by D S Kane
Standing at the hotel’s registration desk, he scanned the lobby for threats. Nothing. While the clerk processed his identity documents and generated an electronic room key, he read the registration book. He read several lines above where he was requested to sign, and smiled. There were two lines signed by the Brits whom he’d met up with to rescue Michael O’Hara. Right above those, someone else signed in, probably at the same time. He scanned the name and smiled. Now he knew the cover name of the man he’d rescued: Salim al-Muhammed. Bingo! Gault smiled. It made sense for them to lodge here. Everything was all working out.
After dawn the next day, Gault watched the elevator from an armchair in the lobby. He held a newspaper and used it to cover his features every time the elevator doors opened or he heard someone coming down the stairs. He figured his targets would go out to commence their assigned operations within a few hours.
He waited for five long hours before he heard the elevator doors creak open and saw the three covert operatives leave. The two British coverts, Wilbur and Clyde looked out of place in this pisshole of a city, but Salim al-Muhammed looked to be at home. He waited several minutes more, and then took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Slipping his credit card between the door and the jamb, he opened the door of Wilbur’s room. Before he entered, he saw a gray piece of thread fall from the door jamb inches above the floor. Idiots! Their tradecraft was so Cold War. No one had done that for ten years! He picked up the thread, walked in and shut the door.
Gault placed several bugs within the room. These were new technology, just developed for the NSA and the CIA by DARPA, the R and D agency of the Defense Department. They were much harder to detect than anything the other intelligence services were using. He hummed Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Modern Major-General” while he worked, putting one bug inside the room’s air vent, one under the bed, and one within the telephone’s plastic wall cover for its cord. Within ten minutes, he’d replaced the thread and was gone. He repeated the process in Clyde’s room and then in Jon’s. When he was finished, Gault took the stairs up one floor to his own room. He thought how they must have swept for bugs before they left and wouldn’t do it again the same day. But even if they did, they wouldn’t find any. And that meant they’d talk freely.
He hummed a tune from Tosca as he closed the door to his room and set up the voice recorders. The batteries on the bugs would last about forty-eight hours. Much more time than he’d need. If I pull this one off, I’ll get the promotion to team leader. Finally!
He hooked a voice alarm to the recorder and placed his headphones on the nightstand by his face. He reviewed his work to ensure all the connections were solid.
Gault napped, knowing that as soon his quarry entered any of their rooms, the shrill alarm would wake him. He slept soundly, dreaming of the office that would replace his cubicle as a result of this operation.
It was dark when the howl of the alarm woke him. Salim al-Muhammed’s room. Three voices, so all were there. The record function switched on automatically. Clyde MacIntosh was speaking. “Are you sure, Michael?”
He heard al-Muhammed say, “Not sure. But all the details point to Houmaz sending the subs to somewhere in the Middle East. My guess is a deep-water bay between the coast of Oman and Somalia. It could be anywhere between the Gulf of Oman and the Gulf of Aden.”
Could this be true? Houmaz buying submarines?
He left the recorder on but pulled off the headphones. And picked up his cell phone. “It’s Gault. Get me McDougal. I’m in Vlad. It’s urgent!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Trans-Siberian Express terminal, Vladivostok, Russia
September 19, 11:45 p.m.
Tariq Houmaz sat on a wood bench waiting for the Trans-Siberian Express to arrive from Moscow. He’d taken care coming here to ensure he’d not been followed. It was deadly quiet; he could even hear the sole oak tree’s leaves stirring in the breeze. He stared at the tree, twenty-five meters away on the other side of the tracks. Its trunk was what he continued to focus on as the time passed.
He tugged on the sleeve of his white bespoke-collared shirt and straightened the red silk tie that complemented his blue pinstripe business suit. Carrying a user manual and a catalogue for Cisco Systems circuit boards, he held them where they were visible so his cutout would know he sat where he’d been told to. He felt safe in his disguise as an electronics trader.
