by Ethan Jones
“They are.” Javin sighed again.
“And we haven’t even gotten to the point that we don’t know the people who are behind Claudia’s kidnapping and what they’re going to do to Yael”
Javin nodded and thought about Bateaux’s words. He had made some excellent points. The likelihood of the British authorities releasing Yael was exceptionally slim.
Bateaux said, “Look, Pierce. Let me handle this. Get out of Spain as soon as you can and wait for new orders. Get to Belgium or the Netherlands.”
“I’ll do that, but we don’t have much time…”
“I’m fully aware of that, Pierce.” Bateaux’s voice flared up. “Let’s take an hour or two to think about the best approach. Nothing rash. If we mess this up, there’s no turning back…”
Javin had clenched his teeth, so he just nodded. Then he said in a low voice, “I get it.”
“Let’s touch base in two hours and see where we are. Take care now.”
“Yes, sir, you too.”
Javin drew in a deep breath and felt a stabbing pain right under the breastbone, where the bullet had struck. It didn’t feel like a bruised rib, since it had been just a small-caliber bullet. Maybe it’s pulmonary contusion. Javin nodded. He had been shot before and knew what bruised lung tissue was or felt like. He sighed and reached for his phone. Maybe Ziyad can find out more about the Saudi thug. And he can definitely fly me to Belgium under the radar…
* * *
Retrieving the wounded terrorist mastermind had put Ziyad in a good mood. He didn’t refuse Javin’s request for assistance in gathering intelligence about the dead Saudi operative, although the Bahraini made it clear that he wasn’t being generous. This was an intelligence exchange on a quid pro quo basis. Javin didn’t mind his agency being indebted to the Bahrainis in general or Ziyad specifically.
The diplomatic airplane flying under the flag of the Kingdom of Bahrain made an unscheduled stop in Brussels, the capital of Belgium. At that time, Ziyad’s agency came through with a file on Kanno. He was a field operative working for the GID, the General Intelligence Department, which was the primary intelligence-gathering agency in Saudi Arabia.
Javin wasn’t surprised at the revelation. He hadn’t expected the man to be a run-of-the-mill hoodlum.
However, the CIS operative was shocked to hear that Kanno had been to Manama, Bahrain, as recently as three days ago, at the same time as Javin and Yael. Shortly after that, Kanno had traveled to Barcelona, where he had stayed for two days, seemingly expecting the arrival of Javin’s team.
Javin had no doubt this was no coincidence. Kanno had a source, an internal source, who had betrayed Javin and his team, by giving Kanno—and whomever he was working with—detailed intelligence about the team’s plans.
A dark frown stretched across Javin’s face. There was only one man who knew all that information and who’d have a motive to betray Javin: Al-Attiya, the aide of the Qatari prince. While Javin wasn’t certain about the motive of the betrayal, it didn’t matter. Claudia was kidnapped, Javin had almost been killed, and Al-Attiya was going to pay for all of it.
But who is Peter?
Obviously, the name wasn’t Saudi, unless it was someone’s nickname. Even as a nickname, it didn’t sound Saudi. Javin shrugged but couldn’t make sense of the connection.
He walked out of the private terminal and found a somewhat quiet corner overlooking the tarmac. A sharp, bitter wind blew from the south, whipping at his hair and clawing at his face. Javin ignored it and pulled out his phone. He called Bateaux and shared what he had found with his boss, who was slower than Javin to come to the conclusion that put the blame for the betrayal squarely on the aide. “We just don’t have enough evidence,” he said more than once.
“Evidence? This might be all the evidence we ever get! You don’t think this is a coincidence, do you?” Javin asked in an incredulous tone.
“No, I’m not saying that, but we can’t move against the Qatari prince at this time. We need all the allies we can get, and we’re fighting enough fires as it is…”
“Agreed, but Al-Attiya isn’t an ally. And we wouldn’t be moving against the prince—”
“Any action would be considered a slap in the prince’s face. We can’t have that now, or ever. Is that clear, Pierce?”
