by D S Kane
Ben-Levy frowned. He’d need to find a way to push this man more. He wanted not just success for his new recruit but also respect from him. And Shimmel wasn’t giving him any. He was sure the major’s attitude was due to his failure to provide a protection detail. But surely he understood there was no way he could share intelligence with Aman or cross their lines of authority. He picked up the phone. At least he could follow up for Shimmel. “It’s Ben-Levy. Give me General Nemirovsky.”
The voice of the other man was oily smooth. “Yigdal. Can’t this wait until Friday, before the department heads meeting? Say at noon for ten minutes?”
Ben-Levy’s hand clenched. “Just tell me the status of my request for a protection detail for Avram Shimmel’s family?”
He heard voices in the background. Then silence. Nemirovsky is figuring out his excuse, thought Yigdal. “We’re, ah, in the process of seeing what we can do. Give me two more days.”
Ben-Levy grimaced. “Let me know when it’s done.” He terminated the call. Whatever they did provide would come at least a week from now.
He pulled the old creased folder from his desk: “Project Bloodridge.” Placing his reading glasses atop the bridge of his nose, he went through the details and checked off the phase labeled “Obtain two nuclear submarines without paying for them.”
He waited for another call. From Lester Dushov. He hoped this phase of Bloodridge would also be successful, so the subs would never have to be used.
Ben-Levy took another deep breath. His next move would be critical. Yes, he’d decided, Houmaz is no longer necessary. He pulled up the Al Jazeera website and keyed in the User ID and password Michael Drapoff had hacked for him. He found the blog on Israel and entered the following:
I have heard Israel has a plan called the “Jericho Sanction.” Should we drive them into the sea or explode a nuclear device on their soil, there is a computer program set to launch ICBMs into every Arab country, killing us all. Can this be true? Is there no way to stop it? I have heard that there is not!
Ben-Levy smiled. That would do it. Now for the final straw. He keyed another entry into the blog, labeled “failed mission”:
I have heard that Israel has two nuclear submarines with enough guided missiles to make the Middle East uninhabitable forever. I heard the Muslim Brotherhood paid for them, and the Israelis stole them from Tariq Houmaz. If this is true, we should find and kill this traitorous son of a goat.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Upper Pachir, Nangarhar Province, Afghanistan
September 21, 9:12 p.m.
Houmaz watched the practice skirmish rolling out in the valley below him. Over seven hundred men used rubber bullets, painful but not lethal. Houmaz had stolen Israeli technology from the Ness Ziona to mask the valley from surveillance satellites.
His next operation would have to make up for the recent failure. Thanks to Allah, it was a private failure, known only to him, his brother Pesi, and the Israelis. And his brother would hold his tongue. As for the Israelis, publicizing this would cause as much grief for them as it would for him. Everyone suspected Israel had nukes. But they’d never made their achievements public. If the theft ever became public, the United States might feel uncomfortable with yet another member of the nuclear-weapons club announcing itself to the world.
The next operation had to please Allah. But as of now, he had nothing. While he thought, the satphone buzzed. “Yes?”
“It’s Pesi. Go to the Al Jazeera website. Do it now.”
“No. I’m too busy to read all their gossip.” His thumb moved to terminate the call.
“Tariq, your failed mission is public news everywhere. It’s the biggest blog discussion on Al Jazeera in the history of the website.”
He dropped the phone as the breath left him. He picked it up, his hands shaking. “What?”
“They have your purchase of the subs, the theft by the Israelis, everything, including something called the Jericho Sanction.”
“I was named?” His palms were sweaty.
“Yes, brother.”
He shook his head. But something else Pesi said perked his interest. “What’s the Jericho Sanction?” He felt his eyebrows furrow.
“Go to the blog section. Read for yourself. Some mullahs are calling for you to be beheaded. Leave camp before your soldiers heed the call and plot to end you!” The call terminated.
