oscar Tango Yankee.” The whiz kids, Yahli and Nina Lev, hurried to seek details in the British Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency. “Based on the registration, this vehicle belongs to the uncle of the target’s wife!” Levkovich shouted excitedly over the radio.

  “This is zero-seven. Roger. The vehicle is driving west now and was previously seen heading left and south. Send another team in to collect the other burka. She’s short, plump and full-figured. The address is an apartment over the Sahara Restaurant, across from the entrance to the University of London Dental School on Rumford Street. Command, do you have a photo of her?”

  “Affirmative. Follow the target, we’ll pick the flower and bring it to the apartment,” Etty Levkovich said, signaling to the Kidon team that was with her to hit the streets with the black taxi.

  Alma did not have the time to wait for a vehicle to come pick her up. She scanned her surroundings, seeking a car she could break into or a taxi that would follow the green Yaris. The two-way radio was still transmitting confirmation of her suspicions and messages regarding the search for the green car. Mossad vehicles were now closing in on it using the ‘diamond technique,’ a tracking method unique to the Mossad. She needed to join the hunt—and fast.

  “This is zero-seven. Can someone pick me up?” she asked, looking around and seeking an alternate solution. She even thought of carjacking a vehicle that a woman was entering at that moment but abandoned the idea when she spotted a baby in the back seat.

  “Yes, Ms. Rimon. Walk over to the main road. Charlie-nine is making a U-turn now and is on his way to you,” Tal Ronen told her.

  Alma was surprised by the fact that he had used her real name. Although Mossad communications were encrypted at the highest level, so that even the most sophisticated hackers needed a long time to crack them, real names were seldom used over the network. The Office almost always used only agents’ service numbers, random numbers allocated on an as-needed basis.

  Alma sensed an urgency in everyone’s voices, and rightfully so; it was obvious to all of them that if they did not catch the vehicle or the target, they might soon be hearing about a massacre at an unknown location.

  A black Ducati New 959 Panigale made its way toward her through the traffic. She realized immediately that it was her pickup vehicle but did not recognize the driver who stopped next to her due to the black helmet covering his face. She opened the rear compartment, picked up a helmet and put it on. Before she could buckle it, the Ducati took off, speeding away. The bag of trash she had been holding scattered all over the road.

  Alma sent a quick confirmation to the command post that she was now riding rather than walking. “This is zero-seven, currently with Charlie-nine.”

  “All stations, the Toyota is moving west on A13 Commercial Road, heading south at the junction toward Cannon Street,” Arik called out over the encrypted channel.

  The target was apparently driving seriously fast if he had already managed to get so far south. Obviously, he wanted to prevent any chance of being followed. The team was streaming into the area, searching for the vehicle. Arik looked at the dynamic map in the Sea Eagle vehicle showing the locations of all agents and heard all of them reporting from the areas where they were searching.

  “Checking north on Cannon Road, in the direction of the police station.”

  The Ducati cut west on A13, heading toward a McDonald’s.

  “Checking southward, in the direction of A1203, toward the Argos tech store.”

  Visual signs accompanied by cardinal directions were the quickest way of encompassing the entire area. They could not create the impression that police forces were flooding the area, seeking people with malicious intent. Even as Office personnel tried to locate the target car as quickly as possible, they still had to blend in with their environment. At that stage, the vehicles deployed included a car masquerading as a taxi, two regular family sedans, and two motorcycles with the ability to go off-road. Each one was transporting a Kidon team.

  “This is Charlie-eight,” one of the pursuers suddenly reported. “The vehicle is driving on the west side of Willow Road, heading south, across from the intersection of Glamis Road and A1203, perpendicular to the bank of the Thames. He’s not alone. On his left is an unfamiliar passenger whom he apparently picked up on the way.”

  Alma felt wonderful. Being the one who had discovered the target they were seeking was compensation for her earlier feeling back at the mosque of having missed something. And now she was receiving immediate encouraging reactions from her team.

  “Control, roger, Charlie-nine—can you continue tracking?”

  Alma, whose codename was zero-seven, had instantly become the commander of the Charlie-nine tracking crew on the motorcycle.

  “Yes. Yes!”

  “This is Control. Roger, going operational in five!” Arik Bar-Nathan said from his tactical HQ, which had also begun to close the gap, preparing for a violent encounter with the target.

  At that moment, Arik’s Chameleon rang. He looked at the screen and saw Masha Kramer on a video call. Her face looked worried.

  “Yes, Masha, what’s new?”

  She expressed her feelings to him. Something didn’t seem right to her. She was skeptical about the possibility that Iman al-Uzbeki was toying with them; that did not fit in with his profile. She was afraid they were tracking someone else, and out of an eagerness to catch him, were
misconstruing the facts, adjusting them so they would support their theories and hopes.

  Arik trusted Masha and her intuitions. They had known each other for almost thirty years. Masha Kramer always made him feel that order could co-exist with chaos.

  But he, too, had gotten swept along in the younger field agents’ enthusiasm. Her reservations indeed made him doubt whether they had actually found their target. But, on the other hand, he couldn’t take a chance, especially when they were so close to him.

  “I trust your intuitions, but you can’t stop the galloping hounds who have scented the fox in the bushes…” He chuckled in embarrassment.

  “Speaking of hounds,” Masha said, “remember how they fooled us once, when we were tracking down the Baader-Meinhof group, German terrorists working in the service of the Palestinians? They applied a liquid containing special pheromones taken from bitches in heat to the shoes of innocent bystanders outside the mosque, causing the German police dogs to follow people who had nothing to do with the case and lose track of the terrorists, who managed to sneak away right under their noses.”

  Arik did not reply. And what if she was wrong this time? Or what if she was right?

  Masha Kramer sighed in resignation, like a teacher forced to repeat an explanation for the benefit of the slowest student in the class. “Based on the facts we know thus far, we can draw three conclusions. First, the man we’re seeking is playing games with us, and he’s doing a great job at it. Second, in contrast to what the shrinks have told you, I’m telling you that he’s a person who’s highly creative, calculated, focused, and very thorough. Third, he knows what his targets are, and we don’t.”

  Arik’s heart skipped a beat.