Deception

by Ethan Jones

  The colonel said, “I thought I made clear the necessity of working with Mossad in this operation. As the saying goes, The enemy of my enemy is my friend. This might feel despicable to us, but it’s a necessary evil. Don’t lose focus of all the good that will be achieved at the end.”

  Kanno shook his head at the colonel’s Machiavellian approach and said nothing.

  Colonel Bukhari said, “Well done, then. Say goodbye to the guards, if you haven’t done so already…”

  “We’ve sent them on their way,” Otayf said.

  “Good, now get ready for the next trip.”

  “Where are we going?” Kanno said, not expecting the colonel to reply.

  “It’s unclear, at the moment, but not too far from home…”

  “I hope it’s somewhere nice.”

  “It should be. You’ll get all the instructions tomorrow.” Colonel Bukhari ended the call.

  “So, where do you think is next?” Otayf asked Kanno, who still had a stern frown stamped on his face.

  “Not too far from home… That can mean anything…”

  “I hope it’s not Iran.”

  “Not at this point, but I wouldn’t exclude the possibility. If the Canadian and… the woman head into Iran, which they’d have to do, our orders will be to track them down.”

  “And kill them.”

  “Yes, that would be my preference.” Kanno grinned.

  He glanced at the bright lights of a car zooming through the intersection. “Let’s go back to the hotel.” He opened the SUV’s front passenger door. “I still need to go to the gift shop.” He nodded toward a large billboard in the distance advertising a shopping mall, which had jogged his memory.

  Otayf nodded. “For your mother?”

  Kanno returned the nod. “Yes, I promised her a cashmere shawl from Qatar. I’m not going back empty-handed and become a liar.” He slid into his seat and buckled his seatbelt while Otayf walked around. When he entered the Toyota, Kanno asked, “Are you getting anything for your wife?”

  “I should. I just don’t know what to get her…”

  “Give her a call and ask.”

  Otayf grunted. “Yes, maybe I should.”

  “Do it. She’ll like it that you thought of her.”

  “But I didn’t…” He put the car into gear.

  “You don’t have to tell her that. In fact, say nothing at all. I’ll help you pick up something. Jewelry, you can never go wrong with jewelry. All women love that.”

  “I don’t know what she likes.”

  Kanno sighed. “We’ll figure out something. First, drive north to the place where we left the aide’s bodyguards and driver.”

  “The police would have found them by now.”

  “I want to make certain. We can’t afford any mistakes with the colonel.”

  Otayf nodded. Colonel Bukhari had built a reputation as an unforgiving man. He considered mistakes as signs of weakness and unskillfulness, which reflected negatively on him. The first time Kanno and Otayf made a mistake would be the last time they worked in such sensitive covert operations.

  Kanno said, “Then, we’ll study the next phase. Wherever the colonel is sending us, there won’t be many changes to the plan. The gist remains the same: trick the foreign operatives into following the tracks we’re laying in front of them…”

  Chapter Five

  The Pearl Hotel, Al Annabi Street

  Al Rayyan, Qatar

  Javin’s and Yael’s hotel suite was on the second floor of the nondescript two-story hotel. Sparsely furnished with just the bare necessities, it served the purpose of providing relative safety during their one-night stay. Yael had just finished making a pot of coffee, and Javin was setting up to call his boss.

  She offered him a cup of coffee and sat on the threadbare gray sofa.

  “Thanks,” Javin said.

  Yael nodded and looked at the phone ringing on the small coffee table.

  A moment later, a strong, firm voice said, “Javin, how did it go?” It was Michael Bateaux, Director of Intelligence for the Central Europe Division.

  “Oh, not good, not good…”

  “What happened?”

  Javin gave him a brief account of what took place at the Morocco Nights Restaurant.

  Bateaux asked a few questions, mostly to understand some of what he considered gaps in the narrative.

