“I appreciate your concern, but you’re wasting time you don’t have.”
She easily finished inside an hour, and when she’d placed a check in the final of the questionnaire’s multiple-choice boxes, she sat back and tossed the pen on the table. “There. Now what?”
Benjamin stood and approached her. He ruffled through the pages, ensuring she hadn’t missed any, and placed them back in the case without comment. His piercing dark eyes studied her face, taking in every contour like a painter preparing to begin a portrait, and then he turned and walked to the exit. His knock sounded like hammer blows. When he left, the door slammed behind him and the bolt slid home with a clank, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The room now stank of nicotine in addition to its other noxious odors.
She had no idea how much time passed before Avi returned with a female sketch artist, trailed by Benjamin. The woman sat across from Maya, and Avi took the other seat. Benjamin remained standing. He cleared his throat and eyed Maya.
“All right. I’m willing to play along. We have the photo of the driver from the checkpoint, and the passenger’s body was found at the mosque. So let’s focus on the bomb maker. Describe the man as well as you can. Everything. Picture his face, like he’s sitting in front of you, and start with its shape.”
“Fine. But what do I get in return?”
“While your test is being evaluated, you get to hope, Maya. You get to hope that this turns out to be a bad dream and that I wave my magic wand and all your problems go away. In the meantime, do as I say. But first, you said you knew their names. How?”
“I heard them talking. I’ll never forget either one of them.”
“Very well. What are they?”
She looked at Avi. “You’re sure this is my best shot?”
He held her gaze and nodded. “It’s your only shot, Maya.”
Maya returned her attention to Benjamin. “Abreeq. The bomb maker’s name is Abreeq, and the terrorist is called Ammar.”
That night, after the lights had dimmed in the hospital corridor and Maya was drifting off to sleep, Benjamin appeared in her room as silently as a phantom. For a moment she thought it was a dream – until he approached the bed, unlocked her cuff, and tossed a folded uniform onto the foot of the bed.
“Put it on. We’re getting out of here,” he said.
“What? I’m free?”
“In a manner of speaking. You aren’t in formal custody anymore, or at least, the charges will evaporate over the next twenty-four hours. But free? Not entirely. You applied to become a member of an elite group, Maya. For reasons I won’t go into, your information didn’t reach us – at least, not accurate information. Now it has, and we’re going to give you an opportunity to prove yourself. Assuming you’re still interested in becoming a Mossad operative.”
A vision of Sarah dying in front of her flashed before her eyes. “Are you kidding? Of course I am.”
“Good. Put the uniform on.”
She pushed aside the thin blanket, swung her legs out of the bed, and then stood next to it, her hospital robe hanging from her shoulders. Benjamin studied her, showing no inclination to avert his eyes. She suspected this was the first of many tests and so pulled the flimsy hospital robe over her head. Benjamin watched her dress, his gaze lingering on her chiseled abs and high, firm breasts. When she had pulled on the pants and was lacing up the combat boots, he moved to the door.
“You’re a tough one, aren’t you, Maya?” he asked quietly.
Maya finished with the laces and pulled the cap over her head, refusing to wince at the lance of pain that shot from the back of her skull. She stood, walked to the en-suite bathroom, and glanced at herself in the mirror before turning to him with a disarming smile.
“You have no idea.”
Chapter 16
Jakarta, Indonesia
A flock of birds flapped into the sky from the dense overhead branches, and their raucous squawking filled the air with alarmed cries as they moved as one to a safer area. Below, at a rotting picnic table surrounded by thick jungle, two men sat eating lunch, their vehicles in the dirt parking lot around a bend in the trail that led to the secluded spot. A breeze stirred the treetops as they munched earnestly, the business of eating a solemn one.
When they finished, Wira took a long sip from a plastic water bottle and set it down on the table’s uneven surface. He locked eyes with Putra and spoke so softly it could have been a whisper. “What happened? How could we have gotten it so wrong?”
“I do not know. All information indicated an easy, medium-security effort. We should have been able to mow them down, toss grenades, and be gone before anyone knew what had hit.”
“That is not how it played, though, is it?” Wira asked, his tone dangerously calm.
Putra shook his head. “No.”
“Everyone was lost?”
“Yes. There were no survivors.”
“And how are our brothers dealing with it?”
“Not well. The Singapore authorities are leaving no stone unturned. They are putting considerable pressure on the network. It is not a good situation. It could take years for them to recover, if ever.”
“There is nothing like a failed effort to thin the ranks of the faithful.”
Putra nodded. “It is unfortunate. They were strong allies.”
“Until they walked into a killing field.” Wira paused. “Who is responsible for the erroneous information?”
“It has already been attended to. They, and their families, were executed.” Both Putra and Wira were familiar with the price of failure.
Wira grunted approval.
Putra took a drink of water. “What is our next move?”
Wira stared off at the surrounding trees for a long time before returning his focus on Putra. “What we are doing is ineffective. We are not getting our point across. The media is painting us as bloodthirsty criminals. We cannot continue like this. It makes us look incompetent, like we are only able to succeed when there is no opposition. We need something big. Something memorable.”
