by D S Kane
He took a step back and let the door close behind him. From inside the stairwell, he pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed his apartment landline. The phone rang four times and he could hear the sound from his hiding place. His speakerphone delivered its outgoing message: “You have reached Herr Friedrich Stamphil. I am busy. Leave a message.”
Jon’s eyes had adjusted to the darker light of the stairwell. He tucked himself into a crevice and whispered into his cell phone. “Whoever is inside my apartment, I have noticed your presence. So I won’t be going in to meet you unless you pick up my phone and talk to me.”
He knew an enemy would flee. He waited, watching. No one emerged. He continued waiting.
The speakerphone erupted into his cell phone. “Jon, it’s Ruth. Come in, please.”
He let out his breath and walked back to his front door. He opened it, and saw her. And Mother. Both sat on the chrome and leather chairs at his tiny kitchen table. He glared at Ben-Levy. “Why are you here?”
Ruth’s gaze never rose from the floor.
Ben-Levy pulled a yellow folder from his attaché case. “This is a daylight priority. I didn’t have time to set a meet. Couldn’t call you first, there was neither the time nor a dead drop we could safely use. I need you to run a mission for me.”
“I did you a favor with William. I don’t work for you.” Jon took off his suit jacket. His eyes bored in on the white-haired man.
Ruth faced him. “The Prime Minister authorized this mission.”
“The PM?” Jon shook his head. “I’m not a kidon. I don’t kill. I’m a katsa. I work for Collections!”
Mother shook his head “You are what I tell you to be. Assemble a team. Include at least one kidon. Find the woman who stole our intelligence. You told me her name is Cassandra Sashakovich. Find her, and find out why. Who did she give it to? Or sell it to? Where are the Bug-Lok blueprints now? Construct a plan to destroy all copies, paper and electronic, including the backups, wherever they may be. And get back to me. Do it yesterday!” Ben-Levy handed the folder to Jon. “Read it and leave it.”
Jon read the pages as if they held a plague. He read the history of the Bug-Lok technology. Requested by the United States’ old DARPA group about a year ago. Developed within Israel’s Ness Ziona weapons development facility. At its start, it was a microscopic piece of computer hardware, a tracking bug. He read more and his jaw almost dropped when he reached the “Accessories” section of the document. It was designed to “bore into the medulla oblongata of its recipient and establish chemical bonds within the brainstem” to see what the recipient saw, hear what the recipient heard. It could “transmit the resulting data stream, encrypted, to any local wireless connection,” and it could “carry enough ricin derivative to terminate the recipient” at the touch of a button on a remote thousands of miles away.
When he came to the section labeled “Risks and Unintended Consequences,” his face changed color, red to gray. It was easy to manufacture but quality control seemed to be difficult. Many of the test subjects died within hours after they received it.
Jon shook his head. “What a piece of crap.”
Mother glared at Jon. “The stakes are high. Our mole in Greenfield’s agency reported that there are already rumors of Bug-Lok’s existence within the intelligence communities of several countries. Great Britain and China among others. A leak somewhere. And hunters everywhere.”
Jon shrugged, his expression dour. “You’re right. I’ll need a team. And access to a considerable amount of cash.”
Ruth handed him an envelope. He opened it. There was a passport for a man who looked like him, but the name was “Michael O’Hara.” Another passport for a man who looked like one of his friends, a former IDF major named Avram Shimmel, but the name inside it read “Rashid Tariq.” The third passport bore William Wing’s photograph, and its name was “Xian Chow Ming.” There were driver’s licenses in the names given on the passports, bank books for each, and, a grand total of almost a half-million US dollars.
Jon’s eyebrows rose. “You want me to include William?”
She handed him a list of all William’s bank accounts, almost all of them numbered. “Emergency funds.”
Jon thought for a few seconds. “Someone will have to get me a leave of absence at the bank. I’ve already used up my time off with pay.”
Ruth nodded. “I’ve already fixed that. Our sayanim in Personnel.”
Mother took the file, placed it back into his case, and walked to the door. “Good luck, Jon. Shalom.” He left the apartment.
Ruth waited for the door to latch. She turned and faced Jon, sighing. “He’s beginning to annoy me.”
Jon tilted his head. “Really? Well, then I’m not alone. On the other hand, if it weren’t for Mother and his ilk, what would become of Israel? Since Israel is the only Western democracy in the Middle East, what would become of the United States?”
Ruth paused. She stared at Jon. “You hate him, don’t you?”
“No. I understand him. I don’t like him. He serves a useful purpose.”
She shook her head. “Right. Dinner? I’m paying.”
Jon nodded, but his mind was already constructing a plan to fix the theft.
When they returned from dinner, Jon hadn’t said a word for almost an hour, and very few before that. Now, he faced Ruth. “It’s too late to find a hotel. Want to stay here tonight?”
Her brows arched. “Yes, and thanks. But no sex. I know being in your bed with you made you uncomfortable. If you’d prefer, I can take your tiny sofa.” She pointed at it with her head.
“Whatever.” He walked to the corner of the room where a notebook computer sat on his desk. He sat and crafted an email.
