by Ward Larsen
“And on the seventh morning?”
“Before sunrise we were packed and had the room cleaned. Two cars were in place outside. Sonya and I were out by eight. At 9:02 David struck. He took one shot, broke down his gun, and we were all across the border fifteen minutes later.”
“And was this mission a success?”
“Did we get Jameel? No, we didn’t.”
“David missed?”
Stein chuckled. “David doesn’t miss. That same morning a second surveillance team was still tracking Jameel’s cousin, the man we had released from prison. Turns out he’d gone to the safe house that morning—we eventually learned, to deliver a message from a rival militia he’d become affiliated with. We never saw the cousin go in because we couldn’t see all the building’s entrances, and the other team didn’t report it until later—they had no idea we were across the street.”
“And that’s who David killed?”
Stein nodded. “It might have been random chance. Or it might have been that Jameel’s people knew we were there. Maybe they thought the cousin had been turned as an informant. We could never say for sure how or why any of it ended the way it did. As it turned out, Jameel was killed three weeks later, ambushed by a rival faction in Gaza.”
“More revenge?”
“Who knows?”
Stein began reassembling his weapon, his movements confident and familiar. It again reminded her of David, who seemed too sure of himself, she sometimes thought, as if he could never imagine a mistake. Never imagine losing. And he’d loved her in the same way.
Stein put the weapon in his backpack and hung it high on a coat hook, holding to their agreement to keep the gun out of Davy’s reach. “I know you want to understand the world David lived in,” he said, “but there is no understanding it. There are barbarians out there, Christine, people who are the personification of evil. When you fight them, there can never be a clean victory. You don’t raise your flag on a hill or sign an armistice.”
“But where does it end?”
“That’s the problem—it never will. At least not for Israel. But I can tell you that my part is done. The only reason I’m here today is because I owe David. As far as Mossad goes, I’d never have anything to do with them again. Even if I could walk in a straight line.”
“And David? When this is done, do you think he can put it all behind him?”
“For everyone’s sake, let’s hope so. The next time you see him, you should convince him of that. Tell him he has to leave the past where it is and move on.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Slaton watched Donnelly burn through three cigarettes while he covered everything from Malta to Beirut. The only thing he left unaddressed was his relationship to America—in particular, his wife and child. The CIA had facilitated his initial move to the United States, but it was a carefully crafted identity known to only a few individuals in the agency. That legend, in the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, had long ago been blown, the supporting documents sunk into a deep and dark body of water. To rekindle that relationship here, he knew, risked disclosing his true identity. Which in turn, created but one more path to his family.
Slaton ended his story at a storage room on Geitawi Boulevard.
“What did you find inside?” Donnelly asked.
“WMD.”
The acronym instigated a pause, and Slaton watched the CIA man scan the room. He’d done so regularly since arriving, which Slaton took as damning evidence of a long career in the field. More positively, it suggested that Donnelly’s security team was not in direct line of sight. “Weapons of mass destruction? Your message said that was in Aadra—we have a team on the way there now.”
“That’s where the material was initially discovered, and there’s still plenty of evidence—enough to convince you how serious this is.”
“Where exactly do we look? And what kind of threat are we talking about?”
Slaton set on the table one of the three plastic-encased dosimeters he’d taken from the storage room. He had cut away the bottom lip, the identity strip where Dr. Moses Nassoor’s name had been printed. In time he was sure the Americans would discover where it had come from. He was equally sure that Nassoor would face some manner of justice for what he’d done. That was out of Slaton’s hands.
“I found three like this in the storage closet. Check the readings. The material is cesium-137. It was brought to Geitawi from a farm outside Al Qutayfah, Syria.” Slaton added a description of the dirt path and rail tracks near Route 7. “Behind the main house your team will find a workshop, and all around it are traces of this isotope.”
“Traces?”
“Clear evidence of a release. Cesium-137 has medical and industrial uses, but large quantities are commonly used to irradiate food. Its half-life is thirty years—your team should use protective gear. Twenty months ago there was an outbreak of ill health in Aadra caused by this material. The health system failed—it never made the correlation. As an aside, if I was the CIA I might consider some kind of training program. Primary-care physicians in this part of the world ought to be able to recognize radiation sickness.”
“I’ll put that in my after-action report,” said Donnelly dryly. “What else?”
“First let’s talk about what I want in return.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need information. And certain guarantees.”
“Guarantees? You think you can just give a note to a Marine sentry and expect the CIA to jump through—”
“I am rescuing you,” Slaton broke in, “from a catastrophic intelligence failure. I believe this material will be used in a radiological attack. Right now neither of us knows who we’re dealing with or what their intentions are, but we have to assume that time is of the essence.”
“Do you think this cesium will be used against Israel?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“So why didn’t you go to Mossad with this? Even if you no longer work for them, I’m sure you have connections.”
“I think this entire disaster was sourced from a series of Mossad screwups. I don’t trust them right now. In truth, I haven’t for a long time.”
“So the CIA is your backup intelligence service?”
