Assassin's Game

by Ward Larsen

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  For Bob and Pat Gussin

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My most sincere thanks to those who helped bring this story to life. To my editor, Bob Gleason, for his support and encouragement. To Kelly Quinn and the entire staff at Tor/Forge—there are none better. To those who helped me early on, Deb Stowell and Kevin Kremer, your contributions were essential. I would be hard-pressed to find a more hardworking and knowledgeable agent than Susan Gleason.

  Finally, thanks to my family for their patience and support over the years.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Also by Ward Larsen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  One could only expect so much from a stolen donkey.

  Nearing the crest of an extended rise, Yaniv Stein watched the creature slowly buckle. Struggling beneath three hundred pounds of guns, ammunition, and explosives, its legs began to wobble. Then, fifty yards to go, it did what donkeys did when they reached their limit—the beast dropped to its haunches and froze, statue-like and immovable. Stein heaved on the harness, trying to coax forward momentum, but he might as well have been pulling against an oak tree. His years of training in the Israeli Special Forces had covered a great many contingencies. No one had ever thought to include this in the curriculum.

  He left the donkey where it was and padded ahead, his boots scuffing over sand and loose stones. He gave a hand signal and the others appeared out of the darkness, three vibrant silhouettes clear under a half-moon that split the night sky. The obstinate donkey was only the latest in a series of misfortunes to befall the mission. To begin, their military flight from Israel to Turkmenistan had suffered a ten-hour delay, cursed by not one but two airplanes with mechanical issues. Arriving in Ashgabat behind schedule, their promised transportation to the Iranian border, a pair of jeeps obtained by an advance party, had never materialized, and they’d been forced to negotiate the purchase of a decrepit van from an Armenian used car salesman—yet another shortcoming in the training syllabus.

  Then had come the most serious setback: three nights ago their most lethal marksman had broken an ankle while scouting a washed-out road. The only option was to have the field medic drive him a hundred miles back to the Turkmen border using their only vehicle. That had put the squad down two men, a one-third reduction in firepower. The rest of them could shoot well enough—and they would—but their meticulously rehearsed plan would require significant adjustments. The loss had also placed an unacceptable equipment load on the remaining four. Thus the stolen donkey. Now, five days and four hundred miles since injecting themselves into Iran, the men were tired. They had moved on foot the last three nights, fourteen-hour treks separated by daytime rest periods in the concealment of sandstone formations. Still, all hardship aside, they were on the verge of success.

  The air was still and sweet, the desert almost agreeable with the sun no longer pounding overhead. Stein rendezvoused with his team. The two men from the flanks were waiting, the point man the last to arrive. All wore dark robes and sandals. Their beards, cultivated for months, were long and unkempt in the most pious Muslim tradition. As a group, the four infiltrators blended in as well as four men could in this part of the world. They arranged themselves in a circle, and Stein tried to meet their eyes one by one. He had no success as the others’ gazes shifted constantly. Watching and alert.

  “What now?” Dani, the second in command asked, not taking his eyes off the horizon.

  Stein referenced the luminous green screen on his GPS receiver. “We still have five kilometers to go. There’s no way we can haul all the equipment ourselves and be in place before dawn.”

  Standing under a faultless night sky, Stein gauged the terrain ahead. Fifty yards remained to the top of the rise, and after that the choppy topography would give way to a dry lake bed as hard and flat as a billiards table. From that point there would be little cover.

  “Come on,” Stein said, slapping Dani in the middle of his armored vest. “Maybe we can see it.”

  Stein led Dani ahead. Without being told, the other soldiers stayed with the gear. The hill of sand that had defeated their donkey was the highest ground in any direction, and nearing the crest the two commandos crouched low to keep their profiles masked. They took turns with the night vision glasses, studying a dim island of light that seemed to float on the far horizon.

  “There it is,” said Stein. “Lit up like a damned amusement park.”

  He handed over the optics, and after a look Dani said, “It looks like they’re having a party. We planned on eight bodyguards, Yaniv. If there is a special event tonight, with dignitaries, we could be facing four times that number.”

  “You worry too much, Dani. The fact that there’s a party only tells me our intelligence is correct. He’s there now. Even better, they’re probably all drunk.”

  Dani shot Stein a hard look. “And you worry too little. We need to do it before sunrise.”

  “You have something in mind?”

  “There’s a party tonight,” Dani said. “Maybe we can catch him outside having a smoke. I say we split up. Mayer and I go ahead fast, just take the SR-25.” He was referring to the big sniper rifle. “You and Goldman bring the assault gear in case we don’t get a shot. We can all crash the place later if it comes to that.”