He heard the train’s whistle and watched it slowing as it entered the station. Vlad was the final stop on the Orient Express. The tree was no longer visible; it was on the locomotive’s other side. He waited, as he’d been told, until the train emptied, then refilled and prepared to leave. Houmaz wanted to pace but remained sitting, watching. He scratched his beard, worrying about the next steps in his plan.
When the train reversed direction, crawling back toward Europe, he glanced at his wristwatch. Then back at the tree. He could see it now, the entire trunk. It was too dark for him to make out the hollow of the tree. If all had gone as he was promised, their message would await him. Any second now, he could leave this wretched bench and see what they’d left in the slick. As the train chugged out of town, he rose.
At just past midnight, he darted across the now-empty tracks. There was a single sheet of paper placed within the slick. He glanced at it, but the words were in pencil and it was too dark to read them.
First, get back to the shack where he was staying as fast as he could. He stashed the note in his pocket and dashed off.
Sommers replaced the infrared field glasses in his jacket pocket. He followed the bomb maker at a discreet distance, ensuring his target’s counter-surveillance routines wouldn’t pick him up. As he walked, his fists kept clenching, his knuckles tight. The twins also followed, but well behind him.
As the stream of coverts neared the center of the wharf area, Houmaz ducked into a ramshackle building. The door squeaked shut behind him.
Jon beckoned the twins to close the distance. He pointed to Wilbur’s mission bag, with the barest essentials for immediate evacuation when necessary. “Gimme the listening scope and set it for shallow metal walls and about twenty meters.” Wilbur punched a few buttons on its tiny keyboard and handed the device to Jon.
They scrambled across the street into a dark alleyway. Jon aimed the antenna of the device toward the shack and plugged in the wireless headphone transmitter, a small box with a red blinking light. Each of the three donned headsets and listened.
They heard the bomb maker moving around. He must be alone, Jon thought. No other sound for an hour. Then snoring. Jon faced the twins. “We need to get that piece of paper, if he hasn’t destroyed it.”
Clyde nodded.
Wilbur shook his head. “What if he wakes?”
Jon found himself calculating the odds of different outcomes. “Kill him.” He was sure it was the only way. And he’d wanted an excuse to send Houmaz to a better place. Let me be his judge.
Clyde pointed back at Jon. “No. We can’t. He’s our asset. Sir Charles has to approve sanction of any asset.”
Jon looked at his wristwatch. “Call him. Now.”
Clyde pulled the cell from his pocket and punched in a number. He turned away from Jon and spoke in hushed tones. Then he turned to Jon. “We have permission to enter and search for the paper. We aren’t sanctioned to terminate him. Seems he’s now the asset of an associated intelligence service.” Clyde shrugged. “But, Mr. Sommers, if you wake him to force our hand, we’re ordered to shoot both of you. Please hand me your gun.”
Jon shrugged. He’d guessed as much. Would killing Houmaz and then being killed by the twins be a trade worth making? He wasn’t sure. There was more at stake now than just revenge for Lisa. The subs must not fall into the Muslim Brotherhood’s hands. “He’s dangerous, you know. It might be better for all three of us to be armed.”
Clyde shook his head. “Give it to me.” Jon pulled the Beretta from his pocket and handed it to Clyde.
“And, we’re not to take th
e paper. We read it and leave it where we found it. He’s not to know we were ever there. Is this clear?”
Jon nodded.
Wilbur disassembled the listening device and packed it into the mission bag along with the headphones. Wilbur dug into the bag and removed two plastic-composite 9mm Berettas and two plastic clips of plastic bullets. He handed one to Clyde and kept the other.
Jon remembered the last time he’d used a gun and what had happened to that team. Houmaz had killed everyone except him. He’d sworn under his breath it wouldn’t happen again. Never again. But, this time he’d be unarmed. There’d be no way he could protect even just himself.
Clyde pulled a spray can of lubricant from the mission bag and coated the door’s hinges. He replaced it, nodding to Jon and Wilbur. Then he cracked open the door and the three entered, spreading out into different sectors of the room. Houmaz rolled over inside a sleeping bag, and now he faced them with his eyes closed. Still snoring.
