by Ty Patterson
‘You don’t,’ Magal said sharply. ‘We aren’t sitting with you because of any emotional or subconscious ties to your country. We don’t think of countries the same way most people do. We are Israelis. It is a fact and nothing more. We have been thinking about this for some time. Of branching out. Your reputation as a handler is well-known. You plan well, support your operatives… that’s why we are here.’
‘And that’s enough for you to turn traitor?’
‘No. But the money you offer, and the game…’ he trailed off. ‘Don’t go looking for any deep meaning behind our motivations. We aren’t carrying any grudge against our country. We are not indulging in some kind of vengeance mission.’
The game. Over the next couple of hours, the handler found that the two operatives loved the clandestine business they were in. The hunt, the chase, the mission, that was what they lived for.
Their moral compass was virtually nonexistent, which made them top-notch killers. That absence of values also was the reason they could switch allegiances so easily. One day they could be working for Israel. The next, they could see themselves working for the handler.
The two men claimed they had been seeking something else, a bigger thrill. They had been drifting from mission to mission until the rescue of the journalist. The handler’s presence that night had shaped their desire. And here they were.
Magal swirled the wine in his glass, sniffed it and dropped another bombshell. ‘We have both been selected by Mossad. To join their kidon.’
He took a sip and looked over the rim of his glass. ‘Are you in with us?’
The handler didn’t take long to decide.
He was in.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Somewhere in a Middle Eastern desert
Several years before the Assassinations
* * *
The handler met the two men discreetly a few more times. Learned that the two men did seem to have a code.
‘We won’t tell you of any mission that doesn’t affect you,’ Shiri announced when they met in a shack at the edge of the desert. ‘You won’t learn much about Mossad from us.’
‘What’s your value to me, then?’ he countered.
‘You’ll know of the operations we undertake in your country. We can tell you about anything that’s going down against your people that we know of, which might not be much, since Mossad is compartmentalized.’
‘Can I use you to conduct my own operations in Israel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any target?’
‘We’ll decide that on a mission-by-mission basis. Now, about compensation and logistics…’
The two men negotiated hard and made the handler agree on an eye-watering sum. The handler, in turn, got them to accept that there would be an initial deposit and the larger payments would follow only after trust had been built.
The logistics were easier to work out. The three of them were well-versed in black-ops. They agreed on a communication protocol. They would use well-known websites such as property-listing portals. The handler would put up a property for sale; the two operatives, posing as interested buyers, would message, using coded language.
‘You alone will manage us,’ Shiri demanded.
The handler agreed. That had been his plan in any case.
‘How come Mossad selected you?’ he asked Magal curiously, ‘with that tattoo?’
‘That helped, actually,’ the operator grinned. ‘They went through our backstories thoroughly, as you would expect. We aced every psychological test. The tattoo … the ramsad decided it would help us in operations in your country.’
‘And what about the psych tests? They must have detected your lack of…’
‘Morals? Ethics? We were surprised at that, too. We think those flaws made us more valuable to the agency.’
The handler could see the logic in that. Operatives who weren’t driven by ideology or patriotism were rare. He transferred the first payment and they were in business.
The handler suspected a trap, however. Why wouldn’t he? Israel had carried out several espionage attacks on his country. Magal and Shiri’s approach could be an elaborate ruse by the Mossad to get inside the handler’s organization.
Over the next year, he made few demands from the two kidon. He gave them relatively simple missions. Grab an American diplomat and bring him over to his country. Bug the room of the British defense minister, who was visiting Israel.
The kidon didn’t ask him for his reasoning. They carried out each operation and reported back when complete. Every mission was clean. Zero blowback.
The handler was impressed and, after a while, gave them more difficult jobs. He also carefully let slip several pieces of sensitive information: intel on his country that would be valuable to the Israelis. Nothing happened. No Mossad, Shabak or IDF team acted on it.
One time, he accidentally dropped a file that contained intel on the country’s nuclear reactors. It didn’t seem like the information reached the ramsad.
After several such traps, all of which the two operatives passed, he gained confidence.
And then the two men told him they were tasked with taking out a prominent politician. A high-flying figure in the handler’s country, who was violently opposed to Israel and had significant popular backing.
The handler was in a dilemma. He could prevent the operation and capture Magal and Shiri. That would be a coup for him. However, he was interested in the long term.
Reluctantly, he told the men to go ahead. He would not interfere. The two men looked at him, astonished.
‘You realize we will kill him?’ Magal asked.
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
‘Why?’ Shiri’s eyes narrowed.
‘It will consolidate your position in Mossad. Despite all your psych tests, I am sure there will be people who treat the two of you differently, just because your origins are in my country.’
Magal nodded, thoughtfully.
‘All I ask is, give me sufficient notice if you’re carrying out other missions in my country.’
