The Peace Killers

by Ty Patterson

  If the owner turned up, he would look apologetic. Say that the door was open and he had taken the opportunity to rest his legs. Who would begrudge an old man his respite?

  He peered through the windscreen. Good view of the café and its approach.

  Forty-five minutes later, he lumbered to the establishment. Settled heavily into a vacant seat and placed his bag down. He mopped his brow and checked his shopping against a list he produced from his pocket.

  The chess players looked at him and clicked their tongues in sympathy when he grumbled about his wife. The universal brotherhood of harried husbands at play.

  The server came, placed his tea on the table and headed back inside. Zeb took a sip and smacked his lips loudly in appreciation. Did the mopping thing again. Looked around. Spotted a newspaper on another table that someone had left.

  Grabbed it and sat back in his seat with a sigh.

  A few customers drifted in and out. Noon arrived. Half an hour later, Uzair Hussain came.

  He was alone, in his black suit. Scuffed shoes. A worn leather satchel in hand. He occupied an empty table and looked around. His gaze passed over the pensioners and the man with the newspaper. He didn’t seem to sense any threat. He waved his hand to the server and placed his order.

  Zeb had his head bowed, a finger tracing the column he was reading, his lips moving silently. He was watching from the corners of his eyes, the Glock snug in his shoulder holster.

  Hussain checked his phone. Looked around impatiently and shifted in his seat.

  Twenty minutes later, Kamran Shahi walked up briskly.

  Hussain rose, hugged the man and exchanged greetings with him. The two men sat opposite each other, and when the new arrival’s drink appeared, they conversed softly.

  Zeb didn’t attempt to overhear them.

  His eyes were on two men who had accompanied the Iranian.

  They wore short-sleeve shirts left untucked. Jeans. Combat boots, and when a breeze drifted through the street, their shirts flattened against their chests and revealed the angular outlines of the weapons at their waists.

  Shahi hadn’t come alone, this time.

  He had heavies with him.

  Chapter Nine

  Jerusalem

  Present Day

  * * *

  ‘Won’t it be better if we get Shabak or the police to investigate? You won’t know whom to trust in Mossad.’ The prime minister turned off the TV and settled in his chair.

  Levin remained standing, though Cantor had nodded at an empty chair. ‘One of the reasons Mossad is successful is its secrecy. Once I allow other agencies inside, that is lost. Let me clean my house, sir. My way.’

  The prime minister swore softly and was waving a hand to dismiss the ramsad when his desk phone trilled and the aide popped his head through the door.

  ‘Sir, you should take this.’

  ‘I said, no calls,’ Cantor grumped. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘President Morgan, sir.’

  The Israeli leader motioned for Levin to sit, cleared his throat, took the call and turned on the speaker.

  ‘Mr. President, it is good to hear from you, sir,’ he greeted the leader of the free world.

  William (Bill) Morgan had been elected based on his manifesto to deliver change. Reposition America’s standing in the world, have closer ties with allies, regenerate employment, and, perhaps the most ambitious of all, bring peace to the Middle East.

  He and the British prime minister were the only two world leaders to know of the peace negotiations and of the Israeli’s vision. Morgan and Cantor had become closer when the prime minister had revealed what he wanted to achieve.

  ‘Yago, I can imagine how things are at your end.’ The president’s Texas drawl sounded loud and clear in the room. ‘I wanted to check if you needed any help.’

  Cantor knew what that meant. The offer’s genuine. But Morgan also wants to know what’s happening.

  ‘Sir, at this moment, what we have is not much more than what you’re watching on screen.’ He went on to brief the president with the available facts.

  ‘Could this be a false flag operation?’ Morgan asked. ‘Someone wanting to discredit Israel as well as Mossad?’

  ‘That’s a possibility, sir. Avichai Levin is with me and he’ll be investigating.’

  ‘Hello, Mr. President,’ the ramsad said, leaning toward the speaker phone.

