Shadow of Death

by David M. Salkin

  Darren folded his arms and waited. “How do you figure that?”

  “Well, with everyone killing everyone everywhere, a lot of the Arab nations tend to forget about us. The Palestinian problems are the same ones every year. We can deal with them. It’s finally occurring to the Sunni world that Israel poses no threat to them. If your president can put together a coalition of Arab nations like in the first Gulf War, you can have the whole thing sorted out within a year. Of course, the downside would be a redrawing of the Middle East maps, which won’t be very popular with anyone except maybe the Kurds, who deserve their own country.”

  Darren crossed his legs. “Shimon, we came over because you have information that can help our team on the ground. We aren’t here to come up with some geopolitical solution to the Middle East at the moment. I appreciate the risk you’ve taken in being so forthcoming—I really do. You’ve got balls. I’m pretty sure if I went to the White House with this conversation, you’d be in jail awaiting deportation if you were lucky, firing squad if you weren’t so lucky. Now—we need what you have in those e-mails.”

  “Of course. And understand, our candor—the risk we have taken with this meeting—is a gesture of our willingness and ability to help the Unites States. The prime minister’s instructions to me were very specific. I was to use this time together to emphasize some of the issues that your president refuses to discuss with him. I’m not asking for favors; I’m asking for an ear that listens and understands. I’m afraid the president and secretary of state have left Israel in an impossible position, and I see no signs of improvement.”

  “You’re referring to the Iran treaty again, I assume?” asked Darren.

  “Naturally. Your president is so determined to leave a legacy behind to show he brokered an important peace deal that he’s going to ensure a nuclear Iran which we will have to deal with. And quite frankly, in another year, I’m not so sure how successful we’ll be in knocking out Iranian nuclear targets.”

  Kim finished his thought. “Because of the new radar and missile defense systems they’ll be purchasing from Russia with the cash they now have access to.”

  Shimon bowed slightly. “Thank you for listening and understanding. This is the message I was to deliver. And as for your unwillingness to accept the idea of Iran and ISIS working together, you have to ask yourself the all-important question: Why? Why would two enemies communicate with each other and work together? The obvious answer is because they have a mutual enemy that they’d both like to see destroyed. Your president doesn’t have a love affair with the Kremlin, and yet you’ll both occasionally attack the same ISIS targets. And then a day later, you supply anti-Assad rebels and the Kremlin supplies pro-Assad troops. You keep trying to see a ‘big picture’ that looks like two armies lined up two to toe with a long list of allies on each side. Forget that. It doesn’t exist in the Middle East.

  “These aren’t two armies made up of staunch allies. Instead, think of them as two American baseball teams that play against each other every day. The two teams trade players every other day, based only on finances. The game remains the same but the players are different every game. After a while, it kills the excitement over the game, doesn’t it? You still play the game, but you start to wonder why. There’s certainly nothing to cheer about no matter who wins or loses because the players have zero allegiance to their team, anyway.

  “And now back to the matter at hand.” He began typing again.

  “Rather than read each e-mail, I will paraphrase and then give you the actual e-mails and phone recordings for your own people to listen to later on. Your people can verify all of this information when you return to Langley.”

  “Thank you,” said Darren.

  “In Syria, one of the officers in the Daesh chain of command is a man named Qassim Bayazid. Your man Apo Yessayan made contact with him.”

  Darren stared at Shimon, wondering if Apo would have divulged such information. “I can’t comment on what Apo was doing if he was ever in Syria.”

  “Stop wasting time. Apo was there, and I know he was there because we had one of our own people there as well. They never knew each other at the time. But what they did find out was that a Las Zetas captain named Antonio Reynosa travelled from Mexico to Syria to meet with Daesh and secure their heroin shipments. Your man escaped through Kurdish lines into Turkey. Our man was Ori Levy—may his memory be a blessing. He was killed in a firefight between Daesh fighters and Syrian rebels. But not before he got to Qassim’s phone. Ori died getting inside their network, a network which proves a shipment moved from Iran to Syria to Mexico, and we can’t get your president to even talk to us about it!”

