by D S Kane
He tried to pray, but knew it wouldn’t help. He was sure this was a rendition factory in some barbaric country, and if it wasn’t, well, that was his next stop.
There was speaker in the ceiling and it gurgled now. “Move to the far wall opposite the door.”
He did as he was told. The door clicked open and Bob Gault walked through, closing it behind him.
“My boss is very unhappy with us both. You were to be a crowning achievement. You’re not. You were supposed to assassinate the leader of the Palestinian Brotherhood in Egypt before they could fix the problems with their government. Our first use of Bug-Lok. Instead, you tried to manufacture more units from our sample. You’re a failure. You don’t follow orders.”
Houmaz drew himself erect and sneered. “You gave me no incentive. Just follow your inane requests. Why should I?”
Gault nodded. “Incentive? I saved you from a Mossad hit team. When I found you, there were three slugs in your chest. I could have let you go to Allah.” He frowned. “Now I think we’ll just have to extract by force any small bits of intelligence you can provide.”
Houmaz shook his head. “Wait. I can, I will help you, if you do just one thing for me.”
Gault remained silent. He paced the cell. “Crap. Okay, what do you want?”
“Bring me Jon Sommers. Let me speak privately with him. If you do, I’ll cooperate.”
Gault shook his head. “No. You’ll try to kill him.”
“I won’t.” Houmaz paused. Now to close the sale. This time, he was sure what would work was nothing less than the truth. “All I want is to tell him who really killed his fiancée last year. It wasn’t me and he deserves to know. The information may make him more pliable for you.”
Gault’s eyes had widened. Houmaz knew he had the spy’s interest. “Maybe. I’ll call my boss. We’ll see.” He left the cell. Houmaz turned from the cameras recording him in the cell walls. With his face inches away from the concrete, he smiled.
Shula Ries’s first and only hospital visitor was Lester Dushov. The middle-aged Mossad kidon wore his threadbare brown herringbone tweed jacket. She was sure it concealed an arsenal. He patted her hand. “Shula, it’s good to see you breathing.”
“Very funny. My legs are broken in so many places it will take weeks before I can attempt walking. The burns on them are so extensive the doctors say I’ll feel pain for the remainder of my days. You know what that means, right?”
He nodded. “We’ll miss you in the Mossad. You were our best.”
“Lester, get me a mirror. I need to see what’s happened.”
He left her room and returned with a compact mirror. She stared into a face she didn’t recognize. There were scars and wrinkles everywhere. She remembered herself being attractive, even sexy. No longer. Her face was repulsive. A feeling of shock started in her core and spread in seconds to every part of her rattled fingers. She dropped the mirror. She felt tears form. She worried she’d cry while he was there. “What will I do now?”
Dushov pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Mother’s replacement sends this. Samuel Meyer. His call sign is Uncle Sam.” Dushov grinned. “What a neat name. He wants you to read the contents.”
She pulled a single slip of paper from the envelope:
We buried “Shulamit Ries” this morning. Effective immediately, you are reassigned as paid sayan to the New York Consulate Office. Your assignment cover name is “Susan Rubin,” and you will be Executive Vice President at American Bank and Trust, a money center bank. At the bank, you are assigned Funds Transfer and Foreign Exchange. While there you will be the Mossad’s money launderer and you will scout to ensure no terrorism funding runs through the CHIPS system.
She scowled. “I know nothing about banking.”
Dushov nodded. “Don’t worry about the details. We’ve backstopped your identity as a senior manager recruited from Citibank. Before we activate you, you will spend a few months with private tutoring from the Stern Graduate School’s faculty at NYU. They will teach you what you absolutely must know, and we will surround you with experts. Sayanim from the New York Office. Jon Sommers’s cover at Dreitsbank was blown the moment he recruited an asset. The asset has a new handler. We’ll assign Jon to work with you in New York.”
She nodded, and he continued. “There’s a small problem, however.”
“What?”
Dushov eyed the floor. “Right now, no one knows where he is. He’s been out of touch for more than a day now.”
