by Leslie Wolfe
It was hard to get Daniel Krumholz tired, but this came fairly close to what he would call squeezed dry. He had just finished an exhausting weeklong training program with the Special Operations Aviation Group. He had managed to catch almost four hours of sleep before a phone call woke him and recalled him for another assignment. He returned immediately to the Operational Training Camp, this time as an instructor.
He rubbed his forehead in an effort to alleviate his debilitating fatigue and focus on the young agents lined up in front of him in the brisk night air. They deserved better than his exhaustion, no matter how justifiable. He took a deep, sharp breath and focused on his trainees. He saw in their eyes determination, passion, loyalty, and commitment. A good team.
Daniel remembered himself at that stage in life, when he had left his battalion and had chosen to embrace Mossad’s demanding career path. He had never looked back since that day. He had chosen to lead a life of service to his country, continuous, devoted, all-sacrificing service to his native Israel. He was proud of each minute spent doing his duty. This heartfelt choice and his talent as a Mossad operative had brought him recognition and advancement in the ranks of the toughest intelligence agency in the world. The speed and effectiveness he demonstrated in delivering his assigned missions had positioned him to be selected for the ranks of Kidon, Mossad’s elite, ultra-secret group of operatives. Shortly after that, he was leading his own Kidon team. That was a challenging responsibility, considering how the global environment was evolving. The pressure was on all Mossad agents to be at their very best, increase their activity levels, and join the rest of the world in a joint effort to maintain peace and combat terrorism.
His radio came to life, some static preceding the communication.
“Base to Tango 4, Base to Tango 4, do you read?”
He unclipped the radio from his belt.
“Read you clear, Base, go ahead.”
“Base to Tango 4, please confirm position. Over.”
“Base, this is Tango 4. At the kill house, over.”
“Base to Tango 4. Courier en route. Meet at the Barracks in five, over.”
“Base, this is Tango 4. On my way. Over.”
This was beyond strange. Confirmation of position during a night shooting drill was an unlikely event, and a courier at this hour was completely unheard of. Such things just didn’t happen. Curious about the identity and the urgent message of this unprecedented midnight courier, he started on his way toward the Barracks, code name for the command post mockup.
He needed about three and a half minutes to reach the Barracks; he was good on time. He stopped briefly near a tree, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it though. Although he was safe in the middle of the training camp, he instinctively followed combat rules and preferred to preserve his night vision and stealth instead of lighting up. It was the way he operated; wait in the shadows—unseen, unheard—and be ready.
After a short wait in the complete darkness surrounding the Barracks, two sets of headlights started tearing through the blackness. Two Sand Cat light-armored vehicles approached fast, in close formation, wearing no insignia and no distinctive markings. The way the two drivers moved their vehicles on the unfriendly terrain, the way they stopped after sharp turns in opposite directions, to offer each other maximum cover and be able to leave the area on a dime, told Daniel these men were not regular Army. Nope, not even close. Mossad, maybe, or top-notch executive protection. Impressive, Daniel thought. I’d welcome any of these men on my logistics support team.
The passenger of the first vehicle came forward into the low light, enough for Daniel to recognize Major Dayan, the deputy base commander. He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and hid it in his pocket before saluting regulation style.
“Daniel,” he greeted him, “our guest wants to speak with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Daniel answered, intrigued.
Major Dayan moved to the side and stood at attention.
Four soldiers in fatigues, keeping their fingers on the triggers of their automated weapons, came out of the vehicles. They took positions to secure the perimeter. The VIP they were escorting appeared right behind them, moving just as fluidly as his men did, maybe a tad slower. Surprised, Daniel recognized Eli Weismann, the prime minister of Israel.
Most Israeli political leaders had military backgrounds; Weismann was no exception. He had served as an armored brigade officer before he’d moved to paratrooper and later to Mossad. That explained the prime minister’s gait and familiarity with the training facility. He was one of them.