  “Room to room in broad daylight?” Stein shook his head doubtfully. They had planned a predawn raid—always the favored hour for residential takedowns—but the new twist in logist
ics put that schedule out of reach. “And I don’t like the idea of splitting up.”

  An extended silence ensued, what passed for a debate between two battle-hardened men. The sounds of the night seemed to amplify, chirping insects and the distant howl of a jackal. Stein was about to speak when Dani suddenly put up a hand. Both men froze.

  After a long ten seconds, Dani asked, “Did you hear something?”

  Stein shook his head to say he had not.

  Dani sighed, shrugging it off. “I say we split now. But it’s your call, Yaniv.”

  There were few people in the world Yaniv Stein listened to. Dani was one of them. “All right. We’ll do it your way. Let’s just hope to hell he’s there.”

  The two men scrambled down from their perch, and Stein relayed his decision to Goldman and Mayer. Neither showed a glimmer of opinion on the matter. They pulled everything off the donkey, yet even after being relieved of its burden the beast kept stubbornly on its haunches. As the four men began sorting through the gear, Dani addressed Stein in a low voice, “Once it is done, how will we egress, Yaniv?”

  The lack of transportation had been an ongoing problem, but this time Stein had an answer. “There must be vehicles at the compound. We’ll take our pick. Maybe something luxurious like a—” He stopped abruptly when Dani’s hand came up a second time.

  They both heard it this time, an almost imperceptible click. Metal on metal.

  And then hell came to earth.

  * * *

  Dr. Ibrahim Hamedi gazed out into the still night, his ears reaching for any further sound. He heard nothing, as had been the case for a full twenty minutes.

  Standing on the patio, Hamedi was centered in a quarter acre of smooth stone, this fronting a swimming pool the size of a tennis court. The whole arrangement was framed by verdant landscaping, plantings incorporated in flagrant contradiction to the desert flora outside the perimeter wall. It was all quite symbolic, he supposed, representing well the detachment that those who frequented this place held with their country. The palace—a boy from the squalor of south Tehran could think of it as nothing less—was twenty miles from the Qom facility. Rarely were those who worked the technical side of the operation permitted here. The compound was reserved, Hamedi knew, for visiting dignitaries, the religious and political elite who came to either marvel at Iran’s great technical achievement, or complain about the billions of petrodollars being funneled so deep into a pit in the earth. Hamedi had been here twice in the last months, once for an audience with the president himself, and tonight invited by the Guardian Council to speak to a group of concerned Majlis legislators. That job done, he’d left the legislators inside to posture and gossip and drink—as such men did when clear of the mullahs.

  Hamedi tilted his head to one side and kept listening. The distant crackling noises that had frayed the night air were completely gone. The racket had carried on for a full ten minutes, ebbing in the last seconds at a decisive rate to be finally absorbed by the desert’s indifference. The ensuing silence seemed resounding, even if the outcome had never been in question. All the same, Hamedi closed his eyes and listened. He heard cicadas buzzing and the soft flush of the breeze though palms that had likely been imported from Africa or Indochina. Then his eyes flicked open as he registered a new sound over his shoulder, something even more out of place than the tropical landscaping. The tinkle of ice cubes in an empty glass.

  “I think our excitement has ended,” said Farzad Behrouz.

  Hamedi did not turn, preferring to imagine the rutted image of the man who headed Iran’s state security apparatus. It had long been Hamedi’s opinion that men of prominence were carved from one of two blocks. They were either imposing and handsome, or caricature oddities, men who had likely suffered cruel childhoods and were thus numb to life’s trials. Behrouz was firmly in the latter group. He was small and pale, short legs carrying an androgynous torso. His eyes were too close together, split by a pinched nose and framed by shallow, pockmarked cheeks. Presently, Hamedi pictured that face in a mask of cruel satisfaction. If a troll could be made to smile, that would be Farzad Behrouz.

  “You must brim with confidence to be so close to the action,” Hamedi said. A brief silence ran and he sensed a mistake, that these words might imply a degree of cowardice. “Your intelligence source has again proved reliable,” he added quickly.

  “Mossad is not what it once was,” Behrouz replied.

  “No, certainly not. But they have never been what the world believes. If you ask me, Mossad is more legend than reality. The Jews, for all their faults, are wondrous storytellers.”

  Hamedi sensed Behrouz fall still behind him, just out of sight, a geometry that served them both. Again ice tinkled in a glass.

  “Our guests from Tehran are asking where you’ve gone. After your enlightening speech they have many questions about the project.”

