by Ty Patterson
‘That must be public knowledge.’
‘Not many know. At least, that’s what the prime minister tells me. In any case, both locations are crammed with police. Every resident has been checked out. The negotiators are on a floor of their own. Access to it is blocked. Various security measures are in place. I think it’s safe.’
‘What about the entrance, the driveway?’
‘Those are separated by a waist-high wall. Relax, Zeb. The police have checked it out. They approved the hotel and our deception.’
Zeb turned back to the front. It’s not my place to pick locations. If the Israelis are satisfied, I am good.
The driver swung out. He drove randomly, circling back every now and then. He passed through red lights at will, often overtaking on the wrong side.
Zeb didn’t spot any tails. Neither did any suit, and after an hour, they headed to their destination.
* * *
‘Do you think they spotted us?’ Masih asked his driver. His heart was thumping, his palms sweaty, yet his face was expressionless, as was his voice.
He and the driver, one of his most trusted shooters, were in the Toyota. The vehicle had diplomatic plates that they had stolen from one of the parked vehicles around the prime minister’s residence.
He had infiltrated into Israel the previous night, after hearing that more tunnels had been destroyed by the IDF. He hadn’t wanted to risk being stranded in Gaza if all passages were blocked.
He and his men had moved in the darkness of the night and had sought cover in their safe house in the Old City. And then he had taken over tailing Alice Monash.
The two men had mingled in the crowd around Beit Aghion and watched the conference. This was a recon mission. Opening fire in the midst of tight security was suicidal. Abdul Masih harbored no such notions. He left the suicide bombing attacks to his juniors.
No, this was just surveillance, to see how well protected Alice Monash was and to see where she went after the conference. Masih was hoping she would lead him to the negotiators.
He had expected the ambassador’s vehicle to drive away immediately. It hadn’t, and that had raised his suspicions.
‘We’ll have to follow her tomorrow,’ Masih said, slamming his palm against the dash in frustration. ‘From the embassy.’
‘Is that advisable?’ the driver asked, concerned. ‘There will be tight security around the place.’
‘The Israelis and the Americans haven’t caught Abdul Masih in these many years,’ the terrorist boasted. ‘They won’t, now.’
* * *
Magal and Shiri were more careful. The two men had split up and were hunkered down in two off-duty cabs on Emek Refaim. The presence of their vehicles wasn’t unusual. There was a long line of cabs on the street, waiting to serve the patrons of various hotels. They had papers to back their identities; their covers were tight.
Magal was at the front, pretending to read a newspaper, while Shiri was several vehicles to the rear, shades over his eyes, snoozing.
Magal noticed a vehicle with darkened windows arriving in the hotel next to their target. He didn’t pay it much attention, since they were casing the place where all the negotiators were staying.
He couldn’t control his gasp when Alice Monash stepped out and was immediately surrounded by three suits.
‘What?’ Shiri asked in his earbud.
‘The American ambassador, at your ten.’
‘What’s she doing there?’ his partner asked incredulously, after a while.
‘No idea.’
‘She must be here to meet both teams. Why else would she be here? But they’re in the neighboring hotel. Not this one.’
‘No idea,’ Magal repeated, watching the woman disappear into the interior of the establishment.
‘We’ve got the right one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has the handler given us the wrong address?’
‘His intel has never been wrong before.’ Magal’s voice was tight. They had been making an attack plan for the hotel based on their surveillance. However, if the negotiators were in the adjacent … ‘Let’s see when she leaves. She might be here for another meeting.’
Shiri grunted unconvincingly.
There was movement from within the diplomat’s vehicle even as they watched. A tall man climbed out, black-haired, clean-shaven. He stood relaxed, one arm on its roof, as he looked around.
A hundred yards separated Magal from the stranger, but even through the distance, the kidon felt the man’s stare as he checked out every vehicle on the street.
The agent’s lips barely moved as he voiced the thought in his head.
‘Who’s this man?’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jerusalem
Three days after Assassinations
Eight days to Announcement
* * *
Zeb didn’t sense any danger when he scanned the street. There was a taxi line outside, on the street, all of which had been checked out by the Israeli police. A steady stream of cars arrived in both hotels’ forecourts, which, as the ambassador had described, were separated by a waist-high wall.
Discreet, armed security was present in front of both establishments, as was the case with every hotel on the street.
Every guest in both hotels had been investigated as well. No danger there. Armed guards prevented unauthorized people from going to the rooms where the passage was.
Zeb had messaged Levin on the drive, asking him about Monash’s revelations about the hotels.
‘She’s correct,’ the ramsad had replied. ‘Security is good. I am confident no hostile can enter either place.’
Zeb had no reason to doubt the director. Still, he watched, allowing his unconscious mind to absorb the flow of vehicles, letting his instincts warn him if there was any danger.
His radar stayed quiet.
The ambassador stepped out of the decoy hotel several hours later, when shadows were lengthening. He held the door open for her and was the last to climb in.
‘Everything’s good?’ he asked Alice Monash.
