Casey took Cohen’s hand. “Casey Shenk.”
“Nice to meet you,” Lev said. “It’s not every day you come into a bar and find someone who follows international politics. Not in Manhattan, anyway.”
“Would you like another one?” the bartender interrupted, pointing to the empty glass in front of Lev.
Before the Mossad officer could answer, Casey said, “This round’s on me.”
The bartender and Lev both looked at Casey, who moved his empty beer bottle toward the back of the bar so the woman could dispose of it.
“One Miller Lite and one orange juice, coming up,” she said with a theatrical flourish. She was clearly bored.
“Thank you,” Lev said to Casey.
“You’re welcome,” Casey replied. “You don’t drink?” Casey thought it was odd that someone would come into a bar just to drink orange juice. Lev Cohen was alone, so it wasn’t like he was someone’s designated driver.
“Not really,” Lev answered. “I just enjoy the atmosphere,” he lied, motioning around the room. He much preferred a seaside café in the open air to the darkened confines of an American pub.
The bartender set Lev’s glass in front of him and handed Casey his beer as she deftly removed the bottle cap. She took the appropriate bills from the pile of money next to Casey’s dinner bowl and strolled over to the cash register.
“Cheers,” Lev said, raising his glass in a toast to Casey.
“Salud,” Casey said, returning the gesture with one of the few Italian words he knew.
“Do you live in Manhattan?” Lev asked. He knew the answer, but it was a standard question Americans asked when sharing a drink with a stranger, he’d learned, just to start a conversation. Lev was more interested in finding out about Casey’s story. Specifically, why this man had made it onto Israel’s, or more precisely, Eli Gedide’s hit list. He sat less than six feet from the man who, just days before, would have been a corpse if Cohen hadn’t failed in his mission, and he wanted answers. That missed shot had, for all intents and purposes, put the final nail in the coffin of his career with the Mossad. Talking with Casey Shenk on a personal level, Lev hoped to discover just how dangerous the man was and why his death was necessary for the survival of Israel. That was why he stayed in the Kidon all these years, after all. Lev Cohen killed for the survival of Israel.
At least he used to.
“No, I’m just here visiting a friend.” Casey wasn’t lying. Not completely. He had become friends with Susan and others at IWG, but he didn’t feel the need to discuss his real reasons for being in New York with someone he’d just met.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Lev said. “Girlfriend?”
“Just a friend.” Casey hated when people pried into his personal life. It bugged him when Mary pestered him about his train wreck of a love life every time he was in K-Mart, and he sure as hell didn’t need to hear it from this guy. He decided the quickest way to end this line of questioning was to turn the tables. “You from around here?”
“No. Just here on business,” Lev said.
“What kind of business do you do?” Casey asked.
“Consulting,” Lev offered as he glanced up at the TV over Casey’s shoulder and took a sip from his glass. He had used the consultant cover ever since he was sent to the United States. It allowed him the luxury of staying off the radar of curious entities who might question his traveling and lack of rigid work schedule. There was no shortage of “consultants” in Washington, D.C., where he resided, so it made for the most convenient explanation, with almost no set-up or maintenance required to allow him to do his real job.
“What kind of consulting?” Casey asked.
“A little of this, a little of that. Primarily politco-military consultation.”
“Interesting,” Casey said. He actually was interested now. Casey tried his best to avoid biases, prejudices, and the like, but if the man sitting next to him had been a business consultant, Casey probably would have drained his beer and found an excuse to call it a night. “So you deal with stuff like this Iran-Russia arms smuggling thing a lot?”
Lev had just found the opening he was looking for. “Among other things.” He drank some juice, letting the words hang in the silence.
Casey took the bait. “Like what?”
Lev set the hook, taking advantage of Fox News Channel’s unintended assistance. “Well, like that ship they just showed,” he said, motioning to the television. “There are rumors that Israel was behind the hijacking.”
Casey felt a sudden chill.
