The Peace Killers

by Ty Patterson

  ‘And they say Israel is the culprit. This will never end. Our two people, ours and theirs, have been at war ever since our country was born. Do you want this to continue forever? Your grandchildren and their children … you want them to live like this?’

  There were a few feeble protests at that, but not as widespread as he had thought. That had given him confidence. He had pressed on, convincing his party, those in his coalition, as well as his cabinet.

  Some in his party had wanted the Americans to mediate the peace process.

  Cantor had exploded. ‘This is our country,’ he had stormed. ‘We don’t need the United States or any other country to broker peace for us.’

  He had won his party over slowly, and then started working on the coalition partners. At no time did he reveal the full extent of his peace plan or when the negotiations would start. Only select members of his cabinet knew, and they were sworn to secrecy.

  He had reached out to Ziyan Baruti, president of the State of Palestine, who had been initially distrustful.

  ‘Why should we believe you?’ that leader had asked Cantor.

  ‘Would I call you if I didn’t mean it?’ the prime minister had countered. ‘Can you imagine how hard it was to sell this to my party and my coalition?’

  There had been silence on the other line. Baruti was familiar with Cantor’s party and with its sometimes hard-line stance toward Palestine.

  The two men had spoken at length; then the Israeli stunned the Palestinian with his dream.

  ‘Do you mean it?’ Baruti had whispered after several moments of silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This could mean the end of your career. Your party will never accept it. Your country will not, either. You might even be assassinated by your own people.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Cantor had replied irritably. He hadn’t arrived at his vision in one morning. He had spent sleepless nights agonizing over it before deciding it was the right thing to do for his country.

  ‘That is why we do this my way. We negotiate and agree first, and then announce it to my country. The Americans, the British, the French, everyone will support this treaty. That will put pressure on my party. My country, my people will then accept the deal.’

  ‘Not immediately.’

  ‘No,’ Cantor had admitted. ‘There will be rioting in West Jerusalem. All over the country. It will take time. Maybe years. But in the end, it will be worth it.’

  ‘Inshallah. Enta ragel hakim,’ Baruti said in Arabic.

  Cantor understood the words. He was fluent in it, even though Hebrew was his country’s language.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, touched at being called a wise man by the Palestinian.

  He and Baruti weren’t friends. They had met a few times at carefully orchestrated diplomatic functions. Their private discussions had escalated to hostility very quickly.

  That was just the way it was. No Israeli leader could be a friend with his or her Palestinian counterpart.

  Cantor had researched Baruti for a long time before discussing the peace plan.

  The State of Palestine had a complex government, partly because the region was split into two distinct territories, Gaza Strip and the West Bank, run respectively by the two major parties, Hamas and Fatah.

  Both sides were in a continual state of conflict that often erupted in violence. Hundreds of Palestinians had died over the years because of the parties’ antagonism.

  The West Bank was the seat of the Palestinian National Authority, PNA, the internationally recognized government of the state. This was a Fatah majority government, with Ziyan Baruti as its president.

  The two governments in the Palestinian territories did not work together. They had their own budgets—both of which relied extensively on foreign aid and donations and had different administrative machinery.

  Baruti, whom the world recognized as the leader of the State of Palestine, was widely perceived as a moderate, and the Mossad’s psychological profiling on him confirmed that.

  By all accounts, Cantor’s counterpart was a mature man, one with a long-term vision. That personality had led the prime minister to take a leap of faith in Baruti.

  To be called that by him … I reached out to the right man.

  Encouraged, he had gone into the details of the logistics of the peace plan with the Palestinian, and the two men had discussed it at length.

  ‘You should not tell this to anyone,’ he had warned his counterpart.

  ‘Why?’ Baruti had demanded. ‘Surely, it is better to have this in the open.’

  ‘No. No one should ever know what exactly is being negotiated.’

  Baruti had grumbled but had finally relented.

  The two men had spoken a few more times after that, and a negotiation plan was struck.

  Each country would have six delegates. The two teams would meet in Jerusalem, in an upscale hotel that was frequented by business people. Each negotiator would pose as a business person. Both teams would have security provided by Israel. The bodyguards would think they were protecting high net-worth individuals.

  For added security, only Cantor and a few in his cabinet would know the hotel’s details. On top of that, the Palestinians would have to surrender their cell phones, and any calls they made or received would be monitored by the Israelis.

  Baruti had balked at that but caved in when the prime minister insisted. The big picture was important.

  Cantor was firm on an additional point: Neither team would know of his dream.

  ‘Why are they even meeting, then?’ Baruti had burst out.

  ‘They will start off as if they are discussing a conventional peace treaty. Later, we will tell them what the real goal is.’

  The Palestinian understood. Cantor’s vision would be hard to negotiate. It was better that a conventional peace treaty be hammered out first and then the thornier issues be dealt with.

  Nevertheless, he had protested. ‘This cannot be done in a few weeks. It requires months.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But in a few weeks, we can set the parameters of what we want to achieve. With the objective very firmly in sight.’

  The negotiators were identified. Well-respected, experienced hands on both sides. They were all sworn to secrecy. The hotel was identified as well. One in German Colony, popular both with tourists and business travelers. The security personnel were handpicked by Levitsky.