  Yael jumped in a few times to voice her suspicions or when she believed Javin’s story didn’t accurately reflect the state of affairs. “I believe Al-Attiya is behind the shooting,” she said. “Even if his men weren’t directly involved in the gunfire exchange, they must have been irresponsible with the intel about the meeting.”

  Javin gave her a sideways glance. “Oh, so it’s a different story now?”

  “No, the same story. Either way, Al-Attiya is to blame…”

  Bateaux said, “Folks, this isn’t about pointing fingers; it’s about figuring out what to do.”

  Yael shrugged and looked at Javin. She leaned over the phone, then said, “I’m not telling you how to do your job, but I wouldn’t give intel to Al-Attiya. Clearly, we can’t trust that man.”

  Javin said, “We might not trust the Qataris—or most people we work with, for that matter—but the truth is that we need Al-Attiya. He’s our connection to the prince and the people we’re meeting with in Bahrain.”

  “Yes, about that.” Bateaux cleared his throat. “We’ll double-check the intel, make sure it’s accurate, and that you’re not walking into a trap.”

  “By all means,” Javin said. “I still haven’t received the files from Al-Attiya. As soon as I do, I’ll forward them to you.”

  “Yael, have you briefed Mossad?”

  “Negative. This update had priority.”

  Javin wasn’t sure if Yael meant it, but her words came across as sincere.

  “After they’ve checked, share everything with us.”

  “Of course we will.” Yael gave Javin a disinterested look, since Bateaux was pointing out the obvious.

  “I know this is obvious,” Bateaux said, “but I want to make sure we’re on the same page here. No offense, but Mossad is known to be very secretive at times.”

  “True, just like the CIS, the CIA, all security agencies for that matter,” Yael said.

  “Right, so let’s not have that happen here.” He paused for a moment and when no one said anything Bateaux continued, “Now, let’s work on the assumption that Al-Attiya’s intel is actionable. We don’t have anyone on the ground in Bahrain. Does Mossad?”

  “I will have to check,” Yael said. “I doubt it, but we might be able to bring in an asset or two from the Emirates.”

  “That would be useful and appreciated. Make arrangements to travel to Manama first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll have people find out anything they can about Shinwari and his associates. The CIA, MI6, we’ll gather everything we can.”

  “That’s good,” Javin said.

  “Okay, anything else?”

  He shook his head and looked at Yael. She said, “Nothing at this time.”

  “All right, Javin, Yael. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” Javin ended the call.

  Yael sighed and took a sip of coffee. “Your boss seems to have a problem with my agency…”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m here, with you.”

  Yael leaned forward and held Javin’s gaze. “But do you trust me?”

  “Do I have a reason not to?”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Javin sighed. “Look, Yael, trust is a fluid concept, like a river. Sometimes there’s more of it, sometimes less.”

  “And where’s your water, your trust level at this moment? High? Low?” She gestured with her hand.

  “It’s high. We’re in the same boat, and I’ve seen you act fair and honest at all times. But your agency…”

  “What about it?” Yael frowned.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but they tossed y
ou out not long ago—”

  “And your boss almost killed you,” Yael cut him off.

  Javin’s face drew back in a deep frown. He wasn’t expecting that from Yael. “How… how do you know that?”

  Yael smiled. “I work for Mossad. It’s my job to know things.”

  Javin shrugged. “That was a long time ago.” He didn’t want to offer the truth, which was slightly different than Yael’s version. She can believe whatever she wants to believe…

  She said, “The point I’m trying to make is that we should, we can, trust one another. Otherwise, this mission is lost before it has even started.”

  Javin nodded. “Of course, we do, but I’ll take with a grain of salt any intel we haven’t been able to confirm ourselves.”

  Yael grinned. “And I thought I was paranoid…”

  “Dead or paranoid. What’s your choice?”

  “Are those the only two options?”

  “Sometimes. Well, most of the time.”

  Yael opened her mouth to respond, but Javin’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Unknown caller ID. “No idea who this is,” he said.