“Yes, Bob?” Mark McDougal tapped his fingers against the desk as he looked out the window onto K Street. Bob’s voice through the speaker phone sounded different. A bit less forceful, less convincing. Maybe it was just the phone or the connection to the military prison at the air base in Incirlik, Turkey.
“Houmaz is becoming a problem.”
“He’s your asset.” McDougal thought, and your problem.
“Well, he’s asked for a favor. In order to do it, I’ll need your sign-off.”
“What?” If this went longer, McDougal would be late for his lunch appointment. He held the phone to his ear as he rose from his seat.
“He wants me to arrange a face-to-face conversation with Jon Sommers.”
McDougal froze. Who? Oh, yeah, the Brit. “Greenfield doesn’t trust the Brits. Why’d we want to work with them?” There was a longer pause than he expected. “Well?”
“Sommers is with the Mossad.”
McDougal scowled. “Greenfield hates the Jews.”
“Houmaz won’t cooperate unless I bring him Sommers for a face-to-face. And Houmaz told me what he wants to talk with Jon about.”
“Okay, now you have my interest.”
“Houmaz will tell Jon who killed his fiancée. My guess is it’s one of the Mossad kidonim.”
McDougal closed his eyes for several seconds. “You think there’s a chance we can turn Sommers and get a seat at the table in the Mossad?”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Okay. Do it.” He terminated the conversation. He’d remember Gault’s inability to control his own asset when it was time for Bob’s performance evaluation next month. Fuck him. Lunch waited.
Hearing McDougal slam his receiver to end the call, Bob Gault held the phone so tightly his hand hurt. “Crap.”
Outside, he heard the roar of a military transport jet taking off at Incirlik. He scanned his notes for what he knew of Sommers. No email. An apartment address in Munich, a much older one in London, and an ancient email. Not much.
He tapped his fingers against the desk. He was certain that London was a dead end. The email address was nearly eighteen months old. It would probably take him a day or more to reach Munich. He visited his room at the air base and tossed some clothes into an attaché case, then headed to Incirlik’s airport.
In the cab he set a search troll at the ECHELON server to report anything related to Sommers back to his cell phone. As the taxi slowed at airport, his phone beeped. He scanned the troll’s message: an email from Sommers to the Mossad’s director requesting an appointment tomorrow at the headquarters building in Herzliyya. What luck! He was sure there’d be a direct flight to Tel Aviv available sometime in the next twelve hours.
And wouldn’t Mr. Sommers be surprised to see him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mossad headquarters, Herzliyya, Israel
August 9, 11:02 a.m.
As dawn peeked rosy though heavy clouds, Jon Sommers dressed in a gray suit and darker tie. His haggard face stared back as he ran a comb though his hair, suddenly streaked with gray. His reflection made it obvious he’d aged decades in a few days.
He walked the three miles from the hotel to the headquarters. As he entered the building’s lobby, one of the security guards stopped him. Jon tapped the pocket holding his letter of resignation. “I’m here for Yigdal Ben-Levy. Tell him it’s Jon Sommers.”
The guard asked for Jon’s ID. “Mr. Ben-Levy has been reassigned. No longer working in this office.”
The guard said, “Washington. He’s acting as ambassador until someone is reassigned that position. Musical chairs in the Knesset.”
“Who’s running the Office?”
The guard said, “Samuel Meyer. The change became official two days ago, agent Sommers.”
Jon thought for a few seconds. Mother wasn’t really Mother anymore. But Ben-Levy wasn’t letting his assets know this. Was he running assets off the books? Had he gone rogue? Jon took a deep breath. “I need to see Assistant Director Meyer. Can you please arrange it? I’ll wait.”
The guard pointed Jon to a row of lobby couches. Jon’s shoulders went slack. As he approached one of the couches, he saw someone he recognized walking toward him. Bob Gault in a business suit, grinning.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. I’ve been here almost an hour.” Gault extended his hand.
Jon ignored it. “How did you know?”
