He shook his head in disgust. “At least the attempt on his life seems to have reminded him to whom he owes his allegiance. His environmental officials are preventing expansion of their oil production, which benefits our economy. And he has restrained the American military from interfering with our activities in Eastern Europe and South America. He is doing nothing about the increasing jihadist efforts we support throughout the Middle East. He famously calls it ‘leading from behind’. What an imbecile. And, for the time being, he has tethered the Jews”—he spit the word out as if it had a bad taste—“from interfering with our Iranian allies’ nuclear efforts.”
It reminded Maksym that anti-Semitism still was rampant in Russia and other parts of Europe.
As an afterthought, Vasilyev said, “Also, he purposely does not secure the American border, allowing us to assist our Muslim allies in sneaking into the country. “All in all we are slowly, but surely, destroying the American Goliath.”
Maksym was taking it all in, connecting the dots instantly. “I trust, General, that you have considered the Law of Unintended Consequences.”
“What do you mean? How does that affect us?”
“We are supporting and growing the ranks of the Muslim fanatics, while weakening Israel, their natural enemy. We are supplying the Chinese with enormous amounts of fossil fuel so they can grow their war machine. They are our natural enemies. Despite our sabre rattling, we do not have a superior military, and we support it with an economy based solely on fossil fuels.”
“Your point?” Vasilyev said angrily.
“We are strengthening people who cannot be trusted, while weakening those who could contain them. A day may come when the greedy Chinese, crazy Arabs, or others turn their eyes on us.”
“Bullshit!” Vasilyev screamed. “Take away a Chinaman’s abacus and he can’t count to ten. The idiot ragheads and their Persian brothers sleep with their camels. We are the Russian Bear! They have never, NEVER seen the like of us!”
Maksym considered objecting further: Russia was succeeding with its global ambitions because the industrialized nations were consumed with concern for income inequality. The American president and the IMF were very vocal about that. The fools are redistributing themselves into impotence. But he said nothing.
Vasilyev sat silently for several moments, trying to get his anger under control. Finally, he said, “This conversation is not about Russia or the world at large. It is about you. The blunders in America have set us back in a major way. We must replace Laski and revive the operation of our network there.” He made a small motion with his right hand. “But that is not your concern. We are working with our allies in the global financial markets”—Maksym understood this to mean the AGU—“to accomplish this.”
Vasilyev continued. “The president expressed his deep disappointment to me. While he appreciates your past services, he is a visionary, a forward-looker. He must be assured that you have been rehabilitated, and can be relied upon not to fail in the future.”
“I am not one to shirk responsibility, General. But do you not realize that it is your own operative, Colonel Federov, who must share the blame for the Laski affair?”
“Federov is my responsibility, not yours. I have dealt with him. You would be wise to concern yourself with your own rehabilitation.”
“Fine,” Maksym said. “How would you like me to accomplish this?”
Vasilyev was seized by a long, wracking cough. When it was finished, he pulled a handkerchief from a breast pocket of his jacket and spit into it, replacing it in the same pocket. He reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of vodka, and took a long pull.
Maksym sensed a health issue, quite possibly a serious one. He noticed the old man’ eyes were watery and his hands were shaking slightly. When he spoke, his voice was raspier than it had been.
“In spite of the obligation to prove your worthiness again, you should enjoy the task I am assigning you. It involves Colonel Federov.”
Maksym maintained an impassive expression. Inwardly, he groaned. Not another assignment involving that Russian clown—are there no tasks worthy enough of my own unique abilities? If Federov fucks up another operation, it might very well get us both killed. “I will do whatever it is you ask of me, General.”
“Of course you will. After all, what other options do you have?” A cat-that-got-the-canary smile spread across Vasilyev’s face. “I have assigned Federov to work under the auspices of the Iranians. He will be attached as an advisor to a Quds force that is training rabid Islamists in the arts of sabotage, assassinations, and guerilla tactics.”
