Patriots & Tyrants
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Annotation
During the Soviet-Afghan war an elite team of operatives were trained in the mountains of Afghanistan. Loyal to the Provisional Irish Republican Army, they were created for a single purpose; to bring about the downfall or the entire British government in one terrifying attack. They were known only by their codename, Black Shuck.
In the years that followed — betrayed from within by the internal power struggles of the IRA — the team members were hunted down. Forced into a battle for their lives, three survived, fading into the turbulent streets of Northern Ireland. To this day, their identities remain a mystery — but nothing can stay hidden forever.
* * *
Patriots & Tyrants is a suspense laden, action filled collection of short novels featuring characters from the upcoming Black Shuck thriller series that follows former IRA volunteer turned American patriot, Declan McIver.
• Can Mossad agent Abaddon Kafni capture an Iranian arms dealer?
• Can former IRA volunteer Declan McIver stop a friend from being murdered in Boston's seedy underworld?
• Can internationally feared assassin Torrance «AU» Sands succeed in killing a vicious cult leader?
• Can Russian soldiers capture Chechen terrorist Ruslan Baktayev in the aftermath of the Beslan School Massacre?
* * *
Patriots & TyrantsErrors & BetrayalsChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Honorable DeedsChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
At Close RangeChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
An Intolerable EvilChapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
* * *
Patriots & Tyrants
a Black Shuck collection
Ian Graham
To all of those who had the courage to write before me and to Matt Hilton, Stephen England and the other friends I've met along the way for making the journey a little easier. Thanks.
Ian
Errors & Betrayals
Chapter One
9:17 p.m. Local Time — Monday, 2nd October 1995
Derech Stella Maris
Haifa, Israel
Abaddon Kafni looked west over the slopes of Mount Carmel as the headlights of the black government-owned sedan washed over a set of stone columns supporting a wrought iron gate. From the back seat of the late model Lincoln, he could see the argent skyline of the city of Haifa, dormant ships settled in its harbor. As the vehicle stopped at the gate, he mulled over the exact words he was going to use when he reached his destination. Tendering a resignation to one of the modern world's oldest and most successful intelligence agencies wasn't an easy task. Having to deliver that resignation personally to one of the most ruthless directors that agency had ever employed, at the man's private residence, was even harder.
Kafni pressed the button on the Lincoln's armrest and the rear driver's side window retreated into the door panel with a low hum. Showing his face to the armed guard at the gate so the man could positively identify him, he nodded as the man said, "Good evening, Director Kafni."
As one of the four deputy directors of the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, more commonly known as Mossad to the outside world, his presence at the home of Director Aviv Sayar was not questioned. The armed guard stood aside for the black sedan as Kafni raised the window and the gate separated in the center with a metallic screech.
The sedan pulled forward over the smooth pavement and proceeded up the winding driveway to a two story structure made of stone and mimicking the look of a medieval castle, complete with two tall spires. Lights in the arrow-slit windows shown orange through the four inch security glass and an oak door with iron crossbars stood intensely at the front of the house overlooking the motor court. Kafni's sedan stopped and he waited as the driver left the vehicle and opened the door for him.
Stepping from the vehicle into the motor court, Kafni looked at a fountain encircled by the paved drive. In the center of the fountain's shallow pool a concrete depiction of David slaying Goliath stood. Behind it, in the distance below, he could see the golden dome of the Shrine of the Bab. He straightened his suit as he heard the sound of the home's front door being opened. He was a thin man of average height with dark hair that receded to the back of his head, a pair of thin-rimmed glasses and an educated demeanor. A cool breeze blew off the Mediterranean pinning his dark suit to his body as he walked dutifully to the front door that was now being held open by one of the director's domestic staff.
"Director Sayar is in the study, sir. Please follow me." the man said as he closed the heavy wooden door behind Kafni and lead him down a cathedral-like hallway. Fine portraits lined the walls and a dark red runner with gold-laced trim ran the length of the hall. He'd always known Sayar was a worldly man and he'd heard about the retirement home the director had built for himself on the slopes of Mount Carmel, but the stories simply hadn't done justice to the real thing. At the end of the hall, the servant knocked on another oak door and a throaty voice bellowed, "Come in."
"Sir," the man said opening the door, "Director Kafni is here."
"Thank you. That will be all."
Kafni entered and the servant closed the door leaving him alone with Aviv Sayar. The study was spacious with high ceilings, parquet floors, bookshelves covering two of the four walls and a set of french doors leading onto a balcony that overlooked the home's winding drive. The only source of light came from a small lamp on the nearly seventy year old spy master's rectangular, oak desk where he sat, his intense eyes moving over his subordinate. Sayar was bald with only the slightest trace of white hair on his head, an air about him that said he was experienced in the treacheries of the world, a blank face registering no emotion whatsoever and a thin plastic tube stretched over his nose for the oxygen tank he was required to use. His elderly appearance stood in direct contrast to his growling voice. Leaning over, Sayar twisted the spindle on a nickel-colored tank on the floor beside him and an audible hiss filled the air as he breathed deeply. "Come in," he said. "Have a seat."
