by David Khara
The member of Russia’s intelligence agency, who was in his mid-thirties and had the buff physique of a boxer, had been among the first at the scene. He was a ten-year veteran of the service, and his experience with terrorist violence had protected him somewhat from the trauma caused by the horrific sight of shredded bodies and distraught survivors.
Every day that passes erases a bit more blood off the walls, he told himself as he made his way to his job with the FSB, the KGB’s successor. After suffering a knee injury in a bad parachute landing, he had been disqualified from work in the field and was now overseeing security at the FSB headquarters near the station. It was a big change from his previous assignment, but at least he still got to carry a gun.
Oleg walked through the long subway tunnels, scanning each face and examining every movement made by the passersby. When he happened upon a pretty girl—and Moscow had plenty—he’d crack a flirty smile, and that usually did the trick. He had once been insecure about his nose, broken in more than one boxing match, but he quickly discovered that women in the capital found it fetching. His bad-boy image, accentuated by his unruly hair, definitely played in his favor.
Oleg was heading toward the metro exit with a little extra pep in his step, when a cute businesswoman, who appeared to be in her forties, caught his attention. Just as he was switching into seduction mode, he put on the brakes. A few steps away from the woman, two twentyish-looking men in hooded sweatshirts were walking briskly. Oleg froze in his tracks, causing those behind him to step on his heels. He crouched and pretended to tie his shoes. From this position, he spotted one guy’s hand on the butt end of a gun sticking out of his pocket.
Before the pair could get lost in the crowd, he started shadowing them.
The police presence in the underground had been reinforced after the bombings of March 2010. Oleg thought it would be wise to hand the matter over to the first officer he could find. But why was it that there were never any cops around when they were needed? Oleg couldn’t find even one. So he followed the two guys all the way to the platform and stationed himself behind them. The men were nervously rocking from one foot to the other like two junkies. A train pulled up, and as the hoard started piling into the cars, the two men shoved their way through, rudely elbowing the other commuters. An elderly man lost his balance, and if it weren’t for Oleg, who just barely caught him by the raincoat, he would have fallen on his face.
Gramps leaned against him and struggled to stand up straight.
“Thank you, young man,” he said, smoothing his coat and catching his breath.
“No problem,” Oleg replied, anxious to catch up with the two thugs. Before he could move, the doors closed, and the train sped away.
“I’m so sorry. You’ve missed the train because of me.”
“No worries,” Oleg said. He had just spotted two police officers loafing on the other side of the platform. Their nonchalance bothered him only slightly more than the annoying old-timer.
“I’m going to leave you now. Will you be all right?”
“Yes, yes. Go on, my friend.”
Oleg hurried toward the officers. When he reached them, he whipped out his badge and explained the situation. One of the men relayed the information via radio to a colleague in the next station. All around them, the commuters went about their business without paying any attention. A kid bumped into one of the officers and coughed.
“Cover your mouth when you cough,” he reprimanded.
As the boy turned to the officer, Oleg took in his face. He was sickly pale. His eyes were red. He started coughing convulsively, and blood spurted out of his mouth. The boy tried to grab the police officer’s sleeve before falling to the ground.
Following protocol, Oleg stepped back and surveyed the platform. Everywhere he looked, people were throwing up, stumbling, and rubbing their eyes. Some were writhing on the ground, bathed in their own vomit. Blood was smeared across the walls and floor. Dozens of people, maybe a hundred, were dying before his eyes.
“Quick, tell them to shut down the metro!” he yelled at the two officers, who seemed to be too stunned to move. “And demand backup!” He didn’t have to say it twice. The men shot off.
Oleg spotted the old guy in the raincoat. With his back turned to Oleg, the man was walking slowly toward the other end of the platform. Something wasn’t right about him. Oleg could feel it in his gut.
“Sir!” he yelled. No response. He called again.
This time, the man stopped. He and Oleg were separated by about a hundred feet and a pile of bloody bodies. The sound of an arriving train thundered through the tunnel.
The old man turned to face Oleg, and he couldn’t believe what he saw. The man was holding an ordinary-looking metal spray can and wearing a gas mask. The train slowed and stopped. The man raised his free hand and started waving good-bye to Oleg.
The agent opened his blazer and drew his weapon. He took aim as the doors were about to open and pulled the trigger. Three times. Three shots to the target. Straight to the chest. Gramps swung to the side before thudding to the ground. The train resumed its course without letting its passengers off, meaning the two officers had sounded the alert just in time.
Searching for survivors, Oleg moved from one body to the next. With one hand, he shielded his eyes from the glare of the overhead lights. His steps were becoming more labored. Just after his throat began to itch, an intense burning sensation ripped through his chest. Oleg propped himself against a pillar to catch his breath.
A coughing fit rose in his throat and shook his body with such force, he lost his balance and fell to the ground. The forensics team would determine the time of death: eight ten a.m.
CHAPTER 9
Prague, the day of the incident in Pardubice
Eytan’s afternoon flight from London landed at two forty-five on the dot. He was glad for that lucky break, at least. Mid-length flights were notorious for their delays. He knew the unfortunate passenger next to him was just as happy. The fiftyish-looking man in chinos and moccasins had been squashed against the window for the entire flight. Eytan’s oversized frame was highly incompatible with the Embraer 170’s narrow cabin. Any attempts the man made to negotiate a few extra inches of space were met with a scowl.