Maksym was puzzled. “I don’t understand. Training rug merchants is not what I do best.”
“I am aware of that,” Vasilyev said curtly. “You are the best pure killing machine I have known. You will pretend to train those Arab fools in the fine art of planning and implementing assassinations in foreign lands. But your real job will be to watch Federov. I don’t entirely trust him. His ambitions are far larger than his talents.” He looked hard into Maksym’s eyes. “If he gives any sign of betrayal, kill him immediately.”
Maksym smiled, but his crystal blue eyes were as cold as alpine ice.
Chapter 27—Zurich
On the surface, Levell seemed to have the same gruff persona he had carefully cultivated over more than seven decades, But underneath, he still grieved for the loss of his oldest friend and colleague. Law enforcement and Marine Corps authorities had yet to identify McCoy’s killer or killers. Hell, they hadn’t even developed a motive.
Ordinarily, Buster would have accompanied him on this trip, as he did to Iceland. It was SAS business. Instead, Maureen Delaney was his companion on what was supposed to look like a September-December romantic getaway. In truth, there was a very real romantic element.
They weren’t able to get a direct, nonstop flight to Zurich from DCA or IAD in Washington. They had to settle for a United Airlines flight operated by Swiss International Air Lines out of JFK. It galled Levell that the aircraft was an Airbus 330 instead of an American made plane. The flight left at 6:10 pm and, allowing for the six-hour time differential, arrived in Zurich at 8:00 the following morning. They checked their luggage through to Zermatt from the train station beneath the airport terminal. With a generous amount of francs, the couple was able to get porters to assist Levell in boarding the train quickly. Speed was an absolute necessity. The trains in Switzerland arrived and left precisely on schedule. There were no exceptions.
Having recently become lovers in real life, the two of them had no trouble filling their roles. The three-and-a-half-hour train ride was romantic; running smoothly and efficiently through scenic pastures, and past lakes, vineyards, and mountains. They changed to a cogwheel train in Visp for the final forty-minute chug up-valley to the little town in the shadow of the steep-faced, 14,700-foot Matterhorn.
Delaney had been to the town on past ski trips and insisted they book accommodations at the cliff-top Chalet Hotel Schönegg. It was romantic and had the best view of the iconic Matterhorn of any hotel in the village. But, with her Irish sense of humor, one of the moments she enjoyed best was on the approach to the hotel. A bellman from the hotel picked them up at the train station in an electric-powered golf cart. Zermatt was largely a car-free town. As the cart sped toward the base of the cliff, the driver seemed to accelerate. Delaney had watched Levell stiffen as they drew closer, his eyes widening in shock. Just as it appeared they would crash into the rock wall, the driver triggered a remote and a door sprang open in the base of the cliff. The cart shot through the opening and into a tunnel, coming to a stop in front of an elevator door.
Delaney had giggled at Levell’s short-lived discomfort; he hadn’t appreciated her amusement. If looks could speak, at that moment his scowl wouldn’t have conveyed romance.
After they settled into their room, Levell pulled a burner cell phone from his jacket pocket and placed a call. He let it ring twice then hung up. He immediately placed a second call
to the same number. A woman with an Israeli accent answered it on the second ring.
“Nice to hear your voice again, Aviva,” Levell said.
“Yours too, Clifford. It’s been a long time.”
“I’ve brought a colleague with me, Maureen Delaney. She’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.”
“If she can tolerate your company, I’m sure she’s a delightful person. I look forward to meeting her.” There was a teasing note in the woman’s voice.
“Very funny,” Levell said dryly. “We’ll see you at eighteen hundred hours. You know the place?”
“I do.”
* * *
The dinner meeting took place at the Chez Max Julen in the four-star Hotel Beau-Rivage. The restaurant and hotel were owned and operated by the family of Max Julen, winner of Olympic gold in the giant slalom in Sarajevo. The restaurant was a little more than a half-kilometer from the Chalet Hotel Schönegg. Because of the cobblestones and elevations involved in strolling around Zermatt, Levell required transportation in one of the Schönegg’s electric carts. Following a short distance behind them in another cart was an Asian man who walked with a slight limp. The couple entered the restaurant a few minutes before 6:00 pm, Central European Summer Time.