“There are many people in both government and business,” Lev continued, “both here and abroad, who hear those rumors and want to know how they will be affected by them if those rumors are true. That’s where I come in.”
Casey lifted his bottle and took a swig before speaking. “Affected how?”
“In this case? Politically, mostly,” Lev said. “Taking a ship on the high seas is still an international crime, last time I checked. If Israel is going around hijacking ships like a band of Somali brigands, it doesn’t look good for politicians or businessmen to be in bed with them.”
“But they were just trying to keep Iran from getting air defense missiles,” Casey said, offering the most obvious defense of Israel.
“A crime is still a crime. The intentions are irrelevant.” Lev played devil’s advocate, hoping to get Casey to reveal his true feelings on the subject and thus provide a better insight into why Gedide thought he was dangerous.
Casey paused before continuing the debate. He thought there was no harm in discussing his theory about the real intentions behind the hijacking with Lev Cohen. No real harm, anyway. If anything, he might get an outsider’s view that would help validate his theory—if not the factuality of it, then at least the plausibility.
“What if the intentions went beyond just stopping a missile shipment?” Casey asked. “What if Israel was looking to capitalize on Iran trying to buy military arms against UN sanctions?”
This was easier than Lev thought. And a good example of why he did not drink alcohol. Lev had no idea how many beers Casey Shenk had consumed before he took a seat at the bar next to his former target, or even what the man’s tolerance for alcohol might be, but a loose tongue in his line of work could be catastrophic. It wasn’t worth the risk. That alone gave Cohen a data point. Mr. Shenk was probably not in Lev’s line of work.
“Are you saying the hijacking, assuming Israel was responsible, was just a ruse?” Lev asked.
“Not exactly,” Casey said. “I think they wanted to stop those missiles from getting to Iran, no question. But stopping them before the Baltic Venture even sailed would hardly be noticed by the world press. Not as sexy as a blue water hijacking.”
“So they did it for media attention?”
“Hardly,” Casey said. “I don’t think they wanted anyone to know they were connected to the hijacking in any way. You, yourself, gave the reasons why. But I do think they wanted the world to know Iran was trying to get stolen missiles. Make Ahmadinejad and Khamenei work harder to prove they’re trustworthy.”
“Why do they care if the world thinks they are trustworthy?” Lev had plenty of answers to his own question, but he wanted to hear it from Casey.
Casey looked around suspiciously and lowered his voice an octave. He was enjoying the quasi-debate, but he realized he was letting his enjoyment get the best of him. Even the bartender was waiting for his response.
“Do you think the U.S. president will endorse Iran’s right to nuclear power if he can’t be sure Iran will live up to any agreements to drop its weapons program? Which everyone knows they have.”
“He already said he would,” Lev countered.
“But he needs concurrence from the other five member of the P5+1 group, and getting that agreement becomes infinitely harder if Israel succeeds in building distrust,” Casey said.
“Iran doesn’t need Israel’s help with that. No one trusts them now as it is.”
�
�Yeah, well the president is willing to give them a shot,” Casey said, finishing his beer. “But Israel is trying hard to make sure no one else is.”
“Do think they will succeed?” Lev asked.
“I don’t know,” Casey said, “you tell me. You’re the political consultant.”
Lev Cohen smiled. “I think there is more going on than we may know.”
Casey threw Lev a quizzical look. “Like what?”
“Let’s just say I don’t think Israel is staking everything on a missile deal.” Lev finished his orange juice and stood up. He reached in his pocket and placed a bill under the empty glass for the bartender. “Thank you, again, for the drink, Casey. It has been a pleasure talking with you.” He put out his hand.
“Sure. I mean, you’re welcome.” Casey shook the Mossad officer’s hand. “I enjoyed it too.”
Casey watched Lev’s reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles as he left the bar. “That was unexpected,” he said to himself. He motioned to the bartender for another beer. That conversation was the first time outside of the IWG offices that Casey had talked to anyone about the Baltic Venture that didn’t result in an attempt on his life. But then again, it was only nine o’clock.