“It is, sir,” Javin replied, but his voice didn’t carry the firmness implied by his reply.
Bateaux either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. He said, “The British Foreign Office is dragging its feet, claiming it needs time to evaluate the situation. They can’t make a decision until they have the MI5 and MI6 reports.”
Javin sighed and cursed. “That will take forever, and we’ll miss—”
“I explained it to them, stressing that the life of my kidnapped operative was in danger. Our minister also talked to the Secretary of State.”
“And?” Javin asked in a demanding tone.
“The minister is hopeful for a quick and positive resolution of this matter. His exact words. But the Brits are unlikely to hand over Yael if we can’t determine who wants her, and if we can’t guarantee her safety.”
Javin shook his head. “Why does it matter who these thugs are?”
Bateaux sighed and said, “Pierce, the Brits are not fools. First, there are concerns about her health. You know she’s still fighting for her life. Yes, the doctors have said she can be moved but only if necessary. She can’t fly.”
“Right, and that will be one of the conditions. Whoever is picking her up will have to come to London—”
“But we’re using her as bait, Pierce. They don’t like it.”
“If Yael could speak, she’d be okay with the plan…”
“Well, she can’t, and the Brits are firmly against it.”
“What will we do if their position doesn’t change?”
“It’s too early to worry about it. We’ll keep up the political pressure. The minister said that he’ll get the prime minister involved, if there’s no positive answer soon.”
“How soon?”
“I don’t know, Pierce. The minister doesn’t answer to me.” Bateaux’s tone was loaded with frustration.
“I understand. I’m just trying to understand our options.”
Bateaux sighed. “Yes, our options… We’re all working toward the same goal here. The Brits most likely are playing hard to get. Eventually, they’ll say ‘yes.’”
Javin wanted to ask about the plan if the answer was “no,” but he knew Bateaux wasn’t going to commit himself in his responses. So Javin simply nodded and said, “Let’s hope that happens.”
“Yes, I hope so. Remain in Brussels until we hear something.”
“Is there any other way I can help?”
“You don’t want to hear this Javin, but, no, everything is covered.”
Javin nodded again as an idea crossed his mind. A glint of hope flickered in his eyes. Not everything. You’re forgetting something crucial that will make the Brits change their minds.
* * *
Javin went for a long run along the Brussels Canal to work off all the fury and pent-up energy in his body. His mind was already in overdrive, going through an array of options on how he could carry out his own unsanctioned operation. He wouldn’t be able to count on anyone from his agency or the Bahrainis. They were already halfway to Manama, carrying the Al-Qaeda mastermind toward his doomed fate. A physician whom the Bahrainis trusted had arrived at the Brussels Airport and had attended to Shinwari’s wounds, ensuring he wasn’t going to die from blood loss; then the Bahrainis were on their way.
However, before their departure, Javin had worked out an arrangement with Ziyad. The Bahraini had been able to secure a small private jet for Javin’s return trip to London. He was traveling armed and would have to dash to London at a moment’s notice, so an aircraft sat at the airport at Javin’s complete disposal.
He thought about connecting with former trusted contacts, but it was unlikely they’d be of assistance at s
uch short notice. Only a few hours left until the assailant’s call. He promised himself that if Bateaux didn’t have an answer by that time, Javin would put his own plan into action. It didn’t matter if he died trying; he wasn’t going to let Claudia get tortured or die in captivity.
He entered the lobby of the Grand Palace Hotel by Laeken Park and used their wireless Internet to connect to the secure CIS databases. He looked up the last known address of the person he was planning to unexpectedly visit in London. According to the intelligence updated as recently as a week ago, the man lived in a luxurious house on Avenue Road, in the affluent St John’s Wood area, in northwest London. Javin looked up the area on Google Maps and became familiar with the layout of the land, especially the roads leading in and out of the area. The only thing he could now hope for was for the old man to be at his home when Javin arrived there.
