Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

“I need to know.”

  “Daniel...”

  “I made her father a promise. He never wanted her to join Mossad. But there was no talking her out of it. I made a promise...”

  “I know...”

  “A promise that nothing would happen to her.”

  “You can’t make those kinds of promises, my friend. Not in this business.”

  “Who did this?”

  “Seif Escobar. You know him.”

  “Al-Jaballah’s toady in Mexico?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she tracking him?”

  Chertok hesitated for a couple of seconds. “No. She was undercover. She infiltrated his organization a while ago. It seemed like she was fitting in just fine. When she missed her check-in, we knew something was wrong. Then the Americans told us she’d been killed.”

  “The Americans? What’s their role in all this?”

  “You heard about the assassination of the U.S. ambassador?”

  “In Africa? Of course.”

  “Apparently, Escobar and al-Jaballah were involved somehow.”

  “Which means the Circle is involved.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t need to. Why would they do this?”

  “We’re not sure. They’re a bunch of blasted fanatics. Whatever their reason, it won’t be good.”

  “It also won’t be good for Israel.”

  “Forget about it, Daniel. I know where you’re going. Just forget about it.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I can order you to stand down.”

  “You can’t order me to do anything. I was retired, remember?”

  Chertok again fell silent.

  “Have I made my point?” Ben-Shahar asked.

  “Damn it, I’m telling you to leave it alone.”

  “Thanks for the call, old friend.”

  “Daniel...”

  The former Mossad agent hung up the phone. A minute later, it began to ring. He grabbed the cord, yanked it from the wall and went to his room to pack a suitcase.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Hey,” McCarter said. “He’s here.”

  Manning, who’d been pouring coffee from a thermos into a foam cup, stopped and shot his friend a look. The pair had been camped out in a building next to Ahmadah’s offices for about two hours while Encizo and Hawkins watched his apartment. McCarter was standing next to a window, peering outside, his eyes intensely focused on something.

  Hawkins set down the thermos and moved next to the Phoenix Force commander, careful to keep his bulky frame away from the window.

  “What do you see?” Manning asked.

  “Black sedan. Pulled up to the back door. Two—no, three—guys just climbed out. None are Ahmadah.”

  “Must be the muscle.”

  “They’re looking around, hands in their jackets. So, yeah, either they all have heartburn or they’re the security detail. And now we have a fourth guy climbing out of the back. It’s Ahmadah.”

  “So, three security guards and the main target.”

  “Assuming they have no one inside the building.”

  “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Because we’re seasoned combat professionals.”

  McCarter grabbed a duffel bag from the floor and fitted the strap over his shoulder. It was unzipped. He dropped his right hand inside and wrapped his fingers around the grip of an MP-5. He also carried a pair of Browning Hi-Powers, one in a shoulder holster, the other in the small of his back, both hidden by a light windbreaker.

  The big Canadian had stowed an MP-5 in a shoulder rig; he carried extra magazines for it in a black duffel bag similar to the one McCarter was toting. A .357 Desert Eagle rode on his hip in a fast-draw holster clipped to his belt. The warrior also had stowed a pair of flash-bang grenades in the duffel bag.

  As they moved down the stairs, McCarter sent the others a text to let them know the Iranian had surfaced at his office.

  “Should we wait until they get here?” Manning asked.

  McCarter shook his head.

  “They’re at least fifteen minutes away. Most likely Ahmadah is here for a while. But if he just stopped in to grab something, I don’t want to be standing around all slack-jawed if he turns around and leaves in five minutes.”

  “Good point,” Manning said.

  “Like I said, combat professional.”

  Nairobi, Kenya

  IT HAD BEEN years since Ben-Shahar had visited Kenya. However, he still had contacts in the country; former Mossad agents like himself who kept one foot in the spy game even as they’d moved on to other professions.

  He’d arrived at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport several hours ago. He’d taken a taxi to the hotel, where he’d showered, eaten a half decent meal and changed clothes. From there, he’d met with a former Mossad agent who sold wildlife tours to Israelis and other foreigners. The guy had been happy to pass him a .380 Beretta, no questions asked, along with a couple of spare magazines.

  He’d come to Kenya to find Hossan Ahmadah. They’d never met. However he’d learned of the man during his career with Israeli intelligence and had followed Ahmadah’s career as much as possible. Ahmadah had his hands in all kinds of operations and ran logistics for Hezbollah, the Circle and other related groups. If anyone knew about the location of Escobar and al-Jaballah, it was him.

  Standing across from Ahmadah’s office building, Ben-Shahar saw the Iranian’s black Mercedes sedan roll past the building and turn right into an alley next to it. He crossed the street, waited a minute and followed the sedan into the alley. When he heard car doors slam, he backed up against the exterior wall of Ahmadah’s building and let another minute pass, figuring that was enough time for the Iranian to get inside.

  Before he could start down the alley again, he saw a pair of men step into view from behind the neighboring structure. Both were Caucasians; one tall, the other bulky like a weightlifter or an American football player. He noticed the tall one had a duffel bag looped over his shoulder, the straps pulled taut by the bag’s heavy contents. His hand was buried inside the bag. The Israeli’s gut told him the man was carrying a gun inside the bag.