He headed to the Hummer, still carrying the satphone. From the driver’s seat, he found the blog and read the entries. His face reddened and he pounded the dashboard with his fists.
The skirmish was still on and men were shouting orders to each other in the valley. No one was watching. Houmaz started the engine and drove off. There was one more task he’d have to complete before Allah took him.
“Your father will be disappointed with you when he sees what you did to the library.” Sharon Shimmel pointed to the pile of books Golda had spilled off the shelf in their small living room. There was fresh scribbling in red crayon on the pages of several.
The little girl cried, stomped her feet, and ran from the room.
Sharon shook her head. The growing soul in her belly kicked hard and she smiled. Two more months. She’d wanted to name him David, but Avram insisted he be called Isaac.
She picked up the books on the floor and placed them back on the shelves. She knew their locations by heart. Avram had studied American football and used the plays to construct military maneuvers. He had over fifteen books on football tactics. He’d used them as research for the one he’d written. This one she’d read. It had bored her to tears. But he was proud, using it to teach courses at the IDF college. She touched its spine with fondness.
Her watch chimed and she looked at its face. Time to go pick up Avram, she thought.
She entered the nursery and grabbed the blond child’s tiny hand. “Come. Time to go get poppa.”
The girl stopped crying and ran toward the door, pulling her mother down the stairs and outside to the car. “Take me to poppa!”
Sharon smiled. Golda’s misbehavior was to be expected. Her beloved poppa was gone most of the time and now she was faced with the arrival of another baby.
She pushed the key into the car door and turned to her daughter. “Get in the back. I’ll buckle you into the seat.” She bent over with difficulty and pushed the belt into its holder. Then sat in the front and adjusted the steering wheel to accommodate her pregnancy.
She turned the ignition key.
A ball of fire erupted from under the car, sending scorched metal, melted plastic car parts, and her burning flesh and bone in all directions.
Two blocks away, on top of a building’s roof, Tariq Houmaz saw the mother and her toddler die. He tapped the button on his cell phone’s-movie recording function to stop it and save the file. He smiled with satisfaction as his busy mind turned to how he’d reach the Gaza, where he could find safety.
He’d planned to place the video of his revenge on the Al Jazeera website within the hour, hoping that might cool the fanatics who called for his death. He rose and snuck down the steps to the street.
As he hurried off, he thought about the blog entries on Al Jazeera. Who had done this to him? When he found them, he’d need another bomb.
Avram Shimmel waited just inside the terminal. They were overdue now by fifteen minutes. He dialed Sharon’s cell phone for the third time but once again heard the message indicating that the party he’d called was outside the calling area. He guessed Sharon had turned it off or forgot to recharge its battery.
He shrugged, pacing around baggage claim, worrying about traffic. When they hadn’t arrived and a half-hour had passed, his mood darkened with worry. He grabbed his bag and sprinted from the terminal where he flashed his Mossad credentials and cut in front at the taxi line. “Take me to Meier Road, corner of Yahuda.”
The cabbie nodded and pushed Shimmel’s bag into the trunk. Climbing in, he started the car and maneuvered the roads onto the highway. “That was some explosion thi
s morning. Did you see it?”
Avram’s eyebrows rose. Bomb explosions were no longer common in Tel Aviv. But his gut wrenched as he worried. “No. I just got here.” He leaned forward. “What happened?”
“At the very intersection where I’m taking you. A woman and her daughter were murdered. A car bomb.”
Shimmel’s jaw dropped. “How did you find out?”
“It was on Al Jazeera news this morning. I saw the film made by the bomb maker who posted it.”
His heart was pounding. He needed to find out, but the echo in his head told him he already knew. “Were the two who died a black-haired pregnant woman and a blond-haired little girl about six years old?”
“So, you saw it too?”
Once he started wailing, Avram Shimmel couldn’t stop.