“Prime minister, sir.” Daniel saluted the visitor by the book.
“Good evening, son,” the prime minister replied, exchanging a firm and friendly handshake with Daniel.
“Sir, it’s an honor,” Daniel said.
“Walk with me if you’d like; let’s stretch our legs.” The prime minister’s voice was calm and kind, despite the obvious urgency of the matter bringing him in the dead of the night to their isolated training facility. “Daniel, where are you from?”
“From Haifa, sir.”
“At ease, son. We’re not at war, not tonight, anyway.”
“Yes, sir, but we are ready, sir,” Daniel answered.
“I have no doubt. You know, I was with the 35th Paratrooper Brigade back in the day. I put in my share of sweat with Sa’ar Armored Brigade, but my heart will always be with the institute. By the way, do you still have Mr. Benowitz at the library?”
“Yes, sir, but he’s close to retirement.”
“Sounds about right.” Weismann laughed. “Before getting behind that library desk, he was the best tank gunner I served with in all Sa’ar.”
“I didn’t know that, sir,” Daniel said.
They walked silently for a few seconds, escorted closely by Weismann’s protection detail.
“I have heard great things about you, things that encourage me to trust you with a mission of critical importance, highly confidential.”
“Whatever you need, sir,” Daniel answered.
Weismann cleared his throat before speaking.
“A friend of mine, a long-time friend of Israel, needs our help. You will report directly to me and only me. This mission is off the books.” He took a smart phone from his pocket and handed it to Daniel. “There’s a single contact saved on this phone—one of my direct numbers. There’s also an email with instructions. You’ll find the details of this assignment in there. Ask for anything and anyone you need, and you got it. Only one thing you can’t ask for: time to prepare.”
Daniel looked at the prime minister with curiosity.
“Sir?”
“Can you leave tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make me proud, son. Good luck!”
Eli Weismann smiled and shook his hand before climbing back into one of the Sand Cats and disappearing in a cloud of dust.
On the recently acquired phone, Daniel opened the only email message stored in the Inbox and found a list of targets, with their countries of origin and whereabouts.
Mastaan Eshwar Singh, 64, India, Barcelona
Muhammad Sadiq, 69, Pakistan, Fort Lauderdale / Bahamas
Karmal Shah, 61, Afghanistan, Prague
Ahmad Babak Javadi, 57, Iran, Zurich
Jeevan Ramachandran, 42, India, New Delhi
Warren Helms, 52, USA, Unknown
Unknown, presumed Russia, Unknown, leader of the above group—identify
Timeframe: 48 hrs. Confirmation req’d on all targets.
He wiped the sweat accumulating on his upper lip with a quick swipe of the back of his right hand. He woke his team with the preset alert message; they’d all be on their flights by sunrise. He assigned most of the names on the list to his team, keeping Sadiq, Helms, and the unknown subject to himself.
Back at his apartment, Daniel pulled the bed from the wall, exposing a small safe. He punched in the code and then sifted through multiple passports and ID cards. He chose a set, then
locked everything back up, and pushed the bed back into place. He threw a few clothing items in a small duffel bag and left, turning off the lights and locking the door carefully behind him.
...95
...Monday, October 17, 10:47AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Tom Isaac’s Residence
...Laguna Beach, California
Alex entered Tom’s den, which had turned into a war room for the past year, and smiled at the sight of the crazy wall, where pictures and notes had been pinned and tied together with colorful yarn. The wall wasn’t up to date anymore; she needed to fix that. Maybe even tear it down altogether; they were done. From a different perspective though, they weren’t done yet.
“Hey, kiddo,” Sam greeted her. He sat at the large table, sipping coffee and going through his email.
“Hey,” she answered, making her move toward the Keurig machine. She hesitated a bit, then chose hazelnut coffee for her brew.
Tom entered the room, closing the door behind him, and sat right down.
“Next steps?” he asked.
