The Cyprus Coverup

by Ethan Jones

  “Sure. Can you take me to Sofia?”

  The taxi driver cocked his head. “Sofia? The capital?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will cost you two hundred, no, two hundred and thirty dollars.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred and fifty, if you make it a safe and quiet trip.”

  “You have the money?”

  Justin pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills from one of his coat pockets. “This is good?”

  “Yes, it is. Sit in the back, so you can sleep.”

  “Let me toss my luggage in the trunk.”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  Justin had purchased another set of clothes and a small suitcase before leaving Istanbul. He needed to give the impression of a tourist to the border officials.

  When the driver returned, he turned off the radio and glanced at Justin. “When do I wake you up?”

  “Ten minutes before we get to the airport, unless there’s an emergency.”

  “I’m the mostest safest driver you have ever seen.”

  Justin smiled at the way the driver used “mostest.” “That’s great.”

  He buckled the seatbelt, slid down in his seat, and closed his eyes. In a matter of seconds, he had drifted off into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  The ringing of the phone woke Justin up from the deep slumber. He yawned, then glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost three thirty in the morning. How long did I sleep for? About an hour, but with so many interruptions. Where are we? He glanced through the windows, but all he could see was the black night stretching on both sides of a narrow two-lane road.

  The driver met Justin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Good morning, you sleep well?”

  “Morning. Eh, I’ve slept better.”

  He picked up the phone and checked the caller ID. It was his boss, Flavio. “Yes, this is Justin,” he replied.

  “Justin, I woke you up, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, well, it’s okay.”

  “I’ve got an update about Istanbul.”

  “Just give me a moment.”

  Justin leaned forward and said to the driver. “Can you please stop for a while?”

  “Sure.”

  The driver coasted, then came to a stop.

  Justin stepped out of the taxi. The night’s frosty air removed whatever sleepiness was left in him. He breathed in the freshness and looked around. Dim lights came from a hillside a few miles to his right. “Yes, sir, we can talk now,” he said when he was beyond the driver’s earshot.

  “Where are you?”

  “Eh, good question. I’m on my way to Sofia. We’re almost there, I imagine.”

  “Glad you left Turkey when you did.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The Turks have started a concentrated effort to find you. The MIT have identified you and are looking for you all over the place.”

  “Good thing the border crossing didn’t get the memo on time.”

  “Yes, otherwise we’d have to do a lot of explaining. Our ambassador has already been summoned by the Turkish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, seeking a full and detailed explanation of our covert operation on their soil.”

  Justin frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. It just . . . things got out of hand.”

  “No need to apologize, Justin. I know this wasn’t your fault.”

  “What’s our cover story?”

  “Well, the ambassador promised to look into this matter and report the findings. I met with our minister’s security advisor. Our official story is that you were never in Turkey, and this is a simple case of mistaken identity.”

  “You think the Turks will believe that?”

  “They may or may not, but it doesn’t matter. That’s standard protocol. They’ve used it several times.”

  Justin grinned. “We can say I have an average, familiar face.”

  “The cover story works in this case because you didn’t kill anyone and no one died in the SUV accident.” Flavio’s voice turned firm, losing some of its initial warmth. “The next time you need to infiltrate Turkey, it will be very difficult.”

  “I understand, sir. Do we know anything about Reza?”

  “No, nothing. The Turkish authorities haven’t reported anything about him. We’re listening to Iranian communications, but still nothing.”

  “That’s very strange.”

  “Indeed. I’ll update you if things change.”

  “Okay.”

  “On the Prince Al Khater front, the CIA isn’t giving us anything. A couple of my contacts refused to even acknowledge the prince’s existence, regardless of concrete evidence of his weapons dealings with US manufacturers.”

  “So Mossad’s our only hope?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. We still haven’t heard from SAS. It wouldn’t hurt to start looking for new intel sources.”