Jon worried the bomb maker was faking sleep and might have a pistol in his hand, covered by the sleeping bag. He approached and found Houmaz’s pants on a wooden chair three meters behind their target. He stared at Houmaz, while he searched the man’s pockets.
Jon removed a yellow page and unfolded it. The words printed on it named a location, a beach a few miles southwest of the city. And a date and time. Six hours from now. But there was something more important: the instruction to use a verbal call sign, “strangelove.” So, the Russian mafiya has a sense of humor. He replaced the refolded sheet and motioned to the twins.
Time to leave.
The three interlopers walked without making a sound to the door. Clyde and Wilbur pointed their guns at Houmaz as they backed away. Clyde reached his left hand to the door and turned the knob. He pushed it open.
But at the end of its traverse, the metal squeaked.
As the Brits and Jon turned to face Houmaz, three shots popped through the sleeping bag. The sound startled Jon, and he dove for the doorway.
Small holes in both twins’ foreheads dripped red. Jon felt a burning sensation in his right hand where a gun should have been.
His brain felt sluggish despite the jolt of adrenaline. But one thing was clear: without a weapon, he’d have no chance if he didn’t run. Too far away to charge at the man. Only one way out. As he crawled through the door, he heard Houmaz chamber another round. He covered the back of his head with his forearm and saw another flash from the sleeping bag. His left shoulder felt the burning bullet rip into it. Jon bolted through the door, crawled, and staggered to his feet.
He raced for his life looking for cover down the street.
About twenty meters more to an intersection. He sprinted left around a corner, back the way they’d come. Kept running, taking twists and turns away from where his team lay dead. He remembered the team in Manhattan. He’d failed them, too.
Houmaz climbed out of the sleeping bag and checked for pulse on the two Brits. They were both dead. He paced the room. A cold autumn breeze hit his shirt, and the perspiration from his excitement gave him chills. He’d recognized the face of the man he’d wounded. Mossad. It was the kidon whose team he’d murdered a few months ago in Manhattan. So, they are still hunting me. He shook his head. I must kill that man. How can I trap him? The presence of a single kidon means there may be others. He examined the pockets of the two corpses. One of them had a cell phone. The last call had a London country code. They were British. He wondered if he’d been burned and set up. Were the Brits now working with the Jews? They’d never done that before. Maybe the Brits knew what he was here to do. But how could they? If they did, had they told the Jews? Very likely they had. He grimaced. So close now to showing his father the man he’d become. I must not fail! Who was responsible for this complication?
But in Vlad, the Russians ruled. There was something he needed to find out fast. Were the Russians the glue that held together this failed attempt on his life?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Russian mafiya warehouse on the wharf terminal,Vladivostok, Russia
September 19, 1:28 a.m.
Nikita Tobelov threw a handful of coal into the stove that heated his warehouse office. He grinned, celebrating the biggest deal of the twenty-three years he’d been running the Eastern Branch of the Russian mafiya. He removed a jar of Beluga caviar and a bottle of Stoli vodka from the fridge in his office. Then, he grabbed a tin of crackers from the bottom drawer of his desk and spread the rich black roe onto a saltine. As he raised it to his lips, his cell buzzed. “Da?”
“It’s Houmaz. Why did you send MI-6 after me?”
“What?” The cracker fell to his desk.
“They were here. I shot two of them dead, but the third one escaped. I may have wounded him. Tell me, why?”
Tobelov looked at the cracker. “I didn’t compromise you. It’s not our way. You must have been careless.” He scooped up the saltine and popped it into his mouth, savoring the rich salty flavor of caviar.
The line went dead. Tobelov grabbed the bottle by its neck and gulped down a swig. Then he punched in the number for his security force. “Vasili, send a team here. We might have an angry customer visiting us soon.” But, he thought, it’s more likely the raghead will flee the city if he’s worried.
Crickets buzzed the night sky. Aziz Tamil and the twenty-six submariners Houmaz had the Russians train sat on the shoreline, just southwest of the city. He watched his team members as they smoked cigarettes and talked. Tamil wore a balaclava over his face. He had lifts on his shoes, and there was padding in his shirt making him look fat. No one who’d tried to photograph his face had ever lived to tell about it. No one even knew what his voice sounded like.