“We have common interests. This group has killed two innocent people, and established themselves as a threat to me personally. I think we’re looking at a gray cell, an op that isn’t state sponsored, at least not overtly. I tracked the last man I know about to Geitawi where he picked up this material, and I think he’s transporting it as we speak. His name is Zan Ben-Meir, an Israeli national. I’m also certain there are others involved. I want you to find out who they are. I want you to tell me where they are.”
Donnelly stabbed his fourth cigarette into an ashtray. His fingers tapped on the side of his mug. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. You think that if the CIA can verify what you’re saying, if we can identify who’s involved, that we’ll serve them up to you on a platter?”
“If you want quick and quiet closure … yes.”
Ever so slightly, Donnelly shifted in his seat.
Slaton said, “My offer is not open-ended. Give me good information, and I’ll finish this. I expect a decision from Langley within one hour. Your acceptance of my terms will come by way of the CIA director’s press release.”
“What press release?”
“The one he’s going to issue sixty minutes from now. It will include the phrase, ‘We have an agreement in principle.’ I don’t care what the balance of the text reads—he can be announcing a new Far East initiative or a bid for office supplies. Use your imagination. I’ll verify the issuance and subtext on the CIA website.”
Donnelly frowned. “And if Langley agrees? How do we get in touch with you?”
“By calling your phone.” He held out his hand.
With a weary sigh, Donnelly reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a smartphone, and pushed it across the table.
“Password?” Slaton as
ked. Donnelly gave it to him, and he typed seven characters into the security screen. The phone was ready to work. He scanned the various icons. “Which is the tracking app?” he asked.
Donnelly showed him. Slaton tapped the symbol and within seconds had the signal disabled. He guessed this was the only beacon, but there was no way to ask and expect a truthful answer. On a more positive note, he saw an application that looked familiar and might be of great use later.
Donnelly said, “You realize that as long as it’s powered up anybody can track it like a regular phone.”
“Of course,” Slaton said, turning the phone off. “Once I have confirmation that we’re working together, I’ll turn the phone back on. I expect to see a direct contact number for Langley. And I’ll be expecting information.”
An irritated Donnelly looked out across the street. “What if I told you I had ten agents outside ready to close in?”
“I’d say you’re a liar. It would be like me telling you that I had a silenced Beretta under the table.”
Donnelly looked at Slaton’s half-hidden right arm. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. He asked, “What exactly did you do for Mossad?”
Slaton got up from the seat with one hand still in his jacket pocket. He removed it to produce a ten-euro note, which he dropped on the table. “I think that’s obvious enough.”
* * *
“It’s him,” Sorensen said. “Mdina, Zurich, Wangen. Everything checks. This is definitely our Maltese stonemason.” She was addressing Director Coltrane in his Langley office, Jack Kelly at her side as they went over the message from the Beirut station.
Kelly said, “I don’t like the bit about, ‘one each to my credit.’ It’s almost like he’s bragging about killing these men.”
Coltrane stood in rumination before a very high-tech window that overlooked a sleeping forest of leafless elm and chestnut trees. He said, “No, he’s giving us a character reference—such as it is.”
The Operations Center had been humming with activity since the letter from Beirut arrived, and things accelerated after Donnelly’s meeting with the Israeli.
“What about the Barclays account?” the director asked.
Sorensen said, “We have a good contact at the bank—or more accurately, MI-5 does. It’s a large private account, roughly sixty million U.S. dollars. It was managed by Walter Krueger—the banker who was killed in Zurich last week. The funds have been in place for over a year with very little activity, but in the last few days there have been some changes.”
“What kind of changes?” Coltrane asked distractedly, still facing the window.
“The money was cashed out of a diverse portfolio and reinvested much more narrowly—everything is now in oil. Refining, exploration, drilling leases. Somebody went all-in.”
“Do we know who that ‘somebody’ is?”
“That was the other strange thing. The account was originally established as an offshore trust, but a few days ago the ownership was altered. Everything was put into the name of one individual.” Sorensen referenced a printout to make sure she got it right. “The new owner of record is named David Slaton.”
The director turned. Coltrane opened his mouth as if to speak, but then seemed to have second thoughts.
“Does that name mean something to you?” Sorensen asked.
“Yes.” Nothing more came until Coltrane said, “You should both get back to work.”
Sorensen and Kelly stood frozen for a moment, and exchanged a What the hell is going on? look. They were heading for the door when Coltrane added, “This man who’s contacted us in Beirut…”
Both turned.
“Give him anything he wants.”
After the two analysts were gone, the director remained at the window with the name fixed in his head. David Slaton. Coltrane had heard it before, but only once, during a late-evening, martini-laden discussion with the outgoing director when he’d assumed command of the agency. It wasn’t from any official record, or even an off-the-books operation. Closer to a legend, really.
“There was a favor for Israel. We took in one of their operatives, a man who recently saved them great embarrassment. He’s a killer, as pure and simple as they come, who ended up in a delicate situation. Mossad wanted him to disappear with a faultless identity. They were very concerned, so I offered our help. The name is David Slaton … or at least it was. I doubt you’ll ever hear it again…”
From his predecessor’s words, one phrase looped again and again in Coltrane’s head.