  Yael stood up. “Take it. I’ve got to use the washroom.”

  Javin waited until the third ring, then said, “Yes, who is this?”

  A male voice spoke in Russian, then he switched to English. “Is this Mr. Pierce, Javin Pierce?” He spoke slowly with a heavy accent.

  “Eh, who are you?”

  “My name is Konstantin Dyomin. I work for the SVR, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.”

  Javin knew very well what the SVR was and what they did, but he didn’t interrupt the man. When Dyomin paused, Javin said, “And why are you calling me?”

  “Is this Mr. Pierce, sir?” The man’s voice turned warm but kept the initial insistence.

  Javin hesitated for a moment, then said, “Let’s say it is…”

  “Well, if it is, I can tell you that I work with Ms. Mila Kuznetsova, who I believe was a good friend of yours.”

  Javin shrugged. “Eh, yes, I know Mila.”

  “Well, my records tell me that you must have been good friends… You’re in her list of people to be contacted in case… in case something happened to her.”

  Javin frowned, and a lump formed in his throat. Mila was more than a good friend. She had expressed a deep interest in him even when he was married. He had been able to stop her advances, but later on, he had found himself in a difficult, complex situation. A set of circumstances had placed him in a lose-lose position of choosing between Mila and Liberty, who he truly loved. The situation had become untenable, and he would soon have to make a hard choice.

  “Mr. Pierce, are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes… Is Mila okay?”

  “No, unfortunately, she’s not. There was an incident in St. Petersburg. A firefight erupted between the team Mila was leading and a terrorist group active in the city. Mila… Mila was killed…”

  “What? No, no, I… I just talked to her the other day…”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce.”

  Javin shook his head, baffled by the bad news. He felt like something had been broken on the inside, and a complete emptiness overtook him. “When… when’s the funeral?”

  “There will be no funeral. Mila’s desires. Her body is with her family. She’ll be cremated tomorrow in a small private ceremony, and only her family members will participate. Her ashes will be scattered at her parents’ property south of Moscow.”

  “I want to know what happened… How did this happen?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you more details. Her operation was classified, and her name will not be released to the media until the end of the incident’s investigation.”

  “But… she can’t…”

  “Again, I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce. I’ll have to go now. I have a list of people I need to notify about her… Mila’s passing.”

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  “Take care, Mr. Pierce.”

  Javin ended the call and stared at the phone. He didn’t know what he was feeling. One moment he was in disbelief, the next one he felt anger overwhelm him. He drew in a series of deep breaths but didn’t feel any calmer. Could this be a mistake? She… How did this happen? He felt a twinge of guilt because he had delayed making a decision. I should have talked to Mila; I shouldn’t have left her hanging. He frowned. But what would I have decided?

  He sighed and cursed out loud just as Yael walked into the room. She gave him a stumped look. “Javin, what’s wrong?”

  “I just learned that a good friend passed away. Mila’s dead…”

  Chapter Six

  Emirates Gate Hotel

  Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates

  Thomas “Tom” Murphy looked at the bustling city underneath his sixth-story hotel room. It was almost midnight, but one couldn’t tell by looking at the rushing traffic. The flickering lights of the zooming vehicles, the colorful display of the fully lit streets with bright electronic boards advertising on almost every corner, and their reflection on the waters off the Corniche Road made for an amazing sight.

  Murphy couldn’t enjoy any of it. He was expecting orders from his employer, orders that could come at any moment and would take him to a new location. His employer had insisted that all communications be carried out by courier. Murphy’s operation was so sensitive that there couldn’t be any records, written or otherwise.

  It was an assassination.

  Murphy had been a CIA operative stationed in various countries in the Middle East and Europe until a mission in Geneva, Switzerland had ended his career as he knew it. The joint operation with the SVR and the CIS had left Murphy with permanent damage to his right shoulder joint. He had lost some of the range of motion, and his arm would become stiff and weak all of a sudden, so weak that he could barely lift a cup of coffee.