  ‘Avichai, I have instructed our agencies to cooperate with you. Any help you need, any intel … nothing will be held back.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir.’

  ‘Yago, has anything changed?’ The president asked, referring to the negotiations.

  ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to brief President Baruti, sir. I’ll be doing that shortly. We want the peace talks to progress. These killings haven’t altered that.’

  ‘That’s great to hear, Yago. I have instructed Alice to cut short her vacation and to return to Jerusalem. She will be more than happy to help you with anything.’

  Alice Monash was the American ambassador to Israel. An experienced diplomat, she was widely respected by both Israel and Palestine.

  ‘We appreciate that, sir.’ Cantor hung up after speaking for a few more minutes with the president. He sat for several moments staring at the photographs framed on the walls. Muted sounds drifted in through the closed door. A phone ringing somewhere in the residence. Indistinct voices. Since he lived alone, Beit Aghion had become more of a second office and less of a home.

  ‘A bird cannot fly with one wing,’ he mused. ‘Shimon Peres used to say that. For peace, we need two parties. We cannot deviate. We will not waver.’

  He reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory.

  ‘President Baruti?’ he asked when a voice came on the line.

  He winced when a tirade erupted from the other end and held the phone away from his ear.

  He gestured at Levin, who was rising, to remain seated and put the phone on speaker.

  ‘Mr. President,’ he interrupted the Palestinian’s angry words. ‘Mr. President … allow me to speak, sir.’ The two men spoke in Hebrew, as they usually did.

  ‘What is there to speak, Prime Minister?’ Baruti demanded, angrily. ‘You betrayed my country. You made false promises. You spoke nice words and I was drawn in. I thought, here’s an Israeli leader who is different. He wants peace and means it. I can do business with him. Business? Your only business was to kill my negotiators. You are a liar, Prime Minister. A liar who—’

  ‘Mr. President, I meant every word I said.’ Cantor’s face was flushed, but his voice was controlled. ‘I was committed to the peace process then. I am committed to it now. I was the one who told you my vision. Palestinians and Israelis living side by side, in harmony. That vision remains undimmed.’

  ‘Your Mossad killers have ended that vision,’ Baruti shouted.

  ‘Sir, we do not know if they are Mossad—’

  ‘Don’t know? Do you read the news, Prime Minister?’

  ‘I am aware of what’s being reported,’ Cantor replied stiffly. ‘However, there’s no proof. I have not authorized this operation. Director Avichai Levin is with me. He can confirm what I am saying.’

  The ramsad switched to Arabic when he spoke, a mark of respect for the Palestinian president. ‘Sir, the prime minister is right. Mossad is not involved in these killings.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I will be investigating those claims, sir. If any of my operatives were behind it, they acted on their own and will be dealt with. You have my word, sir. I know it is difficult for you to trust an Israeli’s word at this time. Nevertheless, this is a promise I make, in the holiest city of the world, Jerusalem.’

  Baruti remained silent for a moment. ‘Yago?’

  Cantor closed his eyes in relief at the mention of his first name.

  ‘I am here, Ziyan.’

  ‘You and Levin mean what you said?’

  ‘Yes, Ziyan. We are deeply sorrowed by the killings of Ma
ryam Razak and Farhan Ba. We will investigate those killings and find whoever is responsible. But the peace talks should go on.’

  ‘Very well. I am taking a leap of faith in you.’

  ‘I will not let you down, Mr. President.’

  ‘I will send two more negotiators.’

  ‘That would be welcome, sir. Perhaps we could also release a joint statement.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to keep your vision a secret.’

  ‘We will not mention it in the statement. Both sides are committed to peace talks. That’s what the declaration will say.’

  ‘Let’s do it today, Yago. Let’s not waste time.’

  ‘I’ll instruct my office to work on this, Ziyan. They will contact your people.’

  ‘Shalom.’

  ‘Shalom.’

  Cantor’s face was lined with fatigue. His eyes were narrowed with stress. Despite that, he managed a smile.

  ‘Avichai, I didn’t know you could speak so well.’

