by Ethan Jones
“You feel safe?”
Ali tightened his grip around the rifle. “Of course I do.”
“And your family?”
He did not answer right away. “Daesh killed my family,” he said in an unwavering voice, using the derogatory term to refer to the Islamic State.
Justin nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in a warm tone.
It made sense that Ali would volunteer to join the local militia, regardless of their ethnic background, to avenge the death of his family members. He would kill or perhaps had already killed jihadi fighters, who had families too, feeding the vicious cycle of death.
Ali kept a stoic face. “They died as martyrs. And one day, I will join them too.”
Justin nodded and leaned back, resting against the wall. “How safe is this area?”
Ali locked eyes with Justin. “Why do you ask?”
“Making conversation.”
“It sounds like you’re gathering information.”
“And why is that wrong?”
“If you’re a spy...” Ali’s right hand moved closer to the rifle’s trigger.
Justin shrugged and decided to remain quiet. He did not want to provoke the young fighter, even unintentionally, and causing him to accidentally fire the rifle.
A few long minutes dragged on as Justin thought about Carrie and Ying. Carrie was a combat-hardened operative, who had been in even dicier situations. She would not be unnerved by the brief detention and the armed ragtag fighters looming around her. Justin was not completely sure about Ying. She had proven herself during the shootout in London, but the firefight with the border guards seemed to have thrown her off balance. Maybe she hasn’t seen much combat. Who is she anyway?
Justin had conducted extensive research on Ying’s background. He had not been able to find much, which was not surprising, considering she worked for the ultra-secretive MSS. Ying had been involved in several field operations, mostly in Asia, but also in Europe and the Middle East. One in particular had caught Justin’s attention. It did not seem to fit her profile as data analyst and profiler, since it was a rescue mission in northern Syria.
A local extremist group affiliated with Al-Qaeda had kidnapped two Chinese nationals suspected of being spies. Ying was dispatched with a team of Chinese operatives. The rescue mission had not gone as well as planned, with one of the hostages gravely wounded and the other killed during the raid in northern Raqqa, the IS headquarters. Why was Ying part of that op? The redacted Chinese file did not specify Ying’s role. Rescue missions required well-trained and experienced operatives, familiar with tactical, urban combat. Ying had displayed none of those skills. Am I missing something here?
The door opened with a bone-rattling screech, interrupting Justin’s train of thought. He glanced up at Hadi, then at the second man who stepped inside the room. He was dressed in desert tan camouflage jacket and pants and was perhaps in his late thirties. Short black hair feathered down to his neck. The man had a tanned face, small, black eyes that measured Justin up, and a beard that followed the lines of his square face. Justin wondered if he was an Iraqi, like Hadi. Maybe he’s Hadi’s superior, or an elder of the village.
Justin stood up and took a step toward the man.
Ali sprang to his feet, his rifle pointed at Justin.
“Put that away,” the man ordered Ali in a strong, stern voice. “And leave the room.”
Ali nodded and made his way into the hall.
“This is the man.” Hadi waved in Justin’s direction. “He claims he’s a Peshmerga.”
The man nodded. “And his story checks out?”
“So far. But I’m still looking.” Hadi’s voice had taken on a deferential tone.
“Keep doing that, and come get us if you learn something new.”
“I will do that.” Hadi nodded respectfully and closed the door behind him.
The man gestured for Justin to return to his seat, then sat a couple of feet across from Justin, who said, “How is my brother?”
“The doctor’s still with him. It’s a difficult surgery.”
Justin nodded. “Thanks.”
The man said, “My name is Isaac Shapiro, and I work for Mossad.” He spoke in fluent Arabic.
Justin’s jaw almost dropped. “You do?”
“Yes. You look and sound surprised.”
“I truly am. Not many people would make such a bold claim. Admitting to working for the Israeli security agency could get one killed.”
Isaac stretched out his arms. “Here I am, as you can see, in very good health.”
Justin nodded, but did not say anything.
Isaac tipped his head toward Justin. “You seem to be uninformed about the situation on the ground. How can you do that and still be a Peshmerga?”
Justin shrugged. “I know how to use a gun. I leave the important decisions to Commander Sharifi and others I trust.”
Isaac nodded. “Yes, yes, the ones we trust.” He leaned forward, closer to Justin. “See, I have a problem with your entire story. It doesn’t ring true, and I don’t believe it.”
Justin said nothing but held Isaac’s gaze.
Isaac continued, “You’re thinking that I’m Mossad, so trust doesn’t come easily. That’s true. But here’s the main problem: We’ve seen a wave of Iranian or Iranian-supported activities in this area. Operatives, state-of-the-art weapons, Hezbollah militia, all sorts of enemy operations.”
Justin nodded. He understood Isaac’s viewpoint. The militant group Hezbollah—branded as a terrorist organization by the United States and most of the Western world and heavily financed by Iran—had been and still was Israel’s number one enemy, always a thorn in Israel’s side. Hezbollah had sworn to fight until Israel was completely destroyed.
Justin shifted his body weight and said, “What exactly are you doing here?”
Isaac shrugged. “My role is not under discussion here. If you really are who I think you are, you can draw your own correct conclusions. But since you asked, I can tell you that I’m an intelligence-gathering operative.”
