by Ward Larsen
Today Moussa was simply a conduit, an unwitting source who would hopefully lead to the elusive primary target. On paper he was no more than a facilitator, a somewhat educated, urbane French-Algerian who performed mostly reputable work for mostly reputable clients. It was his business with a handful of more shaded characters—the most prominent of whom was his brother—that had brought him to Mossad’s attention.
Ramzi Tayeb was the operations chief for the most vicious terrorist organization in the Middle East. Moussa came regularly to Luxembourg on his brother’s behalf, managing the lifeblood financial transactions of al-Qassam Front. The Front was an offshoot of Hamas, and notorious for targeting noncombatants to achieve the most gruesome possible headlines. In Slaton’s view, the fact that Moussa wore a five-thousand-dollar Italian suit and Gucci loafers, or that he had never pulled a trigger, made him no less culpable. The accountant would be spared tonight, but only to facilitate locating his brother. Once Slaton had a bead on Ramzi Tayeb, it would be open season on them both.
He flipped over the CyBorg, saw the red lights dancing. The laptop showed no signs of shutting down. He checked his phone, saw no updates.
He’d been inside eight minutes.
Come on, come on …
3
Sixty feet below room 54, along the brass rail of Le Cristal’s wood-infused bar, Moussa Tayeb sank the end of his fifth gin and tonic. Or was it his sixth? As a mostly good Muslim, he was not accustomed to alcohol. Still, when he traveled beyond the watchful eye of his faith, beyond the minarets of Algiers and the calls to prayer, he saw no harm in taking a bit of license.
Now it was hitting him hard.
“Another?” the girl next to him asked.
Moussa tried to process the question, but his thoughts were in a cloud. Having stayed at Le Cristal on a number of occasions, he knew the bar was well-stocked with prostitutes. They were generally attractive—he suspected the hotel quietly enforced some kind of standard—and in his experience very discreet. He’d partaken on a few occasions, although tonight that hadn’t been his aim. Or so he told himself. This one, however, was in a league of her own. Her blond hair and blue eyes were classic Nordic stock, and a knee-length black dress clung to her trim figure in all the right places.
He’d watched her shunt away one man earlier, a scrawny Englishman with big ears and bad teeth. No sooner had he been sent packing than Moussa caught her eye. It was only a fleeting connection, but since then he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Finally, he’d taken the initiative and sent her a drink. That was an hour ago. Since then, the G & T’s had been coming like clockwork. The good news was that he’d finally nailed her down on price. A thousand dollars was twice what he’d ever paid a woman, but truly she was exquisite.
“No,” he finally managed, the thought of another drink causing something to well up in his belly. “I must stop.”
The girl smiled and bent down to adjust her shoe, cleavage opening up as she did so.
Moussa tried not to waver on his stool, balance suddenly an issue. He was of medium height, but since turning forty, two years ago, an intractable girth had settled on his midsection. He took a paper napkin from a stack on the bar and wiped perspiration from his forehead. He studied the girl’s drink. Was she still on her first? He couldn’t recall. The thought misted away, overcome by the scent of her perfume. It was nothing short of intoxicating.
“So,” she asked, “how long will you be in Luxembourg?” Her English was good, although laced with what he decided was a Scandinavian accent. In any city as cosmopolitan as Luxembourg, Moussa presumed, the harlots would have to be multilingual. His eyes locked hypnotically on the strand of pearls at the nape of her neck. God, she is flawless.
“We should go to my room now,” he said, feeling a sudden heaviness. He belched, and then his stomach turned—it often did when he drank. He got up from his stool holding the bar rail. His stomach seemed to settle.
“All right,” she said. “Before we go, I should use the lady’s room—”
“No,” he barked, grabbing her wrist. “You can use the one in my room.”
She hesitated, then smiled lasciviously. “All right then. Let’s go.”