  If that was true, who the hell were these guys? Since Ahmadah was part of a group that had killed a Mossad agent, it was possible the two men were from the Israeli secret service. Maybe they’d come here to interrogate him or even to kill him. If it was the latter option, it could end up being a damn awkward situation for Ben-Shahar, especially if he went in there, guns blazing.

  It also was possible they were Americans who were looking to terminate some Hezbollah operatives. Again, that could be a problem if they took the Iranian out before Ben-Shahar had a chance to speak with him.

  He glided along the edge of the building, ducking under the occasional window, his eyes searching for security cameras or alarm sensors. It felt good to be doing this. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being in the field, missed the excitement.

  Then he remembered why he was here and the rush dissipated, replaced first by a creeping guilt, then by a cold rage that dulled everything else. Other than an ex-wife who hated him, Katz and her parents had been the closest things to family that Ben-Shahar had. With them gone and his spy career reduced to nothing more than a sideshow, the Israeli carried a profound sense of emptiness. It had surfaced several times since he’d first received the phone call from his former Mossad commander. It was a feeling he only could acknowledge in brief flashes before he switched his mind back to the task at hand.

  At this moment, that was a good thing. He needed to focus. He was about to thrust himself into the jaws of the reaper.

  * * *

  MCCARTER TO
OK THE lead as he and Manning rolled up on the building. One of Ahmadah’s thugs had remained outside to guard the door. Lighting a cigarette, he was leaning against the Mercedes, his rump resting against the driver’s-side quarter panel. As he shook the match in his right hand to extinguish it, he turned toward the Phoenix Force commandos. Pushing himself off from the car, he turned to face them, his cigarette pinched between his lips. He slid his right hand behind his back and gestured for them to halt with his left hand. He barked in French for them to stop.

  McCarter yanked the MP-5 from inside the duffel bag and squeezed the trigger. The SMG cut a ragged line across the man’s torso, killing him. The Briton jogged over, knelt next to the man and began sifting through his pockets while Manning scoped out their surroundings for other threats.

  Pulling a ring of keys from one of the man’s jacket pockets, McCarter used the key fob to unlock the Mercedes and pop open the trunk. Looping his arms underneath those of the dead man, he dragged the thug around to the back of the sedan. He dumped his torso in first, then grabbed the man’s ankles and folded his legs, stuffing them inside the trunk. He wiped his hands clean on the man’s pant leg and slammed the lid closed.

  He moved to the door and tried three keys from the dead man’s key ring before he found one that worked. Manning stood behind McCarter, his MP-5 held snug at his hip. As the door swung open, Manning went through it with McCarter a couple of steps behind him.

  The first room they entered was filled with cardboard file boxes. McCarter closed the door behind them before they moved deeper into the building. They split up and quickly searched the first floor and found it was empty.

  McCarter found a set of stairs leading to the second floor and he paused there, waiting for Manning to catch up. The big Canadian emerged from a hallway and moved to his friend’s side.

  The former SAS commando stepped onto the stairs first while Manning covered his six.

  As McCarter reached the last couple of steps, he paused and signaled for Manning to follow. Manning was up the steps in seconds. A steel security door with a small rectangular window led from the stairs into the second floor. Manning turned and watched behind them while McCarter pushed down on the release bar and eased the door open.

  The Phoenix Force commander bulled his way through the door, sweeping the muzzle of his MP-5 over his surroundings in search of a target. Manning did likewise.

  They’d stepped into a long hall with a white-tiled floor that made every sound seem several times louder than it was. From up ahead, they could hear male voices speaking in Arabic. Neither of the warriors understood more than a few words that they’d picked up during various missions in the Middle East over the years.

  McCarter and Manning moved down the corridor. The voices grew louder as they got closer to the source. They had passed a couple other doors as they’d traveled the corridor, but the rooms had been empty. In one they had found a Hezbollah flag hanging on the wall and a spot on the floor had been marked as facing Mecca, presumably for praying. Another of the rooms included a conference table and a couple of white boards, while a third was furnished with three desks with phones and computers.

  The conversation between the men down the hall stopped. McCarter halted and he gestured with a hand for Manning to do likewise. Had Ahmadah heard them? McCarter strained his ears for any sign the Iranians had heard them and planned to attack.

  He dropped to one knee and aimed the MP-5 at the door. Manning remained on his feet, but also kept his H&K trained in the same direction as McCarter.

  After a few seconds the men started conversing again. Perhaps it’d been a natural pause? McCarter ran his eyes over the corridor to double check for motion detectors, cameras or other devices that might betray the Stony Man fighters’ approach, but saw nothing.

  In the meantime Manning heard something at his six and turned to look. The stairwell door was opening and he saw one of Ahmadah’s gunners coming through it.

  Apparently the gunner was not surprised to find them as he was already drawing a bead on Manning.

  The Canadian swung the MP-5 and began hosing down the hallway with a storm of 9 mm rounds. The barrage cut a path toward Ahmadah’s shooter and spurred him to dive to the ground. The Iranian’s SMG was chugging out flames and hot lead.