Once in the terminal, Eytan turned on his cell phone. No new messages or missed calls. No news was good news.
He plucked his army duffle off the baggage carousel, headed toward a newsstand, grabbed an English-language newspaper, and sat down in a bar bustling with arriving and departing travelers. He checked the time on his phone. It was three thirty. He had two hours to kill, and this was as good a way as any to pass the time.
Eytan spent the next one hundred and five minutes brushing up on the state of the world, first with an analysis of the financial crisis that had shaken Greece to its core and appeared likely to spread, followed by a superficial article on wildfires engulfing Moscow. That story was overshadowed by a Chechen militant attack on the country’s parliament. He finished with a fairly complete assessment of the monsoon-sized floods that were hitting Pakistan. So basically, the Earth was spinning faster and faster and more and more out of control. Was the Consortium hiding behind any one of these catastrophes? That simple speculation got the wheels turning in his head.
At a quarter after five, he left his reading spot and made his way to the restroom. Dropping his duffle in front of one of the three sinks, he washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water. A thin man no older than twenty walked up to the sink next to him and did the same. He was wearing jeans, an I-heart-Prague T-shirt, and gold high-top sneakers, which made him look like any of the other youthful airport-trolling tourists. The two men didn’t exchange a single glance. Eytan’s sink partner picked up his duffle and left the restroom, followed a few seconds later by Eytan.
Outside the airport, a cool breeze was shooing away the day’s warmth. It felt good. The Kidon operative sat down on a concrete bench, pulled out his phone, and made the requeste
d call. Three rings, and he heard the same sugary-sweet voice from the day before.
“I appreciate your timeliness, Mr. Morg. May I assume that your current location is at the airport?”
“I wasn’t going to swim here.”
“That’s unfortunate. The City of a Hundred Spires is quite breathtaking when viewed from the Vltava River.”
“This may not be the best time to talk about tourist attractions.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Morg. Maybe later. For the time being, I’d like you to go to the taxi stand across from Terminal 1. A driver is waiting for you there. He’ll be holding a sign with your name on it. The man knows nothing, aside from the location where he’s to take you. So there’s no point in trying to push him for more information.”
“So you think I’m that violent?”
“I’ve always believed that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Eytan knew the man was trying to irritate him with his breezy cliché. “The ride won’t take more than half an hour. Good-bye for now.”
The conversation ended abruptly. But for Eytan, it had lasted long enough.
As the taxi bypassed the city, Eytan disregarded the view. Glancing over the driver’s shoulder at the GPS, he had figured out that the address given by the mystery man was outside the metropolis. All he could focus on at this point was gearing up for the meeting, which meant arming up. He opened the bag he had switched with the I-heart-Prague boy and smiled at the sight of his requested arsenal. Eytan slipped a gun into his belt.
The Consortium wanted him in tiptop shape. He wouldn’t disappoint.
After a quick thirty minutes, which included several traffic lulls that prompted the driver to go off on half-English, half-Czech cursing fits, the car arrived in an abandoned industrial park. In the middle of this weedy jungle stood two old buildings with shattered windows and caving roofs. Graffiti frescos in faded colors covered the walls. Perhaps it had been a playground for street artists before further deteriorating and acquiring its no-one-gets-out-of-here-alive vibe.
The taxi driver dropped Eytan off and drove away like a bat out of hell. The giant slung his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the middle of the industrial park, which he figured had gone out of business soon after the Communist Party closed up shop. At any other time, walking into a situation such as this would have been begging for a sniper’s bullet. But Eytan wasn’t worried about being taken out, at least not at this point. He was more curious than anything else.
Less than five minutes later, he arrived at a decrepit storage shack, where a black limousine was parked, looking laughably out of place in this abandoned lot. Reflexively, his eyes shot to the license plate. He memorized the numbers.
The shack’s rusty metal door slid open. Two muscle men wearing gray suits and earpieces came out and motioned to Eytan. “He’s inside,” one of them said.
With his senses on high alert, Eytan walked toward the watchdogs. They stepped aside to let him pass.
“Would you like us to hold on to your bag?” the man asked.
“Thanks, I’ll keep it with me,” Eytan said.
“As you wish, sir,” he replied. “We’ll see you later.”
The Mossad assassin entered the building. They were letting him keep his bag, and they weren’t searching him. This was getting weirder by the second.
A stylish-looking man of medium height was standing about thirty feet away, next to a metal table. On it, a small laptop computer lay open.
“Come closer, Eytan. I won’t bite,” the man said. “Even unarmed, you have no reason to be scared of me. You can call me Jenkins.”
Even unarmed? Eytan thought. What was going on?
He looked over this so-called Jenkins. He was wearing a short light-brown coat, Italian leather shoes with pointed toes, and a gray suit. His hair was swooped up and back. He looked like a model straight out of a menswear catalog. Eytan kept his appraisal to himself.