  Shimon took another deep breath. He leaned forward, looked at Kim and Darren and then spoke barely above a whisper. “We’re just middle managers, you and us. But why is it we know what’s going on and the people who are running the show seem to be oblivious to the obvious? I knew Ori. Tough as nails. He had a saying nailed over his locker. It read, ‘Someday, someone may kill you with your own weapon, but they should have to beat you to death with it because it’s empty.’ That boy was a lion.”

  “The clock is ticking, Shimon,” said Kim. “We have our people out in the field, too.”

  “This morning, e-mails and phone calls were attempted from Arista, Mexico, to Qassim’s phone in northeastern Syria. Qassim doesn’t know his phone and e-mail have been compromised. He doesn’t even know that anyone tried to call or e-mail him, because we cloned his phone and IP address. You understand? With the phone we have—or maybe that we don’t have because such a phone doesn’t exist—anyone can be Qassim on that end of the phone. When someone calls Qassim’s phone or e-mails him, they get us. Qassim’s phone doesn’t ring—you understand? Ours does. His e-mail doesn’t arrive at his phone or computer, it arrives at ours.”

  Darren’s stomach did a small flip and he shot a glance at Kim. “So you’re offering to let us borrow such a phone, if it exists, and you would allow us to make contact directly with whoever’s at the other end of that phone.”

  “I can even tell you who it is,” said Shimon, looking so serious he appeared angry. “Some low-level Daesh trash called Mustafa is currently with the Sinaloas in Arista. The Sinaloas have gotten ahold of that shipment from Syria, which originated in Iran, and are looking to renegotiate with Daesh in Syria for their heroin supply. We had understood the contact to be Las Zetas, but something changed.”

  Darren decided to shoot straight with Shimon. “It was Las Zetas. The US was running a joint operation with the Mexican Marines to grab El Gato, head of the Zetas. We were supposed to help the Mexican government knock out one of their biggest drug cartels in exchange for their assistance in tracking down that package, which could potentially contain a WMD. The plan went to shit because the second in command in Mexico ended up being on the take. Fast-forward a day or two, and now we’ve got the Mexican Marines and the cartels fighting over who gets to kill my team.”

  “Is Apo with your team in Mexico?” asked Shimon.

  Darren’s face was blank. “You know I can’t answer that question.”

  “Apo is a very talented man. We don’t call him the Chameleon for nothing. I’ve been around the best operatives in the world, Mr. Davis. The best. And although I’d love to spend a very long assignment with Heidi from the BND, there is no one I’d rather go to war with than Apo Yessayan. If he’s with your team, you get him this phone. He’ll get to your package and solve your problem.”

  “Even if Apo was in Mexico,” Darren replied, “I can’t exactly FedEx him your most secret piece of technology so he can give ISIS a ring and see if they want to meet for a goat barbeque.”

  “Of course you can,” said Shimon with his charming smile. “And we’ll even help you get it done.”

  Darren studied the man. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that everything goes according to whatever new plan we draw up. A big, happy ending. Then what?”

  “Your president sits down with
the prime minister for a real conversation about Iran behind closed doors. No posturing. No politics. Just a plan to ensure that Iran’s nuclear facilities are destroyed before they can be defended so well that Iran becomes the newest member of the world nuclear powers.”

  Darren sighed. “You know I can’t guarantee a meeting with the president. All I can do is explain Israel’s immense cooperation and assistance, and ask. That’s it. I can ask.”

  “Understood. If the information on the EMP from Iran is accurate, which we obviously believe it is, your president will have no choice but to reconsider his current position. Well, we should hope so, anyway.”

  CHAPTER 50

  A Most Interesting Military Convoy

  The truck rattled and bounced so badly, Ripper couldn’t drive faster than thirty miles per hour. The truck was an American Ford, the particular model being the topic of discussion for the first ten minutes of the trip. It was finally decided by general vote that it was an F-100, circa 1975, which made it older than everyone on the team. The age of the two horses that had disappeared over the ridge came up next, which were also estimated to be about forty, and finally, the age of the grandmother at the farmhouse, which was estimated to be closer to a hundred and fifty. It was unanimously decided upon, after eating her homemade tortillas, that a hundred years should be deducted because it was rude to call a woman out on her age. Especially when she fed you something so damn good.