‘Yeah,’ came the satisfied reply. ‘I gave a pep talk to both teams. Boosted morale, especially that of the Palestinians. Looks like we are making progress.’
They drove back to the embassy, using circuitous routes again. The ambassador stayed back in the car when they arrived and signaled to her detail to leave her alone with Zeb.
‘Your friend, Levin, is under pressure.’
‘I know,’ he replied.
‘You know about this unit Cantor has put together?’
‘Yeah. Avichai told me.’
‘I got a call from the prime minister. He had wrapped up a meeting with the unit. He had also met Levin, Shoshon, Levitsky. The investigation hasn’t made any progress.’
That was news to Zeb. He had been so focused on the Mossad kidon that he hadn’t caught up with Levin. Other than to exchange messages on various kidon.
‘Cantor’s cabinet is rounding on your friend. They want the prime minister to allow Shabak to investigate the kidon.’
‘That would put at risk—’
‘I know.’ The ambassador blew out a tired breath. ‘Cantor knows, too. The other ministers have asked for Levin to be replaced, too. The prime minister has stood his ground. For now.’
Not for long, though. It is a coalition. He can’t withstand political pressure forever.
‘What about Levin? How did he react?’
‘He didn’t. That man has ice-cold nerves. Cantor said he just smiled and made no comment.’
He’s counting on me, Zeb thought bleakly. He looked at the clock on the car’s dash. Seven pm.
There was time to check out a few more kidon.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jerusalem
Three days after Assassinations
Eight days to Announcement
* * *
Zeb headed back to his room and changed into another Jarrett Epstein disguise. A lean, deeply tanned, mu
stache-sporting and shades-wearing man. Just like thousands of Israeli men on the street.
He took one look at the kidon files and decided to approach Yonah, Osip, Danell and Uzziah. The four men had returned from Britain, where they had been surveilling an anti-Jewish hate organization. Danell was in an accident the day before the killings. A collision with a scooter. He has a broken collarbone. The Mossad files had hospital records for him. That eliminates him, but what about the others? He chose Yonah randomly as the next kidon to investigate and looked up where he lived. He’s not far, but I need to change hotels. I’ve been at the current one for too long.
He checked for messages from the sisters. A long one from Meghan with a lot of technical details, summed up in a few lines. Nachman was clear. His Internet calls were conclusive. He was in Berlin when the assassinations went down.
Eliel and Navon were good, too, the sisters confirmed in the same message. I still have to hear from Andropov.
He looked at his messaging app. The twins were greyed out, with a new status message. In transit. Flight distance from New York to Tel Aviv was about eleven hours if one flew commercial. Ten, if one was using private aircraft, which the twins were. Four more hours for transit to and from both airports. Sometime early in the morning, he decided. That’s when he would have more support.
He checked out of his hotel and found another one in Talbiya, which was half an hour away from where Yonah lived. It was suitably anonymous, had a room on the ground floor, had a rear exit. His room had a window to the street and a sturdy door. Everything that I want.
He walked briskly from his new accommodation toward the kidon’s apartment. It was on the first floor on a quiet street. Large windows on side walls, none of them overlooking the main thoroughfare. Zeb looked left, then right.
An amorous couple passed him, whispering in each other’s ears. He let them disappear in the darkness and entered the building. No one in the lobby to stop him. He took the concrete stairs two at a time and reached the first floor.
Four doors on it, four apartments. Yonah’s was to his right.
Direct approach. I’ll just knock, ask him and play it by ear.
Zeb discarded his plan when he went to the door and heard faint voices from within. He’s got company?
He checked the bottom of the door. Yeah, there was a thin sliver of light, indicating a gap between door and floor.
He removed a cable camera from his backpack—a thin, flexible, plastic-sheathed wire that had a miniature camera at one end and a phone jack at the other. He slid the lens underneath the door and plugged the other end into his cell. Images in high definition appeared instantly, the camera drawing its power from the phone. Four men, seated around a table, cards in hand, a bottle and glasses beside them. Yonah, Danell, Osip and Uzziah, all of them under one roof.
Zeb stowed the camera back, slipped his cell into his pocket and inspected the door. Wooden, sturdy. A lock that seemed easy enough to pick. There could be deadbolts inside.
He decided to try his luck and brought out his burglar kit. It had master keys, picks and various levers. He tried several keys and, when none worked, used other tools, working with controlled haste, paying attention to the sounds within and to those on the floor.
The lock gave with a soft click. No change to the laughter from inside. Zeb tried the door with soft hands. It opened a crack.
He frowned. No bolt? No chain? No other security? Either Yonah was supremely confident of himself or this apartment was purely a transient one.
He pushed the door cautiously and, when a burst of conversation broke out, risked a peek. The men were inspecting their cards, none of them paying any attention to the door.
He was halfway inside when Yonah’s head rose. The expression on his face was almost comical when he regarded the stranger in the apartment.
‘Who are you—’ he began.
Osip and Uzziah reacted fast. They rolled off their chairs, one operative diving toward a bag on the floor, the other hurling something at the intruder.
