No Further

by Andy Maslen

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve used those timers before. They’re not one hundred percent acc—”

  The rest of his sentence was lost in a staccato barrage of hard-edged bangs, amplified by the trumpet-shape of the cave. Almost immediately, they were drowned out by four deafening explosions as 148 tonnes of highly explosive solid fuel detonated.

  When the initial cloud of flames and smoke had roiled upwards – a quarter of a mile was Gabriel’s estimate – they could see that the top of the escarpment that had sheltered the Pioneers was cracked apart as if it were made of plaster and not millions-of-years-old rock. Vast sharp-pointed boulders had been thrown into the air and had landed hundreds of yards from the blast site.

  Gabriel turned to Eli.

  “Come on,” he said. “Given what the bomb was wrapped in, we need to get as far from here as possible.”

  She nodded. Then, in a move that equally surprised and delighted him, especially given their situation, she sandwiched his cheeks in her palms and kissed him.

  “I love you, Gabriel Wolfe. You saved my life in Cambodia; now you just helped me save my country.”

  “I love you, too. Now, like I said, unless you want to start glowing in the dark, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “Should I message Uri to tell him we blew the missiles?”

  “Wait for a fuel stop. I want to get going.”

  They slithered down the rocky slope and were back aboard the Tiger and riding hard northwest thirty seconds later. They had to stop to refuel after just ten minutes. Gabriel took the opportunity to send a signal requesting extraction to Polkovnik-leytenant Mammadzi. After refilling the tank and dumping the empty petrol can, Eli called Ziff.

  Gabriel listened in on her side of the conversation.

  “The fox is dead. We closed the den. Four cubs also dead.

  “Yes. One hundred percent. The garden is safe.

  “Thank you. I will.”

  She put her phone away and turned to Gabriel.

  “Uri says thank you. Drinks are on him when we get back.”

  Gabriel smiled.

  “Fair enough.”

  “It’s weird, though. He seemed in a real rush to get off the phone.”

  “Huh, probably had a meeting to get to.”

  The booted foot lay on its side in the sand, several hundred yards from the epicentre of the explosion at the Vareshabad nuclear weapons facility. The exposed ends of the tibia and fibula were splintered and still leaking blood, despite having been burnt black. Melted brass cartridge cases studded the terrain around the boot like gold nuggets placed to show off some grotesque piece of contemporary jewellery. The wind blowing over the boot from the direction of the former nuclear site was heavy with the stink of carnage. Blood, shit, burnt high-explosives, and the rank smell of naked terror.

  A crow hopped closer. It cocked its head on one side, eyeing the foot from a distance of six inches. Detecting no threat, it closed the gap to the length of its beak and stabbed down at the charred flesh of the ankle, jerking its head back until a scrap of meat came free. The Iranian summer didn’t usually offer such easy pickings and the crow was happy.

  Spear or Shield

  ISRAELI NUCLEAR INSTALLATION, CODENAME “JUDITH,” NEGEV DESERT

  LOCAL TIME 3.55 P.M. 5 MINUTES TO LAUNCH

  Moreno picked up the phone flashing on her desk. She looked at the monitor in front of her. In grainy black and white, it showed the blue-and-white-painted flanks of a Jericho medium-range ballistic missile. Water vapour streamed from a couple of points high on its curved sides. A second monitor showed the view from above-ground. The hatch concealing the missile had swung back revealing a black circle with a white pointed nosecone at its centre. Like an eye , she thought. A large red digital counter high on the wall of the control suite flickered through the seconds, minutes and hours until launch. As she answered, it read 4 mins 59 sec. In front of her, the missile controllers turned in their chairs to look at her. Their faces were taut. The room was taut. Almost humming with the tension.

  The Strike Controller’s authority extended to every switch, lever and button involved in the launch. Except one. A red button covered by a flip-up aluminium cover. Two tiny movements of a thumb or finger would be enough to send the 30-tonne, nuclear-armed Jericho skyward. And only the Commander had the authority to make those movements.

  Her heart was racing as she spoke.