He scribbled a note on a piece of paper and beckoned to his second-in-command. The man took the note and read it, then ripped it into shreds and tossed it into the campfire. Tamil watched as the man ordered two perimeter guards to tighten up the southeast edge of their camp.
He stared at the rafts sitting on the shoreline. Four more hours and they’d be on the subs and gone from this pisshole of a city. He couldn’t wait.
“What do you mean, you don’t know where they are?” Avram Shimmel could feel the sneer creeping across his face. “What do we do now?”
“You wait.” The voice hissed back, just above a whisper. “What is your GPS?”
Avram scanned his location off the screen of the secure satellite phone and read off the numbers. The beach where they were camped was just northwest of the city.
“I’ll call you back soon.” Yigdal Ben-Levy terminated the call.
Avram shook his head. The mission seemed doomed.
Jon reached the western outskirts of the city. The bicycle he’d stolen left his legs feeling rubbery. He felt blood, warm and wet, spreading from the hole in his left shoulder. His right hand stung where the bullet scored his palm. His breath came in spurts.
As he sped away, he knew he’d had enough. Twice he’d been close enough to kill Tariq Houmaz, and he’d failed both times. He was no kidon and there was no way he’d ever be one. He’d failed twice, and now he needed to get away. All he could feel was fear as he pedaled as fast as he could.
Lisa’s voice screamed at him to go back and kill Houmaz. He owed her that for her love. Jon whipped around another corner. Her voice screamed, you can’t go. No! He shook his head, his mind echoing back his own no! Bitch, leave me be! He doubted he could win the war in his mind, but he knew he had to fight.
He made a decision, and as he made it, he knew it was one he’d regret. He dropped the bike in an alleyway and removed his cell phone from his pocket. Moving his arm sent a bolt of pain through his shoulder. He ignored it. “Get me Mother. It’s Sommers. And it’s urgent.” He waited and went through the usual security procedures.
“You woke me. What’s so urgent?”
“I know where the subs will be and what we need to know to steal them.” Jon realized he was shouting and tried to control his voice. He fought the dizzine
ss surging through him.
He heard his former handler sigh. “Really? Go on. Tell me.” Mother’s tone sounded sarcastic to him, and he felt his own mouth turn down. He was dizzy and realized he couldn’t stand up much longer. He looked for something to sit on. Nothing there. He braced himself against the building.
Jon told Ben-Levy about their operation, the fate of the twins, and ended with the fact that Houmaz was still alive.
Then he read the note from his memory into the phone. He knew the conversation would be recorded. They always were.
“You say the countersign is ‘strangelove?’ Hah. Funny. Jon, you did well tonight. You have our gratitude.”
Jon felt his left arm and right hand on fire where Tariq Houmaz’s bullets had ripped into him. “Just one question, Yigdal. If I see him again, may I kill him?”
It seemed to take his former handler forever to consider his answer. “Jon, I like you. I adored your parents. Your father was our most feared covert. But, we are running a state here. Feelings, yours or mine, they don’t count. Our adversaries’ motto is ‘convert or die.’ Ours is ‘by way of deception thou shalt do war.’ If you can’t help, if you become an obstacle, we’ll deal with you as an enemy. Israel must survive.”
Jon gripped the phone so hard his hand hurt. “Just tell me the bloody answer. May I kill Tariq Houmaz?”
He heard Ben-Levy’s voice grow terse, just above a whisper. “Bring him in intact. Let our Intelligence Division interrogate him. We have some new toys from the biochemistry team. He still has valuable intel. And, Jon, killing Houmaz won’t bring Lisa back.”
“I have the intel you need.”
“Ready. Where are the subs?” Avram used hand signals to get the attention of his lieutenants and they surrounded him. He listened to Ben-Levy for another thirty seconds. “It’ll be tight. We’re twenty kilometers away and if we drive fast enough to be there before they launch their rafts, they’ll hear us.”