  Cantor’s plan worked perfectly. Both teams of negotiators arrived at the hotel. No lay person in Israel or Palestine knew who they were, or their purpose. Each night the prime minister called Baruti and briefed him on the day’s progress.

  The first week was nearing an end. Cantor was feeling optimistic. He felt it was time to tell the negotiators of the big plan. His vision.

  And then the killing happened.

  * * *

  Yago Cantor held his face in his hands, his shoulders drooping. I am lucky I am a widower and have no children, he thought. My marriage, my family, wouldn’t have survived this pressure.

  He raised his head when his aide burst in again.

  ‘Did you see?’ his assistant asked.

  ‘What else is there to see?’

  The young man pointed at the TV in silence.

  The prime minister’s heart clenched when he read the latest rolling banner.

  MOSSAD SUSPECTED OF KILLING PALESTINE NEGOTIATORS.

  Chapter Six

  Kadikoy, Istanbul

  Three Days Before

  * * *

  It took a couple of hours for Riva and Adir to open up, and it happened gradually.

  Zeb went to the small refrigerator in their hotel apartment and brought out two bottles of beer. He handed one to each of them and picked a water bottle for himself.

  ‘What about you?’ the female operative asked, as she sat on the bed. She was dark-eyed, with a narrow face, hair tied back in a ponytail.

  ‘I don’t drink.’ He held up his water. ‘This is good for me. How will you grab the
m?’

  The kidon looked at each other. Sharing operational details with a third party didn’t come easily to them. Even if said party was a close friend of their boss, who had instructed them to cooperate fully.

  ‘We’ll drug them. Make them passive.’

  ‘Just the two of you? What about a getaway vehicle?’

  Adir took a swallow, placed his bottle on the table and bent to the floor. He ripped up the loose carpet piece and removed the floorboard. He ran his eyes over their cache of weapons and equipment. Nodded to himself, and removed the neighboring floorboard.

  ‘Huh?’ Zeb exclaimed in surprise. He hadn’t checked out the surrounding boards.

  The kidon reached into the opening and brought out two white shirts and two pairs of dark trousers that had high-visibility strips at their bottom.

  ‘Emergency services?’ Zeb guessed.

  ‘Ken,’ Adir confirmed. ‘We’ll go as ambulance staff. That café is near a hospital. We have observed emergency vehicles park near it, and the staff go inside for tea and snacks.’

  ‘What about the vehicle?’

  ‘We’ve arranged it.’ Riva finished her drink and placed the empty bottle beneath her bed. ‘It’s not far from here. What role will you play?’

  ‘Walk me through it again?’

  The two kidon broke down their plan for him, answering his questions patiently.

  ‘What if police come?’

  ‘The ambulance is genuine. Our paperwork is good. We’ll take the two to the hospital.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘It’s a busy hospital,’ she shrugged. ‘We’ll lead them out through the rear. We’ve been through dry runs.’

  ‘What if passersby interfere?’

  ‘We are ambulance staff. We can keep them away.’

  ‘What if other vehicles crowd?’

  ‘They won’t crowd an ambulance.’

  ‘Does Shahi have any security with him?’

  ‘He’s come alone, always. We don’t see any reason for this next meeting to be different.’

  ‘Why do you think they’re meeting?’

  ‘That’s why we’re taking them,’ Riva replied, drolly, ‘to find out.’

  ‘What role will you play?’ she asked again.

  * * *

  ‘I’ll watch. Provided you share intel with us.’

  ‘That’s what the ramsad told us. We have our orders. You’ll get your information, without your doing anything,’ Riva told him with an undertone of anger.

  Ramsad. That’s what they call Avichai.

  Zeb pocketed his disguise and left without a word. He took counter-measures when he reached the street, to shake any tails. Just in case the Mossad operatives tailed him.

  Once he reached his hotel room, he drew out his screen from his backpack and turned on an app.

  Two green dots glowed on it. Riva and Adir, the soluble GPS trackers in their bodies signaling their location. It had been a simple matter to slip the trackers into their drinks as he opened their bottles.

  It was clear the female kidon didn’t trust him. Now, it didn’t matter.

  He had eyes on them.

  Chapter Seven

  Jerusalem

  Present Day

  * * *

  ‘Get me Levitsky,’ he roared. ‘And Avichai Levin and Nadav Shoshan as well.’

  The aide fled the room.

  Cantor grabbed the remote with trembling fingers and turned up the volume.

  Unconfirmed reports … Mossad accused … Social media trending … Questions being asked … Why were these negotiations conducted in secret? ... Did Israel authorize Mossad to kill those negotiators?

  The prime minister swung around when the door burst open and Levitsky hurried in. He jabbed the remote at the TV and turned down the volume.

  The minister held his hand up before Cantor could let loose. ‘I’ve heard. The police are investigating.’

  ‘I didn’t authorize any assassination,’ the prime minister yelled.

  Shabak, also known as Shin Bet, was Israel’s internal security service, similar to the United States’ FBI. Mossad, which in Hebrew meant the Institute, was the country’s foreign intelligence agency, much like the CIA.