  “This is Moreno.”

  She held her breath

  “This is Chief of Staff Samuel Cohen. Codeword is shield. Repeat, codeword is shield. Cancel the launch.”

  Moreno looked up at the counter. 4 mins 44 sec. She breathed out.

  “Understood. Codeword is shield. Codeword is shield. Cancelling launch.”

  She replaced the handset and leaned over to the mic mounted on a flexible plastic arm. Pressed the transmit button.

  “Strike Controller, Command. Cancel the launch. Cancel the launch. Confirm.”

  A man answered and even through the scratchy electronics Moreno could hear the relief in her deputy’s voice.

  “Copy, Strike Controller confirms. Launch cancelled.”

  And that was that. No panic. No screaming. A set of green lights on the control board flickered amber and then turned red. Everywhere she looked, indicators that gave readings of fuel pressure, ignition sequences and arming protocols switched to NO-FIRE mode, displaying a row of zeroes. She watched on the screen as the hatch permitting the Jericho to launch slid smoothly back into place.

  Then, and only then, Moreno sank down into the padded leather chair behind her and closed her eyes. She thanked God for delivering her. Then she shook her head violently, stood, and went to congratulate her team.

  To Life!

  Back in Jerusalem, Gabriel and Eli were invited by the prime minister’s private secretary to meet his boss in person.

  Taking tea with prime ministers did not faze Gabriel. He’d met several, and had forced one into premature retirement on an earlier operation. He’d read of Saul Ben Zacchai, Israel’s ultra-hawkish prime minister. He knew of his fierce opposition to the United Nations and, in particular, its Human Rights Council. His face, dominated by a heavily stubbled chin like a chunk of rock and those spots of colour high on his cheekbones, was equally familiar.

  Yet Ben Zacchai’s demeanour, when he welcomed Gabriel and Eli into his office, did take Gabriel by surprise. He’d been ready for gruffness, or cool appreciation, or even a statesmanlike reserve. Instead, as the private secretary withdrew, pulling the door closed behind him, Ben Zacchai enveloped Gabriel in a bear hug that threatened to crush his ribcage. He released Gabriel just enough to plant two kisses on his cheeks, then turned to Eli and repeated his embrace, though Gabriel thought the hug looked slightly less likely to crack her ribs.

  When Ben Zacchai let Eli go, Gabriel saw his eyes were glistening. He pulled a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the tears away then beckoned for Gabriel and Eli to sit on a sofa by a window commanding a view of Jerusalem. He sat opposite them, elbows on knees, leaning forwards with an expression Gabriel read as admiration, mixed with wonder. The grey eyes were wide, the mouth upturned, the head shaking slowly from side to side like a metronome.

  “I don’t know how you did it, but on behalf of the people of Israel, I want to thank you, Gabriel, and you, Eli, from the bottom of my heart.” He looked at Gabriel. “I know you suffered grievously at the hands of the Iranians. I am sorry.”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “It’s over and done with, Prime Minister. Look,” he held up his left hand and waggled his fingers as if showing off rings, “good as new.”

  “Please, call me Saul. After what you did, it’s the least I can offer you. Or maybe not. And as for your hand, I served my country in war and was captured for a time. I did not experience the brutality that you did, but I know what interrogation can do to a soldier. Make sure you get the care you need.”

  Gabriel thoug
ht of Fariyah Crace, and her continuing efforts to heal him psychologically. He didn’t think he’d need her to get over his rough treatment at the hands of the late General Razi. His own efforts in that quarter had provided all the closure he felt he needed.

  “I will, Saul, and thank you.”

  Ben Zacchai turned to Eli.

  “And you, Eliya. You were a credit to the IDF and then to Mossad. I wish we could win you back, but I hear you are doing good work with our friends in Britain. What you did today will live in my memory and, believe me, those of my colleagues in the Security Cabinet.”

  “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”

  Ben Zacchai smiled.

  “Sir? You cannot bring yourself to call me Saul like Gabriel here?”