The two men looked at each other. Magal nodded again.
‘Remember,’ Shiri warned, ‘we won’t know of missions carried out by other khuliyot.’
‘I know,’ the handler replied.
He didn’t tell anyone in his government about the Mossad’s mission. He acted shocked when two masked men, on a motorbike, pumped several bullets into the politician and escaped.
MOSSAD ASSASSINS STRIKE!
Headlines in his country screamed accusingly. That agency didn’t take credit, but it was a trademark kill.
Years passed. The handler still hadn’t used Magal and Shiri for any significantly major mission. There were a couple of reasons for that.
A new ramsad, Avichai Levin, had been appointed and the three men wanted to see how he would treat the two kidon. It turned out the director rated the two operatives highly.
The second reason was infiltrating Mossad’s systems. Israel had carried out cyber-attacks on the handler’s country several times over the past years. One in particular had delayed the nation’s nuclear program.
The handler had been beefing up his cyber capability ever since that attack. He wanted to use Magal and Shiri for a high-profile operation only when he was confident he had sufficient electronic warfare capability.
He used the two kidon without their knowledge when his electronic warfare team was ready. He gave the two kidon an encrypted thumb drive that established secure comms with him. What the two kidon didn’t know was that there was a worm in the drive.
The worm spread through their laptops and penetrated inside Mossad’s systems. All it did was listen and pass information back to the handler. It had been built by the country’s best hackers and went undetected by the Israeli agency’s network security.
It worked perfectly. The handler now had eyes on whatever Avichai Levin received or sent. However, he knew that the worm had a limited shelf life. It would self-destruct over a period of t
ime. His cyber team had told him that was the best approach; otherwise they ran the risk of it being detected.
Of course, it still could be found by the Israelis before its window expired. He had to use it to maximum effect while it remained burrowed in Mossad’s systems.
The worm gave him a rich trove of information, but it failed in one respect. The handler was desperate for the identities of Mossad’s operatives. The worm couldn’t find those. It looked like Levin kept those in a different database that wasn’t networked. Sure, the ramsad sent emails to his people, but he addressed them by only their first names.
The handler tried to search for people with those names but didn’t get far. They were common Israeli given names.
He could ask Magal and Shiri, but he knew what their response would be. They would refuse.
The handler wasn’t unduly upset. He could work with the intel the virus yielded. And if he was patient, the worm would deliver.
That opportunity came when he found out about the Israel-Palestine negotiations and the identities of the team members on both sides. He then had the first high-risk, high-profile mission for Magal and Shiri.
‘What will killing them achieve?’ Magal had asked when he briefed the two without mentioning the source of his intel.
‘It’s not the killing, but the reaction,’ the handler had replied in satisfaction.
He was more than pleased by how the two kidon carried out their assignment, their first major one for him in Israel.
* * *
Somewhere in the Middle East
One day after Assassinations
Ten days to Announcement
* * *
They proved themselves, the handler mused as he put down the paperweight and leaned forward in his swivel chair.
He tapped on his keyboard, and his heart beat faster when he read what the worm had discovered: the location of the remaining Palestinian negotiators. It was in an email that Avichai Levin had received very recently.
He had sent the be patient message just a few moments ago. Now, Magal and Shiri had their next assignment.
It had to be executed—he liked that word—within ten days. Before Yago Cantor and Ziyan Baruti made whatever announcement they were planning.
The handler didn’t care that there could be peace in the region. He and the Supreme Leader weren’t interested in that.
Their ambitions were higher. The death of a few Palestinians was a small price to pay.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jerusalem
Two days after Assassinations
Nine Days to Announcement
* * *
Zeb was in Romema early the next day.
He had spent several hours with Carmel and Dalia, getting their input on the male operatives that they had marked: the ones who were hard-line in their views that there could be no negotiations between their country and Palestine.
He hadn’t much to go on. While the kidon had told him as much as they knew about each of the men, it wasn’t a lot. He had more information on their personalities, and that was about it.
‘What will you do?’ Dalia had asked him. ‘You are just one person … or do you have a team?’
‘Just me. And I’ll do what I did with you. I need to know where these men have been in the last few days. That’s sufficient to clear them. I was planning on interviewing all of them, even you…’
‘But now, you don’t have time?’ Carmel had guessed.
‘Yeah,’ he had grimaced. ‘That announcement isn’t helping me.’
‘What if we had killed you? On the staircase or later, in the apartment?’ Dalia had asked.
‘You wouldn’t have,’ he had replied confidently. ‘You would have wanted to interrogate me. See if I was sent by the Tunisian.’
Her smile had been fleeting. ‘You’re lucky we live together. Most of those men live alone. They might have better security than us.’
‘If you have their personal cell numbers, it will help.’
Both women had shaken their heads regretfully. ‘We don’t give out that information. It’s so deeply ingrained …’
‘I understand.’ He had risen and stuffed the list in his pocket.
