“A bris is out of the question,” I deadpanned.
For the first time since I had met him Ronan roared with laughter.
“Oh, no, I won’t make you THAT much of an Israeli.”
The tension of the moment was broken.
A few hours later a Mossad technician cut my hair a lot shorter that I was used to wearing it and applied a color rinse that left it a deep brown, erasing the gray that had begun to show at the temples. Surprisingly, there was a tanning booth in the basement of the Embassy and after a liberal application of tanning lotion and a session in the booth my skin had assumed a nice shade of burnished bronze. Brown contact lenses completed the transformation. The tech took several photos and a short while later handed over two passports, one Israeli and the other Argentine. Both were in the name of Raoul Kahane, a dual national. There was also an American Express card, a Visa card, Argentine and Israeli driver’s licenses, and other assorted ‘pocket litter.’
I assessed “Raoul Kahane’s” appearance in the mirror. The treatment had taken about ten years off my apparent age. At a little over six feet, still lean despite my recent lack of exercise, and now with a tan, short dark hair, and brown eyes, I looked like a different person. “Hello, Raoul. Shalom.”
Ronan and Sasha were equally impressed by the transformation.
“The tan looks good on you,” she pronounced, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Ronan asked, “Are you up for some travel?”
“I can’t stay here forever, although I am developing a taste for hummus.” The dish seemed to be a part of every meal at the Embassy. “Where am I going?”
“WE are going to Spain. While Tel-Aviv is working out how to drain the Russian accounts we need to ask Mr. Yudin a few questions, and in the process prevent him from taking any countermeasures to protect the accounts using the disk Drozhdov gave him. Then we’re going to try to move money to accounts we have created, and then bounce the funds around the world a couple of times to confuse any attempts to trace them.”
He grinned broadly, or perhaps it was a grimace - I couldn’t tell. “We need to buy some time. If we are successful the money will end up funding Israeli defense projects to protect us against whatever the Russians are cooking up with the Iranians. I like the irony.”
“You know, Ronan, I don’t think anyone has tumbled to Mossad involvement in this. As much as I like the thought of a jaunt to Spain, are you sure it’s a good idea?”
“Very good, Harry. That’s where you come in. It’s why we need you to make this trip. We want Yudin to see you, not us, and report it back to Moscow Center. You will remain the constant in the entire affair, and it will confuse the hell out of the Bolshies.”
The Mossad needed me to front for them, show my face, and perpetuate the fiction that I was a rogue. This would make me a permanent target for the Russians, a hunted man.
“You want to paint a big bull’s eye on my back.”
“Perhaps only a little bigger than the one already there.”
There was not a trace of contrition or sympathy in his voice. “It may not work out that way, depending on circumstances, but we must continue the deception. You make a wonderful false flag.”
“Everything that’s happened here in Vienna represents a great success for you, doesn’t it?”
Both Ronan and Sasha were watching closely, trying to gauge my state of mind and willingness to proceed. Ronan shrugged.
“Certainly a stroke of luck, but only a step towards success. You should start calling me Eitan, by the way.”
He placed a beefy hand on my shoulder. “We know what you have been through and that you are in a terrible position. Bluntly speaking, it is horrible for you, but could be very useful to us. Our profession compels us to take advantage of any circumstance that promotes our interests. Success equals opportunity plus preparation plus execution. You understand this as well as anyone.”
He was right. There was no other option but to continue moving forward, not only to stay ahead of my pursuers, but also in the hope that we might arrive at some resolution that did not leave me face down in the street or in jail for the rest of my life. There was a wake of death and chaos spreading behind me, and for the time being I had no allies other than these two people.
“You’re right, Eitan. I want to hurt these sons of bitches as much as I can. They tried to kill me twice. Hell, I WANT them to know I’ve hurt them!”
Ronan appeared gratified, and Sasha’s expression relaxed. Ronan pointed at Sasha.
