by D S Kane
He sent out emails telling the short list he wanted to have them back for a second interview.
* * *
Ann met for dinner with Dave Nordman and Laura Hunter at one of the Stanford University cafeterias in the evening after classes. They found a table where they could sit by themselves and chat.
Dave asked Ann, “Have you gotten any response from the interviews yet?”
Ann nodded. “Yes. But one of them was a rejection. I guess I’ll get used to that. How many rejections have you received?”
Dave shrugged. “Seven, but four requests for second interviews.”
Laura clapped her hands. “I’m seven for seven on call-back interviews. Not one rejection.”
Dave and Ann both stared at Laura.
“Sorry to bust the pity party.”
Dave shrugged. “All of hers were from tech corps. None from the govies.”
“The govies scared the crap out of me,” said Laura. “What did you think of the interviewer questions? They knew so much about me before I’d arrived. Tons of stuff not on my application and stuff that was locked away by the juvie courts. They even knew about Frank, my boyfriend last year who was living in Paraguay.”
Ann nodded but didn’t speak. She thought about her fight to the death with the CypherGhost two years ago and the “gift” that she had implanted within Ann even as she died. Both the NSA and the CIA hinted that they knew she was capable of “something powerful, not in your records.” Both hinted that they knew she had hacked her way into Stanford. My God, the people I’m thinking of working for are dangerous.
Glen Sarkov walked past them holding a tray. He kept on walking to a partially filled table far away.
Ann frowned. Laura said something nasty sounding under her breath.
Dave said, “Looks like he needs a friend. Poor guy. After what he did to you, Ann, I hope he hasn’t got any.”
Ann didn’t respond. She knew that Glen was unhappy and desperate after his mother’s kidnapping. No one deserves that, she thought.
CHAPTER 8
48th Floor, American National Bank,
Manhattan
March 11, 6:53 p.m.
Earlier that afternoon, when Shula Ries received Michael Ashmel’s phone call, she was in the middle of another endless meeting on how the bank could reduce attempts from hostiles at money laundering. She’d been the executive vice president of American National Bank for nearly nine years, since the explosion that had cost her the use of her legs and scarred her face from something once beautiful into massively hideous.
Having often heard about necessary protections that her software engineers nonetheless found impossible to build, she had felt mildly bored. The cell had buzzed against her hip and she read its screen, then pocketed it.
The remainder of her day had passed in further boring events.
It wasn’t until now, long after sunset, when she was back in her Upper West Side Manhattan apartment for dinner that she had the time to return the call.
“Hello, Michael, It’s been like forever. It’s Ries, I finally have some time to talk.”
“Shula, thanks. I need a favor. It’s a big one. One that would totally change your life, my life, and the State of Israel.”
“Really? Well. You have my interest.”
“The prime minister is interested in retiring. He’s over eighty years of age, and his health is beginning to fail. He’d like me to succeed him.”
“My condolences. Politics is a latrine.”
“Shula, I’m one vote short of being able to form a government. There’s a district that looks ready to tip. I need a candidate, someone new, without political baggage, to run there. I need you.”
“So, you want me to return from my exile?”
“Would this interest you?”
“Michael, had you called any other day, no way. But after the interminable boredom I suffered today, I might be interested. What’s entailed? And don’t get your hopes up. Tell me. How long a residency in the district? Tell me everything.”
It took several hours.
She and Avram Shimmel had married four years ago, but when he was posted in Washington DC last year, they had to separate their residence. Now they only saw each other on weekends. They still enjoyed their time together, and this would further complicate their relationship, but both of them had always been eager to change things up.
She called Avram’s phone. “Darling, I have something we need to talk about.”
“Yah. Will you be available to visit this coming weekend? I miss you.”
“Well, that’s it. Michael Ashmel just asked me to run for a seat in the Knesset. He wants me to move back to Israel.”
“Shula, seeing you only on the weekends is tough. It’s difficult to travel between New York and Washington. But traveling between Tel Aviv and Washington would be ten times more draining. What will become of us?”
She sighed audibly. “I know. But this is what I would like to do. Can you think of some way to make this work?”
“I’ll try. But don’t give up on us. The long-range relationship we have now has worked, despite the immense difficulty. Give me a few days to think this over.”
But the next day, before she could hear back from her husband, she put in her retirement papers at the bank. It took two more days for her to arrange shipment of her possessions to Tel Aviv, where she rented an apartment using an online service.
She wondered how her life would change now.
* * *
Michael Ashmel remembered opening the tiny box he’d received in the early mail the next morning. Only he saw what was inside. The memory of the small, bloody finger made his face fall. He’d received the package along with a set of instructions printed on tissue paper. Moments later he received a text message telling him he could find a larger package that had been delivered by courier and left outside the gate to the compound.
A week ago, Michael had decided that the best way to announce Shula’s candidacy would be a party. After Shula agreed to run for the Knesset, he’d invited many of the most important Israeli government officials.
That night had now arrived. Nearly two hundred guests were arriving at the Ashmel compound on the western shore of Lake Kinneret,
Shula exited the limo at Ashmel’s compound.