‘What about us?’ Carmel had asked. ‘We are clear, I guess. We can resume our mission.’
‘You are clear, but no mission for you. Until I check out all the operatives and either clear them or find the killer.’
‘Are there any more bugs in our apartment?’
‘You removed them all. But you might want to check the dish TV antenna outside. The one above your apartment.’
An indecipherable expression had crossed her face and then her lips quirked. ‘You are good, Epstein. Or whatever your real name is. Your investigation … surely the police, Shabak, they too are investigating.’
‘Yeah, but I’m the only one who’s looking into the kidon. They are checking out everyone else.’
‘I can’t believe the killers could be our own.’ Dalia had crossed her arms. ‘Whatever our personal views, we are highly disciplined operators. I can’t imagine anyone will act on their own.’
‘That’s what I am here to find out.’
‘Shalom, Jarret Epstein,’ Carmel had wished him, her lips twisting in a bittersweet smile. ‘Stay alive.’
* * *
Zeb recollected the previous day’s conversation as he hurried to a dojo in Romema. Yakov, one of the operatives, trained there. Zeb figured it would be easier to observe him there. And if the opportunity arises, get a dump of his cell phone.
He had thought long and hard about a way of exposing the assassins, given the news announcement. He hadn’t been able to come up with one.
He was stuck with his original plan. Check out their past movements. Ideally, get a dump of their cells and laptops. Plant a bug on them. Interview as many of them as possible. Use any and all means possible to ascertain their movements. And even then, what I find might not be conclusive.
The problem was, there was just him, twenty-eight of the kidon and ten days to apprehend the killers.
Twenty-four, he corrected himself. Riva, Adir, Carmel and Dalia were no longer on the suspect list. And only nine days left.
He had thought about calling his friends … they’ll stick out even if they disguise themselves. They’re too tall. The Mossad operatives will make them. Only the twins can pass as locals.
He could call the sisters, but he was reluctant to do so. They had been grievously injured in their last case, and even though both had fully recovered … he shook his head unconsciously. No, he would see how far he could progress on his own.
He cleared his mind and focused on Yakov.
The operative returned from Iran, where he had been conducting a solo recon mission on a military target. He lived in the same neighborhood where his dojo was located, in a one-bedroom apartment.
He was a krav maga expert and spent a couple of hours working out with others, when he wasn’t on missions.
Carmel said he’s an alpha male. Very competitive. Doesn’t like to lose. Has an explosive temper, which he never loses when on missions. And he hates Palestinians.
Zeb saw the sign board and crossed the street. In his backpack were his surveillance gear, weapons and his black gi.
He approached the dojo’s entrance and joined a line of members who used cards to swipe their way through the turnstiles.
‘I am not a member,’ he told the woman behind the counter. ‘I want to train for a few hours.’
‘We don’t take non-members,’ she said.
He sighed and made a show of looking irritated. ‘Look, I am a friend of Jessy Levitsky. He said I could just walk into any dojo and train.’
The woman didn’t recognize the minister’s name.
Zeb reached into his backpack and pulled out an identity card.
‘You’re with the police?’ she straightened when she read his credentials, which stated he was Commander Jarrett Epstein.
‘Yes.’
‘One more thing,’ he told her as he passed through the barrier. ‘No one should know I have been here. I can trust you with that?’ he asked her, steely-eyed.
‘Yes, sir.’ She blanched and bent her head down as he walked through.
He felt guilty at going heavy at her, but his role demanded it. I’ll apologize to her when all this blows over.
The dojo was similar to thousands like it across the world. A large wood-floored training room on which mats were laid out. A gym, a few racquet courts, male and female changing rooms, a seating area and a food and drinks counter, all organized around the central area.
He went to the training room, which had about twenty people in it: some practicing moves, an instructor coaching a group in a corner.
Zeb went to the changing room and checked its occupants. No Yakov. He put on his gi and went back to the central room, barefooted.
He stood to the side and started a light warmup, his eyes searching.
Levin’s file on him was clear. He’s usually here at seven am, when he’s in Jerusalem.
A shout got his attention. Two men, fighting, both of them wearing head and chest guards.
There he is!
The kidon was of average height, five feet, nine inches, with no hair on his head or face, and burning eyes.
He was throwing punches furiously, kicking out with his legs, shouting aggressively whenever he made contact.
His partner had a hard time keeping up with him, and, when he took a nasty blow to the head, raised his hand in surrender.
The two men stopped and removed their headguards. Yakov wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his gi and cracked a joke. He didn’t wait for his friend’s reaction. He went to a bag against the wall, grabbed a bottle of water and sipped from it.
He doesn’t trust a locker. Smart.
Zeb had moved closer to them and was watching through the corner of his eye.