“Don’t be silly. ECHELON. We intercepted your email requesting an appointment with your assistant director.”
“It was encrypted.”
“Yeah. Big deal.”
“What do you want?”
“I bring a gift. Something you don’t even know you want. Come with me. Somewhere there aren’t security cameras.”
“It’s Israel. There are cams everywhere.”
“Follow me.”
Jon followed him through the crowded streets in silence for ten minutes, into the lobby of the Sheraton. Gault walked them into the elevator and rode up. Gault’s room, his bag still closed sitting on the bed. He pulled a second chair to the efficiency kitchen’s table and sat at one.
Jon also sat. “What?”
“I have Tariq Houmaz. He wants to see you.”
The memories came back in a rush. Jon shuddered. The scarred wound in his chest itched like it was on fire. “You’ve captured him?”
“Yeah. Wanna meet? You won’t be able to touch him, and he won’t be able to touch you. But you two can talk. It’ll be face-to-face.”
Jon nodded. “Yes, very much. Why would he agree to speak with me?”
Gault frowned, thinking, Do I trust Houmaz? Do I trust anyone? He sighed. No, but that’s the nature of the beast. “He claims he didn’t kill your fiancée. He says he can tell you who did.
Jon’s face went dark, his eyes hooded. “Where?”
“Ah, Jon, there’s the rub. He isn’t anywhere nearby. We’ll travel by military transport and you’ll be blindfolded from when we take off, and stay blindfolded all the way until you’re in the room with him. Same procedure on your way out. Agree?”
“Bloody bullshit.” Jon shrugged. “Right, then. I agree.”
Tariq Houmaz stared at the hand-to-ankle cuffs, chained to the desk. The desk was bolted to the floor. Even the chair was secured against the concrete wall. This wasn’t a safe house. It was the cell of a prison somewhere. He couldn’t tell for sure, but when they’d taken him from the airport, shrouded in a black hood covering his face, he thought he’d heard voices speaking in Turkish. He’d been here waiting for two days. The room’s toilet was within the span of his chains and they brought food and water on a schedule. As for a bed, he had none. Just a pillow strapped to the floor only big enough for him to lay his head on, the rest of his body left to shiver on the cold cement floor.
He heard footsteps echoing off the concrete hallway. He smiled. He’d thought about this meeting, practiced everything he’d say until he was sure he could make it look like the truth.
The door opened without a noise. Houmaz looked up. Sommers was guided in, his face covered by a black face-bag like the one Houmaz had worn when he was taken here from the airport. As Sommers was pushed into his seat, Houmaz grinned. He waited until a guard pulled the cloth off Jon’s head. Gault was nowhere in sight. This was getting better and better.
“Okay, I’m here. What was so important?”
Houmaz cast his eyes toward the floor. “I’m likely to be rendered. They’ll torture me, disfigure me. It will end in my death. But before they take me to my death, I have a confession to make to you.”
Sommers sneered. “Crap.”
“Listen, Mr. Sommers. I want you to know that it wasn’t me who killed Aviva Bushovsky, the woman you knew as Lisa Gabriel. I never even knew who she was until you hunted me.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Your beliefs are your own business. But to ensure you know I’m telling the truth, I will tell you who murdered Ruth Cohen.”
Jon’s head jerked up.
“My brother, Pesi, terminated her because you spoiled his project. He saw her work as that of a mortal enemy.”
Jon remained silent. Houmaz could feel his adversary’s gaze turn inward. The fool was wondering if one truth would prevent the next statement from being a lie.
“Why give up your brother?”
“It is insignificant. He lives in a compound, well protected by a small army of bodyguards. You’d have a better chance killing me here. And since you can’t, think how much harder it would be to kill Pesi.”
Jon nodded. “Who killed Aviva?”
Houmaz shrugged. “I believe it was Bob Gault.” It was all he could do to keep the grin from bursting through.
Jon’s mouth fell open a tiny bit.