  Gabriel saw that Eli was blushing and that she was having trouble meeting Ben Zacchai’s eyes.

  She shook her head.

  “To Gabriel you are a world leader. Another politician.”

  She glanced at Gabriel before continuing. He nodded his encouragement. Whatever she needed to say, he didn’t want her concern for his feelings to get in the way. She continued, speaking more confidently now, not hesitating as she had a moment earlier.

  “But, Saul,” she smiled as she used his given name, “to me, you are the leader of my country.” She placed her right palm over her heart as she said this.

  “Right or wrong?” he asked her.

  She only nodded.

  “Well, I know I have made enemies where my predecessors made friends, but I do what I do because I believe it is the right course of action. If the people of Israel disagree, they can vote me out in two years’ time. That is one of the joys of a democracy.” He glanced at Gabriel as if expecting a comment but Gabriel held his tongue. “A true democracy, that is. The country of which you were so recently guests lays claim to democracy, but we know where the real power resides, don’t we? The modestly titled Supreme Leader . I am merely a public servant. But enough. You didn’t come here for a lecture on politics.”

  Ben Zacchai got up from his chair and fetched a silver tray from a polished mahogany cabinet by the window. On it sat a crystal decanter half-full of a clear liquid and three cut-glass tumblers. He added ice to the tumblers from a small fridge placed unobtrusively beside the table, and poured three generous measures and handed a tumbler each to El and Gabriel. He stayed standing, so Gabriel got to his feet, Eli too. Ben Zacchai raised his glass.

  “L’Chaim! To life! And to friendship.”

  “L’Chaim! ” they replied as the rims of the three tumblers chinked brightly together, agitating the cubes of ice, which clucked and shuffled in the tumblers.

  The ice-cold spirit was smooth and very strong, numbing Gabriel’s throat on the way down and filling his nostrils with an aroma that was part figs, part olives, part dates.

  “That’s very good,” he said, his voice raspier by a touch. “What is it?”

  Ben Zacchai smiled as he sipped from his own glass.

  “Aviv 613. Israeli vodka. Made with water from the Sea of Galilee. It’s a special batch I asked them to make for me. Weapons grade.”

  He put the tumbler down on the desk behind him and hoisted himself up onto its polished surface, so his feet swung a few inches off the thick, deep-red carpet. Gabriel found the move childlike and at odds with the prime minister’s aggressive public image.

  “Now,” Saul said. “I said a minute or two ago that maybe there was something else I could offer you. Because I’ve done my research, Gabriel. This isn’t the first time you’ve helped us is it?”

  Gabriel frowned, searching his memory of other operations. Trouble was, there had been so many. “Forgive me, I’m not sure which one you mean.”

  Saul waved the apology away with a flat hand as if swatting a fly.

  “One of our people in Zurich, Amos Peled, mentioned your actions at a nightclub a year or two back. Ring any bells?”

  Now Gabriel did remember. A bunch of obscenely rich Swiss bankers and industrialists getting their rocks off at a Nazi-themed evening of “entertainment” at a private members club. The evening hadn’t gone as the club’s management had planned. He nodded.

  “It does now.”

  “We don’t forget our friends, Gabriel. I promise you, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, if you want help, call me, and I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Here’s my number. Send me a text and I’ll save your number.”

  He handed across a simple white card with the initials SBZ and a mobile number. Gabriel took a moment to study the card, committing the number to memory, an old habit. Then he took out his wallet and placed it carefully in a credit card slot.

  Later, as Gabriel and Eli sat in the British Airways First Class lounge at Ben Gurion Airport in Jerusalem, Gabriel’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and smiled.

  “Who is it” Eli asked.

  “Britta.”

  “Well go on, then. Answer it!”

  Britta’s voice warbled as the cell towers, satellite links and undersea cables connected two people sitting 2,034 miles apart.

  “I have a couple of days off next week,” she said without preamble. “Can I come to see you?”

  He hesitated. But only for a microsecond. If Britta noticed, she said nothing.

  “Yes, of course. I’d love that.”