“Mr. Kahane, meet Mrs. Kahane. You two will be traveling as a couple. Even with your altered appearance, this will be safer. They’re looking for a single man, not a couple.”
CHAPTER 45 – Morning in Moscow
February 18
Vienna should have been a simple, straightforward affair for the Russians. There had been little time in which to act, but thanks to Liebowitz they had precise details of when and where the Russian traitor would be contacted. Their assassin had been too late to kill Stankov, but performed well in tracking down Thackery and recovering his disk. It had been Shurgin’s personal decision to kill the CIA officer thus breaking the “standing rules” of the old KGB-CIA dynamic. This was a new game – HIS game, and he would make the rules now. The old restraints imposed on Soviet intelligence by the defunct Communist political leadership no longer applied.
Liebowitz slyly suggested that there could be a silver lining in Stankov’s initial escape. The mole hunt at Langley was drawing dangerously close to him. Why not engage in a little deception and set someone else up to take the fall?
Morozov was deeply chagrined by the recent turn of events.
Across the table, Shurgin sat chewing his lip, a sure sign that he, too, was worried. Urgency lent a sharp edge to his words.
“Drozhdov knew about Yudin. He met him in Madrid. If somehow the American captured him, the Marbella operation could be compromised. We should send some protection to Yudin and retrieve the disk before there are any more surprises.”
If Yudin panicked he could do considerable harm to Voskreseniye. Yudin was not the “professional” that Lomonosov was, and nor was he as well protected. It had been prudent to disperse responsibilities for setting up the accounts and handling the funds, and Yudin was extremely trustworthy, but in the present situation Shurgin was unwilling to take chances. Yudin had personally set up most of the accounts not controlled by Zhenya, and he had a vital role to play in regaining control over them.
Shurgin’s tame “oligarch” would need watching, as well as protection.
“An excellent and timely thought, Yuriy Ivanovich. By all means tell Zhenya to get a team to Marbella immediately. Do it now. Don’t waste a moment, and don’t reply to Yudin until you receive confirmation that the team has actually arrived. It should not take long. They can fly directly into the Malaga airport from Zurich.”
*****
Zhenya was surprised by the second call from Moscow. Gingerly replacing the receiver, he sat thinking for a few moments, elbows on his desk, his long manicured fingers steepled before him. The sky was lowering outside, promising snow.
Even one phone call from Morozov was a rare event, and now he had received two within the course of a few days. Moscow Center was in a panic. The thought did not please him. Zhenya’s international operations relied heavily on former KGB officers, communications channels, technology, and agent networks, especially in the Middle East. Just as the Brotherhood was useful to Voskreseniye, Morozov and his organization added a completely new dimension to Zhenya’s criminal capabilities and accounted in large part for his ability continually to elude the legal authorities of several countries, not the least here in his adopted Switzerland. It was a perfect symbiosis.
Whatever Morozov needed, Zhenya was more than happy to provide. He depressed a button under his desk, and a few moments later his senior lieutenant appeared at the door of his study.
“There is a problem. We need to dispatch a team to l
ook after Yudin in Marbella. Get them in the air immediately. I want them in place by this evening,” he looked again out the window at the lowering sky, “if they can get out before the airport is socked in. Call my pilot and have him prepare the Gulfstream. Tell the team that if they are good boys, maybe Yudin will give them a go at that Spanish whore he has living with him.”
CHAPTER 46 – On the Move
Eitan Ronan ruled that even with my altered appearance it was too dangerous to try to leave Austria by air. Instead, we would drive across the border to Germany and fly out of Munich to Malaga where we would pay a call on the Russian “oligarch.”
Mid-morning Wednesday, Sasha drove us to a parking garage near the WestBahnhoff where we exchanged her Skoda for a BMW 750IL.
Within minutes the powerful sedan had carried us out of the city heading west toward the autobahn to Munich. A hint of snow to come was in the air, and a strong wind occasionally buffeted the heavy car. Clouds scudded across the sky as we raced them westward toward Munich.
