by Rick Jones
When Paled was left alone in the chamber, Shifra shut off the console, removed a micro SD card the size of the nail on the pinky finger from its slot, and placed it within a small compartment inside the thick framework of her glasses.
Walking away from the console and removing her lab coat, she was met by the lab manager.
“Going somewhere?” he asked. He was holding a clipboard in his hand.
She nodded. “Home emergency. I’ll be back in an hour.” But she knew that she would never see him or anyone else ever again, because she had just compromised her position. And it wouldn’t take Mossad long to find out.
Leaving the building, she moved quickly to a cabstand one-half kilometer from the building’s location. It was a designated spot where a specified cab would drive by every thirty minutes, the driver also a CIA operative.
After ten minutes a cab pulled to the curb and picked up Shifra, the cab then working its way back into traffic.
Neither of the operatives spoke to each other. They simply reacted. When the cab driver opened a slot whose function was to transfer money from the rider to the driver, Shifra removed her glasses, closed the stems, and placed the eyewear into the small container.
The driver then closed the slot and quietly removed the glasses, his eyes locked onto the direction that he was driving. When they reached a train station twenty kilometers south of Yoqneam, the driver fed the slot with a train ticket then passed it back to Shifra, who took it without question.
Shifra already knew what it was. It was a ticket to a safe house approximately 200 kilometers northeast of their position. From there she would be transported to a safer region, then back to the U.S. for reassignment.
Getting out and closing the door, Shifra rummaged through her purse and grabbed an identical pair of eyeglasses, only this one didn’t have the compartment, and donned them.
Once she reached the safe house she would no longer be Shifra Mattiyahu, but Jessica Tannenbaum, an American operative who had escaped Mossad headquarters with damning evidence that would alter global perception.
#
The cab driver drove to a secluded area and pulled his vehicle over. After removing the micro SD card from the glasses and inserting it into an adapter, he hit a button on the central console and an electronic panel with a mini-screen rotated into position so that the screen faced him. He then placed the adapter into its slot, keyed in commands, and watched the data play out on the video screen.
After watching the video play out to its entirety, he then saved the file, typed in a cyber-address, and then hit the ‘send’ button. After ten seconds the screen informed him by confirmation that the file was received.
The Company commanders at Langley were now watching the video.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Saint Viator’s
Las Vegas, NV
Kimball Hayden was sitting in one of the forward pews closest to a reproduction of Michelangelo’s Pieta. It was the only statue inside the church.
In front of him was the altar, inside the apse, with the elevated image of Christ hanging on the cross high above the floor. Above that and below the now defunct belfry was a stained-glass window of the Virgin Mother reaching out to those in the audience with her arms extended, her image cast in bright reds and yellows and blues.
He sat for almost an hour wishing that he knew the words to the Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary, simple prayers. But instead he spoke openly, his words echoing off the walls with a hollowness as empty as the surrounding pews.
“Why?” he asked. “Why her? Why Sister Abigail?”
But there was no answer.
Only the glass-stained image of Mother Mary reaching out to him as if to take him into her embrace.
He then closed his eyes, trying to force away an anger that was brewing deep inside him. Sister Abigail was a gentle breed who was a far better person than Kimball hoped to be. She was kind and giving, her spirit pure. And if there were more people like her, he thought, then there would be no need for people like him.
He slowly curled his fingers over the top of the pew before him and gripped it so tight that his knuckles turned white. In a reaction overwhelmed by intense anger, he ripped the pew from its mounting, the bench pulling free from the floor. Realizing what he did, Kimball stood and rearranged the bench so that it was, although loose from its mooring, aligned with the rest of the rows.
He looked up at the Virgin Mary. But he did not beg her for forgiveness. Instead, he asked her to watch over Sister Abigail and to keep her well.
It was a simple request.
And then he fell back into his seat, his legs buckling beneath him, Kimball falling hard into place as if defeated. I did this, he said to himself. I thought I could protect Saint Viator’s. But I couldn’t. If I only left things alone, then Sister Abigail would be sitting beside me talking about a future family. She’d be talking about juggling her servitude between God and family as best she could, because she could love both equally.
I did this.
Kimball had seen the adoration in her eyes, had noted their sparkle of zest whenever she looked or spoke to him, or whenever she fell within the presence of his shadow. His fondness for her was growing extreme. And his hope to be with her and see her through this was paramount.
He stood and leaned forward, his hands gripping the backs of the pews before him, and once more he looked at the stained-glassed image of the Holy Mother. Please . . . Please allow me to love somebody. And for the longest moment he stood there expecting an answer, perhaps a whisper of a wind telling him that his salvation had finally been achieved, and that the answer to his plea would be ‘yes.’
All he heard was silence.
Removing himself from the pew and walking to the rear of the church where the founts of holy water were, Kimball exited Saint Viator’s and made his way to the hospital, asking Mother Mary to help Sister Abigail with every step taken.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Madrid Barajas Airport
Madrid, Spain
During their layover in Madrid, Abraham Obadiah was sitting across from Ezekiel inside the terminal when his satellite phone rang. On the screen was the number 0006, an identity number from one of the select few closest to him. Yitzhak Paled was not among them.