  “Where are you hanging your hat these days?”

  Was that a probing question? Was she sounding him out about Eli? He decided to play it straight. To tell the truth.

  “I bought a new place. On the coast. Suffolk. A town called Aldeburgh.”

  “Old bra? Well, that doesn’t sound very nice!”

  “No, it’s pronounced—”

  Britta’s laugh was loud, and suddenly the signal cleared so that she might have been sitting right there with him.

  “I got you! For once, I got you with a joke about English. You were always picking me up on my English slang. Ha! Skämtet är på dig , Wolfe.

  “Yeah, yeah, the joke’s on me. So, when you’ve finished demonstrating your command of English idiom, I was about to say it’s the last house on the right, but I’ll text you my address.”

  “Cool. Is Monday OK?”

  Gabriel thought for a moment. Realised he’d forgotten what day it was.

  Thursday, fool!

  “Monday would be perfect. Call me when you get to Aldeburgh.”

  Their plane touched down at Heathrow on schedule. The following day, they were due at MOD Rothford for a face to face debrief with Don.

  “Shoreditch, please.” Eli said to the cab driver when they reached the front of the queue.

  After paying the fare, Eli slammed the door behind her and fished around in a pocket for her front door keys. She turned to Gabriel and smiled as the key slotted home.

  “Beer?”

  He nodded.

  “Beer.”

  They sat in Eli’s tiny back garden, sipping the cold beers from the bottle. Then Gabriel’s phone buzzed. He looked down.

  “Text from Don,” he said.

  The text made interesting reading.

  Change of plan. Come day after tomorrow.

  Eli’s phone vibrated a few seconds later. Gabriel looked across while she read it.

  “Don?” he asked.

  “Yes. Says I’m stood down until the day after tomorrow. Was it him texting you as well?”

  “Mm-hmm. Same message.”

  “Why the change of plan, do you think?”

  “Knowing the Old Man, it’ll be some day-long meeting in Whitehall with a bunch of pencil pushers.”

  Eli smiled.

  “Great. So he’ll be in a fantastic mood when we see him.”

  “We should take him a present.”

  “A punch bag?”

  “A stress ball.”

  “Two stress balls!”

  Several beers and a takeaway Chinese meal later, they fell into bed, too tired to do anything except sleep. The following morning, Gabriel was awake, showered, s
haved and dressed by seven fifteen. He brought Eli tea and toast in bed, scarfed a couple of slices down himself, swigged his own tea and left, planting a kiss on her forehead.

  “Where are you off to so bright and early?” she mumbled.

  “I’m going to start researching my family tree. See you later.”

  Disgrace

  TEHRAN

  After he learns of the disaster that has befallen Vareshabad, Iran’s Minister for Defence and Armed Forces Logistics realises what he must do. The Supreme Leader will want to know what went wrong. Why. And who was at fault.

  He leaves the office a little earlier than usual and spends the evening walking through Tehran’s streets, taking the time to really see his city. He breathes deeply, inhaling the aromas, from roses to grilling lamb. He nods courteously to a few colleagues he recognises.

  At 10.00 p.m., he turns for home. His gait is precise, measured, military, as befits a veteran of the Iran-Iraq war.

  He greets his wife with a warm and generous kiss, then heads upstairs to see his two sleeping sons. They are old enough to have separate rooms but prefer to share.

  He bends and kisses their soft, sleep-smelling heads, one after the other. Then he draws his pistol. Weeping silently, he places the muzzle against the back of his younger son’s skull and pulls the trigger.

  From downstairs, he hears his wife scream. His older son is stirring. He shoots again. His wife appears in the bedroom doorway. She is silhouetted against the light.

  “What have you done?” she whispers, when she sees the pistol.

  Then she looks past him, into the gloom. Her eyes widen.

  He points the pistol at her and as she screams again, he shoots her through her open mouth.

  Finally, he sits beside his older son’s body on the narrow bed, places the smoking muzzle of the pistol against his right temple, offers a prayer of apology to Allah, and squeezes the trigger.