  Two surgeries had resulted in partial repair of the shoulder, but physical therapy wasn’t bringing about the expected results. The doctors weren’t as hopeful as they’d been shortly after the surgery. The recovery had been slow and painful. Murphy had failed some of the physical fitness requirements to return to active duty, and the injury had begun to affect his mental wellbeing. He had been placed on prolonged leave and barred from field operations until he was deemed fit for duty. Murphy doubted he’d ever come to that point.

  As his savings began to dry up, and boredom began to take over, Murphy had thought about working as a private security advisor. However, a mysterious caller had contacted him about a contracted hit. Reluctantly, Murphy had agreed to go to the face-to-face meeting with a young woman, who claimed she worked for a former CIA director who needed to tie up some “loose ends.” Those were her exact words. When Murphy learned about the identity of the targets, the Mossad operative Yael Rosenberg and the CIS agent Javin Pierce, he had accepted the assignment without further questions. Murphy blamed Pierce, his partner in the fateful field operation, for making a series of tactical mistakes, which had placed Murphy in a vulnerable and eventually a painful position. He welcomed the opportunity for revenge. The fact that he would be paid for the pleasure made the task twice as enjoyable.

  Murphy looked at the picture of Pierce that he had placed as wallpaper on his phone. It showed the CIS operative with wavy brown hair, a narrow forehead, inquisitive brown eyes, and a long thin nose. His oval face was clean-shaven, although once in a while he sported a full goatee. Javin had a small smile on his face. I’ll wipe that smirk off your face, you—

  The phone ringing interrupted his train of thought. It was the woman’s number, the liaison to his employer. “Yes,” Murphy said in his usual strong, firm voice. “Why the delay?” The woman, the courier, was supposed to have contacted him an hour earlier.

  “I’m downstairs in the lobby. Second floor,” the woman said curtly and hung up without another word.

  Murphy cursed out loud. He hated this woman and her refusal to get into arguments with
him. But she was efficient, resourceful, and inventive, qualities he had learned to appreciate in anyone, regardless of how he felt about them.

  Murphy picked up his wallet and his phone and climbed down the stairs. He found the woman sitting in one of the cream-colored couches, near the far end of the lobby, by the fire exit door. She was dressed in a dark blue jacket and matching pants. A headdress a shade lighter than the jacket covered her raven hair. A coffee cup and a black folder lay on the small table in front of her.

  “Ms. Fakhry. I was expecting you an hour ago.” Murphy said with a frown as he sat across from her.

  The woman shrugged and reached for her coffee. “I’ve ordered you a buttered rum latte.” She gestured at the coffee bar at the other end of the hall. “Maybe it will lift your mood…” Her voice was soft and warm, with just a tinge of the Arabic accent.

  Murphy’s frown remained on his face. “My mood will improve when I’m not forced to sit and wait, like a dog on a leash…”

  Fakhry fixed her headdress, then tipped her head at the folder. “Intel doesn’t just collect itself. Good things take time. You know that,” she said in a low voice.

  The nearest patrons were about ten steps away, and Murphy doubted they could hear anything, even though the lobby was quiet. He sighed and sat back in his seat.

  Before he could say anything, a waiter appeared with his drink. He took it before the man placed it on the table and looked at the foamy top. The smell of cardamom and rum filled his nostrils. He stirred the latte but didn’t drink from it. He looked at Fakhry and asked, “So, what are these good things?”

  “The targets are still in the country, but the attack will not take place here.”

  Murphy shook his head. He leaned forward and spread his hands. “Why not? I can take care of this tonight,” he answered in a whisper.

  “The boss considers this area too hot—”

  “What? Your boss needs to come here and have a look around.” Murphy gestured with his hand.

  Fakhry sipped her coffee and said nothing for a long moment. “How’s your latte?”