The Peace Killers

by Ty Patterson

  They underwent intense psychological profiling before being admitted and trained in the Negev desert. They worked in small teams, khuliyot, of two to four. Each team member was responsible for specific tasks such as recon, logistics and assassination.

  If Mossad operatives had been responsible for the killing, they had to be kidon.

  It wasn’t hard to reach that conclusion. Like any other intelligence agency, Mossad had several departments. Collections was responsible for espionage; Political Action dealt with relations with other countries, both friendly and hostile; there was a research department and a technology one; and then there were Metsada and Kidon.

  Metsada was a special operations unit, and its operatives were trained assassins. However, Levin knew the location of every one of them and received daily video reports. Those calls triangulated their position. It was logistically impossible for any of them to have arrived in the country and carried out the killing.

  No, if the killers were from his organization, they had to be kidon. Levin brought up their profiles. Just two of them were in Israel, the rest overseas on various missions.

  That didn’t mean much. Unlike the Metsada teams, kidon didn’t call in or send daily reports. Any one of them could have come into the country using fake credentials. After all, they lived large parts of their lives under assumed names and false identities.

  Levin looked out at the open-plan office. Men and women going about their work. A lot of it was simple administrative work that held together intelligence-gathering operations and the more lethal missions.

  How could he identify the killers? Who could he trust?

  President Morgan’s words came to him. Any help you need…

  Of course. How could he have forgotten? He deliberated for a moment, going through his decision. Bringing in an outsider to investigate the Mossad? It had never been done before.

  But these were exceptional times, and Avichai Levin was an exceptional leader, which was why he was also considered a legend.

  And the man he had in mind?

  Exceptional was an understatement.

  * * *

  Washington DC, That Evening

  * * *

  The woman who took Avichai Levin’s call could have passed for a banker on Wall Street.

  She was dressed in a cream suit over a white blouse and wore a string of pearls around her neck. No rings on her fingers. She wasn’t married or engaged and, other than the necklace, didn’t wear jewelry.

  She went by Clare. No second name. Those who knew it, never used it.

  She had just returned from briefing President Morgan and had been in the Oval Office when he had spoken to Prime Minister Cantor.

  Clare headed the Agency, a virtually unknown black-ops outfit that was answerable only to the president. While the country had many covert units to fight terrorism and deal with national security threats, the Agency was structured differently.

  Clare was its only employee and had the opaque title of Director of Strategic Affairs. She had eight agents, all of who worked for a security consulting firm in New York. The firm was genuine; it had real clients and delivered exceptional advice … when the operatives were not on Agency missions. The security business housed all the assets that the covert unit needed, and this resulted in a near-zero administrative footprint for the Agency.

  Zeb Carter was the outfit’s lead operative. Prior to joining Clare’s outfit, he had been a private military contractor.

  Her phone buzzed. She looked at the number and smiled briefly. She had won a bet with President Morgan.

  ‘Avichai,’ she said as she took the call, ‘I heard what happened. How can I help you?’

  She listened as the Mossad director outlined his request.

  ‘You know Zeb’s on a mission.’

  The ramsad said he was aware of that.

  ‘You can take my other operatives. They are as good.’

  ‘I know,’ Levin replied. ‘But I want him. He can pass for an Israeli. Or a Palestinian. I know he’s in Turkey. I spoke to him a few days back.’

  Another smile escaped Clare. She knew about that call. Zeb had briefed her, and the incident in the kidon’s hotel room had made her chuckle.

  She knew the reasons Levin gave weren’t the real ones. There was history between the Mossad head and Zeb. Good history. They were almost like brothers. It wasn’t surprising that the ramsad wanted that particular operative.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anything you need, you just have to ask.’

  ‘I know,’ Levin acknowledged. In the world of counter-intelligence agencies, Mossad and the Agency had a history of unstinting cooperation.

  Clare broke mission protocol when the call ended. She sent a text message to Zeb Carter.

  A friend will call.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kadikoy, Istanbul

  Evening of the Assassinations

  * * *

  Zeb was in his hotel room. All traces of the old man had gone. In his place was a younger person, dark hair, neatly trimmed mustache, a black T with a peace sign on it. Jeans and trainers completing his look.

  He looked around the room one last time. It was clean. No prints anywhere.

  He opened the door and peered out into the hallway. Waited for a bunch of tourists to head toward the reception area and, using them as cover, baseball cap low over his head, walked out of the hotel.

  He would never return to it.

  In his original plan, he was to stay back in the country for as long as Hussain was around. That would give him the opportunity to listen in on the scientist, follow his movements and find out what he was up to.

  That plan wasn’t needed anymore. Riva and Adir would move Hussain and Shahi and wring every bit of information needed out of the two men.

  Zeb shook his head imperceptibly, smiling grimly.

  Did those two think they could meet and no one would know?

  He was heading in the direction of the Kadikoy metro station, which was served by the M4 line. He would have to change twice to catch the M1B line to get to Ataturk airport.