  Manning had gained a head start of less than a second. It made all the difference. The bullets from Manning’s SMG caught his opponent in midair.

  Once it became clear to McCarter that a quiet approach was impossible, he decided to try another tack. The Briton surged down the corridor, toward the room where the voices had been coming from. He palmed a flash-bang grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it through the door. The occupants of the room began shouting and a commotion was audible from the room. The grenade let out a sharp, disorienting crack and a heartbeat later McCarter was through the door.

  In the room he saw Ahmadah, hands clamped over his ears. A guard, holding a submachine gun, was turning toward the door, though his motions were slow, as though he didn’t have his bearings.

  The MP-5 chattered. The guard caught a blast in the torso and dropped to the floor. The crackle of autofire registered with Ahmadah, who shoved a hand inside his jacket and clawed for hardware. With a couple of long strides, McCarter was on him. He jabbed the MP-5’s muzzle into the guy’s chest.

  “Wouldn’t do it, lad,” he said.

  The Iranian swore under his breath but withdrew his hand from inside his jacket and raised his arms.

  * * *

  A COUPLE MINUTES later Ahmadah was seated on the couch. McCarter had relieved him of a pistol and a folding knife. He’d emptied the magazine from the pistol, a Makarov PM, set the weapon on a coffee table in front of Ahmadah, and pocketed the knife. Manning had bound the guy’s hands behind his back with plastic handcuffs.

  McCarter, arms crossed over his chest, stood over the Iranian and stared down at him. Ahmadah returned the stare. McCarter saw plenty of rage and defiance in the Iranian’s eyes, but little fear. They were in for a long day, unless the Briton got control of the situation quickly.

  “I won’t tell you a thing.”

  “Shit, lad, at least let me ask the question,” McCarter said.

  “Burn in hell,” the Iranian replied.

  McCarter kept his eyes locked on Ahmadah and nodded his head slowly. “So, it’s going to be like that, eh?” He turned to Manning. “Guess we might as well just go home.”

  The Canadian nodded his head in agreement. “Looks like it,” he said.

  “You want to cut his throat?” McCarter asked.

  Manning shook his head emphatically. He grabbed a piece of his shirt and tugged at the fabric. “Brand new,” he said. “Hate to get it bloody the first day.”

  “You’re a dandy,” McCarter said. “Guess it’s best left to the real men to handle the dirty work.”

  “I guess. You know, we could take him back to the United States.”

  “What? You heard the man. He wants someone to kill him.”

  “Wait, how about that black site in Bulgaria? The CIA still has that.”

  “We don’t talk about the black sites.”

  Manning grinned. “He’s not going to be telling anyone.”

  “Fair enough.”

  McCarter turned his head back in Ahmadah’s direction. Though his gaze still looked steely, McCarter noticed a film of perspiration glistening on his forehead. He swallowed hard as the Phoenix Force fighters studied him.

  “What do you say?” McCarter asked. “You Hezbollah types like Bulgaria, don’t you? Blew up a bus or some crazy crap there, right?”

  Ahmadah spit on the floor between him and McCarter.

  “You don’t scare me,” he said.

  A smile ghosted McCarter’s lips. “Famous last words, son.” He turned to Manning. “They still doing the experiments
at that place?”

  “The place in Bulgaria?” Manning pretended to think about it for a few seconds. “Just the stuff with the genitals.”

  “Genitals?” Ahmadah cried.

  McCarter smirked. “Genitals. You know what those are, right? Your bloody twig and berries. Your wedding tackle.”

  “I know what they are!”

  “Hey, easy. Don’t lose it. Look, it’s some human endurance thing. See how much pain you can take before your heart bursts or some heady crap like that. Don’t worry. A sturdy fellow like you won’t miss his naughty bits if some scientist chops them off, right?”

  “No country’s going to let you do that on their soil,” the Iranian said, some of the certainty gone from his voice.

  “You keep telling yourself that,” Manning said, “while some witch doctor works his magic on you. All they need is a house with a soundproof basement.”

  “You are bastards!” Ahmadah yelled. “If something happens to me, my friends will make sure you never rest. They’ll hunt you relentlessly, kill your families, everyone you love. They’ll attack your country!”

  McCarter guffawed. “Families? Do we look like we go home to houses with white picket fences in the suburbs?” He jerked a thumb at Manning and then himself. “As far as the world’s concerned, we don’t exist. We’re way off the books. Here’s my life. I slither out of a damn hole somewhere and burn people like you down so Bob the insurance salesman in Idaho can get drunk at the office Christmas party, feel up his receptionist and beg forgiveness for it on Sunday. That’s my life. You want to rob me of a normal life? Good luck with that, lad. The people I work for would burn the last six generations of the fetid gene pool you crawled from. Spare me the empty threats.”

  McCarter shook his head in disgust and looked over at Manning. “This jackass is wasting our time. I’m thinking Bulgaria.”

  Manning shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “If we’re going to take him to Bulgaria, we have to listen to him during the whole flight.”

  “True.”

  “How long is the flight?”

  “Hell if I know. Hours.”