Aviva Azulay arrived just as Levell and Delaney were being seated at a table that was somewhat isolated in a corner. She bent over and hugged Levell, then shook Delaney’s hand as he introduced them. “I’m relieved to see you again, Cliff. In our business one never knows.”
“Hell, I’m too mean to die; although I can’t say some haven’t tried.”
Azulay appraised Delaney coolly and said, “At least your current bodyguard is far more attractive than the Asian man sitting at the bar.”
Her statement seemed to surprise Levell. “Is there anything the Mossad doesn’t know?”
“We hope not. I’m glad that Rhee is still with you. He’s very good.” She sat down on Levell’s left, across from Delaney, where she had a clear view of the room.
“I understand you’ve been promoted to second in command of Metsada, the Mossad’s special ops division,” Levell said. “Psychological warfare, sabotage, assassinations. How do you like the work?”
Azulay smiled mischievously. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
Their server arrived and they ordered a bottle of vintage St. Estèphe from Chateau Montrose.
When the server left, Levell looked around the restaurant and said, “Let’s cut to the chase while this place is still empty.”
Azulay nodded and turned slightly toward him. “I’m all ears, as you Yanks like to say.”
“That cesspool of humanity we call the Middle East is getting more troublesome by the day.”
“Sometimes by the minute,” Azulay said.
“As everyone in Israel…hell, the whole world, knows, my country has been taken over by the bad guys. Power has been confiscated by the executive branch. The intent is to dismantle the constitutional democracy, strip it of its military might, and bitch slap it to the world’s curb. ”
Azulay nodded again and glanced at Delaney.
Delaney picked up on it immediately. “I’m a fellow member of—”
“The Society of Adam Smith,” Azulay said.
Levell stared at her. “I take it you—Mossad, that is—know all about our organization?”
“Jews have been abused and slaughtered by every tyrant and despotic predator since Adam and Eve were thrown out of Eden. We may have been slow learners, but now we understand. We must be aware of everything that’s happening in the world around us if we’re to survive.”
Levell nodded. “Then I assume you’ll be willing to work with us, because what I have in mind involves stabilizing the Middle East in the long run.”
“You have my full attention.” Azulay’s face was expressionless.
Levell waited for the server, a young lady wearing the traditional dirndl, the historical costume of Alpine peasants, to pour their wine and leave. He filled Azulay in on the meat of his high-altitude discussion with Prince Bandar above the North Atlantic.
The Mossad agent sat quietly, digesting the information while their server took their dinner order. Levell looked around. Rhee Kang-Dae calmly sipped tea at the far end of the small bar, his back to the wall, eyes continually sweeping the premises. Outside, a light rain was falling. Two men entered the restaurant, took their coats off and shook the droplets off them. They went to the bar.
At last, Azulay said, “So you want us to strike a devil’s bargain with the Saudis. We assassinate an as-yet-unspecified terrorist and construct some miracle to halt Iranian nuclear efforts. In return, the Saudis assist your organization in crashing the oil-based Russian economy. That, in turn, weakens the tyrants in Syria and Iran while stabilizing the Middle East and Eastern Europe. I can understand why your organization is doing this, given the complete foreign policy failures of your government. What I don’t understand is, what is in this for Israel?”
Levell glanced at Delaney, then back at the Mossad agent. “In the immediate future? Not so much. But over the longer haul, the decline of Russia’s influence in the Middle East, the weakening of the ayatollahs in Iran, and the ultimate fall of the Syrian dictatorship will have a settling effect on the area. And, hopefully, our electorate in the States will come to its collective senses in the next election and sweep in a new government. One that will restore America’s dominant position on the planet by leading from the front for a change.”