  He spotted a relatively empty coffee shop and entered it. Ordered a drink and powered up his screen while he waited for it to arrive.

  Booked several flights to London, all in different names. He would randomly choose one once he reached the airport, produce the relevant passport and check in.

  He thanked the server when he arrived and searched for the Iranian tattoo images. He browsed through several until he found one that came closest to the one on Shahi’s neck.

  It was that of an Achaemenid warrior, from the first Persian Empire, which had once stretched from Eastern Europe to the Indus Valley. It spanned five and a half million square kilometers, larger than any previous empire.

  Tattoos were taboo in Iran. They were officially banned by the government as signs of devil worship or Westernization. However, there was a strong demand for them … and there’s only so many people the cops can arrest.

  He turned off his screen when he became aware of a change in his surroundings. A bunch of people were crowded at the counter.

  Listening to the radio.

  He frowned. Looked across the street at an electronics store. More people gathered around the TVs on display in the shop window.

  He reached into his rucksack and brought out his cell phone. He rarely turned it on during missions. If the twins or Clare needed to get in touch with him, they would find a way.

  There was just one text for him, from his boss, sent that very day, a few hours earlier.

  A friend will call.

  He didn’t understand it.

  He was tempted to call her when a shout distracted him.

  People were gesticulating furiously and arguing with one another at the counter.

  He left a few bills on the table and crossed the street. Joined the throng at the TVs.

  Watched in disbelief at the scenes in Jerusalem. He and the rest
of the Agency operatives had known of the peace talks. Clare had broken security protocols and briefed them.

  He read the scrolling banner in shock.

  Mossad Killers Assassinate Palestinian Peace Negotiators.

  And knew which friend would call.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gaza Strip, West Bank

  Evening of the Assassinations

  * * *

  President Baruti had had better days. He had caught a brief nap after the call with Prime Minister Cantor and then been awakened for a series of calls.

  Two of those interactions worried him deeply. The first was with Masar Abadi, the Gazan prime minister.

  ‘These peace talks must stop,’ he declared as soon as Baruti took his call.

  ‘Don’t you want peace?’ the president countered.

  ‘Peace? Bah!’ Abadi snorted. ‘These Israelis are playing with you. They have fooled you into believing a dream. If they wanted peace, why did Mossad kill our negotiators?’

  ‘Prime Minister Cantor—’

  ‘DON’T SAY THAT SNAKE’S NAME,’ Abadi yelled shrilly. ‘That man wants to kill every Palestinian. He is an American pawn. He and the United States want to finish us.’

  Baruti allowed him to rant and spoke when the man paused for a breath. ‘The negotiations will proceed,’ he told the prime minister firmly. ‘There is no going back. The world’s eyes are on us. We will not be the ones to back off.’

  ‘Israel is our enemy,’ Abadi roared. ‘We will have peace only when that country is destroyed—’

  ‘Enough,’ Baruti cut him off. ‘We’ll speak no more of enemies. Just so you know, it is Cantor who reached out to me. He took the initiative.’

  ‘And he stabbed you in the back,’ the prime minister hissed. ‘Be warned. You aren’t as popular as you think. You will not survive these talks. I have heard about Abdul Masih. He does not like what you are doing.’ And with that, he disconnected the call.

  Baruti felt cold even though it was a warm evening. Masih was the commander of the Al Qassam Brigades, EQB, the military arm of Hamas. It carried out attacks on Israel, and while it took its political direction from its parent party, it often operated independently.

  Masih, one of the most-wanted men in Israel, had survived numerous assassination attempts and remained at large. And very active.

  EQB can kill me. Baruti spread his fingers and inspected them. He was pleased to see that they didn’t tremble. He snorted at this thought. Why EQB? Someone from my party or anyone from the street could assassinate me.

  Abadi was right. His popularity ranking had tanked after the killings. Many Palestinians echoed the thought that the prime minister had partly articulated. That Cantor had initiated the talks to shore up worldwide support, to be seen as the good guy. And had then acted traitorously.

  I trust him, Baruti thought, looking at the view of Ramallah, the capital of his government. And if I die, so be it.

  He had three children, all of adult age, all of who were gainfully employed. His wife had passed away the year before.

  If my children and grandchildren grow up without the threat of war … that was a dream worth dying for.

  The second call wasn’t a threat to his life, but to his political well-being. It was from his deputy prime minister, Muhammed Bishara, who was from the same party, Fatah.

  ‘You’re in trouble,’ the caller began without preamble. It was turning into that kind of day—no one wasting time on greetings or pleasantries.

  ‘I just got off the phone with Abadi. He threatened me. How much worse can it get?’

  ‘This is about your political life. Many members of the executive committee are unhappy. They are talking about a no-confidence motion.’

  Baruti sighed in frustration. He had met each of the committee’s members and had convinced them of the importance of the discussions in Jerusalem. They had agreed to back him.

  Just two killings later, they have lost faith in me.