  “They always do,” Hamedi said derisively.

  “Yes, yes. I too find them insufferable. Still, they have their place. Neither of us can do our work without funding.”

  Hamedi said nothing.

  “We are not so different, Professor. We have both risen to great achievements, the pinnacle of our respective disciplines.”

  Hamedi could in no way equate his work to that of the thug standing behind him. Behrouz had risen through the military, climbing ranks with an appetite for brutality and sadism, qualities that translated well to a battlefield. After twenty years of thuggery, and with any remnants of civility certainly ruined, he had joined the secret police. Hamedi, on the other hand, had excelled academically, in particular math and science. He had attended universities and performed research, both at home and abroad. My intellect is respected while your fist is feared, he thought. Otherwise, we could not be more alike. What he said was, “This is the second attempt on my life this year.”

  “And the second failure.”

  “Do you think they will give up?”

  Behrouz sighed. “That is the trouble with Jews. They never give up.”

  “Quite so,” Hamedi agreed. “Which is why we must fight them on level ground.”

  “Precisely. I’ve been told that your work is reaching fruition. This is fortunate for you. Once you’ve given us the ultimate weapon, I can’t imagine you will be at risk any longer. A year, Dr. Hamedi, perhaps two, and you will no longer require such heavy security. Who knows—you may never see me again.”

  Finally, Hamedi turned to face the ugly little man. He smiled thinly.

  Behrouz’s phone trilled a happy little ringtone, and Hamedi watched him pick up the call. After stating his name, the security chief only listened, his impervious, sunken expression giving nothing away.

  Behrouz ended the connection, and said, “It is done. There were four commandos. All are dead.”

  “Four,” Hamedi remarked.

  “You expected more? A regiment, perhaps?”

  “I am Israel’s greatest nightmare. I think I might warrant it. Did we suffer casualties?”

  “Yes.” For the first time Behrouz seemed tentative. “Twenty-four dead, eighteen wounded.”

  Hamedi stiffened, then turned back to face the desert. Neither man spoke for a time. But then, what could be said to such a thing? Behrouz had at his disposal the most experienced, well-trained soldiers in Iran. They had known exactly where and when to wait. And still a casualty ratio of ten to one.

  “How will it be presented?” Hamedi asked.

  “Must you ask? The news tomorrow will shout of a great victory over Israeli assassins. The mechanics of how it came to be? No one will care about that.”

  A wave of laughter rolled from the house, disrupting the still desert night.

  “Come,” Behrouz said. “We should return. Your expertise is in great demand.”

  “Yes,” Hamedi agreed. “Isn’t it, though?”

  With that the two men went inside, each riding his own thoughts.

  What neither could know at that moment was that the attack just beat
en down was not the end. Quite to the contrary, Israel’s latest failure would soon prompt decisions at the highest levels in Tel Aviv to approach things from an altogether different angle. The strike of September 25, having come within five miles of its target, would not be the last.

  Nor would it be the most successful.

  ONE

  Three days later

  Anton Bloch walked briskly along King George Street, leaning into a stiff wind that had swept in over the course of the morning. In most of the world, autumn winds brought change. Cold fronts to separate leaves from branches, gunmetal gray skies, and the breaking out of mothballed winter gear. In Tel Aviv, the last Friday of September did little more than stir the dust of yet another heat-stricken summer.

  Had Bloch gone for a walk a year ago, it would have been a very different project. He would have been shadowed by two armored limousines and a dozen bodyguards, every street on his route mapped in advance and monitored. Even now, long removed from office, he generally warranted two men. But not today. The unusual request had come this morning, a handwritten note delivered by his successor’s aide de camp: 9:15, Meir Garden. Come alone. So, for the first time in recent memory, Anton Bloch was walking by himself on a public street. He found it oddly liberating. Were he more of a pessimist, he might imagine Arab assassins around every corner. But then, no man who has served as director of Mossad can exist as a pessimist.

  Bloch rounded a corner and turned left into the main entrance of Meir Garden. He spotted a familiar face—or rather, a familiar silhouette. A massive man with a flattop haircut materialized to greet him. He was wearing a suit and tie, cheap material but nicely pressed, the jacket either two sizes too small or fitted in a way to accentuate his muscular arms and shoulders. Bloch suspected the latter.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  On hearing his voice, Bloch remembered a first name. “Hello, Amos.”

  Bloch had clearly gotten it right—Amos produced a smile that was at odds with his intimidating appearance. He spoke again through a tightly clenched jaw, “The director is expecting you, sir. Straight ahead, then the first path on your right.”