* * *
At the far end of the lounge, in a dark corner booth, Yosy Meier watched the couple leave. He blended in perfectly in the half-full bar, wearing pants and a light jacket that were high-end casual. The wreckage of a plate of fish and chips sat in front of him, and half a beer had gone warm in his mug. He’d settled his bill in advance, giving the waitress a decent but forgettable tip. Meier had been working his phone for most of the last hour, as people did when they sat alone. Right then, however, the handset was out of sight beneath the thick wooden table.
Without bringing it into view—a learned skill—he typed out an urgent message and hit SEND.
He’s coming now! Get out!
* * *
In the dark room the message flashed to Slaton’s phone like an alarm. It was not the one he’d been hoping to see. He looked at the CyBorg device, willing it to hurry. In a worst-case scenario—the elevator car arriving immediately on the first floor and not stopping for guests on the way up—he had three minutes until Moussa would enter the outer hall. Yosy had walked it through himself to get the estimate. Once Moussa was in the fifth-floor corridor, there was no way Slaton could leave without being seen. The only other way out was the streetside window, and while they’d discussed a rope and rappelling gear, the sidewalks in front were far too busy, even at this hour.
He fired off a text to the safe house where the two men from Unit 8200 were managing the upload. They, too, would have seen Yosy’s warning.
Well?
An immediate reply:
Trying. Two more minutes.
Slaton’s eyes went over the room, making sure nothing had changed since he’d entered. There was only the CyBorg device. Another minute passed. From the hall he heard the hum of the elevator—electric motor running, cables threading through pulleys. He put his hand on the USB connection, ready to pull. And don’t forget to fold the laptop closed.
The red lights flickered like a spastic Christmas decoration. Then all at once they extinguished. The laptop began shutting down. His phone buzzed but Slaton didn’t take the time to look.
He ripped out the CyBorg, shut the laptop, and turned for the door. He was halfway there when he heard the elevator chime down the hall. His hand was on the handle when he heard a female voice, loud and giggling, “Stop it! We’re almost there …”
Slaton pulled back from the door. His eyes swept the room.
* * *
Moussa tried to grope her rump again, but she twisted clear. The girl laughed and darted down the hall, a deer scampering toward the woods. “Which room?” she asked.
He stumbled ahead, his hand dragging on the wall for support. He pointed to the second door on the right, and she paused just past it. Moussa fumbled through his pocket for the key but didn’t find it. He cursed under his breath. Alcohol affected people differently. Some became giddy and lighthearted. Others fell silent and introspective. Moussa was of the third ilk. Booze made him surly, ill-tempered. He tried another pocket and felt the familiar plastic card.
He leered openly at the girl—was her cleavage less apparent now? Tease. He fumbled with the key until the door unlocked.
He shouldered inside and the light came on automatically. The girl didn’t follow him, and he turned to find her holding out her hand expectantly. “Two thousand,” she said with a smile.
“What?” he barked. “Now?”
“It’s my policy.”
“You said one thousand!” he replied angrily.
She just stood there waiting, one foot in the hall, the other on the threshold.
Moussa felt something rise inside him. He sneered as he reached for his wallet. Holding it in front of him, he took a step forward as he rifled through a thick wad of euros. On realizing he didn’t even have that much, something snapped
in his head. He lunged out, seized her arm, and dragged the girl into the room.
“Stop!” she shrieked.
Somehow, she used her hands to break his grip, which only incensed Moussa further. He swung a balled fist and struck her in the face. The blonde flew back onto the bed.
4
Slaton’s left palm was flat on the closet door. There was no handle on the inside, but a sharp push was all it would take. His other hand now held the SIG, a silencer threaded in place. His left arm was tensed like a cocked crossbow, stored energy waiting to be released.
Still he held back. The SIG was a mere contingency—if he intervened, Slaton would prefer to kill the fat accountant with his bare hands. Less cleanup, more questions for the police. That’s what he told himself. The problem was that killing him by any method would blow the entire mission. He had to give it a few more seconds.
