The Peace Killers

by Ty Patterson

  Baruti stared at Levin’s back as he left the office. ‘I don’t trust him,’ he confessed to Cantor.

  ‘I understand. However, if there’s anyone who can find those killers, it’s him.’

  * * *

  The press conference that followed was packed with journalists both local and international. Every reporter was expecting a bland announcement.

  What they got took everyone by surprise.

  Prime Minister Yago Cantor and President Ziyan Baruti stood shoulder to shoulder and spoke as the world watched.

  ‘In ten days’ time, we will be here again. Then, we will make history.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jerusalem

  One day after Assassinations

  Ten days to Announcement

  * * *

  Zeb was still with Carmel and Dalia, going through the names on the list, getting the kidon’s assessment of the operators, when the latter rose and turned on the TV in the living room.

  The press conference came on screen.

  The two kidon watched in silence while Zeb observed their reaction. Initially, the women were astonished.

  ‘If they can stop the hostilities for good…’ Dalia breathed.

  ‘We can quit,’ Carmel laughed. ‘Leave Mossad. Start a new life.’ She grabbed her partner’s hand and kissed it. Her face darkened in a blush when she felt his gaze.

  ‘We are—’

  ‘Of no interest to me. I mean your relationship…’ he gestured vaguely. I am sure Meghan or Beth could have articulated that better.

  Dalia laughed, kissed her girlfriend on the cheek and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Carmel looked at him speculatively and pointed toward the TV.

  ‘That puts pressure on you.’

  Zeb knew what she meant.

  I was planning on surveilling each kidon. Interviewing them as well. With this announcement, I won’t have time for all that.

  ‘This meeting, who I am—’

  ‘It never happened.’ Dalia returned, bearing a tray with drinks on it. ‘We don’t know who you are. Of course, we have heard about Epstein, but we don’t know what he looks like.’

  * * *

  Washington DC

  * * *

  President Bill Morgan muted the TV and turned to his visitors. Clare, composed as ever, was seated on a couch.

  ‘You knew about this, sir?’ the woman next to her asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ The president couldn’t help grinning at Alice Monash, who was almost trembling in excitement. ‘Yago called me before the conference. Asked my views on what he and Baruti were planning to announce. I approved it.’

  ‘That’s why you wanted me here, instead of flying directly to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Correct. I want you to help both leaders in any way you can. The United States is firmly behind them.’

  ‘The hard-liners in the Middle East—they will not like this,’ Clare observed.

  ‘They won’t,’ the president agreed. ‘But right now, they don’t know what Cantor and Baruti are working on.’

  ‘Those killers are still at large. Alice’s presence … she could be a target.’

  ‘I am aware of that. Which is why we support, but we work in the background for a change. Israel and Palestine are leading these efforts. There are many reasons for that, the main one being optics. The Israeli and Palestinian people should know it is their leaders who made this happen. Not the U.S. That will make it more acceptable.’

  ‘That doesn’t change the security threat to Alice.’

  ‘She will be less visible. That should help,’ the president replied. ‘The Israeli prime minister has promised a crack security detail to protect her. All vetted. I declined his offer. We will be sending our own team with Alice—’ He broke off and looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t you have someone there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s working with Levin, to identify the killers.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Zeb, sir. You met him last year.’

  ‘I remember—’

  ‘Zeb?’ Alice’s head rose sharply. ‘Zeb Carter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t he the one who—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sir,’ Alice stood up. ‘I don’t need a security detail. I want Zeb. No one else.’

  ‘Alice, Zeb’s on a mission,’ Clare protested. ‘He can’t be distracted.’

  ‘Sir,’ the ambassador ignored her and addressed the president. ‘Him. No one else. Or I’m not going.’

  ‘Come on, Alice,’ the president remonstrated. ‘What he’s working on is of critical importance. He has to find those killers. You’ll be a distraction.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard of him, he can handle distractions. Sir, I am not going to Israel if Zeb isn’t protecting me.’

  The president straightened and used the full force of his personality to get her to change her mind.

  Alice Monash looked small in front of him. She was a mere five feet, six inches to his six-four frame.

  She wasn’t cowed by his size or stern look. She returned his stare without flinching.

  President Morgan faced a dilemma. Alice was critical to the Middle East peace process. She was accepted by all countries in the region, and her presence was crucial.

  He also knew what was behind her insistence on Zeb. There was history.

  ‘Clare?’ he sighed in resignation when his ambassador didn’t back down.

  ‘I’ll ask Zeb,’ the Agency’s head replied.

  ‘Don’t ask him,’ Alice interjected fiercely. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘As if we don’t have enough problems,’ President Morgan threw his hands in the air. ‘Make it happen, Clare. And Alice, remember, work in the background!’

  * * *

  Ein Kerem

  * * *

  Navon Shiri turned off the TV and crossed his hands behind his head.

  ‘Ten days,’ he said.