  Justin nodded. “I’ll see what I can do, sir. There aren’t many powerful players in the region.”

  “You do that. I hope it goes well with Eli. Keep me posted.”

  “For sure.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. I’m flying to Rome, meeting up with Carrie and with Mossad.”

  “Okay, all the best.”

  “Thanks, sir. Take care.”

  “Yes, you too.”

  Justin pocketed the phone and drew in a deep breath. Yes, I’m glad I’m out of Turkey. But poor Reza. What happened to him? And what are we going to do if the meeting with Mossad proves to be a waste of time?

  Justin shrugged, sighed, and walked back to the taxi.

  Chapter Fifteen

  February 12

  Piazza Navona

  Rome, Italy

  Justin and Carrie walked slowly along Corsia del Rinascimento, a block east of Piazza Navona. They were meeting with Eli and Moshe at La Fontana Ristorante, just across from the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi, the fountain and obelisk that was the piazza’s centerpiece.

  Carrie glanced at Justin, who had just turned his head after looking over his shoulder. “Relax, Justin. Even if there are Mossad operatives tailing us, they know we’re coming.”

  “I’m not worried about Mossad,” Justin replied with a sigh.

  “Who then? The Turks? Iranians? They have no idea we’re here or what we’re doing.”

  “You’re forgetting Egorov.”

  Carrie shook her head and her auburn ponytail brushed against the collar of her brown jacket. “I’m not forgetting her. But maybe you’re overestimating Egorov. She can’t know everything.”

  “No, but she’d love to, and she’ll attempt to do so. How did she find me in Toronto?”

  “I’m not sure, but she’s not going to find us here.” She gestured toward Corsia Agonale, the small cobblestone street that connected to Piazza Navona. “And I’m sure Eli hasn’t been followed.”

  Justin and Carrie waited until a red city bus went through before crossing. Justin nodded, and stepped around an old man who was studying a large map he was holding. February was the low tourist season in Rome, and there were not many people walking the streets. La Fontana Ristorante had closed its patio, and tables and chairs were stacked to one side. Justin’s eyes caught a blue police car parked at the southern end of the piazza, by the Fontana del Moro. A few tourists were sitting at the fountain’s edge. Others were taking pictures of the obelisk.

  “Ready to go in?” Carrie asked.

  “Of course.”

  He held the restaurant’s door open for Carrie. She walked in and her eyes immediately found Eli and another man sitting near the window in the less busy section of the restaurant. About a dozen or so patrons were sitting around five tables, with the closest one about eight feet from Eli. “This way, Justin.”

  Eli and the other man, whom Justin assumed was Moshe, stood up. Eli was one of the fiercest of Mossad’s kidons or assassins. The Hebrew word meant “tip of the spear,” and kidons were the way in which the Israeli national intelligence agency reached and eliminated i
ts enemies. Eli’s face was pale as if he had avoided the sun for a few weeks. Or maybe he’s not feeling well, Justin thought. Eli had shaved his usual full beard, another sign that he was dispatched somewhere where he needed to fit in. A pair of silver-framed glasses was perched at the bridge of his broad nose. Eli was dressed in an elegant charcoal gray suit with a cream-colored shirt and a pinstriped tie.

  Eli smiled at Justin, then offered his large hand. “Justin, Justin, I’m glad to meet you again. This is my good friend and colleague, Moshe.”

  Moshe was a tall man in his late thirties, with close-cropped hair, a clean-shaven face, and a pair of rectangular, rimless glasses. His blue eyes flitted between Eli and Justin for a moment, then he offered a small smile to Carrie.

  “Eli, you look in great shape.” Justin gave Eli’s hand a firm handshake, then did the same with Moshe. “My partner, Carrie.”

  “Gentlemen,” Carrie said and shook their hands.

  “What happened to your hand?” Eli asked Justin when they had taken their seats.

  Justin shrugged. “Long story.” He moved his chair closer to the table and glanced at the red-and-white tablecloth. “How’s the coffee?” He pointed at Eli’s empty cup in front of him.