Hope the girl could escape on her own.
He had an excellent view of the room from inside the closet—the door was louvered, and he’d bent one slat at eye level to provide a better view. He had also disconnected the closet light, which came on automatically when the door opened. Moussa had fallen after striking the girl, and now he lay sprawled on the floor next to the bed. Trying to stand, he looked like a bull on an ice rink.
“Bitch!”
The girl had crumpled to the bed after his blow, but she recovered quickly, rolling away to the far side. She was on her feet now, a king-sized expanse of high thread-count Egyptian cotton between them.
She moved for the door but he cut her off at the foot of the bed. The girl feinted left, then right. It was like two kids playing some deadly version of tag. Suddenly the girl vaulted onto the bed. Moussa shifted to his left, trying to cut her off, but his feet seemed stuck in wet cement.
Out of nowhere the girl launched herself airborne, flying directly at him. The move took Moussa completely by surprise: a hundred and ten pounds of litheness, in a black designer dress and pearls, soaring on a collision course. She led with an elbow that hit him square in the face and they both flew backward, landing in a heap.
Moussa howled in pain.
The girl was on her feet like a cat, and she flew toward the door and disappeared.
Not her first rodeo, Slaton thought appreciatively.
Moussa moaned and worked his way to his feet, his hands on his face like he was holding it together. He staggered to the door and peered into the hall. “Whore!” he shouted in an oddly nasal voice. With the girl clearly gone, he slammed the door shut.
The room fell to a hard silence, Slaton’s baseline sounds returning save for one addition: the bovine panting of one overstressed accountant.
From ten feet away, Slaton could see blood coursing from Moussa’s ruined nose. It ran down his chin onto what was probably a hundred-dollar shirt. The Algerian stumbled from the door to the middle of the room. There he hesitated, again putting both hands to his face. He cursed in Arabic, then wobbled like an uprooted tree. For a moment Slaton feared he might turn toward the closet. If he opened the door, he would get his second surprise of the night: the butt of a SIG to the side of his head. With any luck, he would wake up in an hour or ten with no idea what hit him.
Thankfully, he turned toward the bathroom.
For the first time in two minutes, the pressure of Slaton’s palm on the closet door eased.
He heard a light snap on, saw the spray of illumination. More cursing. He envisioned the man staring into the mirror, gauging the damage. Water began running at the sink. Then a cough that was more of a retch and water being spit into the basin. After that, Slaton heard him pissing. It was a good sign. Adrenaline was waning, normal bodily functions regaining priority.
When Moussa appeared minutes later, he’d removed his jacket, pants, and dress shirt. Wearing a sleeveless undershirt and tartan boxers, he lowered himself gingerly onto the bed and laid back. Within minutes he was motionless, his breathing less choppy.
The crisis had ebbed. At that point, Slaton relented to doing what snipers did best.
He waited.
* * *
It was another twenty minutes before Slaton emerged silently from the closet.
The financier was snoring loudly, his open mouth like a flycatcher. The blood on his face was mostly gone, but a trickle still dripped from one nostril. Even from across the room Slaton could see his nose swelling—it was almost certainly broken. He paused at the foot of the bed, regarding the man before him.
Moussa Tayeb was not a terrorist combatant. All the same, he had for years leveraged his profession to enable the operational side of al-Qassam Front. Slaton expected tonight’s work would provide more solid evidence, yet what he’d already seen was convincing enough. A great many people had died thanks to this man—including two whom Slaton loved more than any on earth. He’d seen copies of the money transfers that had paid for that attack. The big block of Semtex, the nuts and bolts and razor blades packed around it. The nylon backpack as well. As for the AKs and grenades, those had been getting stockpiled for years. What all of it had wrought, in the hands of a few fanatics, Slaton would never forget. The carnage at the hospital, the torn bodies; it would resonate in his nightmares to the end of his days.