The missile, a dinner plate, shattered behind Zeb, who dived to the floor, rolled to his left, his Glock rising to cover Uzziah. He’s quicker than the others. He’s the threat.
‘STOP!’ he commanded, his weapon covering the kidon.
The Mossad men froze. None of them had produced a gun yet, and they were smart enough to know they could not out-move a bullet. Not without at least one of them getting hurt. Or killed.
‘Who are you?’ Uzziah asked roughly, his eyes hard.
‘Jarrett Epstein. You must have heard of me.’
They had, by the quick exchange of looks between the operatives.
‘You come in like this?’ Uzziah snarled. ‘You couldn’t have requested a meeting?’
‘And miss this reception?’ Zeb rose slowly and holstered his gun when the operatives made no further hostile moves.
He approached the table and occupied an empty chair. Gestured at the kidon to seat themselves.
‘Which one of you killed the Palestinians?’ he asked them.
‘None of us,’ Uzziah reacted angrily. ‘How do we know you are Epstein?’
‘Call Levin,’ Zeb replied. ‘Check me out.’
The operative was reaching into his pocket when Danell stopped him. ‘Who else would it be? No one else knows Epstein’s name. You considered knocking?’ This was directed at Zeb, with a tilt of the eyebrows.
‘What would be the fun in that?’ Zeb retorted, liking the operative immediately. Of the four kidon, he alone sat relaxed, an amused look in his eyes. ‘Your friends are right, though. You should confirm who I am with Levin.’
‘I’m good friends with Carmel and Dalia,’ the operative waved a hand nonchalantly, ‘unlike these three. They gave me a heads-up. That you might come calling. Nachman, too. Though their descriptions,’ his teeth flashed, ‘are quite different from how you look.’
‘You know how it is in our business.’
‘We do,’ the kidon nodded. ‘None of us killed those Palestinians.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘I’m speaking for my friends, too. They were with me at the British hospital.’
‘There’s no record of that. Nothing in their files. Or yours.’
‘There wouldn’t be. We wanted to minimize any mention of their presence.’
‘Your word isn’t proof, however.’
‘Check the hospital’s security cameras,’ Danell grinned. ‘We tried to delete the footage, but we couldn’t hack into their system. I am sure if you ask politely, the British will hand over the relevant clips.’
‘Why isn’t this in your reports?’
‘Because the ramsad asked them,’ the kidon nodded at his friends, ‘not to be at the hospital. They disregarded his orders.’
‘I’ll have to tell Levin.’
‘I know. It doesn’t matter now,’ Danell laughed, ‘I think the ramsad has a lot more on his plate than blowing his top at us.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jerusalem
Three days after Assassinations
Eight days to Announcement
* * *
Zeb left Yonah’s apartment half an hour later, after copying the phone and laptop data of each kidon. He sent the large file to the twins as he walked and shot a message to a contact in MI6. The British agency would be able to get the hospital’s video data. If that corroborates, and no reason why it shouldn’t, these four operatives are clear, too.
Nine pm. He grabbed a baguette sandwich from a street vendor and wolfed it down in front of an electronics store. The TV in its window was playing a news channel. Talking heads speculating what Prime Minister Cantor and President Baruti would announce in a few days.
The scene cut to one of Alice Monash addressing the crowd at Beit Aghion. That was followed by file photos of Avichai Levin, Levitsky and Shoshon. The TV host and her panel hotly debated the lack of progress in the investigation.
‘Levin must go. It is clear Mossad is
behind those assassinations. There is a government coverup, which is why no suspects have been identified,’ a guest, a Palestinian, stated. The TV audience, a predominantly Israeli one, burst out at that.
This is how it will go down, Zeb thought as he turned away and drank from a bottle of water. Palestinians and Israelis even more entrenched in their positions.
Unless Cantor’s task force can prove conclusively that Mossad wasn’t involved.
Or I do.
He brought up the GPS app on his cell and checked the various green dots on it.
Meir wasn’t at home. Zeb looked at the kidon’s location.
He’s at a cinema.
Zeb had been on his feet ever since he left his hotel in the morning to meet Alice Monash. The continual switching from investigator mode to bodyguard was taking its toll on him. He was tiring. He was aware an operative lost his edge in such conditions.
I don’t have a choice.
He made his way to Meir’s apartment.
* * *
Moscow, That Evening
* * *
Andropov slammed his phone down and scrunched his face in disgust. Getting intel on Peter Raskov was proving to be surprisingly difficult. He was an FSB agent, that much the spymaster had found out. However, he hadn’t been able to get anything more on the agent.
Where is he? What’s his mission? Who is his handler?
He prided himself on keeping track of every Russian operative, whichever agency they belonged to. He had discovered that Raskov wasn’t in his system. That had been the first cause for his irritation. He then had found that none of his usual sources knew anything about the operative. That not only angered but also intrigued him.
Just who was Peter Raskov?
He made more calls. Met the directors of other covert agencies to see if they knew anything about a mission in Jordan. No one had any information.