Obadiah stood up and excused himself. “I have to take this call,” he told Ezekiel.
But Ezekiel didn’t respond. Instead, he reacted as if he didn’t hear anything at all, the former Vatican Knight reading articles in the newspaper unperturbed.
As Obadiah walked away he clicked on the phone. “The news must be quite pressing for you to call me,” he said.
“You’ve been marked for termination,” the voice returned evenly.
“Impossible. I’ve gone offline before without consequences.”
“This time it’s different. You walked away with a valuable asset. And you know as well as I do that the only compassion the principals feel is the compassion to protect the interests of Israel. You deliberately removed and withheld property considered to be a weapon of mass destruction. Your purpose for taking the item is unclear to them. But the bottom line is this: your intentions were unjustifiable in the eyes of Mossad’s leading members. By appropriating that vial without the authorization of leadership command, they had no choice but to classify you as a rogue agent. They’re hunting you down in order to get that vial back.”
Obadiah immediately scanned the terminal. There were cameras everywhere. In response that was driven by equal measures of instinct and caution, he turned his head away from the cameras and faced the floor to make it difficult for facial recognition programs to confirm his identity. More than likely, he considered, the detection had already been made. They would have to leave the terminal by car in order to avoid Mossad’s net.
“They know better.”
“All they know is that the mission is incomplete. You hold a vial that contains the ability to wipe out pockets of civilization. A vial that should have
been transferred to the couriers where it would have been transported to a controlled environment.”
“The vial is secure.”
“If that vial is appropriated and your identity is compromised and traced back to Mossad, then you jeopardize the standing of Israel in the global community. The current mission of taking out the nuclear facilities in Iran would then be brought into question, when it is Mossad who is in possession of the strain and not the terrorists.”
Obadiah closed his eyes. He had always been a valued operative for the Lohamah Psichlogit, always reshaping public perception to keep Israel safe, not to put it in the spotlight. Everything his contact said was true and to the point. No matter what he did for his country yesterday no longer mattered. What mattered was his current actions. Israel was only concerned with today and tomorrow.
Then: “Yitzhak knows that I wouldn’t have gone rogue or double.”
“It was Yitzhak who ordered the termination,” he quickly returned. “You left him no choice. And the principals summarily agreed after they viewed the videos regarding Bensenville. What you have in that tube should be under controlled conditions. It’s not to be carried about as if it was a baton in a track meet.”
“Talk to Yitzhak,” Obadiah told him. “Tell him that I will return the strain intact.”
“I can’t. If I do that he’ll know that I communicated with you, which puts me in a precarious position. He’ll want to know where you are.”
Obadiah looked up at the cameras. “He already knows,” he said dimly. And then he hung up.
#
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv
It didn’t take long for Yitzhak Paled to return to home base from Yoqneam. And right now he stood at the control center looking at the bank of high-tech screens lining the walls. His priority at the moment was to locate Abraham Obadiah. With screens rolling, Mossad had utilized its specialized software program to read certain landmarks on the faces of individuals, and then identify them. And they did this by intercepting live feeds from cameras all over the globe.
But since Obadiah had last been confirmed going through the passport gate in Mexico City and was heading for Rome via a Madrid stopover, all camera interceptions were concentrated to his last known disembark point at the Madrid Barajas Airport.
It didn’t take long to find him.
“There he is,” said Yitzhak, pointing. “I need a field team there immediately.”
A console manager wearing a headpiece and lip-mike confirmed that the nearest team was approximately thirty minutes away.
“Just get them there!” shouted Yitzhak.
The image of Obadiah standing and talking on the phone consumed several screens. He was on the phone, talking, and then he looked at the cameras a moment before hanging up. What was so eerie to Yitzhak was that Obadiah seemed to be looking straight at him through the screen, as if trying to pin him with a stare. And then Obadiah took his phone, pressed a single number, and brought the phone to his ear. All the while looking into the camera as if to say: I know you’re watching.
One second later, Yitzhak’s private cell phone began to ring.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
UMC Hospital
Las Vegas, NV
The closest trauma center to Saint Viator’s was UMC, less than a mile from the church. When Kimball walked into the center he immediately inquired about Sister Abigail, and was told that she was in the care of emergency specialists. When he asked to see her, he was denied. So Kimball took it upon himself to find his own way without assistance, and followed the signs.
He had taken the elevator to the ground floor and wended his way through the corridors, to the ambulance bay. Once there he simply walked into the trauma bays unimpeded and without security. Doctors and nurses were scrambling. And the center appeared full with emergencies at a high number.
He went from bay to bay peeling back the curtains to grab a view Sister Abigail. So far she was not in any of them—nothing but elderly and a gunshot victim.
At the far end of the corridor, just as a nurse was pulling back the curtain to allow a man who was dressed in attire to perform the ritual of last rites, was Father Donavan.
