“That’s correct.”
“But America is our greatest ally, perhaps the only one we have left. We wish no harm to your country.”
“You’re forgetting Pollard, and I’m sure there have been others.”
Jonathan Pollard was a civilian US Navy intelligence analyst arrested in 1985 and sentenced to life in prison for spying for Israel.
“Personally, I think we made a terrible mistake in that matter. In any case, that’s in the past, and you will recall that Pollard volunteered the information to our embassy in Washington. I don’t see that as a problem that affects your case. Anyway, don’t you have good reason to question whether you owe your country the loyalty you profess?”
“It’s not my country that’s screwing me.” No, it was Jack Liebowitz and the CIA.
“I see your point, and we can live with your caveat. I would have been disappointed had you not mentioned it. There may be times, however, when you’ll have to decide how close to the line you want to go. We will respect your decision.”
“Um hum.”
“It is clear to us that we need more strength against the Russians, especially Voskreseniye. You’ve worked against them and their allies for years. We can use those skills and that knowledge.”
“Sure. Voskreseniye can just keep on blaming me for their problems and never suspect Mossad.”
Handy for the Israelis, not so good for me.
Undeterred, Ronan plowed on.
"I propose the following: we'll establish a new identity for you and make enough changes to your physical appearance to escape easy recognition. We can paper your new identity very effectively. We’re good at that sort of thing. We would set you up somewhere in Europe - Spain or France, for example. This is an area you know well and where you should have no trouble blending in. We believe Europe will be a major battleground in the coming years, especially given Russian recidivism. They will seek to regain hegemony over their old satellites, and they will use
West European dependence on Russian natural resources – gas, oil, etcetera to bully the Europeans and enfeeble their political institutions even further, and they will continue helping the Iranians. I would like to see you working with your old friend Volodya against the Russians.”
Good old Volodya. I had not thought of him for a while.
“Is Volodya working for you?”
“He is independent and runs his own organization. We’ve known him for years, of course, just as you have. Sometimes we use him; sometimes he uses us. It’s an equitable arrangement. We need his cooperation more than ever now. When the time is right, we'll let him know you are still alive.”
He paused and returned his gaze out the window. “We also anticipate growing problems associated with the ever multiplying Muslim population of Europe. Already we see the Saudis funding the construction of large mosques dedicated to Wahabism, the most virulent of the Islamic branches. There would be a lot of work for a man like you, especially against your old friends, the Russians. Thanks to you, we now have a treasure trove of new information to exploit. It could keep you busy for years. There's just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You'll have to start thinking like an Israeli. We have only one mission, one cause. As I just said, that cause is the survival of Israel. This is an ancient land. It’s been fought over since the beginning of recorded history, and it remains today a focus of conflict. We are a people hardened to sacrificing our own blood and spilling that of our enemies. I promise you, if the survival of this nation is ever put at grave risk, a new holocaust will result, and the whole world will be sucked in. We have a responsibility that concerns not only our own selfish national desires, but the welfare of the entire civilized world, right here in this hard, rocky, blood-soaked land. Are you willing to accept such a burden?”
Ronan showed a surprising flare for the dramatic. What he was asking was clear enough. His country did not negotiate with terrorists. Israel could afford to depend on weak international institutions to fight its battles in an increasingly hostile world. If I agreed to Ronan’s proposal I would become another instrument of Israel’s most ruthless band of guardians, the Mossad’s Kidon unit. I would be expected to kill without remorse the enemies of this small, beleaguered state. This was no small request. It was not a simple matter of trading one bureaucracy for another, and there would be no going back. I could not give an immediate answer and knew that the Mossad officer would think less of me were I to do so.
“You said I‘d have a couple of weeks to recuperate. Give me that time to think about this.”
Ronan grunted. He had done his job. He had planted the seed. Now he would wait to see if the soil were fertile.
“Of course. I won’t rush you. They’ll release you from here tomorrow or the next day. I’ll arrange your travel.”
Two days later I was escorted back to the basement of the hospital to a waiting car. I was pleasantly surprised to see Sasha behind the wheel.
CHAPTER 53 – The Russians
In response to a call for help from Dimov, Zhenya sent a team to Marbella to mop up. The young vor v zakonye, Nikitin, was dead by the time they arrived, with a hole through the abdomen and a large exit wound in his back. Vital organs had been destroyed, and he had bled out all over the Spanish tile floor. The team also had to dispose of the corpses of Yudin and his Spanish girlfriend.
It took some time to get a coherent story out of Dimov, who was barely conscious for an entire day before he was capable of answering questions. The mop-up team drove him to the airport and placed him aboard Zhenya’s Gulfstream for the return flight to Zurich, where medical treatment could be safely administered.
After several days of intense interrogation, Zhenya passed the information to Moscow.
Shurgin was livid.
“How much will we lose?” Shurgin and Morozov were meeting in the latter’s office.