  He knew he couldn’t underestimate Bishara’s warning. The committee wielded tremendous power and could remove him from office if all its members got together.

  ‘This must be the only country in the world which doesn’t want a peaceful existence,’ Baruti protested.

  ‘Have you seen the news? Have you stepped outside your office? There are riots in the West Bank and in Gaza. Our people are protesting, strongly and violently, against the Israelis.’

  ‘I know. But don’t they get it that continuing these discussions is our only hope?’

  ‘Emotions are high. Tempers are frayed. Right now, not many Palestinians trust the Israelis.’

  ‘I do. I trust Prime Minister Cantor.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Bishara replied sharply, ‘and it is your trust and nothing else that has brought us to where we are.’

  ‘You are doubting me?’

  ‘No,’ his deputy adopted a more conciliatory tone. ‘We, the cabinet, believe in you and this course of action. But we should not ignore what the people think. We have lived with war for so long, it has become almost a normal state,’ Bishara explained. ‘You have got to deliver something to our people to quiet them.’

  ‘The talks—’

  ‘Will take time. You have yet to appoint replacements for those killed. And who knows what the outcome will be?’

  I can bring our people together if I tell them what Cantor has in mind.

  But for that, he would need the Israeli’s permission. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied.

  He flicked open the files on his desk and put aside two of them. The new negotiators who would replace Maryam Razak and Farhan Ba.

  He then made a call of his own, to Prime Minister Yago Cantor. He kept it brief, just one line.

  ‘We need to meet.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tel Aviv

  Night of the Assassinations

  * * *

  ‘We have to meet.’

  Those had been Avichai Levin’s only words to Zeb, an hour after he had watched the news in Kadikoy.

  That cryptic call, five hours back, had led to his catching the first Turkish Airlines flight out of Istanbul. Direct to Jerusalem. Flight time of just two hours. He was traveling as Jarrett Epstein, exporter of Israeli olives.

  He had spent part of the flight trying to make sense of the killings. The entire world wanted a stable Middle East. The assassination of the two Palestinians benefited no country.

  He had spoken briefly to Meghan before boarding, but she had no insights for him, either.

  ‘Need any help?’ she had asked. ‘We’re all free. We can come. There will be enough of us to start a war.’

  ‘I think the idea, the world over, is to stop one,’ he had replied drily.

  He had given up finally and slept. Food and rest. An operative never passed up opportunities for both.

  Jerusalem was pleasant, dry, when he landed. He hailed a cab. ‘Tel Aviv,’ he instructed the driver, who set off as if it was NASCAR.

  Zeb stopped the driver several blocks from Levin’s office and set off on foot. He backtracked for tails but didn’t spot any. He texted Levin when he was ten minutes away.

  The ramsad was waiting for him when he arrived, and hugged him.

  ‘Shalom,’ Zeb greeted him.

  ‘Shalom,’ Levin replied automatically and glanced at the passport held in front of him. ‘Jarrett Epstein?’

  ‘Ken,’ Zeb replied in Hebrew.

  ‘Wait,’ the Israeli said and disappeared into the building. He returned fifteen minutes later, carrying a lanyard with a keycard dangling off it.

  Zeb’s photograph was on it, as was his cover name. They proceeded through the security barriers and went up the elevator in silence.

  Levin pointed to a chair when they entered his office and shut the door.

  ‘What was so important?’ Zeb crossed his legs and surveyed his friend.

  The Mossad director had fine lines around his mouth and eyes. His lips were pinched and hi
s cheeks were hollowed.

  I’ve seen that look before. When his daughter was killed in New York.

  Zeb had hunted the killers down, for which Levin had said only two words, thank you, but had meant much more.

  Levin poured water into two glasses and offered one to Zeb.

  ‘I want you to investigate me.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tel Aviv

  Night of the Assassinations

  * * *

  Zeb looked at him in astonishment. ‘Investigate you?’ he repeated.

  ‘Not me, personally,’ Levin growled. ‘Look into every Mossad kidon member. Find out if any of them were the killers.’

  ‘Why me? Surely you have investigators yourself.’

  ‘You know why,’ the ramsad glared at him.

  He doesn’t know whom to trust. If a kidon had gone rogue, who else might have?

  Zeb fingered the keycard around his neck and now knew why the ramsad had arranged for it. In normal circumstances he would have been given a temporary pass.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said helplessly.

  ‘Say yes,’ the Israeli snapped, ‘and get to work. We don’t have time. We don’t know what those killers are planning.’

  ‘The negotiations are going ahead?’

  ‘Don’t you follow the news? Our prime minister and Baruti put out a statement. That they will not be deterred by these assassinations.’

  ‘Which means there are—’

  ‘More negotiators out there, yes. And the killers might know that, too.’ He passed over a thumb drive to Zeb. ‘Every one of my kidon is in there.’

  ‘They must be all over the world.’

  ‘Not any more. I have recalled them. They are dropping their missions and returning.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘In a few hours, all kidon will be in Jerusalem.’