The door burst open and the guard ran in. “Meeting’s over.” He placed the black sack over Jon’s head, unlocked the chain that bound him to his seat and forced him from the room.
As the door closed, Tariq Houmaz turned toward the wall, away from the cam.
He wondered if McDougal would have Jon terminated if Jon terminated Gault? He let the grin show through, now able to face his own death.
Jon sat in the back of the jet, wondering what was really true? Of course, Gault had denied killing anyone connected to Jon. Gault had claimed he was just an analyst. Jon knew better. Last year Jon had William Wing hack a copy of Gault’s personnel file from Greenfield’s agency when they were in Muscat. Gault was an operative. He’d killed before. Had he murdered Aviva?
Jon knew Houmaz was a terrorist, but maybe he never murdered anyone Jon loved! Did such distinctions mean anything anymore? The people he loved were still dead. He’d been taught that lies and disinformation were at the heart of spycraft. Secrets kept and lies told were his entire world.
He could feel the aircraft’s engines drone, and the echo of the engines repeated this phrase in his head: Is there anything in my world that is true?
Pesi Houmaz read the final line on Tariq’s email from long ago:
If I am killed, the burden of leading the family business will fall to you. If I am caught, do not try to save me. It will be too dangerous.
Pesi waited with the small team he’d hastily assembled. Their mole at Greenfield’s agency had delivered the coordinates of his brother’s captivity. Pesi remembered that their source was the same person who had outed Cassandra Sashakovich to him many months ago. Even with the information the mole provided, Pesi had failed to terminate the woman. He’d failed his brother.
The team sat in a gray panel van a mile away from Incirlik’s brig. He was prepared to do anything to save Tariq. He couldn’t bear the thought of inheriting Tariq’s responsibilities.
The mole had told him the time and route for Tariq’s transfer. The driver of their van, a huge Palestinian who’d seen the inside of the Incirlik brig when he was a soldier many decades ago, tapped the window. “Coming now.”
Pesi nodded. “Set the trap.” The driver spoke into his earbud. Pesi watched as a car cut off the prisoner transport truck carrying Tariq. Men from the car shot the truck’s driver several times and threatened the guards sitting in its back.
In slow-motion, the transport’s rear right door opened and Tariq was pushed through. The door closed. A few seconds passed in silence as Pesi’s men grabbed Tariq and pulled him into their van. They shot out the tires of the transport.
Pesi watched in the rearview mirror as they drove off into the hills.
The men in the transport ran after their van and pulled their weapons from it, but it was a useless attempt and lasted only seconds.
Pesi prayed in the van, his breathing hard for several minutes.
The plan was for him to off-load Tariq at busy Atatürk International Airport, 24 kilometers west of Istanbul, while the van driver and his passengers changed their vehicle and also took off, going east into the city. So far, the plan remained intact. Incirlik was hours away from Atatürk, and they planned to change cars several time during the ride.
Pesi hugged his brother. “Salaam Alaikum, brother. I have a change of clothes and new identity papers for you.”
Tariq barely nodded as the van sped away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel
August 11, 12:22 p.m.
When the aircraft landed at Ben Gurion, Jon unbuckled his seatbelt, eager to leave. His head buzzed with so many questions he had a headache. He felt a strong pain of heartache as he made his way into the terminal, a shroud hung over his soul. Both of the women he loved had died to protect him. His entire life was a wasteland. He needed only one thing now: the truth.
He walked through the modern, spotless terminal, past the odors of unwashed flesh and horrible cooking, and the scenes of departures and arrivals, people seeing their own loved ones and business associates.
Who could help him? William! Where was he? How to find him? William’s phone was turned off.
He took a taxi into Herzliyya and walked the last three blocks to the Mossad’s headquarters. Into the lobby. Up to the security guard. “Jon Sommers for Samuel Meyer. No appointment, but I think he’ll want to see me.”
And once more, he was redirected to the row of couches. His suit stank from four days without a shower. He didn’t care. The letter he’d handwritten after meeting Tariq Houmaz was still in his inside jacket pocket.