Just after dawn the next morning, Shimmel appeared at Ben-Levy’s door in the SHABEK section of the Office, before Mother arrived.
He waited outside, in full military dress, holding a single sheet of paper. His flesh was red around his eyes. He paced the small area around the door, his fists clenching and unclenching.
When Ben-Levy arrived, he saw the piece of paper and frowned. “Avram, I’m so sorry.”
Avram’s eyes began to tear. “I told you. He saw my face. Why couldn’t you get Aman protection for my family?”
“They were in process of arranging a detail.” Ben-Levy shook his head. “I know Mossad rules kept you from warning your wife while your mission was in process. But, you could have broken protocol and done it anyway.”
Shimmel’s mouth dropped at the accusation. His voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Our orders prohibit that. It would have been treason.” He turned away. When he swiveled and faced Mother, his face was a war of emotions. “This is my resignation. Don’t try to stop me.” His face stiffened as he marched down the hall away from Ben-Levy’s office.
Jon Sommers’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. “Yes, Mother?”
“I have news you might be interested in.”
“Shit, man, you bloody never give up, do you?” He moved his thumb toward the button to end the call.”
“Wait. Tariq Houmaz murdered Avram Shimmel’s pregnant wife and child with a car bomb yesterday evening. Shimmel resigned, and I believe he’s also out to hunt the bomb maker.”
Jon stopped, stock still. “Out to hunt?” He wondered, could he trust anyone Mother sent him. “Is this Shimmel the one who stole the subs for you? Can I send Houmaz to a better place? And what’s Shimmel’s cell phone number?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Near Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel
September 22, 8:24 a.m.
Sitting in coach class of the Sun D’Or flight from Bratislava to Ben Gurion International Airport, Jon dug his cell from his pants pocket and dialed the number. It rang once and dumped him into voice mail. The language was Hebrew, so Jon just waited until the beep. “I’m Jon Sommers. Mother sent me. Tariq Houmaz murdered my fiancée. I’m hunting him. Call me back.”
The plane aligned to the runway as it descended. He made another call. “William, I have another assignment for you. Oh, and in appreciation of the intel you gave me about Bloodridge, I wired the cash payment we agreed to into your numbered bank account this morning. Now the other task. We need to track a terrorist. He’s probably in Israel now, and so am I. It’s an even bigger payday for you. Meet me in Tel Aviv. Call me back when you arrive at the airport and I’ll give you further instructions.” Jon logged into his bank account using his cell. He sent Wing thirty thousand pounds.
The aircraft’s wheels bounced on the runway, rolling to a stop at the terminal. Jon gathered his go bag and followed the other passengers from the plane.
He flagged a taxi into downtown, tapping the Plexiglas partition to give the cabby directions. He scratched the itch deep within his shoulder, where it was stitched together.
Tel Aviv continued to astound him. It was so unlike the other cities he’d been to. Its mix of the ancient and the ultramodern skyscrapers flashed by, and Jon felt reverence for the place. This must be what keeps Mother going.
The cab drove along Ayalon Highway, exiting at Hashalom. It made a right into the Azrieli Complex and stopped at the Crowne Plaza Hotel at 132 Menachem Begin Road. This was the upscale part of the city. Jon paid the driver and took his bag with him to check in. While waiting on line, his cell buzzed. “Hello?”
The voice was deep and held a thick Israeli accent. “I’m Avram Shimmel. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“Call Ben-Levy. He gave me your number.”
Jon motioned to the registration clerk. “There’s an envelope for me from the Assistant Minister of Foreign Affairs.” He held out his hand and ripped it open, emptying it and handing the clerk his new Israeli passport. It bore the name “Jon Sommerstein.” At their first meeting so long ago, Mother had told him it was his great grandfather’s last name. He pocketed the new debit card along with a scribbled note stating it held two hundred thousand shekels. At under four shekels to the dollar, the US dollar equivalent amount was nearly $47,000. He waited while the clerk processed his registration.