  Levin rose and adjusted his suit. ‘It must be your proximity, sir.’

  ‘You fox,’ the prime minister laughed. ‘You’ll do very well in politics if you want to enter it.’

  ‘That’s not for me, sir.’

  ‘Avichai,’ the prime minister stopped him as he was opening the door. ‘This will bring pressure on me. My party, the coalition, the Knesset … there will be many calls to abort the negotiations. Many of our people will call me a traitor. You need to act fast.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Find them.’ Prime Minister Yago Cantor’s eyes turned steely. ‘Find these killers. If they are Mossad … deal with them.’

  Levin nodded. He knew what the prime minister meant.

  If the assassins were his operatives, justice would not be administered through any court of law.

  It would be delivered the Mossad way.

  Chapter Ten

  Kadikoy, Istanbul

  Present Day, Before the Jerusalem Assassinations

  * * *

  Zeb had no means of warning the kidon. He hoped they were observing the café, were aware of the two men and had adapted their plan accordingly.

  Then he remembered: Riva and Adir were acting alone. Two operatives aren’t enough.

  The heavies had swept the café with practiced eyes as soon as they had arrived. They had lingered on the pensioners and dismissed them. Zeb had similarly been disregarded. There was nothing about a balding, perspiring elderly man that aroused suspicion. Not many operatives took such a person for a threat.

  Hussain and Shahi continued their discussions, glancing occasionally at a sheet of paper that the Pakistani scientist had produced.

  Zeb turned a page clumsily and got to his feet when his newspaper fell down. He shuffled over to retrieve it and, when he bent down, snatched a glance at the scientists’ table. It was some kind of a drawing. A layout of a building.

  He went back to his seat, and when he had finished folding his newspaper to the right column, an ambulance was turning up.

  It idled for a few moments, and then its engine shut off. A man jumped out from the driver’s seat. He waited for his companion to join him. Adir and Riva, both in the Turkish Emergency Services uniforms.

  The two laughed at something and high-fived each other. Shahi’s heavies watched them but made no move.

  Riva went to the café, turned around to say something to Adir, lost her balance and stumbled against the seated Hussain.

  The scientist’s tea spilled on the table. Shahi grabbed the sheet of paper and folded it quickly. He admonished Riva, who apologized profusely to Hussain. The Pakistani brushed her off in irritation and, when Riva spoke to him again, snapped at her.

  She raised her hands in apology and went inside the café.

  Zeb watched, as did the chess players. The difference was, he was observing the heavies. They had started forward but then had stayed back at a barely perceptible shake of the head from Shahi.

  It was when the kidon were returning, drinks in hand, that it happened.

  Hussain slumped forward, clutching his chest. He groaned. Shahi spoke urgently to him. The Pakistani moaned louder.

  The Mossad operatives were heading toward their ambulance when the Iranian shouted in alarm.

  Zeb got up from his seat and hurried over to the Pakistani. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and brought his face close. He cupped his palm in front of the man’s nose and, with sleight of hand, slipped a soluble through his parted lips. The Pakistani allowed it involuntarily.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Zeb cried out. He took the opportunity to check out Shahi swiftly. Close-up, the Iranian was swarthier than he appeared in photographs. His beard didn’t seem to have been trimmed for a couple of days. Bushy eyebrows. Dark eyes that looked concerned. A small tattoo on the left side of his neck that was normally concealed by his shirt collar and exposed only because he was looking around helplessly. The body-art was incredibly rich in detail and no bigger than a quarter-dollar.

  Zeb took it in for as long as possible without arousing suspicion and then looked toward the kidon.

  Riva turned at his shout. Dropped her drink when she took in the scene and hurried forward. Adir joined her, and the two kidon bent over the fallen scientist.

  ‘It looks like a heart attack,’ Riva spoke crisply. ‘We’ll have to take him to the hospital.’

  Shahi protested.