Alex shrugged, frustration showing on her face.
“Technically, we’re done.” She paced the room, slowly, deep in thought. “It’s frustrating to me...this case, the lack of closure. We’re done with everything we can do, yet some things are still up in the air. Maybe this damn case has been so complicated that we forgot what we were trying to achieve, and we just need to remind ourselves.”
She looked at the two men; they were listening, a little concern showing on Tom’s face and an encouraging smile on Sam’s.
“We had two main objectives,” she continued. “We wanted to ensure that Election Day would take place safely, and, if possible, save Robert Wilton and his wife, get them out of harm’s way. I am confident in saying that the Wiltons are safe. We took every precaution, covered every base. But how sure are we with Election Day? We have the software angle covered, and we have the devices secured and cleared. Nothing will blow up on Election Day, and the people will get to choose their next president in peace. So, technically, we should be fine. I just struggle with the lack of certainty, I guess, because we have not identified who was the author of this terror plan, and we have no control over the rest of the people Blake and Clarence identified. Until we control the terrorist and his network, we cannot call ourselves done. That’s what bothers me.”
“My friends are going to take care of the people we know about,” Sam offered.
“Who? Mossad?” Alex asked.
“Yep,” Sam confirmed.
“When?” Tom intervened.
“Umm...today, tomorrow, soon, anyway. They’re working on that as we speak. They said they were going to handle everyone over the next few days.”
The small room fell silent. Everyone knew what that meant when Mossad was involved.
“Can I ask how come we’re working with Mossad on this?” Alex asked hesitantly. “We’re not CIA; we’re not agents of any official government agency. I understood at first, when I assumed you were just asking old friends for small favors, but now?”
“Your assumption is correct,” Sam answered. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, asking old friends for favors. They’re very perceptive people; they understood immediately that an American president controlled by pro-Islamists would not be a friend of Israel. That, and I also believe that Mossad has no interest to put us in jail. Quite the opposite,” he said, winking and smiling, satisfied with the solution he had found.
“Brilliant, and reassuring, I guess...But we still don’t know who the UNSUB leader is,” Alex insisted. “Clarence, Blake Bernard’s AML analyst, said he might be Russian. The lower level associations around the known names and locations indicate a Russian connection, but it’s someone different almost every time. We might never find out who that Russian is. To me, that only means one thing: he’ll try again, who knows where and how, and we’ll be clueless, sitting ducks. That can’t happen, simply can’t. What do we do? What can we do? If we call the feds, all of us here go straight to jail. That hasn’t changed.”
No one had a clear answer to that question, regardless of how many sleepless nights they had spent thinking about it.
“Sometimes these things aren’t as clear cut as we want them to be,” Sam said. “Sometimes it takes years to get one of these people off the grid. This is not corporate, where you walk in at the end of the case and fire the bad guys, ’cause they’re all right there, with social security numbers on file, addresses, and everything. This is intelligence work, and it could take years before we can really close this case.”
“Yeah, I know, we’ll all just keep searching,” Alex answered her own question. “Mossad will do the same, and someday soon, we’ll nail that bastard. I just don’t know how we’ll be able to feel safe until that happens.”
“We won’t,” Tom confirmed grimly. “We just won’t.”
...96
...Monday, October 17, 8:14PM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)
...Letiště Praha-Kbely Airport—Air Traffic Control, Prague East
...Prague, The Czech Republic
Jaro’s shift had ended some fifteen minutes before, but he didn’t budge. His favorite plane, the Piaggio, was scheduled to depart in just a little while. Jaro watched through binoculars how the pilots and Mr. Shah were loading some crates, getting ready for departure. He focused entirely on the plane’s beautiful shape, its flickering lights in the dark twilight, and the sweet sound of its idling engines, completely missing the man standing on the side of the tarmac, watching closely the very same aircraft.
