The Deadliest Game

by Hal Ross

  It was a beautiful morning: clear sky, eighty degrees. As they drove, Blair felt a nervous excitement. Just being here, in this country, helped him feel closer to his daughter than he had in weeks.

  The driver, a good-natured gentleman in his mid-fifties, gave a running commentary about each town that they passed.

  They had left Nablus twenty minutes ago and were approaching the site of Blair’s first prearranged meeting. He couldn’t see it, but the driver told him that off in the distance sat the separation barrier, manned by Israeli army personnel.

  Self-consciously, he fingered the envelope in his pants pocket. Twenty thousand dollars in cash, seven of which was from his personal savings account. The same seven thousand he had offered to Jeremy as a bribe in what felt like ages ago. The balance was a loan from his bank, having used his condo as collateral.

  Suddenly, the driver swerved and came to an abrupt stop. All four doors of the car were yanked open. Blair counted no less than six men in their early twenties. There were no guns. No weapons of any kind. At least, none that he could see.

  “Step out of the car!” one of them barked.

  Blair hesitated.

  “Mr. Mulligan, I will not ask again.” Voice guttural, sounding angry.

  The fact that he was addressed by name frightened him even more. Blair slowly came out of the car. “What is this about?” he asked.

  The same man indicated toward a black Jeep, its motor running. “Get in!” he demanded.

  Blair looked around for a means of escape.

  Too late, one of the men took hold of his arm and led him forward. He was pushed into the back seat without pause or ceremony.

  There were no blindfolds, no attempt at subterfuge. Three of the men had gotten into the Jeep with him. The remainder had commandeered the driver and car Blair had contracted at his hotel.

  It was slow going as they wended their way through traffic. Blair was sandwiched in-between a man on either side. He turned to the one on his left and asked where they were taking him.

  He got no answer.

  A few blocks later, he tried again: “Look—I’m an American citizen. You can’t treat me this way.” It sounded lame and ridiculous, but he forged ahead. “I deserve some answers.”

  The silence only continued.

  They pulled into the underground entrance of a nondescript building. From his knowledge of the city, Blair guessed they were somewhere in central Tel Aviv.

  They entered a lobby with a bank of elevators. The men chose the stairs. Blair considered his options. One of the men had taken the lead; two were positioned behind him. No options at all.

  The door leading to the third floor was opened and they stepped into a drab corridor, now deserted. Blair was ushered into a small room that resembled a prison cell. Poor ventilation and a vague, unpleasant odor. There was a wash basin and toilet. And a steel-framed, single bed.

  He froze.

  His suitcase was standing beside the bed.

  He glanced at the men, then back at the suitcase. Only Jeremy could be behind this, he realized. And his anger surged.

  The men left without another word. He heard a click as the door closed. He knew it was hopeless, but he tried the handle anyway.

  It was locked.

  He took a seat on the bed and cursed.

  The same three men greeted him the following morning. One carried his suitcase. Another led the way downstairs and back toward the same Jeep.

  He had spent a miserable afternoon and evening. The only break in his solitude came when his meals were brought in.

  And even then he was ignored.

  Blair recognized the road they were on, so he knew where they were taking him without being told. There were only so many flights from Israel to New York. Thus his confinement yesterday. It was simply a matter of waiting for an airline seat to become available.

  They checked him in at the El Al desk, then accompanied him through security. Instead of stopping at the gate, however, the men led the way a few hundred feet further along, through an unmarked door and up a short staircase.

  A key was used and they entered a windowless room, painted off-white, with five or six chairs lining the walls.

  Blair took a seat in the one nearest him and looked at his watch. He knew that he had over three hours before his flight was due to depart.

  He waited.

  No one spoke to him.

  Ten minutes later Jeremy strolled in with his usual swagger.

  Blair scrambled to his feet, so upset with his friend he actually cocked his fist.

  “Sandra’s been freed,” Jeremy said casually.

  Blair pulled up short.

  “It’s true,” Jeremy said. He indicated with his head.

  The other men fled the room.

  “She’s here,” Jeremy continued, once they were gone. “I asked her to wait in the hallway. I wanted to prepare you. She’s been through a lot. She’s lost weight. She looks—” He paused. “Haunted is the only way I can describe it. But its best if you don’t act surprised. Understood?”

  Blair’s heart was pounding so fiercely he could barely nod.

  Jeremy held the door open.

  Nothing happened.

  “Sandra?” Jeremy said.

  Her hair had been cut ultra short, like a boy’s. Her limbs appeared skeletal. She had a blank stare as if she were lost. And when she moved, it was with difficulty.

  Blair felt sick. She looked worse than Jeremy had described. Frail and fatigued. He swallowed the acid down, then held out his arms.

  She went to touch his cheek but quickly pulled back.

  He noticed the ugly scab where her fingernail should have been. And he wished he could have the excision reversed.

  “She’ll need a little time,” Jeremy said.

  His friend’s voice startled Blair, so engrossed had he been in seeing Sandra again.

  He reached out once more.

  She turned away.