Kimball began to pick up his pace. No-no-no-no-NOOOOOO!
And as soon as he reached the bay he ripped the curtain aside. Standing over Sister Abigail, who lay motionless with attached tubes and wires that were too many to count, stood two physicians, Father Donavan, and two teary-eyed people, a man and a woman, whom Kimball presumed to be Abigail’s parents.
He stepped inside the bay, slowly, his astonished eyes centering on Sister Abigail as she lay there as a billow-like device within a glass encasement next to her bed that moved in steady rhythm, pumping air through the tubes and into her lungs.
Father Donavan, who looked entirely grief-stricken, said, “Seth.”
Kimball looked at him, his mouth moving slightly as if in mute protest, and saw the book in the preacher’s hands and the ritual stole around his neck. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
“I’m giving her passage,” returned Father Donavan, his voice cracking.
Kimball nodded his head back and forth, then forced his way by her side where he got to his knee and took her hand. From his point he could see that her face was completely swollen and disfigured. The woman was hardly recognizable. “You can’t,” he said softly with hint of deep sadness. “She’s not dead.”
“I’m afraid she is,” one of the doctor’s said. “I’m afraid that Sister Abigail is brain dead. There’s absolutely no clinical evidence of any brain function, whatsoever. There’s no response to pain or cranial nerve reflexes. There’s no pupillary response or oculocephalic reflex, and there’s no spontaneous respirations.”
To Kimball, the doctor was spewing nothing more than pathetic gibberish.
With his free hand, Kimball brought it up and began to stroke her hair with the backs of his fingers, caressing her with soft touches. “She can’t die,” he whispered as he stared at her with abysmally sad eyes. “The beautiful man said that she needs to continue to give to those who need it most. That’s what he said. That she needs to continue to give to those who need it most. So she can’t die. She needs to go on and give.”
Everyone looked at each other not knowing what he was talking about, including Father Donavan, who eventually placed a gentle hand on Kimball’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze. Over his lifetime he had seen many people refuse to face the loss of a loved one, especially when it was so sudden. “Seth, she will be giving,” he said soothingly. “Sister Abigail is an organ donor. And right now a mother of four in Carson City needs her heart desperately. And a young boy in Albuquerque needs her liver. If they don’t get it in time, then they will die. Do you understand, Seth? They will die. So you’re right. Sister Abigail is giving them the greatest gift of all. She’s helping those who need her most right now. She’s giving them a second chance.”
Kimball’s face began to crack. Then, looking ceilingward, he began to vent his rage. “Why?” he asked sourly. “Why won’t You let me love somebody?!”
“All right,” said one of the physicians. “I think it’s time for this gentleman to leave. If not, then I’ll contact security.”
Kimball got to his feet with both his hands still embracing hers. Then he turned to the parents and saw the horrible loss in their eyes. Next to him, they appeared diminutive. “I’m so sorry,” he told them. “Parents should never have to bury their child. But let me say this: you both had a magnificent child in Abby. She was gentle and kind beyond description. And if there was ever a place in Heaven for people like her, then she’s looking down. You couldn’t have down a better job of raising her. I just wish that there were more people like her. More people like Abby. The world would be a much better place.”
The mother barked a loud cry and fell into Kimball, who he embraced. Though he wanted to shed tears of grief, he didn’t. That he would do in his own private time. But right now an agend
a was forming in his mind—something he had to do in order to make things right.
As Father Donavan began the ritual of last rites, Kimball left the bay and closed the drape behind him. He leaned against the wall, listening. When the final words were spoken, there was a pause of silence.
And then he heard it, the long pitch and whine of a flat-line.
Sister Abigail was dead.
#
When Father Donavan exited the bay, leaving the parents to grieve, he placed a hand on Kimball’s shoulder and walked him down the corridor as if ushering him away. “She’s with Him now.”
Kimball remained silent. And his eyes looked straight ahead at nothing in particular.
“The procedure will soon begin to have her organs removed. As a donor, she will give life to those who wouldn’t have had the opportunity if not for her.”
“I did this,” said Kimball. “I precipitated the events that led to her death.”
“No, Seth. This is not your fault. You meant well in your heart. I know that. God knows that. You can’t keep bearing crosses too great for you to manage.”
Kimball stopped and turned to face him, one man towering over the other. “You don’t get it, do you? If I didn’t pick a fight with Ferret or the Community, then she’d still be here, right?”
Father Donavan didn’t know how to answer that. Then finally: “God will—”
Kimball turned and walked away, his teeth clenched so tightly that the muscles in the back of his jaw worked.
“Seth.” Father Donavan caught up to him. “Seth, please. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“Don’t worry, Father. I know what I’m doing. And I promise you this: From this day forward Saint Viator’s will be forever safe.”
“Seth, what do you plan to do?” There was a sense of frantic urgency in Father Donavan’s tone.
“Something I should have done the day I first heard the name of Ferret.”