Sasha handled the big car with confidence and skill. I was next to her in the front seat, with Ronan in the rear, as she navigated expertly along the A-1 toward Linz. The drive would take approximately four hours. Ronan had reserved seats on a Lufthansa flight out of Franz-Josef Strauss Airport, just north of Munich, to Malaga departing the same afternoon. It would be at least 10 hours before we arrived finally in Spain far to the south - unless someone spotted me along the way.
I was not in a talkative mood, and we drove in silence for most of the way. Ronan dozed in the back seat, and Sasha concentrated on the road as a light snow began to fall.
For the thousandth time I mulled over my situation. On one level, at least, that of personal ruin, Jake had won. Ronan and the Mossad could offer no guarantees that I could clear my name, and even if that were possible, there was now too much stúrm und drang in the press in Washington for the Agency ever to welcome me back. Under the best of circumstances I would be tied up in legal battles for years to come, and there was a better than even chance I would spend the rest of my life in prison. The growing anger toward Jake Liebowitz was burning a hole in my gut.
Ronan had not explained what we were to do in Spain, whether because he had not fully formulated a plan or because he didn’t have one. He was acting on speculation, flying by the seat of his pants, and there was no choice but to cling desperately to his wing. I didn’t imagine for a moment that we would just stroll into Yudin’s home and discuss what he knew about stolen Russian funds over glasses of chilled Spanish sherry. All we had was his address, his connection with Voskreseniye, and the fact that he had a copy of Stankov’s disk that must be recovered.
Planning was already underway in Tel-Aviv to exploit the financial records, and alarm bells were surely clanging in Moscow. Yudin obviously played an important role for the Russians or the records would never have been delivered to him. Ronan suspected the accounts could not be accessed by the Russians without Yudin’s assistance.
As Sasha swung the sedan from the A-1 to the A-8 and sped northwestward Ronan stirred in the back seat.
“It’s time to talk about the next step.”
CHAPTER 47 – Marbella, Spain
Evening, February 19
Marbella, with its privileged situation on the Mediterranean coast, is a jewel filled with costly villas and condos overlooking the sea. Originally founded by the Romans some two hundred years before Christ, it had been occupied by the Moors for 700 years until the 15th century and still retained a faintly Moorish character, albeit with a glitzy, distinctly Western overlay of nightclubs and restaurants populated enthusiastically by wealthy jet setters.
We had arrived at Pablo Ruíz Picasso Airport near Malaga an hour earlier, having barely made it out of Munich ahead of a storm front. A Mossad contact met us with a briefcase containing three Glock 23 compact 40-caliber pistols, extra 17-round clips, and holsters. Thus armed, we rented a fast Alfa-Romeo and headed for Marbella.
The change from gray, wet Vienna to the colorful Spanish Mediterranean coast was striking. The fading rays of the setting sun reflected softly off orange tiled roofs and cast deep, purple shadows across the hilly landscape as we sped westward along the coast.
There was a hint of jasmine in the air as we drove through the exquisite town and continued west along the N-340 highway towards Puerto Banús and the exclusive Puente Romano neighborhood where Yudin’s villa was located. It was nearing six PM and darkness had fully embraced the town by the time we finally parked the car on a quiet street a couple of blocks from the villa.
Until recently the most visible foreigners in the high rent districts along Spain’s Gold Coast had been Arabs, wealthy Saudis prominent among them, who found the fleshly pleasures available to them there a pleasing diversion from the restrictive customs of their homelands. Their wealth ensured that no debauchery was out of their reach, and local officials were easily bribed to overlook frequent excesses.
Now Russians were supplanting the Arabs -the so-called “oligarchs” who had amassed great fortunes in the course of the few years since the fall of the Soviet Union. They bought villas, cars, hotels, indeed anything that took their fancy, and they did not mind the exorbitant prices charged by the delighted locals.