“You work in reconnaissance?”
Isaac nodded. “Exactly.”
“And what happens to these people that you identify as Iranians?”
“It depends on who they are, what they’re doing in the area, and whether they want to cooperate. See, the Iraqis and the Syrians don’t want more trouble than they already have. There have always been tensions and even open hostilities, fighting and wars, among them. So we’re here to help keep Iraq and Syria free from the poisonous Iranian influence.”
“Also keep one of Israel’s archenemies in its place?”
Isaac offered a sly grin. “That goes without saying.”
Justin nodded. Iranian leaders continuously threatened to annihilate Israel and flatten its cities. The most recent clash had been a month ago. An Israeli Apache helicopter intercepted, and later attacked and destroyed, a suspected Iranian drone, which was allegedly launched from Syria and had infiltrated Israel’s airspace. Afterwards, Israel Defense Forces bombed what they claimed were Iranian and Syrian targets in Syria, which responded by downing one of Israel’s F-16 fighter jets. In the past, Mossad, and other Israeli intelligence and security forces, had carried out dozens of operations deep inside Iran to thwart its continuous plans to build nuclear weapons.
Justin said, “And you suspect I’m an Iranian spy?”
“No, you don’t give me that impression. And you’re working along with two women, one of them Asian, maybe Chinese. That’s not the way the Iranians or Hezbollah operate. But I don’t think you’re a Peshmerga either.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Well, for starters, there’s something in your accent. Your Arabic is extremely good, and you could fool many people. There’s a tinge of another language hidden, but not very well. I would say English, knowing how involved the CIA and the British intel services are in this region. How am I doing?”
Justin kept a straight face.
Isaac continued, “Then, it’s your reactions or lack thereof. I’ve seen more than my fair share of Peshmergas. As much as I love them, since they’ve done much more to combat terrorism all over Syria and Iraq than all the Western coalition forces combined, they’re much more expressive—explosive, I would say. In your place, they would have shouted, probably attacked one of the guards.” Isaac motioned with his hands toward Justin. “You, on the other hand, you’ve kept your cool. You’re trained not to break under pressure. Because you’re not a Peshmerga. You’re a trained covert operative.”
Justin shrugged. “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say you’re right. What happens next?”
Isaac smiled. “I know I’m right. I also know that you and your team owe me and my men a big favor. The doctor is fighting to save your ‘brother’s’ life. And that’s not hypothetically.”
“So you want something in return, again hypothetically?”
Isaac shook his head. “You should stop using that word. We both know it doesn’t apply to this situation.”
Justin nodded. “Sure, I’ll stop using it. What do you want?”
“I’m still thinking about it, but perhaps I have an assignment.”
“And what is it?”
Isaac grinned. “I wouldn’t tell it to Peshmerga Halmat, but I would tell it to an operative of...”
Justin did not take the bait. He remained silent for a brief moment, then said, “Go on.”
Isaac shook his head. “No point in wasting my time.” He sighed and stood up. “I’ll give you a chance to perhaps change your mind. Hadi’s still looking into your story, and we both know we’ll find something. One of your old or new friends will make a mistake, a slip of the tongue ... It’s better for you and your team to tell me the truth ... now.”
Justin frowned and clenched his jaws at Isaac’s veiled threat. “If something happens to my team—”
“Nothing will happen to you or them, if you don’t lie to me. But if you do—”
Justin cut him off and jumped to his feet. “If someone touches a hair on them—”
“Calm down.” Isaac motioned with his hand. “No need for threats. Come clean with me, and we can come to an agreeable solution.” He nodded at the door, then added, “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He switched to English. “I’m sure you understand my words. If Hadi or I find out something is wrong with your cover story, it will be difficult to work out an agreement.”
Justin held Isaac’s stern gaze and again said nothing.
Isaac shrugged. “We’ll do as you want, then.”
He walked slowly to the door, then banged on it with his fist. “Think about it, but don’t take too long,” he said when the door opened and stepped out.
Justin drew in a deep breath as someone slammed the door shut. Oh, this isn’t going well. Why did it have to be this way? He cursed under his breath and began to ponder his options.
Chapter Twenty-one
Al-Zemrah, Iraq
Justin’s options were extremely limited. He could strongly deny he was a covert operative and maintain he was just a Peshmerga fighter returning to his base. Or he could tell the truth and put his fate in Isaac’s hands. Neither option held great appeal, nor was he sure which one to choose. His team had made it so far inside Iraq with only a skirmish with the border guards. And they had ended up in the hands of a non-hostile group. Justin was reluctant to tempt fate and maintain the team’s cover story. If one of the Peshmergas whose names Justin gave to the Mossad agent had a slip of the tongue, the cover story would be blown. The repercussions might not be deadly, but they could be grave. At the very least, Justin’s mission would be exposed.
On the other hand, if Justin admitted the team’s true identity, he would have to accept Isaac’s “assignment.” Whatever that was, it was going to be a difficult and sensitive operation, something Isaac was reluctant to carry out on his own or assign to the fighters under his command. Justin’s dealings with Mossad had never gone well, and they had always put him or left him in very dangerous, almost impossible-to-get-out-of situations.