“Fine, stay there if you prefer,” the man continued. “Since you’re a bit late, I’ll cut to the chase. If you want to see your pal Karman all in one piece, you’ll have to do some work for us.”
Eytan started to speak, but Jenkins waved him off. His hand was trembling, and Eytan noticed a facial tic. The metrosexual seemed to be overly excited.
“Before you object, I should tell you that you’d be helping a good cause, and I know you’re a good Boy Scout. Oh, and by the way, it would be greatly appreciated if you’d release Elena.”
This baby-faced amateur with the malevolent smile was speaking with such arrogance. He clearly knew nothing about the world.
“All right, Morgy. What do you say?”
Jenkins was trying to provoke him, but the man wasn’t going to get the rise he wanted. “What do I say? Hmm, let me think a second,” Eytan responded. “I’m a man of action, not an intellectual like you. I need some time to digest the ins and outs of the situation. You’ve captured Eli Karman in hopes of coercing me into working for an organization that’s responsible for the death of millions of people, an organization that plans to kill even more people and, coincidentally, drastically changed the course of my own life. I would even venture to say stole my life. Does that sum it up?”
“Look,” Jenkins said. “It’s not like—”
“And you’re asking me what I say about this?” Eytan pressed.
“Yes.” The man wasn’t smiling anymore. Eytan read a worried look in his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m being a little harsh, and I haven’t answered your question. I say it’ll be about a week in the hospital post-op and five or six months of physical therapy.”
“What the hell are you blabbering about?” the man responded, clearly attempting to regain the upper hand. “I don’t understand.” His face was bright red, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.
“That’s to be expected. I was being unreasonably vague,” the Israeli agent continued. “Probably because of my disrupted upbringing. I was talking about kneecaps, busted ligaments, medical costs.”
“Kneecaps? Ligaments? What knees?” The once confident voice was now embarrassingly squeaky.
“Yours,” said Eytan.
He took out his gun, aimed at Jenkins’s left leg, and pulled the trigger. Blood stained the man’s pants as the bullet bit flesh. Jenkins fell backward, screaming.
Eytan made a pouty face, walked toward his wounded victim, and squatted next to him, gun in hand.
“Does it hurt, kid? It’ll take some time to walk again. And as for jogging and playing squash, that all depends on how good your surgeon is and how much effort you put into therapy.”
“What the hell did you do that for? Are you crazy? Your friend’s going down. That’s for sure!”
Eytan looked into the distance, as if the walls of the run-down building didn’t exist.
“I doubt that. The problem with you and your huge head is that you make everything so complicated. Let me help you see things from my perspective. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be blunt, since we’re friends now, and friends can be honest with each other. Your organization obviously needs me. Otherwise, you’d have shot me the second I walked into this shack. And if Eli dies, you can say good-bye to my cooperation. So basically, to speak your businessman language, you’re negotiating blind. Normally, I’d suggest that you look around and savor a final opportunity to appreciate our beautiful world. Unfortunately, this disgusting joint doesn’t allow for that. Plus, I’d like you to fully enjoy a long and painful recovery. So it’s time to wrap this up, spare your life, and wait.”
“Wait for what?” the man replied, gasping.
“Wait for your jackass of a boss to show up or call, depending on how he decides to make his entrance.”
“But how…”
“Oh wow, you’re not faking it. You really don’t know anything. Here’s a tip, you vain little power-hungry prick: to negotiate blind, a real pro sends a pawn. That’s you, twerp. By the way, if I thought you were of any
importance, I would’ve shot you between the eyes. Now I see why those men—the ones who supposedly had your back—let me keep my weapon. There you have it, little man. You were just played by a cast of honchos. I’d be surprised if they ever bring you back on board.”
“Mr. Morg, thank you for your keen insight. You’d make a good human resources manager in my organization if you ever decide to leave Mossad.”
The voice was coming from the small laptop on the table. Eytan recognized it immediately. The giant tucked his gun back under his belt. He leaned toward Jenkins and whispered in his ear. “I have to leave you. The adults need to discuss important business now. Remember: five or six months. Good luck.”
He winked at Jenkins, whose mouth moved clumsily as he spit out a few venomous but restrained curses.
The disembodied voice spoke up again. “Would you be so kind as to pick up the computer, Mr. Morg? It’s equipped with a camera. Please excuse my precautions, but I’d rather not be present during one of your angry mood swings.”
“That’s a wise move on your part. I’m a bit on edge at the moment,” Eytan said as he lifted the laptop. It had two open windows. One displayed a close-up of the agent’s face. The other showed the dark shape of a man. The light was conveniently positioned in a way that Eytan couldn’t make out his features.
“I was wondering if you were going to kill him. Jenkins has a remarkable talent for annoying people, which amuses me. Well, that is until I no longer find his services useful. Don’t worry. My men will take him to the hospital.”
“Ah, so all this was just a way to get rid of a pesky employee?”
“That was, indeed, the plan.”
“I’m not one to do things by the book, but wouldn’t it have been easier to fire him the traditional way?”
“Of course, but that wouldn’t have driven the message home. Jenkins has now learned that individuals are important to the organization, but they are never more important than the organization. While corporations last, employees are…”
“Expendable?”