Ashmel watched as her three bodyguards helped her get up and fitted her with the two walking canes she used to get around. She found Michael and after he shook her hand, photographers took photos of the future prime minister with the future Knesset seat holder whose election would ensure his victory. Shula couldn’t stand for long without the canes, and Michael could see the unsteadiness in her knees as she forced a smile at the photographer.
* * *
Samuel Meyer, the director of the Mossad, joined Ashmel and Ries, and they posed for a photo. Meyer pointed to a more private part of the yard with two empty chairs and guided her to them. After they sat, he touched Shula’s shoulder. “It’s good to finally have you back in the country of your birth. And thank you for your years of service to the Mossad as one of our sayanim, a covert operative, at American National.”
She nodded and passed him a thumb drive. “Before I resigned, I found these transactions in the foreign exchange and funds transfer queue at the bank. They’re very peculiar. It seems the Ness Ziona and one of Michael’s many tech startups, Modus Fi, may have been dealing with people in Teheran.”
Meyer took the drive and pocketed it. “I’m familiar with Modus Fi. Isn’t Ashmel one of the early investors in NSO? The company that developed Pegasus?”
Shula shook her head. “I’m not an expert in the Israeli tech and defense industries. I was just alerted to the transactions by my staff.”
Meyer shrugged. “Pegasus is Israel’s version of the CIA’s cellphone cracker and tracker, but it’s much more versatile and powerful. Okay, then. I’ll look into these as soon as I’m back at the office. Is this the only copy?”
Shula nodded. “Of course it is.�
��
Meyer nodded back. “And, thanks again.”
* * *
Michael Ashmel nodded to Shula and she rose on her canes and joined him at the microphone. Meyer walked to the rear of the crowd, as if he knew this was Shula’s moment, and he preferred not to be a part of it.
Ashmel posed with Shula, shaking hands while photographers snapped pictures for the Jerusalem Post.
Shula was only thirty-eight years old, but she looked like she was seventy. The hot sun was causing sweat-rings under her arms and she turned to Michael. “I need to sit. When will this be over?”
Michael shrugged. He seemed to be lost standing outside his own house. Today was supposed to be his greatest victory, but if he felt that, he surely wasn’t capable of showing what he felt.
He wore a heavy coat suitable for mid-winter in more northern climes, holding a small box in his right hand. His gaze was fixed about a kilometer north of Kfar Hittim, itself a rocky escarpment that overlooked both the lake and the scalding flatland, as if its desolation was his objective.
The election had been called for October 28 by Oscar Gilead, Israel’s prime minister. Michael had held a seat in the Knesset for nearly a decade, and was one vote short of becoming the next prime minister. Gilead had even endorsed Michael.
But, with victory assured, less than two hours ago his world had changed forever.
Now, it was too late for him to change his fate.
When he was supposed to announce Shula’s run for the Knesset, he would instead be undoing his life’s work. This thought saddened him, but what drove him now was the urgency of his task and his desperation at feeling convinced he had to do this terrible act.
Michael sighed audibly and shuffled to the microphone. The guest stopped talking, expecting Ashmel to begin his speech.
His left hand lay within the coat’s pocket. He forced a smile and looked out at the crowd. Some were members of the Knesset. Some were military leaders and a few, like Samuel Meyer, were heads of Israel’s various intelligence services.
His backyard was filled, crowded.
Waiters moved though the throng of guests, distributing drinks and appetizers.
His eyes filled with tears. He took his last look around, already mourning for those now alive and standing just a few feet away. He felt regret, but he knew that he would do anything if it offered a chance to keep his granddaughter from being ripped apart, piece by piece.
Then, using his left hand, still inside his coat, he pushed the button and ended his own life along with those of two hundred others.
He saw the flash, briefly felt the immense heat, and then, nothing more.
* * *
By the time the fire trucks arrived, there was only smoldering ash, glowing red, turning gray. The EMT workers stood agog, examining the wreckage for signs of life, but it was in vain. The fire chief spoke into his com, but even though it was only a whisper, those who hacked the airwaves heard and dumped stories into social media. In a matter of minutes, the entire country was on alert.
The person the fire chief spoke to was many miles away, in Tel Aviv. Oscar Gilead didn’t know who had done this, and at this moment, he didn’t care. Michael Ashmel was one of his friends, and he’d developed so few friendships that he stood looking northeast out of the window of his office as tears welled in his eyes. But he had no time to mourn. He knew that among the dead was the man he’d selected long ago to be the director-in-chief of the Mossad, Samuel Meyer. And he’d need someone at the Mossad to head the investigation into how this act of terrorism had been triggered, and by whom.
Gilead plucked his secure cell from his pocket. Now his face felt hot, reflecting the rage he could feel. “It’s Gilead. Get your ass to Reagan and fly home immediately. I need you here yesterday.”
Avram swallowed. “Can you tell me why?”
“Now! No time for a long story. Don’t go to your home. Come directly here. Send one of your staff to pack your belongings and have them all sent to my home. I’m recalling you.”