He committed to memory the most important information and resumed jogging, heading toward the Central Residence Inn where he was staying, waiting for Bateaux’s orders. He showered and switched into a new set of clothes he had bought before arriving at the inn. Then he made coffee in the small kitchen and turned on the television. He flicked through German- and French-speaking channels, looking for the BBC or another English-speaking station, so he could learn what the media was reporting about the shootings in London and Barcelona.
As he kept pressing the button on the remote control, Javin stopped as he came to a station that looked like it was airing a sermon or a religious program. A Bible verse flashed on the screen, just for a split second but long enough to catch his attention. It said: And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church…
Peter? Peter is a Jewish name. Javin was dumbstruck at the revelation. Is the team that’s looking for Yael from Mossad?
The assailant who had shot Javin had said that he was avenging Peter. So Peter could be the Mossad agent who fired upon us when we arrived at the Iranians’ safehouse. He’s the man that Yael recognized. Javin nodded. It makes perfect sense. Yael went against her boss’s orders. Then she fired at fellow agents, wounding them. Now, Mossad is coming for their pound of flesh…
He frowned. But Kanno is Saudi… Are Mossad and Saudi intel working together? He shook his head and looked through the window at the office tower across the street. It’s what the Iranians said: Israel and Saudi Arabia are working together against their common enemy, Iran.
Javin reached for his phone, intending to inform Bateaux of the recent revelation. However, before he could dial the number, the phone rang. The screen told Javin that it was an unknown number, but his gut feeling told him he knew the identity of the caller. “It hasn’t been twelve hours yet,” he said in a rough voice.
The assailant let out a mock laugh. “Right, but I wanted to check on you, make sure everything is on track.”
“It is, but I have a question: Why does Mossad want Yael?”
“Mossad?”
“Yes, don’t play the fool with me. I know you work for Mossad, and—”
“You don’t know anything, Pierce. You’re just bluffing…”
“You wish. I know about Peter, the man wounded in London. And I know about the recordings.”
A brief moment of silence showed the assailant’s hesitation. In all likelihood, he had no idea about the audio conversations among top Saudi and Israeli politicians and government officials.
The moment was sufficient to give Javin the upper hand. He said, “Look, I’m sorry about Peter. Neither I nor Claudia or Yael or anyone on my team had any intention of attacking Mossad’s operatives. This… this entire episode was a misunderstanding, but there’s no reason—”
“Oh, no, there’s plenty of reason to want that traitor back,” the assailant said in a bitter voice.
His emotions had just betrayed him.
Javin smiled but said nothing.
The assailant said, “She knew what she was doing and still tried to kill agents from her own agency, her own brothers…”
Javin just listened as the assailant said, “Even if that hadn’t happened, Yael’s activities in Britain were illegal, unapproved by her supervisors or anyone in authority in Mossad—”
“Let me stop you there. I told you about recordings, but you have no idea what they are. I want you and your fellow operatives to listen to them. One specifically, where your big boss, the chief of Mossad, talks to the Saudi Arabian Minister of Foreign Affairs. What you’ll hear will blow your mind…”
“Really? Why don’t you tell me, Pierce?”
“Sure, but you’ll have to listen to it for yourself to believe it. In short, Mossad and Israel are working with Saudi Arabia and their intel agencies to find a pretext for the US to start a war with Iran.”
“What?”
“That was exactly my reaction, until I heard the recordings.”
A brief pause, then the assailant said, “How do I know that’s a genuine conversation?”
“I’m sure Mossad has ways of determining its authenticity. You’re the world’s experts…”
“You’re good at flattery, Pierce. Now, how did you get those recordings?”
“I’ll tell you when you hand over Claudia.”
The assailant snorted. “I don’t think that’s going to work…”
“Think about it after you listen to those files. I’m sure you, or your boss, or whoever’s giving you orders will want to reconsider…”
“Otherwise?”
“I have other people extremely interested in those files.”
“Would you dare do that?”
“Don’t test me. You sound like a smart man, so by now, you should have figured out that I’m ready to do anything to save my partner.”