  They were headed south along a country road that would bring them toward Comalcalco and a real highway. They hoped to be able to steal a vehicle there and use Highway 187 as far as it went toward Arista.

  Ripper held the wobbly steering wheel with two hands as they rock and rolled along the dirt road. Moose’s earpiece came on with Eric’s voice.

  “Scout One to large bovine animal, come in, over.”

  “I don’t think a moose is a bovine animal, so Golf Foxtrot Yankee. Give me a sit-rep, wiseass.”

  “We’re a few klicks south of you in the woods on top of a little hill. I can see the outskirts of the town from here. Not sure what I was expecting, but it’s not a big city—more like a little town, spreads out pretty far. Clipping a truck might be a little trickier than we thought. Everything is pretty wide open. I can see you guys coming down the road. Clean and green.”

  “Any signs of Mexican Marines or gangbangers? Civilians around?”

  “Negative. Not here, anyway. Lots of farms, just like where we came from. If Jon and I go any farther, we’ll be out in farmland and someone will see us. We’ll need to wait here until you catch up. Couple of dudes in BDUs on horseback might be the most exciting thing that happened here since the Spanish invaded.”

  “I’m impressed with your knowledge of local history. Maybe we can get you on Jeopardy. Sit tight and we’ll catch up. Out.”

  Moose leaned back and spoke through the tiny slide window at the rear of the cab that opened into the bed of the truck, where the team was jammed in with all their gear and miscellaneous farming garbage. “Hey, Frogmen. Jarhead just called in. Gonna have to make room to squeeze them in back there with ya.”

  “How about we make Cat Woman run alongside the truck to make more room?” asked Ray.

  “Quit your bitching. Pretend you’re in a mini sub,” said Ripper.

  “Easy for you to say, you two are up front in the lap of luxury,” replied Ryan.

  “Yeah, lap of luxury,” said Moose. “I’m looking between my feet and watching the road through the hole in the floor with a spring shoving its way through my Kevlar into my spine. I just hope the whole fucking seat doesn’t drop out the bottom.”

  McCoy piped up from his crowded corner of the truck. “Hey, I got an incoming on the sat-phone!” He pulled out the handset, which had a green indicator light flashing on it. He fumbled with his pack and pulled out the small umbrella-shaped antenna, which he opened and handed to Ray, who pointed it skyward.

  “Papa Mike here. Go.”

  Dex placed his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Darren Davis. “I’ve got Pete McCoy on the horn.”

  “Give him the deal.”

  “Papa Mike, what’s your current sit-rep?”

  “One hundred percent good to go. En route, but moving slowly. No tangos since leaving the cathouse, over.”

  “Roger, good copy. We have equipment being brought to you. Is Alpha Yankee with you?”

  “Yes, sir. Wait one.” Pete handed the phone to Apo.

  “Go,” he said.

  “Friends of yours have been helpful. They took a big risk for us. I have a phone of theirs that’s cloned to appear as though it’s across the pond. You’ll use that phone to contact a man named Mustafa. He’ll think you’re Qassim Bayazid. They will negotiate a deal with you on behalf of the Sinaloas, you copy?”

  Apo’s face showed his surprise. He was thinking in hyperdrive. He remembered Qassim from his time in Syria. The man was fairly high up the food chain. Dex must have been referring to the Mossad when he said “friends,” as he’d worked with them a few times before. But for them to give the CIA a cloned phone was nothing short of shocking. “This phone, how is it going to get to us?”

  “That’s the fun part. It’s currently on an F-18 Super Hornet heading south to deliver it to a flattop. Once there, the phone will be put on a small drone and sent to you, wherever you are at that time, over.”