"Thank you, sir." Kafni answered and strode across the room to a red leather chair in front of the desk.
"Why have you come?"
Kafni took a deep breath and decided the best approach was the direct one. "I have come to give you my resignation. I have decided to emigrate with my family to America."
The spy master's face stayed emotionless as he placed his hands on the desk in front of him and breathed the oxygen deeply. His health problems had long been a source of speculation throughout the spy agency. Ambitious men saw every cough as a sign that the man's replacement was imminent. Finally, he withdrew his right hand from the desk and stroked his chin as if the thick beard he'd worn in his youth was still there. "As the director of our largest department, the collections department, you cannot just step aside so lightly. Your department is in charge of our overseas intelligence. There are things that must be done, operations that are being conducted that cannot just be thrown aside. How do you plan on handling this?"
"There are agents under me who are more than ready to take the lead. Tal Hafetz, Meir Yadin, Jacob Dayan, all would be excellent choices and only await your review. Each of them has the essential knowledge of our ongoing assignments to make the transition smooth and effortless."
"
I see," Sayar said as if he was choosing his next words carefully.
Kafni waited as the man gathered his thoughts, but his mind was made up. After graduating from the prestigious Hebrew University he had chosen a military career in a surge of patriotism after a gang of Palestinian terrorists had kidnapped and killed eleven members of the Israeli Olympic team at the 1972 Summer Games held in Munich, West Germany. After twenty-three years of hunting terrorists, Nazis and conducting spying operations throughout the world, he was leaving Mossad to begin a new life.
"Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you from this course of action?" Sayar asked. As the head of Mossad, his first and foremost priority was to ensure the happiness of his agents and their families. Happy and unconcerned agents meant successful operations and good intelligence. Throughout his four year tenure, Sayar had been only marginally good at the human resources side of his job and Mossad had suffered as a result.
"No, sir. My mind is made up. After twenty-three years, my wife deserves a husband and my children, a father."
Sayar nodded. "Very well then, but this cannot happen immediately. There is an ongoing operation that needs to be handled, one that you were to be briefed about in a few days. If, after this operation is handled, you still wish to resign, I will discuss the matter further."
Kafni nodded. While he would have liked to have left the director's home unemployed that very evening, he had readied himself for the probability that he would need to stay on while things in Tel Aviv were settled and a successor chosen. "I understand," he said.
"Good," Sayar responded. "While you are here 1 will brief you on the operation. This is one of extreme importance that you will be handling personally in my stead. It seems my health will simply not allow me to travel at this time."
"I see," Kafni said, surprised at the revelation that the director had been planning to personally conduct a mission. While the man's daring deeds were the stuff of Nazi-hunting legends, Kafni hadn't believed him to have stepped outside of the political boardroom for at least a decade. Sayar and his four deputies, of which Kafni was one, designed and directed operations from Mossad's headquarters in Tel Aviv and reported directly to the Prime Minister. The actual leg work was performed well below their level by over one thousand agents, known as katsas, of various nationalities and talents. Kafni had been such an agent for nineteen years until his promotion two years earlier to his current position. As much as he appreciated the government's confidence in him there were other things he wanted to accomplish in his life and at forty-five years old, he wasn't getting any younger.
"To date this operation has been kept between myself and the Prime Minister. It involves an Iranian contact that I cultivated many years ago while I was still a katsa, during the Iranian revolution in 1979. The contact is a man named Hakim Tehrani who is now a chief deputy in a terrorist organization run by an Iranian oil tycoon named Sa'adi Nouri. Are you familiar with it?"
"Yes," Kafni said nodding. "You're talking about the Al-Mumit Islamic Liberation Brigade."
"Correct," Sayar said.
"I did not know we had managed to penetrate that group. They are a small organization, very robust. We've been trying to track them for a decade."
Sayar nodded. "That is why this operation has been handled at the top. We could not risk loosing Nouri. Until my recent decline in health I was planning on conducting the raid myself. But now, it seems I will have to trust those I've appointed to get the job done."
"What is it that will be raided?"
"A weapons buy. We have information from Mr. Tehrani that Nouri is brokering a deal between an American businessman and some Chechen militants who are keen to purchase arms for the war in their homeland. You're familiar with the war in Chechnya?"
"Yes. It's a nasty little conflict in southern Russia. Its been going on for almost a year. Thousands killed and thousands more displaced from their homes."
Sayar nodded. "What Nouri's connection is to the conflict we have no idea, but it is largely irrelevant. If we can use this arms deal to capture him and put an end to his network it is an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up."
"When is this deal supposed to happen?"
"Tehrani does not know yet, but his best information indicates that it will be soon and that it will be happening on Israeli soil near the town of Eilat, not far from the Jordanian border. You are to meet him there next week."