He’s a killer, as pure and simple as they come …
FIFTY-SIX
He thought he might get the CIA’s help, but Slaton wasn’t going to sit idly while they made up their minds. He’d taken a circuitous route after leaving Les Palmiers, patient countersurveillance measures on the sidewalks of Dbaiyeh. Among the details he had not shared with Langley was the observation of the self-appointed concierge, passed on by Nassoor. The truck turned north, onto Armenia Boulevard. The driver would only do that if he was heading north, away from the city.
It was the thinnest of trails. In northern Lebanon lay the seaport of Tripoli, and beyond that Syria, with its rudderless government and a populace reeling from civil war. Farther still were Iran and Iraq, always at odds with one another and each unpredictable in its own right. Then the most terrifying scenario—Turkey, a full member of the E.U., and thus the perfect geographic conduit for sending a load of gamma-laden terror anywhere in Europe.
Slaton considered that the initial turn north could be a false assumption, or even intended as misdirection. For all his grievances with Mossad and the government of Israel, he retained a strong kinship with the Jewish people and their homeland. Could Ben-Meir be heading there? He thought it unlikely. Unless Ben-Meir was working for Israel, which Slaton strongly doubted, that would mean crossing one of the most closely guarded borders on earth. A veritable brick wall.
He saw but one certainty—no one would undertake such a ruthless quest, killing to steal nuclear material, only to hand it over to authorities for safekeeping. He was watching the world’s worst nightmare unfold, a radiological attack that could be unleashed at any time, against any number of targets. Contaminate a food or water supply, blanket a major city in radiation. Or perhaps irradiate a religious shrine—the Middle East was the cradle of civilization, littered with holy sites that could be defiled with foreseeable outrage. The kind of outrage over which wars were fought.
Slaton’s only option at the moment was to pursue Ben-Meir. The man had a considerable head start, but he was transporting a heavy and valuable load which would require extreme caution. North was the most likely route, so Slaton would move in that direction, hoping that as he made up ground the CIA could more narrowly focus his search—help him zero in on a killer hauling fifty-two canisters of radiological hell.
First, however, Slaton had to prepare for his hunt to succeed. Ben-Meir had been alone in Geitawi, yet he was not operating solo. Nor would he be without firepower. So Slaton’s immediate objective was clear. From Dbaiyeh he headed away from his quarry, boarding a city bus that would take him back to Beirut. There he would apply the most fundamental of an assassin’s tenets.
Never go into a gunfight empty-handed.
* * *
Sorensen returned to the Operations Center to find Davis hunched over a computer display. She knew he’d been sweeping through satellite images for the better part of an hour, ever since they’d gotten word that a closetful of nuclear material had gone missing in Beirut.
“Anything?” she asked.
“No,” he said distractedly, not altering his flow. “I’ve been over every active airfield in Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. No sign of our jet.”
“There had to be a connection. We’ve got a stolen aerial tanker that someone’s been going to great lengths to keep out of sight, and a cache of hijacked nuclear material. It all fits too perfectly.”
“Yep.”
“What time frame are you using?” she asked.<
br />
“I allowed a ninety-minute flight from Basrah, and from there I’m right up against real-time stuff. That’s about a nine-hour window. It narrows our search a lot—there aren’t many airfields in the region with a runway long enough to support an MD-10.”
“Could it have landed and gone straight into a hangar?” Sorensen asked.
“There are even fewer of those—maybe ten that are big enough, and most are already occupied.”
“Could it still be in the air?”
“Doubtful. We’ve got two guided-missile cruisers and an aircraft carrier in the area, and all have top-of-the-line radar. It wouldn’t even matter if they turned their transponder off. We can see everything in the air right now that doesn’t have feathers—and a few targets that do. No, they’ve done something else.” He broke away and sat straight in his chair. “I think we should look at abandoned airfields.”
Sorensen frowned. “I don’t think we target those for surveillance.”
“But can you get images?”
Sorensen didn’t know, so she collared a technician from a nearby workstation who provided the answer. “We have coverage of the entire area—that’s no problem. But we don’t store the coordinates of unused airfields.”
“There must be dozens in the area,” Davis said.
“There are,” said the tech, “but we don’t keep track of them. No reason to. If you give me coordinate sets, I can have images in a matter of minutes.”
“How do we do that?” Sorensen asked.
When the technician didn’t answer, Davis knew he had his work cut out for him. “The old-fashioned way. We get our hands on some aeronautical charts and start plotting. Do you have anything like that around here?”
Sorensen dispatched Kelly on the mission. “Lower level, where the archived documents are kept.” He acknowledged the order and disappeared. She then gave Davis the latest from her meeting with the director.
“The Barclays account,” he commented, “everything invested in oil. I think that’s important.”
“So do I. And there was something else about the account. The ownership had recently been altered. The new name on the account is David Slaton. Does that mean anything to you?”