A tense silence reigned for a few long moments, then the Mossad operative said, “Write down this email address.” He read it to Javin, who memorized it.
The Mossad operative said, “Send it over, and we’ll analyze it.”
“Don’t take too long—”
“Are you giving me orders?”
“No, just a friendly suggestion. Other agencies are interested in this intel, and I don’t make the final decision about who receives these files…”
The Mossad operative groaned and hung up.
Javin sighed and called his boss.
Chapter Thirty-one
Central Residence Inn
Brussels, Belgium
Initially, Bateaux disagreed with Javin’s suggested course of action about sharing the new classified recordings with Mossad. However, because Javin had positively identified the Israeli agency as the one demanding the return of Yael, Bateaux became more inclined toward cooperation with the Israelis. In exchange for handing over the intelligence obtained by the Iranians, the Israelis would release Claudia. The British authorities would also be more predisposed to hand over a wounded Mossad operative to the “care” of its own agency.
Javin kept his unsanctioned operation crystalizing in his mind to himself. He had no doubt that Bateaux wouldn’t approve it. Telling him would cause Javin even more trouble than if it were discovered. As the saying went, It’s easier to apologize than to ask for permission. Although, depending on how the situation unfolded and the fate of his operation, Javin might be crowned as a hero, thrown in jail for going rogue, or die in the process…
He sighed as he ended the call with Bateaux, hoping and praying things would take a turn for the better. However, he planned for the worst. As the clock moved past the halfway point to the deadline, Javin took a taxi to the airport. He sat in the private terminal’s lounge studying the maps of St John’s Wood, working and re-working his infiltration and exit plan. If it became necessary—and as the clock kept ticking, that scenario seemed more and more unavoidable—Javin would slip in under the cover of darkness. He’d reach the old man’s house and have a conversation with him, with the aim of “convincing” him to reach a favorable deal for both parties.
With ten hours left to the deadline and no word from his
boss or Mossad, Javin could sit still no longer. He ordered the pilot to get the plane ready. In less than an hour, they were airborne for the short flight—just over an hour—to London. Javin hadn’t received clearance from his boss to leave Belgium or return to London. However, if his operation went sideways, that small act of insubordination would be the least of his worries…
One of the best perks of flying aboard a private jet, especially one registered under the flag of an oil-rich Gulf State, was going through Customs and Immigration without any hassle. The officers barely cast a glance at Javin’s Jordanian passport, especially after he greeted them in Arabic, along with the flight attendant and the pilot, both Bahraini nationals. Javin’s trusted Sig Sauer pistol was in the diplomatic pouch, along with other items belonging to a Bahraini diplomat, who was, in fact, a member of the NSA, Bahrain’s internal intelligence service.
Javin retrieved his pistol in a dark corner of the parking lot, then hailed a cab. The roads were mostly empty at this late hour of the night. When they reached London’s outskirts, Javin glanced at his wristwatch. Two-thirty in the morning. Yes, he’ll be sound asleep. Or maybe he’s reading a book or watching TV. Javin shrugged. It doesn’t matter.
He had called a close contact at the other NSA, the American National Security Agency. The agency had the unrivaled capacity of being able to identify the location of every single cellphone around the world in real-time. Javin gave his contact the phone number, and he confirmed that the old man, or at least his cellphone, was at the correct address. Then Javin placed a phone call that was routed through a series of encrypted servers but made to appear as if it came from a local business. When the old man answered his phone, it was confirmed that he was, indeed, inside his house and awake.
The taxi dropped off Javin four blocks south of Avenue Road. He screwed a sound suppressor on the threaded barrel of the Sig pistol. His hands worked with an unconscious, trained ease. He had performed such actions hundreds of times before. Then he cocked the pistol and held it at his side, knowing that he might bump into the old man’s security detail at any time. He was retired from MI6, but old habits died hard. The old man was wealthy and influential. After the recent turn of events, especially the fiasco in Jawdurayn, Bahrain, it was even more necessary to maintain a perimeter of protection.