  Apo looked at his teammates, thinking, “Holy shit. They’re sending me a drone phone.” He spoke back into the sat-phone. “Good copy. Will wait for your drone phone. Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now. Stay healthy. Out.”

  He handed the phone back to Pete and moved up the bed of the truck to the cab, climbing over his crammed teammates. Apo leaned into the window and whispered to Moose so El Gato couldn’t hear anything. “Mossad rigged a phone. The Company’s sending it to us by drone. I’m going to fake being Qassim Bayazid, an ISIS commander in Syria, and set up some sort of deal to try and get to the package.”

  Moose nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay? That’s it? No ‘Holy shit, the Mossad is sending us a phone by drone to try and contact the Sinaloas and fake being ISIS?’ You took that right in stride.”

  “Dude, after being around you for a few weeks, nothing is going to surprise me anymore.”

  Moose’s earpiece came back on again. “Moose, it’s Echo, you copy?”

  “Good copy, go.”

  “Just spotted two Mexican Marine Humvees hauling ass from Comalcalco. They must have come through there from that airport. They’re flying, man. Should be on you in a few minutes. Find some cover.”

  “Cover hell, we just found our better transportation. Work your way back to us. We’ll ditch the truck and set up an ambush. They have mounted machine guns?”

  “Negative. Looks like four Marines per vehicle. Troop transport only, old models, no up-armor. We’ll start following. Moose, we gonna take them out? We’re supposed to be on the same side.”

  “We’re going to try and play nice, but we need those Humvees. Get off the horn and beat feet. Out.”

  Moose pointed to a spot where there were large trees and boulders on both sides of the narrow dirt road. “Stop the truck at that chokepoint. Leave it right there in the middle of the road so they can’t go around you. Apo, you try and get the Mexis to stop and get out, and we’ll come in from the sides. No shooting unless we have to. Unass this truck! Let’s move, people, they’re coming fast!”

  Ripper stopped the truck between a large boulder and the trees and cut the engine. There was no way even large Humvees could knock over the trees to go around the “disabled” vehicle. While they could push the truck out of the way with their vehicles, that would require stopping and at least a couple of them getting out to investigate the situation.

  The team jumped off the back of the truck and pulled El Gato into the trees, where they pushed him to the ground facedown on his stomach and zip-tied his hands to a large, low branch that pinned him uncomfortably in place. He
wasn’t going anywhere, and he still had the gag in his mouth.

  Ripper leaned down and whispered into his ear. “One fucking peep out of you and I will end you with my knife from your balls to your face. You copy, muthafucker?” El Gato’s expression became even uglier than his regular face, but he couldn’t speak to curse at Ripper.

  The team disappeared instantly into the foliage on both sides of the road while Apo popped the hood of the pickup truck and stood there waiting. Although Apo couldn’t see them, he knew they were in their ambush positions. He casually announced, “It’s a wonderful feeling, standing in the road by yourself, while eight hostile troops in two Humvees roar in on your location with fully automatic weapons, said no one ever.”

  Eric and Jon had their horses at full-out run until they emerged from cover, then dismounted and ran on foot to catch up to their friends’ ambush location. Once they were within sniper range, Eric pulled his rifle from its padded sheath and set up behind a rock, which he could use for some extra stability and cover. Jon quickly set up the spotter scope and began scanning in all directions for any other possible incoming threats.

  “Clear as far as I can see,” said Jon quietly. Eric was one hundred percent focused on the two Humvees that were slowing down as they approached the truck that was blocking the road. Apo, a short, dark man in slacks and a black shirt, could have been any Mexican with a disabled vehicle, and looked very nonthreatening, although very annoying to the Marines trying to make top speed to reinforce their team at El Gato’s mansion.

  The trucks came to a stop, and the passenger door of the lead vehicle opened. A lieutenant jumped out and began screaming at the top of his lungs at Apo, who just stood and opened his arms as if to say, “What am I supposed to do?”

  The man stomped over and kept up his screaming. “Move that truck! This is official business! Move it or I’ll have you arrested!”