Yudin’s eight-bedroom villa, large even by Marbella standards, stood on the “Golden Mile” adjacent to the famed Puente Romano hotel. The compound was totally enclosed by walls punctuated with electrically controlled gates. Servants’ quarters and garages were separate from the house across the expanse of an Olympic size pool.
The February evening was cool as the two Israelis and I paused in our reconnaissance to consult on the next move. Ronan’s plan was simple: go in, take control of the house, retrieve the disk and any other records, and squeeze the Russian for additional information.
Ronan made me nervous.
“I don’t want any more rough stuff, Eitan, at least no more than absolutely necessary.”
I had caught a glimpse of Drozhdov a few days ago as he was wheeled, tied to a gurney, out of the Embassy. The Russian’s face had been ghastly, and his hands had been wrapped in bloody bandages. I had no love for Stankov’s killer, but torture was abhorrent.
Evidently, as one of Mossad’s “hard men” Ronan had no such compunctions.
“Neither do I, Harry. Neither do I. But if all that has happened over the past week is to have any meaning, we have to neutralize any efforts Yudin might make to protect the funds, and we have to do so without revealing Mossad involvement.”
I could concede that point, and I accepted the importance the Israelis attached to remaining invisible. “We have to do so without showing the Mossad hand and you want to make certain Yudin knows who I am so he can report it to Moscow.”
“That is correct. Are you ready?”
I didn’t think it would be difficult to overpower Yudin, and it certainly would not be as dangerous as facing down three men in a gunfight in a hotel in Vienna. The idea here was to get in and out WITHOUT raising a ruckus.
The villa waited, silent in the deepening shadows. Choosing a spot not illuminated by street lamps, we went over the wall aided by a conveniently placed tree. This brought us into the compound behind the house, a few yards from the servants’ quarters. Ronan quickly found the phone box and disabled it, which also should disable the alarm system. His job then was to check the grounds for anyone who might be present, such as servants, and neutralize them should it be necessary. The servants’ quarters looked deserted. Ronan would keep out of sight and maintain perimeter security. Sasha and I would find Yudin.
We drew our weapons, screwed on the suppressors, and went in.
CHAPTER 48 – Yudin and the Night Visitors
Arkadiy Nikolayevich Yudin had been hard at work since receiving Morozov’s orders to check the accounts listed on the disk. The lack of an immediate response from Moscow to his message about Drozhdov had left him in a nervous and uncertain state.
Seated at the desk in his
study, he uttered a steady stream of choice curse words culled from several languages. He had made telephone call after telephone call beginning the day before, Monday, as soon as financial institutions were open and learned that several large accounts already had been drained electronically. There was nothing he could do to retrieve these missing funds. Once transferred, the funds could be bounced from place to place until finally they disappeared. These were mostly relatively small commercial accounts that could be accessed remotely, set up that way for convenience as they were used frequently to move funds. Anyone with the pass codes could access them.
There was still time. Yudin himself had set up many of the accounts, mostly in so-called private banks. These accounts could not be accessed, nor could money be transferred out of them with a simple phone call or computer link. Many banks would not accept an anonymous transfer from a numbered account. Banks had their rules, and they usually wanted to know the origin of transferred funds. Whoever was draining the accounts would require time to make arrangements with receiving banks, and such arrangements had to be made in person.
So far, approximately two billion Swiss francs were missing from five accounts. To be sure, this was an enormous sum, but it barely scratched the surface of the amounts he oversaw for Shurgin. Yudin would have to ask for the use of one of Zhenya Lomonosov’s private jets, but with luck he would be able to save the remaining funds.
When he had been a small child and his mother made paskha, traditional Russian Easter bread, she would give him the mixing bowl and a very small spoon. Little Arkadiy would scrape the remaining sweet dough off the sides of the bowl and the tiny spoon insured that the gooey mixture would last a long time.
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