Lev Cohen waited in his car. Two things were apparent to him after his conversation with Casey Shenk. First, the man was very good at coming to conclusions that eluded the average American citizen—conclusions that were spot on. Second, he was no threat to Israel. Everything Casey had said was easily deduced if you knew what to look for, or weren’t afraid make connections that ignored the prejudices, good and bad, that most Americans had when it came to Israel. But he didn’t seem to know specifics. Which meant he did not have any proof.
That led Cohen to another conclusion. Eli Gedide was a paranoid megalomaniac. The Mossad executive was so afraid of any little thing that may or may not prevent the flawless execution of his “ingenious plots” that he was willing to have a nobody like Casey Shenk executed, simply because he could. Lev cursed himself for being a pawn in Gedide’s games. Men like Gedide threatened to ruin the Israel he had fought to defend for so many years.
To Lev, these people were more dangerous than Iran, Hamas, or Hizballah could ever be. Those enemies could be fought with guns and bombs. They were clear terrorists with agendas that called for nothing less than the destruction of his home. Gedide’s kind, however, were a cancer that attacked the very soul of Israel, bringing his people down to the level of the terrorists they spent so much energy decrying. And there was nothing he could do about it.
The spark of anger that flashed in him when Lev was ordered back to Israel now ignited into a small fire of hatred. Hatred of his own actions the previous week. Hatred of his inaction when he acquiesced to his assignment in America, being swept under the rug where he would not ruffle any feathers in Tel Aviv. But most of all he burned with a growing hatred for the man who sent him here in the first place and played him like a marionette all the while. Eli Gedide.
Lev was beginning to get a headache. He needed to return to his hotel and go to sleep, but that would have to wait. He turned the key and started the Nissan’s engine when Casey exited Bar 50 and turned the corner, walking north. Lev followed.
Chapter 33
“Peter, did you bring the trash out?” a woman’s voice called from inside the two-story home.
“Yes, dear,” Pete Grozny replied. He heard the master bedroom door shut as his wife got ready for bed. Grozny would do the same after he finished his final cigar of the day and downed the last of his Chivas Regal nightcap. He refused to give up this simple ritual, despite his doctor’s orders. Besides, Grozny reasoned, you can’t teach an old Bear new tricks.
The distant sound of cars on the Long Island Expressway almost never found their way to the backyard. When the breeze blew just right, it was almost dead-quiet. Pete Grozny regularly commended himself for making the decision years before to remodel, having a deck added above the laundry/utility room and a door with access to the upstairs hallway. It was the perfect sanctuary in the sleepy Bayside, Queens, neighborhood.
Tonight was especially quiet, and the sound of a snapping twig made Grozny straighten up. He set his drink on the wrought-iron table and walked to the corner of the deck. Leaning on the railing, the big Russian strained to see through the darkness. He saw a white apparition dart from the bushes and across the lawn.
“Goddamn cat,” Grozny said under his breath. The next-door neighbors had a dozen or so cats, and as far as Pete could tell, the only differences between those felines and the feral beasts that plagued his boyhood home were their fancy collars. The sudden crash of a trash can confirmed his assessment.
Grozny turned towards his neighbor’s house and shouted, “Cooper! I will re-tread the tires of my car with your fucking cats if my garbage is in the street tomorrow morning, you fucking gypsy bastard!” A contemptuous meow was the only response. Grozny looked at his now-unlit cigar and cursed. He placed the extinguished remains in the ash tray and picked up his glass of whiskey.