“And you suggest we trust the Saudis, despite all the moral and financial support their Wahhabi regime has provided to Hamas and other Sunni terrorist groups for killing our people? You may be many things, Cliff, but a fool is not one of them.”
Levell sat back in his wheelchair and sighed. “I’m not suggesting you trust them. I’m just asking you to work with them in this instance, without letting your guard down. If balance—and therefore, peace—is going to be restored in the world, it’s going to have to be through these supra-governmental, clandestine actions.
“Look, Aviva, the Saudis leave a hell of a lot to be desired in the area of trust. All Arabs do. It’s a cultural thing. But their intel people are pretty good. And they have a compelling reason to work with you on this.”
“I’m not authorized to speak for my government, Cliff, but I will convey your request to those who are.” Azulay paused thoughtfully. “I must tell you, as someone who has been your friend and colleague for many years, that you would be wise not to expect a positive response. Do you have a Plan B?”
Levell nodded slightly. “Have you ever known me not to?”
* * *
When dinner was over and Levell had settled the bill, the three of them left the restaurant. As they did, Levell and the Mossad agent both noticed the two men sitting at the bar get to their feet. They tossed some Swiss francs on the bar top and slipped into their coats. Levell threw a quick glance at Rhee, who nodded.
Outside, Levell and Delaney said good night to Azulay. As she bent over to kiss his cheek, he whispered in her ear, “Watch yourself tonight. Something’s up.”
She straightened up and opened her purse for Levell to see inside. On top of the purse’s other contents was a 9mm Walther PPS. She winked at him and said, “It’s probably just a coincidence. No one knows I’m here or why. Besides, like you, I’m not so easy to kill.” She turned and began walking away as the misty rain closed around her.
As he and Delaney waited for the electric cart that would take them back to the Hotel Schönegg, Levell reached beneath the blanket that covered his lap. His hand closed around the butt of his favorite firearm, a Browning 1911. It held seven rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. More than sufficient for the two men who were emerging from the bar. Particularly with Rhee behind them.
The men were of medium height, lean with dark, swarthy complexions. They paused briefly outside the restaurant to turn up their collars against the rain, barely glancing in Levell’s direction. After a moment, they began
walking quickly in the opposite direction from the one Azulay had taken.
Rhee dropped quietly to the ground from a second-floor window, startling Delaney. He’d left the restaurant through the interior connection with the hotel lobby, climbed the stairs and taken a position at a window overlooking the street.
“Mr. Rhee, you alarmed the lady,” Levell said with mild amusement.
The Korean smiled sheepishly. “I sorry. Do better next time.”
“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time. Not on this trip anyway,” Delaney said.
Chapter 28—Dingle, Ireland
Early May had arrived on the Dingle peninsula. The weather was warmer, but just as windy, wet, and green as any other time of year. Whelan was reviewing bills in the small office just off the B&B’s kitchen. The other Dogs, with the exception of Almeida, had either gone for a long training run or down to the local gym. Almeida had singlehandedly killed a bottle of cheap tequila the previous evening and was still in bed. The special Sat phone Whelan and Levell used for encrypted conversations—which included all their conversations—was on the desk beside him. It beeped.
“Black Bush,” he said, using a code name Levell had given him just in case the impossible had happened and someone other than Levell was on the line.
“Bailey here,” Levell said. Whelan wasn’t amused by Levell’s use of the names of Irish alcoholic products as call signs. The late Buster McCoy’s handle had been “Guinness.” Alcoholism wasn’t any more prevalent in Ireland than it was anywhere else—he knew many Irish people who didn’t drink alcohol at all. What, he wondered, was behind the global perception that the Irish were a bunch of drunks?
“I hope you’re going to tell me you have a plan to move the men somewhere else.”
“Why?” Levell said. “I thought you guys were like the Three Musketeers. You know, one for all and all for one.”
Endanger Species: Part 3: A Sleeping Dogs Thriller Page 2