“There is no way to know, Vitya.” He used the diminutive of Shurgin’s name. “It will take weeks, perhaps months, to reconstruct the files, if it is at all possible to do so. Without Yudin it certainly will be impossible to recover a large part of the funds. It was he, after all, who set up many of the secret accounts. Our people have confirmed that he was able to retrieve some of the funds before he was killed. Nevertheless, our eventual losses could be in the tens of billions of dollars.”
“Sobachoye dit’yo, son-of-a-bitch! How is this possible? Who is responsible?”
“According to Dimov, the man he saw was definitely the American razvedchik, Connolly. There was a woman with him. Dimov claims he wounded Connolly.”
“Yes,” spat Shurgin, “and then his suka, Connolly’s bitch, beat the living shit out of a trained Vympel operative! What are we dealing with here? What are the Americans up to? This is impossible! Are you certain your CIA penetration is not double dealing? Connolly could not have done all this by himself?”
Morozov unbuttoned his uniform jacket and loosened his tie before opening a desk drawer from which he withdrew a full bottle of Moskovskaya vodka with its distinctive green label and two small glasses. It was ten in the morning.
“Let’s move to the conference table and sit down. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a stakanchik or two of this.”
He heaved himself up from behind the desk and plodded wearily to the other side of his office carrying the bottle and glasses. He shot a look at his well-padded office door to make certain it was closed before continuing in a lower tone.
“At least our personal accounts in Monaco were untouched. Only we have access to them.”
Shurgin discontinued his pacing and sat down at the head of Morozov’s conference table and drummed his well-manicured fingers on its polished wood surface. The thin sunlight of early March in Moscow filtered through the windows, casting the barred silhouettes of the blinds across the table. Morozov filled the two glasses and placed one before Shurgin.
“Our CIA source assures us that Connolly definitely was NOT acting
under CIA orders. As a matter of fact, we have confirmed from several sources that Connolly truly is a fugitive from justice. He is wanted for questioning concerning the deaths of our men in Vienna, as you know, and the CIA has put out a burn notice on him, thanks to the quick action of our source.”
Shurgin was a brilliant leader, but he was volatile, and Morozov, who had spent years with him as they both climbed the ranks of the old KGB, knew how to calm him down.
“This means that the American authorities, several Western police agencies, and INTERPOL, are looking for Connolly. He cannot run forever, even if he has money. Zhenya also has organized a hunt, and we can but hope that he finds the American first. It could still be possible to salvage something, perhaps retrieve the money he already has stolen. When one person accumulates so much, he cannot escape notice.”
“So, has Connolly gone rogue? Is he a common criminal? Who was the woman with him? What did Dimov say about her?”
“They were speaking English before the shooting began, but he doesn’t speak the language well enough to detect the subtleties of an accent. The woman didn't speak after Dimov entered the room. She could be from anywhere, and it's clear that she and Connolly know one another well. But she is definitely not CIA.”
“Perhaps another of the American intelligence agencies? She’s clearly had advanced combat training. She could be DIA or from one of the military services.”
“In which case even our source at CIA would know nothing of her. There is no coordination between the American services,” Morozov finished the thought.
“It’s clear that the gloves are off. They executed Yudin and the Spanish girl in cold blood.”
“Yes.” Morozov did not point out that it had been Shurgin’s decision in the first place to discard the old rules.
Shurgin was silent for several moments, head down, putting his thoughts in order. The vodka had taken the edge off his anger, and anger would do him no good now in any event. He had learned to wait for revenge, and when the time came, his vengeance would be terrible.
“Let’s think about damages. We stand to lose enormous liquid assets, to be sure, but the companies and projects we already control are safe, and we relied on Zhenya to separately control many of them because he needed them in his money laundering operations. If we had lost this much money just a few years ago Voskreseniye might have been mortally wounded. But today we are well past the point where the loss, even of the sums Yudin controlled for our friends and us, can cause much harm. We already control Russian heavy industry; we control all valuable natural resources. Gazprom will soon be ours, and the same with the oil industry. We have politicians in our pocket, and already the wheels are turning to place ultimate political power in our hands.
“The military and intelligence services are ours, as they always have been. If anyone opposes us, we have the Brotherhood to silence their voices, giving us perfect deniability.
“The Russian people have seen democracy, and it has left a bitter taste in their mouths. They yearn for a return to strong leadership, to the restoration of our country to her rightful place in the world. All of this we can give to them.”
Shurgin slapped the table with the palm of his hand.
“Screw the Americans! They send their ‘experts’ here to ‘teach’ us about democracy and economics. Look at the results – breadlines, money that won’t buy anything. The Americans think we can all kiss and make up and pretend we were never at odds, as if we had been playing some children’s game all those years of the Cold War. They cannot even conceive of the notion that we hate them still and yearn for their destruction. They do not understand or appreciate the history and traditions of Russia. We are poised to take the reins of power and steer our Motherland to a future that we can dominate.
“We can stop the Americans in every international forum. We can frustrate and corrupt their every action. And in the meantime we will distract them with the Iranians. They will remain blissfully, even willfully, ignorant of our plans until it's too late.”
Morozov nodded agreement.
“Yes, Vitya, they will be distracted. As in the game of chess, we will feint a move, and they will fall into the trap.