She walked behind his back to read what he was keying:
William—
I need you for work that isn’t dangerous. Mossad is paying. Your first task is, find Avram. I’ll need him also. Don’t contact or approach. Just let me know where I can find him. Reply to this email address using my RSA key for security.
—Jon
Ruth touched his shoulder. “Adding Willy is a start. Including you and Shimmel, that’s three. Still not enough, if this is to have any chance of success. You may run up against one of the American intelligence services.”
He thought about the distinction between an intelligence agency and an intelligence service. The services were so covert, their very existence was deniable. In the United States alone, there were over 1,200 of them, including privately held corporations that seemed to be art galleries, real estate agencies, travel services, and management consultancies. Many services were solely gray and black ops, their funding usually derived from obscure places such as rounding errors in the federal budget. “Yeah. You’re right. What do you suggest?” He shifted his seat around so he faced her.
“Me. I was a bat leveyha before I was promoted to kidon. I’ve killed before and you haven’t. I’ve been a katsa for six months and now chief of station. I have the skills and contacts you need.”
He stopped tapping his fingers and nodded. “Right then. But Ben-Levy made me the team leader on this one. If you’re on my team for this mission, you report to me. Clear?”
Ruth frowned. She stood still, hesitating, her arms at her sides. “Why?”
Jon turned his face away from the notebook’s screen, and stared at her. “I’ve led a team in the field. My strengths are team formation and mission planning. If you can’t live with me calling the shots, walk away.”
She frowned. “It’s not that. I’ve reported to men before. Some better than others. But Jon, you’ve only been with the Mossad for a year. Not long enough. Not enough experience. I’ve been doing this for four years. Even that isn’t really enough for this mission. You’d be—”
“I’d be more than adequate for this. If you wish to continue this discussion, take it up with Mother.” He glared at her.
Ruth took a step back. “Whatever.” She turned away, then shrugged as she walk
ed to a cabinet in his living area. She removed a bottle of Lagavulin single malt and two tumblers. She poured them half full and handed one to Jon. “Okay. To the mission.”
He smiled. “To the mission.” His smile evaporated. “You aren’t returning to Berlin, are you?”
“No, silly boy. I’m staying to work with you on the plan and staffing for it.” She sipped the Scotch. “Oh, that’s good.”
He sipped a little into his mouth. “Always is.”
Placing the glass on the desk, he sat and opened a project planning program on his notebook computer.
She placed her glass next to his. And placed both hands on his shoulders. “Jon, this one could get sticky with us working together. But you already know that, right?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head. “So? Everything Mother asks me to do gets messy.” He rose from the chair and faced her. “And everything I do with you is a major frustration, but in a different way.”
She glared at him. “You think it’s just your problem? When we were both just field agents in Tel Aviv awaiting reassignment, things were different. Sex was good and kept us loose. Now it’s no longer true. I’m your case officer now. Sex might compromise my judgment and yours, too. We could become dangerous to each other. Can you work with me knowing that?”
He stared into her eyes. “Right now, not having sex with you is compromising my judgment.” He touched her hand. “Tell me you don’t feel the same way.” He pulled her toward him. “Tell me you can still think straight.” He forced his lips to hers. “Tell me.”
She pulled her face away, stepped back, and looked into his eyes. “It won’t end well.”
His reply was a tiny groan, almost a growl. He pulled her face back to his, kissed her hard, his hands moving, touching her everywhere.
She struggled, but only for a moment. Her eyes glared back, but her lips moved hard against his.
They stopped there for a few seconds, each breathing fast. She laughed. “I missed you since London. Tel Aviv wasn’t enough.”
He nodded, unbuttoning her blouse and touching his lips to one of her nipples. “Me too.”
She unbuckled his belt and his pants fell to the floor Then she tugged his shorts off and touched his erection. “What if you can’t get them?”
He stopped squeezing her nipples. “William and Avram?” He moved her toward the bed.
She pushed him onto the mattress and placed her knees on either side of his torso. She lowered herself onto him. Penetration, wet onto hard.
He found himself groaning, his mind mush as she rode him.
Later, she covered him with her torso, both of them breathing hard, but finished. Jon remembered her question. “They’ll join us.”
She kissed his neck. “You don’t know that.”
“Wrong. We have a bond. Friends and secrets forever. You’ll see.” He burrowed his tongue in her ear.
She gasped. “Maybe. And what do we do then? What’s the plan?”
“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later.”
Chapter Eleven
The dirt road leading to Merca (Baledogle Humanitarian Relief Sector), thirty-two kilometers west of Mogadishu, Somalia
June 29, 4:58 p.m.
Just outside a small war-ravaged village, Avram Shimmel looked at his wristwatch. He hurried to finish his preparations. After he unzipped his go bag, he pulled the disassembled sniper rifle and the unarmed IED from it. He pulled out a small folding shovel. From behind a thick-trunked tree, he assembled the gun. In a camouflage shirt and pants, he blended into the parched earth and concrete rubble around him.
He trotted to the dirt road, carrying the shovel and the IED.