  “Perfect. That’s my second cup. Moshe here loved his gelato. What flavor was it?”

  “Mochaccino and chestnut.”

  “Mhhhh, I’ll try that.” Carrie said.

  “I’ll have the coffee. You want anything?” Justin asked.

  “We’re fine,” Eli said.

  Justin stood up and walked to the counter. He did not want to wait for the waiter, who was busy talking to an elegantly dressed blonde woman sitting at the bar. Justin placed the order with the barman and waited. He casually studied the faces of the patrons. None of them struck him as potential operatives. But then, on many occasions, agents did not fit the usual profile.

  He shrugged. I’m just being paranoid. The Turkish episode.

  The barman ran the espresso machine, then meticulously prepared Carrie’s gelato cup. When Justin saw and smelled it, he decided to get one for himself as well. He asked for a tray, then took everything to the table. “Here you go,” he said and offered Carrie her gelato.

  “You read my mind.” She smiled and gestured at the second cup.

  “Eh . . . sure.” He slid it toward Carrie.

  “No, I’m joking. I know you have a sweet tooth.”

  Justin shrugged then looked at Eli. “How’s life treating you?”

  “We went through a rough patch a couple of months ago, but now things are better.”

  “I heard about it. The Syrian job.”

  Eli nodded. “Yes, the endless civil war threatened to spill over the border. There were almost daily incursions, rockets launched to test our patience. But things came to an end.”

  Justin leaned forward. “You mean Mossad eliminated whoever was ordering those raids?” His voice had dropped to barely a whisper.

  Eli grinned. “I can neither confirm nor deny such claims, Justin. I’m just telling you the raids stopped.”

  Justin smiled. “Well, I’m glad they did.”

  “How’s the gelato?” Eli asked Carrie, who had already taken a couple of spoonfuls.

  “Delicious. You should try some.”

  “I wish I could. My cholesterol. And my wife.” Eli grinned.

  “What happens in Rome stays in Rome . . .” Justin’s voice trailed off, and he spread his hands over the table.

  Eli shook his head. “My wife has a way of finding out. I can’t hide much from her.”

  Justin sipped his coffee. “On the topic of people hiding things, what do you have for us?”

  Eli reached into the briefcase by his feet and pulled out a black folder. A series of letters Justin assumed were Hebrew were stamped across the cover. “This is what we’ve found so far. It’s not much, but the prince likes to keep a low profile.”

  Justin slid his chair closer to the red brick wall behind him and skimmed through the first page of the report written in English. Some general data about the prince’s background, information on his wealth, major business deals, and partners. He flipped to the second page, which was more interesting. It reported on the prince’s companies’ suspicious activities in parts of northern Iraq.

  Eli gestured toward the folder. “It’s clear some of his operations are not kosher. Suspected ties to terrorists, but nothing confirmed. No concrete evidence, but plenty of inferences can be drawn from the company he keeps.”

  Carrie glanced at the folder, then at Justin.

  He noticed her glance, then nodded for her to speak whatever was brewing in her mind.

  Carrie said, “Could there be more at play here, more than we’re seeing?”

  “What do you mean?” Eli said.

  “Well, it seems that Prince Al Khater is in bed with terrorists, supplying them weapons, ammunitions, and logistics. But what if he was actually working for someone else?”

  Eli peered into Carrie’s gray-blue eyes. “Like for a security agency?”

  “Yes, and I’m not suggesting it’s Mossad, no.” Carrie shook her head.

  “Could he be working for the Saudis?” Moshe said.

  Justin shook his head. “The Saudis and the Qataris have been at each other’s throats for a while. I don’t see Prince Al Khater as a Saudi puppet.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised how many world leaders’ strings are actually being pulled by the Kingdom of Saud,” Eli said in a somber tone. “Even some respected ‘democratic’ Western leaders have Saudi petrodollars running through their blood.”