Putra waited for him to continue.
“To do something bigger scale, we need heavy ordnance. But all I am getting when I try to make a buy of anything more powerful than dynamite is that it is unavailable. Because of international pressure on trafficking in Semtex, it has become too risky. I thought at first that it was a negotiating ploy, but apparently not. There is none to be had.”
“Then we will fight with what we have, and the strength of our will can be our weapon.”
Wira shook his head and stood. He began pacing, his gaunt frame reminiscent of an agitated stork. “The path of the righteous man is never easy, but I fear that our commitment will not be enough. We require more than our conviction. Our enemies are legion, and they are strong, equipped by their infidel American bitch with the latest technology while we ride into battle with…what? A few rifles in the hands of little more than children?”
Putra could see that Wira was revving himself up, which was never a good sign. He was volatile and, when enraged, could be unpredictable. He was a strong leader, but his reputation was of a man without conscience, whose ire could be triggered by the smallest imagined slight. Putra debated remaining silent, but decided to try to talk Wira down.
“It is Allah’s will that we are faced with these challenges.”
Wira stopped, anger simmering behind his eyes, black as coals, and then his expression softened. “Yes, it is. We are in a grand struggle, one that defines us, where the stakes are the world as we know it. But we need to be clever and not squander our brave men’s courage on impossible goals. No, that approach has not had the desired effect, so we need to do something different.”
Putra waited, but there was nothing forthcoming. After hesitating, he sat back. “Something different,” he repeated. “Very well. What do you have in mind?”
“We need an edge. We need our allies to come to our assistance and provide adequate resources so that we can have a large, d
efinitive victory.” Wira returned to the table and sat again.
Putra nodded in agreement. “Yes. An edge. But what?”
“I want you to put out the word. See what is available. Make it known that there is a buyer for high-ticket destruction. Let us see what comes back to us. Once we know what is out there, we can put a price tag on it and raise the money to acquire it.”
“Do you have a limit on how much we can spend?”
“No. That is the wrong way to go about this. Imagine we have an unlimited supply of money. We are the buyer. Sellers need to tell us what they have and what they want for it. Once we know, then we can plan. It will be far easier to get funding for a definitive than an amorphous idea.”
“Do you have a specific target in mind?”
Wira hesitated. “Yes. The Israeli embassy in Manila.”
Putra’s mouth fell open. “The embassy? But…it is in a tall building. On the 23rd floor. It is impenetrable, is it not? A fortress.” They had discussed all of the embassies in the region, and Putra recalled the Philippines location well. They had allies in the southern Philippines who could help them coordinate a strike, but after careful consideration it had become obvious that the Manila embassy wasn’t a viable target.
“Nothing is safe from the wrath of a righteous man, my friend. Now go. Put out the word. Cast the crumbs upon the surface of the water and see what the tide brings back to us.”
“It will not happen quickly, I fear.”
“Nothing in life worth doing is ever easy. But a wise man is a patient man. Our brothers have suffered for generations. A little more time will not destroy their resolve.”
Wira embraced Putra, and they parted ways, Wira to the parking area first, to be followed by Putra after he left. Putra sat gazing skyward, wondering at his leader’s vision, the sheer audacity of which took his breath away. If the embassy could be hit…it would shock the world. And they would be legends, the masterminds of the most daring strike since the World Trade Center.
But how? What did Wira have in mind? It was one thing to talk, quite another to take action.
He heard Wira’s car accelerate down the muddy dirt road, and he gathered their trash, bagged it, and headed back to his vehicle, careful to leave no trace of their presence. It was automatic to him to cover his tracks, so much so that he didn’t even consider whether it was necessary.
It was always necessary. One slip could be their last.
Wira had drilled that home countless times over their ten years together, during which time they’d seen many of their brethren in the region eradicated due to sloppiness. Wira’s group was the last of the truly committed and, as such, the most highly targeted now that the lesser lights had been extinguished.
Putra glanced at the nearby trees and spotted the initials of unknown lovers carved into the living trunk, an effort to immortalize a sentiment that always proved fleeting and illusory. He had sacrificed much to walk the road he’d been set on and felt no envy for his oblivious countrymen going about their lives without a noble purpose, little more than insects on the anthill of existence. He spat at the thought and trudged down the trail, mind racing, planning the first step of his search for an ultimate weapon that would bring his sworn enemy to its knees. It wouldn’t be easy, but Allah would guide him, he was sure.
Chapter 17
Tel Aviv, Israel
The trip from Ramallah to Benjamin’s final destination outside of Tel Aviv took hours, and when they finally reached the gates of a military base, Maya was dozing off. Benjamin had explained a little on the drive – she would be subjected to intensive, brutal training that over ninety percent of the candidates that started the course never completed. If she made it through, she would be one of the few to become a Mossad operative, the most elite of the elite, married to the agency that was the line of last defense against a dangerous world that wanted nothing so much as to grind the motherland to dust.