Speaking into his cell, Jon said, “Call Ben-Levy. Then, call me back.”
“I will. Where can we meet?”
Jon nodded. “Where are you now?”
“I’ve just left his office. I’m in the armory of the SHABEK section, picking up some gear.”
Jon smiled. “Give me an hour. I’ll meet you there.” A plan was forming in his mind.
When he’d finished with the registration forms and dropped his bag in his room, Jon headed for the taxi line.
While he waited, his cell buzzed again. “Sommers.”
The voice on the other end was Asian. “I’m starting to dislike you a lot. I thought your name is O’Hara. Which is—”
“Enough, William. I work mostly for Mossad and have several names. What I’m offering you is a real plum. If you succeed, we’ll reward you. It’s the big time.” He got into the cab. “Corner of Hasadnaot Street and Hamenofim Street, Herzliyya, please.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” He could hear the disbelief in Wing’s voice.
“William, Mossad’s been generous to you. Listen, the man we’re tracking murdered my fiancée with one of his bombs, and dozens of others. And my partner, well, his wife and young daughter died yesterday in a car bomb built by the same man. The Mossad labeled our target a danger to all of Israel. Not human, not fit to live.”
“You mean Tariq Houmaz? The man you had me help you with?”
“Yeah. He knows about me and my partner. Not about you. We’ll need to track his whereabouts electronically, and we’re offering you the opportunity to prove you’re the best there is. Will you?” Jon held his breath, hoping.
“The best? Oh, fuck.” Silence reigned. “Well, I am the best there is, so, okay. Yes! But keep my name out of this. Where are you now?”
Jon glanced at his wristwatch. 9:50 a.m. “In a taxi on my way to the Mossad armory. I’m staying at a hotel in Tel Aviv. How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’m in San Jose, California. Helping a high-tech startup recover stolen secrets. I can be with you tomorrow morning if I leave now.”
“Then come as fast as you can. I’m in room 412 at the Crowne Plaza in Tel Aviv.” The taxi approached his desti-nation and he pulled his wallet from his pocket.
“Right. Okay, I’ll come. But, in addition to the cash, you’ll owe me a favor of my choosing. Anything I ask. Okay?”
“But of course.” Jon wondered what the hacker would want in return. But he took a deep breath. Whatever he’d need to do, it was worth it.
The two men eyed each other with obvious suspicion. Avram Shimmel was so much taller and more muscular than Jon, but when he extended his hand, Jon smiled. “I believe we share the emotional glue to bind us into friendship. We both lost loved ones to Tariq Houmaz.”
Avram nodded. “Come with me to the commissar
y. We can talk over a cup of terrible coffee.” He smiled back.
Two floors above, the elevator doors opened and they seated themselves at an empty table. Avram said, “I want the bomb maker dead. How can we find him?”
Jon tried to smile but found it impossible. “I also want justice served. Vengeance, really. I know a hacker who may be able to help us.”
“Do you have a plan?”
Jon froze. All his plans had failed to produce their desired result. “Not yet. It will take the three of us together to craft one that works.”
“Where is your hacker?”
Jon closed his eyes, seeing Lisa’s face, the battle where Houmaz murdered his team in Manhattan, shot the Brits in Vlad, and then he thought about Avram’s wife and daughter. “He’ll be here tomorrow. Tell me about yourself. Who are you?”
For the first time, Avram relaxed. “I’m a soldier. A patriot. A mourner.”
Jon saw a tear bud and roll down Avram’s cheek. “As am I.”
William Wing used his cell to check his bank account as the aircraft landed, rolling down the runway. The twenty thousand dollars was now part of his available balance. He reached up, grabbed his suitcase and walked into the busy terminal.
Another hour passed before he was at Sommers’s room in the Crowne Plaza. He knocked and two men cracked the door open, both holding handguns. Wing’s eyebrows flew up. “Don’t shoot me!”