Kafni grimaced. "With all due respect, sir, I do not believe I am the man for this job. My expertise is overseas with foreign governments and agencies. I have no business conducting a law enforcement style raid on home turf."
"That's why it has to be you. Your experience as an undercover agent will allow you to step with ease into an American identity and conduct yourself as a foreigner in your own country. Furthermore, your resignation proves to me that you're that right person for this job. You're the only one underneath me not angling to replace me." Sayar coughed loudly, placing a hand to his mouth.
Kafni considered the situation for a moment. Sayar certainly had the ability to make his life difficult if he chose to but, for the moment at least, the veteran spymaster seemed to be on his side. Keeping the director happy while he arranged for his exit seemed like the best idea.
"Eilat is a long way from any kind of military support," he said signaling that he was willing to accept the assignment. "If we start bringing in IDF forces surely someone will notice."
"That is correct," Sayar said. "But I believe that can be used in our favor. Due to the secret nature of this operation it is absolutely imperative that as few people know about it as possible. There is already a group of counter-terrorism troops there, though they are not from our normal Special Forces. They are a volunteer force known as Lotar Eilat and many of their members are quite a bit older than regular IDF Special Forces. However, they have had several successes over the years in defending their home during attacks from the Sinai."
"You're planning on notifying them at the last possible moment and using them to take down the trade?" Kafni asked.
Sayar nodded. "Yes. That is the first part of your assignment. You will be going to Eilat disguised as an American businessman of Jewish decent. Once you are there and you have made contact with Tehrani, you will meet with the commander of Lotar Eilat, a man named Okan Osman, and you will bring him up to speed."
"It is a big risk."
"Yes, but it is a necessary one. I trust that you'll be successful and bring me the head of Sa'adi Nouri."
Kafni cringed at the mental image of actually presenting the director with a severed human head. Noticing his subordinate's discomfort, Sayar laughed. "Get going," he said. "Call me when you've made contact with Tehrani."
Chapter Two
2:46 p.m. Local Time — Thursday, 12th October 1995
Queen of Aqaba Hotel
Eilat, Israel
"Would you like this charged to your room, Mr. Goldman?" the waiter asked as he removed a drink from his tray and handed it to Abaddon Kafni.
"Yes, thank you," Kafni said placing several American dollars on the man's tray without sitting up from the cabana lounge chair. The waiter smiled and vanished into the throng of tourists that populated the pool area of the Queen of Aqaba Hotel. With a straw beach hat and dark sunglasses Kafni watched everyone from his perch on a shaded deck in the corner of the swimming area. The sun shown down intensely over the sparsely covered area and the air smelled of oil and sunscreen. While he appeared to be just another tourist relaxing in the one hundred and four degree heat of the southern Negev, he was in fact waiting for an Iranian spy to make contact. So far the man was a no show.
The fact that the spy had yet to show was no bother to Kafni. In fact, he would rather the man didn't come at all. Then he could go back to his superior in Haifa, inform him that the operation was a failure at no fault of his own and the two of them could continue discussing his resignation. While he was a patriot and certainly wanted to see the likes of the terrorist organization they were
targeting fall, he felt that he had more than done his duty over the past twenty-three years and he was ready to move on. If the Al-Mumit Islamic Liberation Brigade had to exist a little longer until his successor took over, then so be it.
The town of Eilat was a small city on the edge of the Gulf of Aqaba sandwiched between the vast Egyptian Sinai and the mountainous terrain of eastern Jordan. Bordered to the south by the Red Sea and to the north by the colossal Negev, it was effectively cut off from the rest of Israel by a hundred miles of desert. Kafni had arrived three days earlier aboard an El Al flight that had originated in Atlanta. While the ticket he held had been used all the way from Atlanta via a plane run by Air Canada, the Mossad agent that occupied the plane from Atlanta to Tel Aviv had stepped off and Kafni had taken his place for the remainder of the journey to the southern resort town. Disguised as an American bank executive called Daniel Goldman, he'd grown a beard, rented a limousine to usher him around and had been as free with his money as a man who simply had no worries. While in the hotel he'd ordered the correct drinks, worn the right colored shirt and smoked the exact brand of cigarettes his Iranian contact had been told to look for. While it wasn't impossible that there was another American businessman in Eilat that drank French Absinthe, wore plum colored shirts and smoked Noblesse cigarettes, it was very unlikely.
Removing a bright orange pack of cigarettes with English writing on one side and Hebrew on the other from his shirt pocket, Kafni lit one and inhaled the low tar, low nicotine blend deeply. As a Mossad field agent he had developed a tolerance for just about every cigarette in the world at one time or another, but the more political position he had occupied for the last two years had left him soft. He steadied himself and fought through a dizzy spell as a man appeared at the edge of the cabana wearing a burnt orange shirt with white flowers and a straw hat exactly like Kafni's.