The General leaned across the table and grasped Shurgin’s arm.
“Shakhmat, checkmate, was a brilliant idea, my friend, and you executed it to perfection. Our people have been in Iran for over a year. Already we have signed important agreements, both public and secret, with the Persians. We will now sell advanced weapons systems to them and rejuvenate our coffers. We will provide the means and the know-how, and they will be seen to be developing a nuclear weapons capability. It will take years, and we will be able to control their program at every step – to stop it, if we have to, and all the while the Americans will believe we are cooperating with them. We must move carefully, but THAT is the ultimate distraction for the Americans. With the secret investments we are making in Iraqi oil, we will gain even more influence. The Americans will whine at the United Nations, they will seek alliances with the pitifully weak Western Europeans, and in the end they will fail because there is no real will in the West anymore. The French and the rest of them are as helpless as babes. By the time they screw up the courage to take some action, it will be too late.
“The Persians will have a weapons program capable of destroying Israel once and for all, and that fact alone will strike terror into the hearts of the Americans. They can never permit this to happen because they know the zhidovtsi, the Yids, will resort to any means to protect themselves. The Middle East will be left in shambles and we will pick up the pieces. Already the Iraqis are completely dependent on us to equip, re-develop and run their oil industry. We will re-build our defense industries with Arab and Persian money. Once the shooting is over, we will step in and take over the oil fields and if the Arabs or the Persians object, they will be so weakened as to offer little resistance. We will have our revenge for the shame of Afghanistan.”
Shurgin’s thin lips tilted up at the corners at the thought.
“Yes, the Americans have never understood chess. But what can you expect from a country where emotion substitutes for thought?”
CHAPTER 54 - Safehouse
Despite sitting next to a beautiful woman I dozed during most of the short, sixty kilometer drive north from Tel Aviv. I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically, but relieved to be free of the confines of the hospital. Sasha, as usual, was a maniac behind the wheel, but everyone in Israel seemed to switch to kamikaze mode as soon as they got behind a steering wheel. It was best to keep my eyes closed.
I was bumped awake when the car turned into the graveled drive of Ronan’s “beach house” which turned out to be a superb villa a short five minute walk from the Mediterranean. The place was enormous, two stories of modern white concrete with vast expanses of glass. It was surrounded by gardens and a high wall that concealed a swimming pool with a pergola in its center. The iron gates opened electronically as we approached.
Once through the gates, Sasha steered the car into an underground garage.
“This isn’t exactly the cozy cottage by the sea I was expecting.”
“We have safehouses of all types. I hope you’re not disappointed.”
Waiting to greet us was a middle-aged couple who introduced themselves as Moshe and Marnie, the caretakers who lived in the place. Moshe took the small bag that contained my meager belongings and a larger suitcase belonging to Sasha.
Reverting to her role as personal shopper, Sasha said, “Tomorrow we'll buy a new wardrobe for you.”
“You’re staying?” I couldn’t keep the pleasure out of my voice.
She smiled. “Of course.”
“This is becoming a tradition.” I had to smile. All I had were the clothes on my back that had been laid out for me at the hospital. “I get shot at, and you buy me new clothes.”
Moshe led the way upstairs and through a gym room and sauna that faced the pool area. I spotted a wide pillared veranda facing t
he sea as we passed through a main suite with a mosaic wall depicting Caesarea as it had appeared in the time of the Romans. They ascended the central staircase, and Sasha directed me to a door on the top floor that led to a bedroom suite with adjoining Jacuzzi. Through the sliding glass doors was a large balcony facing the sea. I wondered whether the house also had a mamad, a safe room found in many Israeli homes.
“You’d better rest now,” instructed Sasha. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”
*****
Once in her own room, with over an hour to kill before dinner, Sasha decided there was time for a long, hot bath. Leaving her travelling clothes -- jeans, a cotton sweater, and sneakers -- in a pile on the marble floor beside the tub, she gratefully slipped into the soothing water. Completely submerged except for her face, she felt her muscles relax, and she sighed deeply, her eyes closed.
Unbidden, the image of Harry Connolly seeped into her thoughts. She had never known an American before, and this one intrigued her. He was handsome, tough, and certainly highly resourceful, completely at odds with her preconceived notions about Americans. She had seen his vulnerable side that night in her apartment in Vienna when he had told her something of his personal history. To be sure, he had been in at least a partial state of shock at the time, having just escaped death and in the process killing two of his assailants. Despite the popularity of shoot-em-ups in the American cinema, Sasha had gathered from her fellow Mossad operatives that CIA case officers talked a lot but were pussies when it came to a shoot-out. Connolly had given the lie to that, and she had seen him remain cool under pressure. She recalled that cold, wet night in Vienna when the American had stripped the clothing from Stankov’s body in order to delay identification. Not even Ronan had thought of that!
She felt guilty about Marbella. Had she not laid down her weapon to search through Yudin’s desk, she might have taken down the second assailant before Connolly was wounded. She also felt not a little anger towards Ronan for allowing the two Russian killers to penetrate the mansion. Her indefatigable superior had failed in his part of the mission.
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