  Blair wondered if she was being reticent because of him. Because he was the one who got her into this situation. Because she now associated him with the bad guys. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said.

  She hid behind Jeremy as if she were shy—or worse, afraid.

  Blair felt an incomparable need to hold her, to vanquish all her demons.

  “Daddy?” Sandra questioned as if finally realizing who he was.

  “Yes. It’s me, darling.”

  She left Jeremy’s side and took a slow step forward. Then another and another, until she was standing in front of him.

  He held his breath.

  She turned from Blair to Jeremy. And back again.

  “It’s okay,” he said as softly as he could manage.

  Tentatively, Sandra wrapped her arms around his waist. Then she squeezed. Gently at first. Then tighter.

  And Blair’s world stood still.

  EPILOGUE

  The man’s Air Canada flight arrived in Toronto a few minutes early from London, England, and he now stood in line at Canada customs at Lester B. Pearson Airport. He had not been able to camouflage his height, of course. But everything else about him was different: black wig, hazel-tinted contact lenses, blackish-brown mustache.

  When his turn came, he handed the agent, a woman around thirty years old of East Indian descent, his customs card and fake passport, and waited.

  The agent checked his passport, then gave the card a cursory glance. “Here on vacation, Mr. Carter?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said with a forced smile, accent all but hidden. “For five days.”

  “I hope the snow doesn’t derail your plans.”

  “Snow?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Haven’t you heard? Very unusual for November. But you know what they say about Mother Nature.” The agent used a red ink pen to scribble her code across the card. Then she handed the passport and card back to him and wished him a pleasant vacation in Canada.

  The man proceeded along the corridor, then rode the escalat
or down to the arrival’s hall. At carousel seven he waited to retrieve his luggage, which had still not made an appearance. When it did, some fifteen minutes later, he noticed his bag was slightly wet, no doubt from the snow the customs agent had mentioned. He picked it up easily, having packed light, and headed for the exit line.

  A second agent—another East Indian girl, older than the first one—accepted his card and waved him through with hardly a second glance.

  Stepping outside, he was caught unawares. His British topcoat was no match for the chill in the air. Most of the snow had been plowed, but more was falling. He was aware of Canada’s foul weather, although no one had ever mentioned that it could start this early.

  The lineup for taxis was a long one. In order to keep warm, the man hopped from one foot to the next. Finally, his turn came. The driver, a middle-aged Trinidadian with dreadlocks, asked his destination.

  “The Stanfield Hotel,” the man said, then added, “In Yorkville,” hoping he sounded like a native.

  The drive was a slow one: south on Highway 427, east on the QEW, which connected to the Gardiner Expressway. Traffic was backed up for miles. They progressed at a snail’s pace. A normal journey of a half-hour took an hour and a half.

  By the time he arrived, the man was ready to throttle someone. He was not appeased by the hotel staff’s politeness, finding it instead to be cloying: “Good evening, Mr. Carter. Glad to have you with us, Mr. Carter. We hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Carter.”

  While he was checking in, the clerk, a brunette of twenty-five or so, turned over the package that he had been expecting. “This arrived for you earlier today,” she said.

  He took it in hand without comment.

  Once in his room, he unpacked and removed the contents from the package. Then he headed out, taking the elevator to the lobby floor. Less than a block from his hotel, he reached in his pocket for his throw-away cell phone. When he couldn’t find it, he realized he must have left it in his bag upstairs.

  Frowning, Alan Carter, aka John Dalton, aka Khalid Yassin, reversed his steps.

  Avenue Road, a normally busy thoroughfare, especially as it neared Yorkville, was quiet this early in the evening. And the man realized that remaining inconspicuous would be difficult, what with the wait lasting longer than expected.

  The cold was also getting to him, especially with the way it affected his hands and feet. Thick snow flakes were obstructing his vision. As he paced back and forth, he disparaged environmentalists everywhere. He deplored their decision to call the world’s changing weather patterns “Global Warming.” A misnomer if ever there was one. In a science of endless possibilities, why they would be so obtuse was beyond him. “Global Warning,” was more like it.

  Finally, his target made an appearance, disguised as he’d been instructed, replete with wig and mustache.

  The man, going by the name of David Wells, watched as Khalid Yassin reached into his coat pocket, then brought his hand out empty. And he cursed when Yassin returned to his hotel.

  Mr. Wells found it ironic that he would be here at all. But fate had shined down upon him. Once word reached him that Yassin had taken over this operation in Canada, he wasted little time in involving himself.

  Now, the wait continued for another seventeen minutes. During this time, David Wells regretted not following protocol. By contacting the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Ontario Provincial Police, as well as the head of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force, he could have had any number of personnel at his disposal. At least then he wouldn’t be the one standing out here, freezing.

  Yassin used the cell phone, got directions, and left the hotel a second time.

  He arrived at Jane and Finch. Many of the mid- and high-rise apartment buildings in this particular neighborhood were in disrepair. Most of the residents were black, law-abiding and poor. A minority belonged to gangs or were involved in nefarious undertakings too numerous to count.