The armed guards checked Benjamin’s ID and waved him through the gate. He drove along the perimeter, away from the base to a smaller area at the far end of the field, where a collection of single-story cement bunkers ringed a larger, two-story structure.
“Where are we?” Maya asked as he coasted to a stop in front of one of the smaller buildings.
“Your new home. For now. These are the barracks. The one in front is for females. I have no idea how many or how few are currently enrolled in the course, but I have some words of advice you’ll want to take to heart: keep to yourself and don’t get close to anyone. Most of the candidates you meet won’t make it, and those that do…you don’t want to know. This isn’t a business that rewards friendship. It’s dog eat dog at all times. Even with your allies. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “I’m not interested in making friends. I’ve always been a loner,” she said, thinking about how her emotions toward Sarah had been rewarded.
“That’s good. You might just have a chance, then.”
“What happens if I wash out?”
“Why, are you planning to?”
“Less than one in ten chance doesn’t strike me as wildly optimistic.”
“Make it your life’s mission to be the one, not the other nine.”
“So you’re not going to tell me?”
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
She opened her door. Benjamin eyed her as she climbed out of the car. “Everything you need will be inside. Find an available bunk and get some sleep. You’ll go through orientation after breakfast.”
“And you?”
He gave her a dry smile devoid of cheer. “I’ve got a bomber to find.”
“Right. Let me know if you need any help. Benjamin,” she said, stressing his name, which she’d guessed by then wasn’t real.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Watch your back, and don’t give your instructors any shit. This isn’t the bush-league training you got in basic. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, and learn as much as you can. It could save your life.”
She threw him a salute. “Yes, sir.”
He watched as she entered the darkened interior of the barracks and shook his head silently. Her test scores had been off the charts, and if he hadn’t watched her take it in front of him, he would have suspected she’d cheated. Whether or not that would translate into usable abilities in the field was another story. He hoped for her sake it would. She was beautiful, highly intelligent, in incredible physical shape; a polyglot wonder with off-the-charts intestinal fortitude, as evidenced by her forays into the West Bank, and perhaps most important, possessed of a seething anger that was just below the surface, but evident to him. If she could learn to channel that rage into something useful…
He put the transmission into reverse and backed away, leaving Maya to her future. He would probably never see her again, and that was as it should be. His job was done, and her real testing was about to begin. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he had to catch the bomber. With the information she’d provided, he’d already moved a score of seasoned operatives into Ramallah, who would start scouring the city in just a few hours. That she’d not only seen the terrorist and the bomber but knew their names had been an unprecedented bit of luck, and he didn’t think it would take more than a day or two on the outside to draw a bead on them.
At least he hoped so. He had absolutely no doubt that Maya’s account was true, and if he failed, he was sure that many would die as a result.
Which was why he wouldn’t fail. He’d be back in Ramallah by first light and, after a couple of hours of sleep, would be directing his group, working behind the scenes to direct Abreeq and Ammar’s apprehension. Or more likely, termination with extreme prejudice.
But first he had an errand to attend to, which would give him no small pleasure to carry out: one Sergeant Kevod, who was about to be stripped of his rank and assigned the most degrading duty the IDF could find.
~ ~ ~
Maya started awake after only three hours of sleep, jarred from her slu
mber by the sounds of nearby movement. Two women Maya’s age were removing clothes from a row of lockers on one end of the long room. Neither gave Maya more than an incurious glance. Maya darted into the bathroom, braced herself against the assault of needles of cold water, and inspected her arm wound, which was healing nicely. She took a two-minute shower, dried off with a coarse towel, and then hurried to dress. When she reentered the barracks, she saw that one of the lockers had her first name on it, and when she opened it, she found a folded set of black sweats, a rudimentary hygiene kit, a change of underwear and an athletic bra, and a pair of new black running shoes in her size. She slipped into the clothes, ignoring the other women, wondering silently how her first day in the unusual circumstances would go.
At 6:10 a.m. an imposing woman with a long face, aquiline nose and close-cropped hair entered the barracks, her camouflage uniform devoid of any insignia. She eyed the two other women and snapped her fingers.
“You two. You have five minutes to get to the mess hall and eat, and then go to your assigned instructors.” She glanced at Maya. “Ah, and you must be the fresh meat. Welcome. You may call me Zivah. For your purposes, I run this place. I’ll show you where to put your laundry, where to eat, and I’ll introduce you to the instructors. As to the rest of it, you’ll figure it out.”
“Zivah, nice to meet you.”
“You may not think so by the time the day’s over. Come on. I’ll show you around and explain the rules.”
Maya followed her out of the barracks into the crisp morning air and accompanied her to the dining area, a no-frills setup with a row of cafeteria trays. Zivah and Maya scooped portions of food onto their plates and took a seat at a table in the rear of the room, away from the eight men and two women, who were devouring their breakfasts like it was a race.
“What were you told about the training?” Zivah asked.
“Only that it was going to be demanding and that most don’t finish it.”
“For good reason. Better to find out in here that you don’t have what it takes than jeopardize a mission.”
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