Then, there was the small matter of whether Isaac was truly a Mossad agent or setting a trap. While it was true that very few people would openly admit to being an operative for the Israeli intelligence agency—widely hated across Iraq and Syria—Justin had not seen a shred of evidence besides Isaac’s word. Yes, perhaps we should start there.
He glanced at his watch. It had been maybe ten minutes since Isaac had left. Justin walked to the door and pounded it with his fist. “Hey, guard, guard.”
“What is it?” a harsh voice said from the other side.
“I’d like to talk to Isaac. Tell him I’m ready to make a deal.”
The voice did not reply, but Justin heard shuffling across the hall. A long minute passed, then the footsteps returned. The rattle of keys against the metal door, then the now-familiar creak.
Isaac stepped inside the room. “You’re ready to tell me who you are?”
Justin gestured toward the door. “Let’s close that.”
“Sure.” Isaac nodded at the guard.
When he had closed the door behind him, Justin walked to the next wall, the farthermost from the door. Isaac stood about four feet away from him and said, “So?”
“First, how’s al-Rawi doing?”
Isaac shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything good or bad from the doctor. That means he’s still alive.”
Justin nodded. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth, but I need to make sure I know who I’m talking to.”
Isaac nodded. “I was expecting you to say that. What proof do you need?”
“What can you offer?”
Isaac unholstered his pistol and waved it toward Justin. “You know what this is?”
“I can’t really tell; it’s too far.” Justin reached out with his hand.
Isaac grinned and shook his head. “It’s not happening.” He tightened his fingers around the pistol and kept it pointed at Justin’s chest. “This is a Barak SP21 9mm. Double-action; fast target acquisition, recoil operated. I can always carry it ‘cocked and locked.’ Very hard to find.”
Justin nodded. “But not impossible.”
“Right.” Isaac returned the pistol to his holster, then took a couple of steps back and reached for his right ankle. He pulled another pistol from the holster hidden underneath his pant leg. “This is a Jericho 941 PSL9. This one is 9mm too, but single action. Again, ready at all times.”
Justin said, “Unlikely someone has two Israeli-made pistols on him.”
“That’s what I thought.” Isaac put the Jericho pistol away. “You need more evidence, right?”
Justin held Isaac’s eyes for a long moment. “Yes.”
Isaac shrugged. “I don’t have an ID or anything in the form of credentials. That would be foolish to possess, and you know that. But there’s a number you can call. I’ll give you a number, my personal ID number, and they’ll confirm my first and last name’s initials, IS. And that should be sufficient.”
Justin nodded. The identification system worked similarly to the CIS’s, with the exception that the caller needed to provide a code, which was individually assigned to the operative. There was always the possibility this was a cover, but Justin had a feeling Isaac was not lying about his identity. So Justin said, “Yes, that will be good.”
Isaac smiled. He pulled a phone from one of his vest’s pockets and dialed a number. He waited a moment for the clear signal, then handed the phone to Justin.
He glanced at the screen, and noticed the Israel and Tel Aviv area codes, 972-3. Mossad’s headquarters was in Tel Aviv. A moment later, a sharp female voice said something rapidly in a language Justin could not understand, and which he assumed was Hebrew. “I’d like to confirm someone’s identity,” he said in Arabic.
A moment of hesitation, then the woman switched to Arabic, “Yes, sure, go ahead with the number...”
Justin looked at Isaac, who recited the number. Justi
n repeated it and waited for a brief moment.
The woman said, “The initials are IS. To re-confirm, the initials are IS. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you.”
The woman hung up without another word.
Justin handed the phone to Isaac. “You are who you say you are,” Justin said in a low, thoughtful tone.
“And you are...”
Justin switched to English. “My name’s Hall, Justin Hall, and I work for the CIS, the Canadian Intelligence Service.”
Isaac gave Justin a sideways glance. “I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you were CIA,” he replied in English as well, with a thick accent.
“Sorry to disappoint you. Would you like to confirm?” He gestured toward the phone.
Isaac shook his head. “No, it’s not necessary.”
“You trust me?”
“No, I trust my ability to figure out you were a secret operative. It doesn’t really matter if you’re American or Canadian.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I do. Now, what are you doing in Iraq?”
“Looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“I’m not authorized to tell you that.”
“Perhaps I can help you find him.”
Justin thought about his reply. Isaac’s men could provide sufficient firepower to search for Lim, but Justin would need to run that idea by Flavio and seek his authorization. “You might be able to. I’ll get back to you on that.”
Isaac gestured for Justin to sit down. “Now, I’ll tell you what I want.”
He waited until they were both sitting face to face, then said, “I have a package that needs to be delivered.”
“What’s the destination?”
“The Syrian border.”
Justin frowned. “What’s the package?”
“Three men. They need to get back to Syria.”
“And who are they?”
“You don’t need or want to know.”
Justin’s frown deepened. “Why not?”
“What did I just say?”
“I heard you, but since I’m risking my life—”
“These men will present no problem to you or your team. They are wounded … well, they’re better now, and they’ll be in handcuffs.”