  Yassin had the cab driver let him off at the southeast corner, from which he only had to walk a few blocks.

  He entered a red-bricked building that had graffiti running up and down its walls. The lobby was in shambles: there was a black couch, torn in various sections, with stuffing sticking out. Ninety percent of the mailboxes had been ripped open.

  He took the stairs to the second floor and knocked at 217.

  Four men were waiting for him. Each was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Kaffiyehs covered their heads. Each was thin with a look of desperation in his eyes. One wore glasses. Three were tall, while one was of average height.

  “Asalaam alaikum,” they welcomed him in unison.

  “Walaikum asalaam,” he said in reply, embracing each man in turn.

  He stepped inside. The tiny apartment was no bigger than seven hundred square feet. Everywhere he looked he noticed stained wallpaper, the original color of which was deeply obscured.

  One of the men served tea. In the background, Yassin could hear a baby crying, then the sound of a woman’s voice trying to soothe it.

  The leader of the group, a boy with a pock-marked face, took the initiative. He handed a crude map to Yassin and drew his attention to the target areas that had been circled in pen. “Triple-B awaits your go-ahead,” he said.

  Triple-B, Yassin thought to himself. How appropriate. “Bathurst Bloody Bathurst” had been coined by one of the men. It stood for Bathurst, of course, a major north/south street long associated with its Jewish residents.

  “There are five targets,” the boy pointed out. “Each a synagogue, as you had requested.”

  “Estimated number of casualties?” Yassin asked.

  “Well over a thousand.”

  “Excellent.”

  “So we have your blessing?”

  “You do.”

  “Good.” The leader said. “And when can our date be confirmed?”

  Calmly, Yassin removed the Luger from his shoulder holster. It had been concealed in the package collected at his hotel when he had first checked in. “As soon as the traitor in our midst is identified,” he said.

  Mr. Wells was staying at the same all-suites hotel as Yassin. His spacious room was situated at the far end of the corridor on the fifth floor. He had requested this location for its lack of foot traffic.

  Earlier, once Yassin’s destination had been verified, he had seen no need to continue his surveillance and had returned to the hotel. But he’d been back for nearly two hours and there had been no phone call. He wondered why.

  Months ago, his man inside had apprised him of the plot, code-named Triple-B. All that remained was for the date to be confirmed. Then they could put countermeasures into effect.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost 8:00 PM. He went to the hall closet, took out his suitcase, and entered the code for each of two locks. He removed the equipment, relocked the bag, and replaced it.

  Footsteps in the corridor drew his attention. He stood to one side, and quickly attached the suppressor to his Beretta. Then he watched as a legal-sized envelope was slipped beneath the door.

  There was no indication that the person was leaving.

  He moved along the wall and lifted the folded luggage rack. He approached the door but kept clear. Then he used the leg of the rack to nudge the envelope toward him.

  Once he had it in hand, he tore the envelope open…and immediately felt faint.

  There were six photographs of his contact—Ibrihim—a twenty-one-year-old naturalized Canadian born in Lebanon. The boy was a devout Christian doing an extremely competent job posing as a Muslim extremist. Each picture was three by five, in vivid color. It hurt Wells to the core to see the puncture wounds to the boy’s face. His body was covered with cuts and burns, especially to the genital area. Nothing was left to the imagination.

  Wells let the photographs drop to the floor. Then he reached for the equipment he had removed from his bag.

  Months ago, Ibrihim had supplied details not only of what Yassin had planned, but exactly what he
and his group had in their arsenal. This included a gas identified as CO449, a product used to incapacitate but not kill.

  Wells knew that Yassin’s cell consisted of himself and three others. It wouldn’t be long now before they fired a blast of this same gas into his room. The door would be forced and they would take him captive, have him suffer a fate equal to Ibrihim’s, perhaps worse.

  But thanks to Ibrihim, he was prepared. Scientists in his home country had developed a gas to counteract the other gas, a gas that would impregnate Yassin’s group’s gas masks but not his own, and render them unconscious in a matter of seconds.

  David Wells, aka Jeremy Samson, knew he had only a few seconds left to prepare.

  Khalid Yassin was enjoying the moment. A number of months ago he believed that Jeremy Samson was a simple business associate of Blair Mulligan’s and nothing more. There had been no indication of Samson’s connection to Mossad. This bit of interesting news only came to him today, once they had made Ibrihim divulge the name of his handler. And Yassin could not believe his good fortune.

  Yassin was only here as a replacement for the man normally in charge of Canadian operations. So the thought of taking down a prime enemy of al-Qaeda was too good to be true.

  He indicated to the other men—boys, really—that they should prepare for the assault. As prearranged, he would stand guard against any interlopers before joining them.

  Positioning himself at the opposite end of the corridor, Yassin attached the silencer to his pistol. He confirmed that no one was coming. Then he gave the signal to proceed.

  They filtered the gas beneath the door. A moment later the lock was blown.

  Yassin watched as the three men, with masks attached to their faces, made their way into the room.

  Jeremy had his mask in place and released his own gas canister. Then he dashed into the bathroom and waited.