FalseFlags

by D S Kane

  Michael Ashmel’s home,

  Galilee Valley, Israel

  March 15, 8:02 a.m.

  Avram exited the armored limo that was one of the perks for the Mossad director-in-chief, along with his three armed guards. Ashmel’s entire compound was flattened, and there was nothing but scrap from the house, bits of furniture, and pieces of incinerated flesh that stank of death.

  A team of investigators, nearly ten of them, scoured through the dust and debris. One of them approached Avram. “Shalom. I am Chief Inspector Elliot Spelman. I assume you’re Director Shimmel.”

  Avram nodded. “What have you discovered so far?”

  “What I tell you now is a state secret. Understood?”

  Avram nodded. “Yah.”

  “As we all assumed, it was a terrorist attack. But not the way you would expect.” He pointed to a sled containing the small pieces of evidence his team had found. “See this?”

  Avram saw a small piece of burned steel in the shape of a box, but it was twisted. There was what appeared to be a small, thin, cylindrical piece of ash-crusted flesh. “What am I looking at?”

  “We just finished processing the DNA from this. It’s the finger of Michael Ashmel’s granddaughter. We have her DNA on file from when she was hospitalized last year. The surrounding material is the remains of a small metal box. There is no other DNA trace of his granddaughter. Her name is Alma Ashmel, and she is about five years old. It appears that her finger was the only part of her present at the party. It’s remotely possible that she may still be alive.”

  Avram thought about the implications. “Not likely. And you’re stating that it’s your belief that Ashmel wore a suicide vest?”

  Spelman nodded. “Yes, but not exactly. He wore a heavy winter coat, and the box was partially protected from the explosion by the position of the pocket in which he’d left it and by the position Ashmel held, standing near a concrete fountain.”

  Avram had no idea how a concrete fountain could have absorbed some of the intensity of a blast. He decided to move on. “Have you found any DNA from Shula Ries?”

  The chief inspector led Avram to another evidence sled. “I’m so sorry to have to show you this.”

  Avram examined the sled. The only objects remaining intact were short sections of her two metal canes. He looked away from the inspector and wiped his eyes. “Thank you. Please send me a copy of your report as soon as you have prepared it.”

  Avram walked back to the limo. He climbed into the back, along with two of his three bodyguards. The third bodyguard climbed in the front seat next to the driver. Avram knocked on the window separating him from the driver, and the limo pulled away from the curb.

  He hid his rage as best he could. But as the limo wended its way back to Mossad headquarters building in Herzliya, he started to craft a plan to find and destroy those responsible, starting with whomever he thought had abducted Michael Ashmel’s granddaughter. He’d need a small group running this black op, and it would include a logistics officer, a hacker, and several kidonim. The first step would involve collecting or buying intelligence that corresponded with whatever clues were found at the wreckage of Ashmel’s compound.

  The investigation was one thing. But planning a mission to wreak revenge on those responsible was quite another. And the best black ops planner he knew was Jon Sommers. He looked out the bulletproof window of his office as he dialed Jon’s phone number.

  “Sommers.”

  “It’s Avram. I’ve just become the new head of the Mossad. Shula, Michael Ashmel, and Samuel Meyer are dead from the bombing at Ashmel’s home. Two hundred others, many of them members of the Knesset, are all dead. I’m sure you’ve already seen news reports.”

  Avram heard the silence go on and on. Then: “Yes, but no details of who died. Avram, I’m so sorry. Shula trained me. I owe her so much. How are you coping?”

  “Not well. I could cope better if you were here watching my back. I’d like to reactivate you into the Mossad.”

  “I understand. But please, please wait until I settle out things I have to do right now. I’m up to my hip boots with a mission in China, running William Wing and Betsy Brown. And, I’m engaged to Ann and it would be a big favor if you wait until after we’re married. Then I suppose we could both be available for you.”

  Avram thought. “If I wait, can you move your wedding up closer to the present? I need you here now.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Good. Call me when you have the date. I’d like to attend, so I’m inviting myself.”

  “You’re already at the top of our attendee list. Soon then.”

  Avram almost smiled. But the pain of Shula’s loss kept his face rigid. He instantly fell back into analyzing the current situation. He knew that to get the vengeance he wanted, he’d need the aid of all those he now commanded. And, in order to earn his subordinates’ devotion, he’d have to get this right, or his ability to lead the Mossad would vanish. Besides, there was the young girl’s life still at stake… if she was still alive.