  Mossad’s ramsad reported only to the prime minister, and only he could sanction an assassination.

  ‘I know,’ Levitsky replied soothingly and brought a glass of water to the prime minister.

  Cantor emptied it in one large swallow and took several calming breaths.

  ‘Shoshon and Levin are on their way,’ the aide said, popping his head again.

  ‘No calls,’ Cantor warned him.

  The aide bobbed his head and disappeared.

  ‘These rumors …’ the prime minister gestured toward the TV.

  ‘My people,’ Levitsky, referring to the police forces, ‘are still investigating. It looks like they first surfaced on Twitter and then they spread.’

  ‘Who posted it first?’

  ‘We do not know.’

  A sharp knock sounded on the door before it opened. Nadav Shoshon, the director of Shabak, entered first. He was middle-aged, bald, with brown eyes that were usually mirthful. They were somber now.

  A second man followed him. He was in a suit, no tie, and looked like any businessman. Clean-shaven, piercing eyes, tightly cropped hair that was turning steel grey. Avichai Levin, Mossad’s ramsad, was feared by terrorists and revered by the directors of foreign intelligence agencies. Both men knew of the negotiations. They had to, since they headed two of the three intelligence agencies in the country. The third, Aman, was the intelligence branch of the Israeli Defense Forces.

  ‘Avichai,’ Cantor rumbled, having gained control over himself. ‘Explain this.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Levin replied honestly. ‘As you know, we don’t have any such sanctioned operation.’

  ‘How did these rumors start, then?’

  ‘It looks like the first post was made on Twitter just after the killing. I just found out,’ he clarified when the three men looked at him in surprise. ‘A user who had never been on the site before. Looks like an account that was created for sending that message only. The tweet was then picked up by other users. I am sure there were some bots, too, that kept retweeting. The rumor spread from there.’

  ‘How did the killers know about the negotiations?’ the prime minister asked.

  No one knew.

  ‘This isn’t something that was planned overnight,’ Shoshon said, breaking the silence. ‘The killers would have to know who the Palestinian negotiators were. Where they were staying. Maryam Razak and Farhan Ba used to go for a drive every day—’

  He stopped when a sharp sound echoed in the room. The prime minister slapping his forehead dramatically.

  ‘The others!’ Cantor exclaimed. ‘We’ve got to—’

  ‘They have all been moved, sir,’ Levitsky broke in. ‘Our negotiators as well as the Palestinians. We’ve put them up in another hotel on Emek Refaim Street. Yamam and Yasam units are protecting the hotel. The street is shut down.’

  Yamam was an elite police unit, whereas Yasam was the counter-terrorist unit present in each Israeli district.

  ‘No one can enter that hotel,’ the public security minister concluded.

  ‘I am putting together an investigative unit.’ Cantor straightened from the desk he was leaning against. ‘Representatives from Mossad, Shabak, and IDF. Reporting only to me. We need answers fast. We have to find those killers.’

  ‘Sir,’ Levin held up a hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I have a moment with you?’

  The prime minister paused. Mossad was one of the most secretive agencies in the world. Even Shoshon or Levitsky weren’t privy to its working. I, too, don’t know all of it.

  ‘Do you have any objections to this investigative unit?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Levin replied.

  ‘Shoshon, you’ll put this team together. Right away. I want hourly updates. Thank you for coming.�
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  The minister and the Shabak director left the room.

  ‘What is it, Avichai?’ Cantor asked wearily when the two men were alone.

  ‘I don’t want anyone external investigating Mossad, sir.’

  The prime minister nodded. He had suspected something like this was behind the ramsad’s request.

  ‘You’re aware of the implications of these killings?’

  ‘Political, sir?’

  ‘Not political. What it means to your agency.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If these rumors are true, it means some of my operatives have gone rogue.’

  Chapter Eight

  Kadikoy, Istanbul

  Present Day, Before the Jerusalem Assassinations

  * * *

  Zeb wore a balding man’s disguise on the day of the grab. Dark shirt, stained, dark trousers, comfortable shoes on his feet. A linen bag in one hand, he was the picture of a man heading home after grocery shopping. No one paid any attention to him. There were millions of men like him in the city. He was invisible.

  He reached the café several hours before and checked it out by ordering a tea. Hussain wasn’t present. Neither was Shahi. Meghan said the two met around noon, the previous times. It was ten am. There was no sign of the Mossad kidon, either. That didn’t worry him. The operatives would be planning, and it wouldn’t surprise him if one of them was watching the café.

  The regulars came in an hour later, the chess players. They occupied their usual table, greeted the owner and placed their order. One of them laid out a chess board and they began. Zeb had followed two of them previously and knew they were harmless. No lethal operative among any of them.

  He put his drink down and rose hastily, mumbling to his server that he had forgotten an item on his list. His wife would kill him.

  He departed, turned a corner and circled back. Entered the street at the far end and walked behind a family. Checked out the cars parked on the streets, testing their doors discreetly. One opened. He slid inside. No keys anywhere. That was okay. He wasn’t planning on driving it.