  “Perhaps this is something that needs exploring,” Carrie said.

  Moshe asked, “But why would someone, whoever it is behind Prince Al Khater, have a need for him? And, on the other hand, why would Prince Al Khater need to be someone’s tool?”

  Carrie shrugged. “Connections, access, protection. These wars raging in the Middle East and all over the world have their financiers, people who rake in profits. Weapons dealers are the first to benefit from wars.”

  Eli nodded. “The Iraqi government might also be involved.”

  “Or others involved in the wars in that country,” Justin added.

  “Yes, we have many leads,” Eli said, “but nothing concrete. It might all seem lost, but that’s not the case.”

  Justin locked eyes with Eli. “What do you mean?”

  “Turn the page.”

  Justin did so and did a double take. “When’s this happening?”

  “A week from now. The prince is sending a new shipment. We’ve traced it to Cyprus.”

  “What’s the destination?”

  “We don’t know. And here’s where you and Carrie come into play.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  February 12

  Piazza Navona

  Rome, Italy

  Justin took a long moment to ponder Eli’s words. He had explained in broad terms the plan, which sounded quite outlandish at first. But the more Justin thought about it, the more it started to make sense and become more reasonable. “How well do you know these . . . eh, let’s call them ‘partners’?”

  Eli shrugged. “As well as we can assume to know our assets, Justin. You know how these things work.”

  “Yes, and the last time we trusted a Mossad asset, we almost paid for it with our lives.”

  Eli frowned. “Justin, keep your voice down. I thought we weren’t going to bring up that old episode. Water under the proverbial bridge.”

  “Sure, I have no hard feelings, Eli. But it would be stupid of me not to wonder if I’m ending up in the same situation.”

  “You’re not, and here’s why: Nasser is not your run-of-the-mill asset. He’s a revered Palestinian leader, although not as powerful as he used to be when he fought with Hamas. Many people still trust him, even though he’s behind bars.”

  “And how did he become Mossad’s asset?” Carrie asked.

  Eli shrugged. “It’s a long and complicated
story. Nasser has a large family, most of which live in the Palestinian territories. If he wants them to see another day, he’d better cooperate.”

  Justin nodded. He reached for his coffee cup, but found it empty. He shrugged then said, “Okay, he has a strong motivation to tell the truth. Or maybe he’s fed up and is looking for the ultimate set-up.”

  Eli nodded. “Yes, that’s a possibility, very slight, but still, it could happen. The risk we take in such operations.”

  “Who are the other drivers?” Carrie asked.

  Before Eli could answer, Justin slid his gelato toward Carrie. “Do you want this?”

  “You sure?” she said.

  “Yes, you’re done with yours, and I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “Sure, can’t let scrumptious gelato go to waste.” Carrie lifted a spoonful.

  Moshe said, “The other drivers, yes, well, I’m going to be one of them.”

  Eli gave Moshe a pat on the back. “See, you’ll be in very good hands.”

  Justin nodded. Mossad was putting some skin in the game. In the last Mossad-planned operation, it was only Justin and Carrie. While the probability of a set-up remained high, the chances of Mossad tricking them dropped considerably, since the mission involved one of their own operatives.

  Moshe continued, “Being a driver for the prince’s convoy requires a recommendation from a trusted source. Nasser still has influential friends running smuggling lanes in southern Syria, western Iraq, and the entire region. They’ll put forth some of their own trusted people. But it will be up to Prince Al Khater to approve the final crew.”

  Carrie leaned forward and said, “He actually gets involved in such small details?”

  Eli said, “He does. When it comes to illicit weapons delivery to terrorists, Prince Al Khater monitors and makes all those decisions personally.”

  “And when would we know about this approval?”

  “Three, four days at the most. At least, that has been the case in previous deliveries we’ve tracked.”

  “You’ve done this before?” Justin asked Moshe.