  ‘I heard.’ Magal didn’t look up from his yoga pose. He was stretched down on the floor, face down, his legs bent over his body, his hands clasping them tight, pulling them, stretching and loosening his body.

  ‘Our handler hasn’t told us where they are.’

  They. The remaining Palestinian negotiators.

  ‘It looks like Maryam and Farhan will be replaced. The talks will go on.’

  Magal grunted with effort. Shiri wasn’t telling him anything that he hadn’t worked out himself.

  ‘Why don’t you stop griping and contact the handler? Ask him for instructions.’

  His partner rose and went to his room. He returned with an encrypted laptop and logged into it.

  He sent one line.

  ‘Who is next?’

  * * *

  Somewhere in the Middle East

  * * *

  The handler was at his screen when Shiri’s message arrived. He had watched the press conference and knew the implications. The killers didn’t have much time to carry out the next phase, which was to execute more people.

  ‘I don’t know where the remaining negotiators are,’ he spoke aloud in the silent room. ‘I will find out.’

  He sent a reply to Shiri.

  ‘Be patient. Be prepared. Next targets are surviving Palestinians.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jerusalem

  One day after Assassinations

  Ten days to Announcements

  * * *

  The handler leaned back in his swivel chair and played with a paperweight. He was one of the most powerful people in his country. Many said he was even more powerful than the Supreme Leader, given the organization he ran.

  The handler. That was how he was referred to in certain intelligence agencies. Long before he had risen to head one of the most feared organizations in the world, he had been a spy chief. He had run agents in the U.S., Israel, and several other Western countries. His operatives had stolen military secrets. They had blackmailed politicians and had infiltrated research and defense orga
nizations.

  His career had grown meteorically on the back of his successes, and when the Supreme Leader had offered him his current role, he had readily accepted.

  He had been working on this plan for decades. Infiltrating the Mossad. It was necessary to achieve the bigger picture, the grand dream that the leader had, one the handler believed in: destroying Israel and placing their country at the forefront of the Islamic world.

  * * *

  It hadn’t been easy, and his planning had fallen apart several times. Until he had found Shiri and Magal. Stone-cold killers. They weren’t psychopaths. They took no perverse pleasure from assassination. However, they felt no remorse, either. It was as if their emotion switch was permanently switched off.

  Finding such killers wasn’t an impossible task. He had many more such people in his organization. What the two had was their unique backstory.

  The two men grew up in Jerusalem and had lost family members to Palestinian suicide bombings. They had grown up on a diet of Israeli TV and media that portrayed Palestine as the transgressing party.

  They had joined the IDF and been operators in the Sayeret Matkal.

  They had been deployed in the handler’s country to rescue two Jewish hostages. That was when the man in the room had come across Shiri and Magal.

  Ten years ago, he had been interrogating one of the hostages, an Israeli journalist who had written several devastating exposes on the handler’s country. He, the handler, wanted to know the Israeli’s sources.

  He was using aggressive questioning tactics—a couple of live electrical wires attached to the captive’s groin—when the door had smashed open. Two masked men burst in, both in black, wielding automatic weapons.

  The handler didn’t waste time wondering why the security personnel outside the remote compound hadn’t stopped the intruders.

  He dived toward his HK416, which was an arm’s length away. Simultaneously, he shoved the journalist’s chair at the masked men.

  That second act slowed the shooters. They weren’t expecting the handler to use the Israeli as a shield.

  One gunman swung around the captive and dived to the floor when the handler’s HK chattered. His rounds went wide. He snatched a quick glance at the second shooter. That intruder was looking to free the Israeli. Neither stranger had shot at him.

  They want him alive. I, too, want them, or at least one of them, alive. To see who they are.

  The handler pounced on the gunman, who was on the floor, to club him with his HK. He slapped away the intruder’s rising weapon with his left hand just as the attacker triggered and a burst of bullets streaked past his face and embedded in the ceiling.

  He punched the intruder in the face. Took a blow in the ribs in return. The two men grappled for seconds, both of them trying to gain the upper hand, their weapons momentarily useless as they struggled to get a hold.

  Just as the handler felt he was subduing the gunman, a blow struck him on the shoulder. He fell. Lost his weapon. Turned and landed on his left shoulder. Saw that it was the second gunman, who was now supporting the journalist.

  ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he yelled and lunged at the nearest attacker.

  The gunman evaded his charge and brought a knee into his groin. The handler collapsed, but not before his nails had dug into the shooter’s vest.

  It stretched, exposing the attacker’s right shoulder, revealing the small tattoo on the fleshy part.

  The handler recognized it.

  ‘YOU’RE FROM MY COUNTRY?’ he yelled and charged again, trying to unmask the intruder, not caring that he could be shot.

  The second gunman struck him again, felled him to the floor and kicked him viciously.

  The handler’s vision dimmed. He saw the first gunman pull up his vest and stare at him. Then the men left, taking the journalist with them.

  The handler was in hospital when he came to, surrounded by his people. He ordered an investigation, which revealed that the two intruders had circumvented the security systems in the compound and had rendered several guards unconscious.