A little while later, he saw the Piaggio taxi for a minute, then take off elegantly, quickly disappearing into the dark sky, strobes marking its ascending path. A minute later, it exploded in a blaze of fire, sending pieces of burning debris in all directions, like fireworks.
The man on the side of the tarmac took a couple of pictures, then disappeared, unseen and unheard. Jaro’s eyes were not seeing clearly, blurred by tears.
...97
...Monday October 17, 5:08PM Local Time (UTC+2:00 hours)
...Hotel Arts Barcelona—Espiritu del Mar Restaurant
...Barcelona, Spain
She watched discreetly as the waiter, dressed in black pants, a white shirt, vest, and white gloves, brought the appetizer tray and started placing the small plates in front of his guest, a few tables in front of her own. The luminous atmosphere of the restaurant, its white furniture complementing the sparkling table linens, brought forward by an entire wall of glass letting in the gentle October light, made Espiritu del Mar a dining place of choice for the hotel’s guests. The doors to the patio were open, letting in a gentle breeze, bringing in salty Mediterranean air to spice up the smell of white truffle sauce and raviolis de langosta.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” The waiter chose to phrase his question in English. His guest, one of only two at that early dinnertime, was definitely not Spanish. His dark blue turban suggested he was an Indian Sikh.
“No, I am fine for the moment,” the guest responded.
“How about something to drink? Iced tea, sparkling water? A glass of wine?”
“Pellegrino is fine, thank you.”
“Right away, sir.”
The waiter brought the bottled water and a chilled glass. He opened the bottle in front of his guest and filled his glass three quarters.
“Thank you,” the guest said.
The waiter bowed his head in acknowledgment and stepped away, leaving the Indian to enjoy his food. He didn’t go far though, moving to attend to her, the only other dinner guest for the early hour.
She was a stunning young woman, very aware of the effect she had on men. She had waves of undulating, shiny, ash brown hair, and she struggled to keep strands away from her beautiful face. Her delicate fingers tucked rebel strands behind her left ear, and she tilted her head slightly every time she did that.
She was dressed in an evening gown, shimmering burgundy silk falling heavy and enhancing eve
ry curve of her body. The gown generously revealed her perfect back and showed impressive cleavage, the plunging neckline stopped only an inch above her waistline. Expensive jewelry completed her attire, and her diamond-encrusted envelope purse matched the dark burgundy shade of her dress and the leather of her high-heeled Louboutins.
She didn’t need the waiter’s services; she waved him away. He disappeared behind the kitchen door, but she didn’t pay much attention to that. Instead, she focused on the turban-wearing man having dinner a few tables away, seated with his back toward her.
She checked her surroundings quickly; there was no one else in the cozy dining room. She stood, and the generous thigh slit of her gown revealed her perfect leg, exposed within millimeters of where her panty line should have been. She grabbed her purse and cell and walked toward the ladies room, choosing to pass right by the Indian’s table. She texted as she walked, apparently paying little attention to her surroundings.
She bumped into the Indian’s right shoulder, causing him to drop his fork on the floor, as her cell took the same route.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she apologized, touching the man’s shoulder with feather-light fingers and slightly flexing her left knee. The thigh slit in her gown opened a little, revealing more.
“It’s OK,” the man said, the flashes of anger sparkling in his eyes disappearing as he took in the beauty of the woman in front of him.
He pushed his chair from the table and leaned down to pick her phone up off the floor. As he started leaning, the woman flexed her knee a little more, right when the man’s eyes were inches away from her skin.
He took his time leaning down and grabbing the phone, absorbed by the view. Time enough for her to drop a minuscule pill into his Pellegrino water. The pill dissolved almost instantly.
Phone back in her hand, she gave him a grateful smile, apologized again, and continued her trip to the ladies room. On her way back to her table, she stopped briefly near the Indian, whose head hung, chin against his chest. She snapped a quick picture with her phone’s camera. The picture showed Mastaan Singh’s face contorted in pain and frozen in death.