CHAPTER 9
Israeli Embassy,
3514 International Drive NW,
Washington, DC
March 13, 9:06 a.m.
Avram heard the click that terminated the call. He finished ascending the steps to the third floor and walked into the office of his next in command. He saw the assistant director, sitting at the desk outside Avram’s office. “Avi, I need you to do a few chores for me. They’re urgent.”
Avi looked up from the report he was crafting. “Sure, boss. What do you need?”
* * *
It took Avram only five minutes to tell Avi what to do and get him a taxi to the airport. He never had time to see the news reports about the Israeli terrorist attack. On the Cessna flight home, he drank several bottles of water and tried to get some sleep in the interest of diminishing his anticipated jet lag.
He woke when he heard the jet’s wheels screech against the private landing field at Ben Gurion airport. After the aircraft stopped rolling, he unbuckled his seat belt and stretched.
He exited the Cessna and walked to the airport entrance reserved for government officials, El Al employees, and members of the Mossad. He walked through the hidden, alarmed door and was met by a security officer who examined his credentials and nodded him in.
He saw Gilead waiting, the PM’s expression showing more than just impatience. Could Oscar have been crying?
“Avram, I have some terrible news.”
Avram drew himself to his full height of over six feet, seven inches. He now dwarfed his boss. “What could be so bad on such a beautiful day?”
“Shula was among the victims of a terrorist bomb. Samuel Meyer and Michael Ashmel were also among the other two hundred. They were attending a party to celebrate Shula’s retirement from the bank and her announcement that she was running for a seat in the Knesset.”
Avram stood rock still. Shula had called him when she decided to run for a Knesset seat, but that was the last he’d heard from her. He tried to hide his shock. Deep inside, he felt his world crumbling. Seven years ago, his first wife and child had been victims of a terrorist bomb. And now, Shula, his second wife was also dead from a bomb. He felt his eyes grow wet. “How could this happen? Who is responsible?”
“Get in my car. We’ll talk on the way to my home.”
CHAPTER 10
Ben Gurion Airport,
Tel Aviv, Israel
March 14, 4:20 p.m.
Shulamit Ries had been a Mossad kidon, an assassin, until a terrorist’s bomb had wrecked her body, leaving her a mangled cripple who needed two canes to walk. After she’d been damaged, the Mossad had gotten her a key position at American National Bank, a money center bank in Manhattan, and that’s when Avram had courted her.
He remembered his wedding to Shula in Devil’s Slide, California. The five years they’d been married were difficult ones. His job running the United Nations Paramilitary Force had been in New York and that’s where she’d worked too. But when he was promoted to ambassador, he’d had to move to Washington, and Shula and he saw each other only on weekends. He’d named Jon Sommers to replace him at the United Nations.
Avram had decided he would not cry for Shula. What he would do was find the people who were responsible and kill them all. Kill them very slowly. And, as a former IDF Major, former Mossad kidon, and former diplomat, he was sure he knew enough of torture to do this job well.
Oscar Gilead and Avram buckled their seat belts and the driver of their armored limo rolled into traffic.
Gilead turned toward Avram. “One more thing. I want you to be the next director-in-chief of the Mossad. You’d make a perfect ramdas.”
Avram lifted his head and turned so he faced Gilead. “What? You want me to lead the Mossad?”
“Are you deaf? I just told you, I am appointing you the director-in-chief of the Mossad. As of now!”
Avram remained silent, knowing that the prime minister was a first-class sadist. The man had been an o
fficer within the Mossad decades in the past, and had been trained in the art of killing. Avram clasped his lips tight while digesting this demand by the PM. Finally, he nodded. “If I accept, what will you want me to do? Besides my regular duties.”
“Find out who is responsible. Track them down and obliterate them. I don’t want them facing a trial. I want them to suffer. Make it happen.”
Avram nodded again. He already felt grief and now forced himself from letting this interfere with his demeanor. “I will do what you have commanded” Then he realized that his cellphone was in his notebook computer case, and that was in the limo’s trunk. “May I borrow your phone?”
The prime minister looked surprised, but he handed the cell to Avram.
Avram remembered the number from nearly a decade in his past, when he’d followed progress on his wife and daughter’s murder. Their deaths were also from a terrorist bombing. He punched in the number. “Inspector Spelman, this is Avram Shimmel. As of now, I am running the Mossad. Are you still running the Investigations Department?”
He heard the voice on the other side say, “Yes, but I’m now the chief inspector.”
Avram said, “Good. Tell me what you’ve found out about the bombing at the Ashmel residence yesterday.”
The voice on the other side of the line said, “We’re examining the remains of over two hundred victims, as well as their possessions and clothing. Why don’t you come by here when it’s convenient and I’ll tell you what we’ve got and what it implies.”
“How about tomorrow morning?” He wanted to do this even before he had made his way into the Mossad’s nondescript headquarters building in Herzliya.
After the inspector replied, Avram terminated the call. He faced Gilead. “Tell me, Prime Minister, what is the procedure for introducing a new ramdas to the Mossad officers and staff?”
CHAPTER 11