Slaton couldn’t pry his eyes off the accountant. He hadn’t been anywhere near Netanya that night. Even so, his work had made it possible. According to Mossad, Moussa later transferred money to the families of the triggermen—the so-called martyrs. From the safety of his office the financier never witnessed what Slaton had. The gurneys with shredded bodies, the scent of charred flesh. Perhaps he’d read a news article over his morning tea the next day, seen a clip on Al-Jazeera. Did he ever feel any responsibility? His was a life of ease. Harmless keystrokes and meetings over teak desks; gluttonous dinners with sheiks and Keurig coffee in bankers’ waiting rooms. All cool and calm and detached.
It struck Slaton that Moussa had likely never heard the names of any of his victims.
In the deftest of whispers, he murmured, “Katya … Elise …”
It stirred something inside him, and in a room cut in shades of gray, Slaton raised the SIG slowly. He settled the custom red dot between wrinkles on the glistening forehead. Slaton’s finger touched the trigger softly. In that moment, the only thing between Moussa Tayeb and Paradise was a very precise 9.8 pounds of pull.
How would it feel? Slaton wondered. He had killed before, always deserving individuals, always on orders. Never had he done so of his own volition. Which was what it would be if he pulled the trigger. Could that lift the weight? End the nightmares?
Slaton closed his eyes slowly, deliberately, then opened them again. He recorded the sight picture, an indelible snapshot in his mind, before lowering the SIG.
No. If I pull the trigger now, I might never find your brother.
He removed the silencer and holstered the weapon. Slaton turned toward the door and slipped silently into the hall. Moments later he was lost to the night.
5
The safe house was ten blocks from the hotel. Slaton walked purposefully through Parc de Ville, the picture of a man eager to get home after a late night at work. He followed Avenue Gaston Diderich, and eventually veered into a warren of old but well-kept residential buildings.
His team had been occupying a third-floor unit for three days. It was a typical short-term rental, booked anonymously and carefully screened. Ikea furniture, bright LED lighting, all the basic kitchenware. The building was conveniently located between the financial district and Ville Hauteis, or Old Town, and by studying rental websites they’d verified that only three of the other units were not similarly listed. To the few permanent residents, another small group of foreigners staying for a week could not have been more unremarkable.
Yosy was in the kitchen, and he smiled with relief when Slaton walked in. “There you are. We were beginning to wonder.”
He gave a half smile in return. “So was I.”
“Sorry for the last-minute bailout call. We
thought Moussa would stay longer. The last three nights he took his time with his drinks, but tonight he seemed in a hurry.”
“The last three nights he didn’t have a stunning blond hooker sitting next to him. Thankfully she kept plying him with gin and tonics.”
Anna Altman appeared from the bathroom, still in character in her slinky black dress and pearls. She was holding an ice pack over her right eye.
Slaton looked at her with concern. He went closer and she pulled the pack away. He gently put two fingers on her smooth cheek, turning her head to catch the light. There was an abrasion below her temple and some swelling around the eye. The damage seemed especially prominent against her flawless golden complexion. It bothered Slaton more than it should have. Their eyes locked for a moment, and something passed between them before he pulled his hand away.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m pretty sure you broke his nose.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”
This was no idle comment. Anna had been carrying a Beretta Nano in her clutch purse. She was also a third-degree black belt in Jiu Jitsu, and an instructor in Krav Maga. An adversary like Moussa? She could have put out his lights permanently in a matter of seconds. After he’d struck her, Slaton reckoned Anna had gone through the same decision matrix he had and reached the same conclusion: she had to back off for the sake of the mission.
Always the mission.
“When he hit you,” he said, “I nearly stepped in.”
“You were still in the room?” she asked. Anna had no way of knowing.
He nodded. “The upload finished just as you were getting out of the elevator.”
“Closet?” she guessed.
“It seemed the best option.”
“What happened after I left?”
“He cussed a lot, went through some half-assed first aid in the bathroom. Then he passed out on the bed.”