Avram dug a small hole, armed and buried the bomb, then set up wireless laser triggers on either side of the road.
Back behind the tree, he placed a clip in the rifle and turned on the laser triggers.
While he waited, staring through the rifle’s scope, the former IDF Major muttered a Somali proverb:
Me and Somalia against the world,
me and my clan against Somalia,
me and my family against my clan,
me and my brother against my family,
me against my brother.
Knowing how his enemy thought made them so much easier to target and kill.
Any second now.
While he waited, perspiration soaked his shirt. He heard his cell buzz. He peeked at its screen. His handler, someone he’d never met. He ignored the call and placed the cell back in his pocket as two jeeps carrying the leader of the Hawiye Islamic revolutionary group and his bodyguards bounced over the hill, doing about sixty kilometers an hour. A tail of dust followed in the wake of the vehicles.
He took aim at the second jeep and waited. He heard the click of the IED’s trigger as the first jeep, carrying the target’s bodyguards, crossed between the lasers.
The first jeep exploded in a plume of black smoke. The one behind screeched to a halt just behind it, dust shrouding it for several seconds.
By the time the dust cleared, Avram had shot two of the three soldiers in it. He wanted the final person alive.
He moved from behind the tree and ran to the stalled vehicle, now at a sixty-degree angle to the road. The dust from the road hovered in a thin brown and red cloud over the vehicle. Avram stepped around to the front of the jeep and aimed his weapon. He saw his target crawling toward the rear of the vehicle, trying to reach a Kalashnikov in the hand of one of the dead soldiers.
He knew that his six-foot-seven frame must make him appear to his enemies as a giant.
As General Omar Katobi stretched his hand toward the officer’s AK-47, Avram spoke in Somali. “If you want to live, place your hands on top of your head and get on your knees.”
Katobi, military leader of the Habar Gidir subclan of the Hawiyes sneered, but he released his grip on the weapon and did as he was told. “Who are you?”
Avram patted him down for weapons and took two hunting knives, a 9mm Beretta, and several clips from the man. The gun wasn’t even loaded.
Shimmel pulled the captive’s arms behind his torso and tightened plastic snap cuffs on his wrists. Then he dragged the man behind the tree and set him there, kneeling. “I am the angel of death. Tell me where and when the arms shipments arrive and I might let you live.”
The general spat at Avram.
Avram stood up to his full height. He watched his captive’s eyes bug. “I am half a meter taller than you. I can bench-press two hundred kilograms. With one of my hands alone, I could crush your throat. One more time. If you don’t show me respect, I’ll kill you slowly and painfully. Where and when?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Revenge. Men like you killed my wife and child. Tell me, where and when?”
“If you murder me, you’re no better than I am.” The general looked around him, as if help might emerge or he might find a weapon.
“Men like you murder innocent civilians. I’m executing a terrorist. Last time: where and when?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Avram nodded. He shot Katobi in his kneecap. The general screamed and collapsed on the dirt road .
“You have one other knee. You might escape death, but even if you do, if I shoot your other knee, you will never walk again.” He pulled back on the Beretta, loading another round into the chamber. Then he placed the barrel against the general’s other kneecap. “Where?”
The general screamed. He looked up and grinned through his clenched teeth. “Up your ass.”
Avram pulled the trigger, separating the man’s knee and the rest of his leg. “My ass isn’t the issue. Where?”
The man’s mouth moved but no words came through his groans. His eyes bulged wide. Avram placed the muzzle of the gun against the man’s crotch. He loaded another round into the Beretta. “You will die a eunuch. Three seconds. Two. One.”
The general shuddered. “Wait! The weapons have already been delivered. The arsena
l is in the basement of the mosque. In town. I was going there now.”
As the man’s blood pooled under his feet, Avram pictured the missile launchers, the AK-47s and -74s, all the ammunition for the weapons, stored in a single spot. “Thank you, general. I will kill you painlessly now.” He placed the barrel of the weapon against the man’s temple. “You may have a minute to pray for your soul.”
The general prayed while Avram followed the seconds against his wristwatch. When sixty had passed, he said “goodbye” and squeezed the trigger, sending a spray of bone, brain, and blood against the tree trunk.
He disassembled the sniper rifle and loaded it into his go bag. He left the bodies in the road beside the jeeps. He would be finished and gone before their discovery.
As he walked further from the road, he forced his mind not to consider the torn bodies of the men he had just killed. He thought of his wife and child, how they had been butchered. One more visit, to pay his respects at the holy site, and he could leave this godforsaken country.
As he walked further down the road, he thought how having an army behind him would be a better alternative to working solo. He wondered if some of his friends and former comrades at IDF might be interested in joining a new mercenary group. As he ran through the mental list of possible recruits from his time in the Israeli army, his cell buzzed again. He scanned its screen. A text message: “Friends and secrets forever. Quicksilver.”
It was William Wing’s cell number, but it was Jon Sommers’ call-sign. Avram found a shady place to sit. If both of them had reconnected, it must be important. But his fingers stalled before he could dial Jon’s number.