  ‘Sir,’ she snapped at him. ‘We are from Kadikoy Sifa Hospital, which is just around the corner. Unless you are a doctor, let us do our jobs.’

  The Iranian wasn’t a doctor. He looked back at his heavies, who had come closer. He shrugged his shoulders in defeat and whispered something to the Pakistani, who groaned louder.

  Adir ran to the ambulance and wheeled out a gurney. Shahi looked on helplessly as the two operatives maneuvered Hussain onto it. The chess players offered to help, Riva shook her head.

  ‘Sir,’ she addressed Shahi. ‘You know this man?’

  ‘He’s … a friend.’

  ‘It’s best you come with us, in that case. You can contact his family.’

  She placed a hand on his shoulder, her other hand pushing the gurney.

  Shahi was clearly of two minds. Events were happening faster than he could comprehend. His heavies made their minds up.

  They surged forward, their hands reaching toward their waists. They were focused on the bunch of people heading to the vehicle. They didn’t see the old man move toward them.

  Zeb acted fast to cut them off. Skirted the tables and chairs. Ignored the chess players, who were watching the gurney getting loaded into the ambulance.

  His left elbow rose in a point and smashed into the nearest heavy’s temple. The man went down like a collapsing sack.

  His partner turned swiftly, his hand coming out, a snub-nosed gun in hand. Zeb jabbed him in the throat with the outstretched fingers of his right hand.

  The man choked. His weapon clattered to the ground. Zeb punched him in the gut and followed up with a chop to his neck.

  The heavy joined his companion on the ground.

  Zeb felt eyes on him.

  The pensioners were staring at him, mouths agape.

  ‘Enjoy your game,’ he told them, grabbed his bag and walked away quickly as the ambulance disappeared in traffic.

  Once out of sight, he reached into his bag and withdrew his screen.

  Three green dots on it.

  Two representing Riva and Adir. The third indicated Uzair Hussain.

  His mission was done.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tel Aviv

  Evening of the Assassinations

  * * *

  There were varying estimates of Mossad’s size. The lay person thought it was a vast organization with a global reach. Those in the intelligence community thought Mossad had about a thousand staff. The CIA, MI6, other Western agencies had their own estimates about its size.

  Levin and his predecessors never commented on those estimates. It added to t
he mystique and the legend of Mossad.

  In reality, the organization was smaller than the CIA and MI6. It was also smaller than Hollywood’s portrayal of the agency. What gave the organization incredible reach was the network of sayanim, helpers, Jews who in many cases were dual nationals, scattered all over the world.

  Sayanim helped Mossad’s operations the world over. A travel agency in Dubai could arrange the right documents for the operatives. A landlord in London could provide accommodation. Sayanim sometimes worked closely with katsas, Mossad’s field intelligence officers. Often, they worked alone, driven by their commitment to the state of Israel and to the welfare of Jews the world over.

  Sayanim were the furthest thing from Levin’s mind as he reached his office in Tel Aviv. The CIA had its headquarters in Langley, MI6 had its at Vauxhall Cross in London. Neither agency made any attempt to hide those locations.

  Mossad never advertised where its headquarters was. Other than current and former employees and a few politicians, no one knew where the ramsad ran his agency from.

  To the naked eye, the building looked like any office block. Staffers clocked in with key cards, some wearing business suits, some casually dressed. Unsurprisingly, given that many Mossad operatives were stationed overseas, hot-desking was the norm. There were conference rooms scattered around the building, with Levin being one of the very few who had a separate office.

  The building’s interior had the feel of a university campus, though its security wouldn’t be found in any college.

  Levin greeted people around the office, went into his own and shut the door.

  He logged in to his computer and brought up the files of all his kidon.

  Kidon, Hebrew for “tip of the spear,” was a special-ops unit in Mossad so secret that most staffers didn’t know who was in it.

  It carried out high-profile assassinations, gathered highly sensitive intelligence, and engaged in sabotage operations. Kidon members, male and female, were usually drawn from elite units such as Sayeret Matkal within the Israeli Defense Forces.