The glass fell and bounced on the wood deck before Grozny could finish its contents. He grabbed at his night shirt as an intense pain suddenly pummeled his chest. Not again, he thought as he fell to the floor next to the empty glass. Grozny knew the feeling of a heart attack. He had survived two others before. But he did not remember it being quite this sharp or agonizing. He tried calling for help, but he only managed a desperate wheezing as he crawled slowly to the door. Grozny watched helplessly as the light beneath his bedroom door extinguished. His wife had gone to bed, waiting for her husband to join her. Pete knew she would sleep alone that night. And every night thereafter. Like the glass, his head bounced on the deck as the last of his energy was expended, and darkness flooded his vision.
Goddamn cat.
The younger Mossad operative lowered his weapon. It wasn’t a rifle in the conventional sense, though it resembled one at first glance. And it was just as deadly. Pete Grozny’s corpse was proof of that fact. So was the brown and white tabby at the foot of the other Israeli. Before the two assassins used the directed energy, or DE, device on the senior IWG employee, they tested it on one of the handful of cats that were gathered around to investigate the interlopers.
The Mossad officers picked up the electromagnetic energy gun from a pawn shop in the Bronx. The owner of the store was a Jewish-American citizen who had recently repatriated after a ten-year residency in Israel. While there, he had been recruited by the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations to give the organization another man on the inside who could keep his finger on the pulse of Israel’s biggest financial and military benefactor. Despite the outward appearance of a junk dealer, the man was selected because of his advanced technical education that enabled him, in short order, to build devices such as the one used that night. That capability allowed Israel to have access to any number of sophisticated toys if and when they needed, without the risk and near impossibility of transporting them via commercial airliner from Israel to America. Similar arrangements were established in various countries on five continents.
The electromagnetic energy gun the man in the pawn shop made was a crude variation of the more sophisticated “non-lethal” weapons that had been in development in America and elsewhere for years. Designed to affect the central nervous system and create intense pain, nausea, or disorientation in its intended target, the directed energy device would theoretically incapacitate its victim for a short period of time to allow him to be disarmed, apprehended, or whatever the user intended after that. A slight engineering modification to increase the energy output moved the weapon out of the non-lethal category and could disrupt the heart’s electrical system enough to cause a heart attack.
Pete Grozny, with a history of heart problems, was the perfect candidate for assassination by DE. When the Mossad agent depressed the trigger on the weapon, a series of EM pulses were sent at a high rate straight into the Russian’s torso. The pulses replicated the natural el
ectrical signal in the heart’s sinoatrial node, causing the muscle to contract at an abnormally dangerous speed, raising Grozny’s heartbeat, and inducing the fatal episode.
The younger man removed the battery and returned the weapon to his duffel bag. “Not bad,” he said, patting the bag as he slung it over his shoulder. “I like this thing.” He looked to his partner for a similar expression of approval. He did not get it.
The older man, only five years senior, was all business. He was in charge of the operation, so he had to be. “It did the job. And considering you almost blew our cover with your careless footwork, we should be thankful.” The younger man bowed his head slightly, accepting the fact that he deserved the reprimand.
“Now pick up the stick you stepped on.”
The younger agent did as he was told.
“And the cat.”
This time the senior man got a questioning look in response.
“We don’t need to leave any evidence behind that might make someone think what happened up there was anything other than an overweight man having a heart attack.”
The younger man saw the logic, and any ill feelings he had towards his no-nonsense partner vanished. He was glad he was working with a professional. Perhaps he would even learn a thing or two before they returned to Israel. With the dead tabby in the duffel alongside the broken stick and the murder weapon, the two men made their way back to the front of the house and casually walked back to their vehicle two blocks away. As they rounded the corner at the top of the hill, they heard a woman’s frantic scream.
Both men smiled.
Chapter 34
Northern Algeria
The sun was just rising over central Algeria. Sofiane Belmokhtari welcomed the light, but he welcomed the heat the sun would bring even more. The desert nights were cold, and they had gotten colder as Sofiane made his way through the Sahara. The energy he exerted walking since his camel died two days earlier kept him from freezing, but even that was having less and less effect. Sofiane was sick. Like the camel, he was dying.
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