  Only a few agencies in the world had such capable operatives. Fewer of those would rescue an Israeli journalist by sending in lethal operatives.

  The handler had two organizations in mind: Mossad and Sayeret Matkal.

  He got his proof when Israeli media reported the daring rescue of the journalist. It credited the latter organization for the act.

  The handler never forgot that night. He was left with two questions.

  Why did an Israeli soldier have that tattoo? Why didn’t they kill him?

  He got his answers five years later, when Shiri and Magal made contact.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Somewhere in the Middle East

  Several years before the Assassinations

  * * *

  The handler was in his private club and had just finished dinner when the two men dropped into chairs next to him, flanking him.

  The handler didn’t recognize them.

  ‘Leave,’ he ordered, ‘I want to be alone.’

  He saw his security detail move toward his table.

  Neither man spoke. The one to his left loosened a button on his shirt and pulled it to the right.

  The handler froze when he saw the tattoo. The events of that night came back to him in a flash. He had a handgun strapped to his left leg, just above the ankle. Could he reach it in time? He could shout, and that would bring his guards running.

  ‘If we wanted to kill you,’ Tattoo smirked, speaking in Arabic, ‘you would have died a long time back. We have been watching you. We know your routine. We could have taken you out several times.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ the handler whispered. ‘What do you want? Don’t think of kidnapping me. You can’t escape.’

  ‘You’re a very high-profile target. Our country will benefit immensely if we grab you. Make no mistake, we are capable of snatching you and taking you away. Your men,’ Tattoo snorted contemptuously, looking at the security guards, ‘are not capable of stopping us.’

  ‘We’re not here to kidnap you,’ the second man spoke. ‘I am Navon Shiri, he’s Eliel Magal.’

  The handler reached out for his glass of water and drank it. He was buying time. He didn’t know where this was going and needed all his wits about him.

  He spluttered at Magal’s next words.

  ‘We want to work with you.’

  * * *

  The three men spoke at length that night in the private club. No one disturbed them. Everyone knew who the handler was, and the reputation of his organization. The other diners left their table alone.

  Magal and Shiri were orphans, the handler learned. They had lost their parents in a Palestinian attack in Tel Aviv when they were six years old.

  They were each taken in foster parents in Jerusalem. It didn’t take long for Magal’s new family to discover the tattoo on his shoulder. They contacted Shiri’s folks and the two families tried to research the boys’ backstories.

  They didn’t find much. They discovered that the Magal and Shiri families had migrated to Israel a couple of generations ago and had grown up in Tel Aviv. Magal’s father had been a teacher, while Shiri’s dad had been a taxi driver. The two boys went to the same school and were firm friends, a relationship that the foster parents nurtured and one that endured as they grew older and joined the IDF.

  The handler scrunched his eyebrows at Magal. ‘When did you get your tattoo?’

  ‘When I was four. I don’t remember much of that time.’

  ‘What did your folks tell you about it?’

  ‘That it was a cool image. Nothing more than that. They didn’t tell anything about where they were from.’

  ‘Same with me,’ Shiri interjected. ‘It was only later, when Magal’s foster parents discovered his ink, our folks did their research, that we both found out who we were.’

  ‘How did you feel?’

  ‘Ostracized. The kids in school picked on us. Our folks, the new ones, didn�
�t hide where we were from originally. But we were mentally strong,’ he shrugged. ‘Our new families taught us to be tough.’

  ‘You are with me because of your origins,’ the handler stated in satisfaction, confident that the pull of his country was irresistible.

  ‘No,’ Magal replied flatly. ‘We identify as Israelis. Don’t read too much into our backgrounds.’

  ‘Why are you here, then?’

  ‘You wanted backstories; we told you,’ came the reply. ‘There’s nothing special about them.’

  ‘Other than the country your grandparents came from.’ the handler interjected. ‘My country.’

  ‘I said we are Israelis,’ Magal shrugged. ‘Your country has no meaning for us, other than a hostile target.’ He grinned.

  ‘As to why we are here…’ Shiri broke off a piece of bread and chewed on it. ‘We want to help you.’

  That was the second shock the handler received that night. He stared in disbelief at the two men. They were calm, composed, returning his look with no expression.

  ‘Help me? Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you think we came to you?’ Magal sniggered.

  ‘You just said you’re Israelis,’ the handler said harshly. ‘Your country and mine … we are hostile to each other. You said it yourself. We want to see you destroyed. I can arrest you and throw you in prison, never to be seen again.’

  ‘You can try.’ Magal tossed an olive into his mouth. ‘You won’t live the night.’

  ‘This isn’t a game,’ the handler replied with venom. ‘You—’

  ‘We came to offer our services,’ Shiri waved him to silence, ‘not to hear a history lesson. Your country … maybe it is ours, too.’ He pointed discreetly at Magal’s shoulder, at the tattoo.

  ‘I knew it!’