  * * *

  The limo entered through the garage under the ordinary-looking building in Herzliya. Avram and his three bodyguards took the elevator to the top floor of the building.

  As the doors opened, he saw what he estimated to be nearly two hundred of the case officers and analysts standing, waiting for him. They all applauded.

  Avram was startled for just a moment, but then smiled. “Thanks. I’ve been absent from the Mossad for almost a decade, and then I served here for just a few months. But I’ve always admired your dedication to duty and to the survival of Israel. I will try to bring honor to your ranks, starting with organizing missions to avenge the director I’ve just now replaced. Samuel Meyer was a great man. We all mourn his loss. I will meet with each of you personally as soon as I can schedule it.”

  He then nodded and turned away, walking to his corner office.

  Once seated, he adjusted the chair. Samuel Meyer was average height. But Shimmel’s huge frame needed at least ten more inches of leg space. Then he adjusted the height of his keyboard and screen monitor upward by placing a stack of reports from his Out box underneath them.

  He had barely finished when his landline chirped. “Shimmel.”

  “It’s Chief Inspector Spelman. We’ve found remnants of a phone that might have belonged to Michael Ashmel. I’ve already requested his cellphone records. I will relay a copy to your office at the Mossad.”

  Avram sighed. “Thanks.” He terminated the call. He felt the massive jet lag roll over him like a fog.

  He pulled his personnel roster from the largest desk drawer. He remembered visiting this office when it belonged to Yigdal Ben-Levy, a decade in the past. This drawer was where Ben-Levy had stored a printed copy of the personnel roster. Some things never change.

  He had eight direct reports. The director of investigations and analysis was a woman named Dina Warnig. He tapped her extension into the landline. “Ms. Warnig, I need you to complete a task for me. Please, come to my office.”

  A short woman with red hair and a longish nose walked into his lair.

  “Please, sit.”

  She did. She tried forcing a smile but just the corners of her mouth obeyed.

  “I need information on the bombing at Michael Ashmel’s home. Please obtain all the phone records for everyone at the party, starting with Michael Ashmel himself. Send the files to me in electronic form, with all the available details as you obtain them.”

  Warnig nodded.

  “Thanks. That’s all for now.”

  He took one look out the view windows and could see the entire coast of Israel from the perch of his office. He shook his head and looked through the glass walls of his office at his empire of espionage. The place had been designed to intoxicate visitors with its trappings of power. Now he understood why Ben-Levy used an office in the basement as his operations center. Less ego boosting there. Ben-Levy’s words rang out in his memory: “The devil is convenienc
e and I’ll not deal with more devils than I can handle.”

  In the office, next to the glass-topped desk that Meyer had installed, were three chairs around a glass-topped conference table, and behind that, a light-brown velvet couch that was long and wide enough to accommodate Avram’s frame. But if he ever used it to nap, his staff would be able to see their ramdas asleep. He could never let that happen.

  He knew Shula had rented an apartment nearby the office, but he felt that being so close to her mementoes might cause him too much pain. So, he assigned Warnig to visit the apartment and see if there were any clues that Shula had suspected something wasn’t right about Michael Ashmel. When he tried to use the computer, it didn’t recognize his user permissions, so he called Warnig and requested that he be assigned a user ID and temporary password.

  After she dropped by his office and delivered a printed sheet with two lines—his user ID and password—Avram used his desktop computer to locate apartments for lease in Herzliya. There were many within walking distance of the headquarters building. He selected three and called each one.

  It would be easy to choose. He was once again single and only needed one bedroom and a study. Within an hour, he had appointments that evening to see all three.

  As the afternoon began to fade into dusk, another of his Mossad directors knocked on his office door. He looked up from his paperwork and smiled. “Come in.”

  “I’m Rachel Schwarz, director of logistics. I have several things to give to you.”

  She handed Avram a secure ID badge. “You’ll need this for the file cabinets in the records room, for admittance to this building, and, to make it work, we’ll need you to record your retina on one of the scanning computers. Here.” She handed Avram a handheld device and he faced the screen and opened his right eye as wide as he could.

  “Good.” She handed him a MASADA 9mm pistol, manufactured by IWI, the Israeli Weapons Industries. “The clip holds seventeen rounds. It’s pretty light for a four-inch barrel.”

  Avram flipped up the safety and racked the gun. Then he disassembled and reassembled it. “Intuitive. Thanks. Anything else?”

  Rachel shook her head. “You’re good to go.” She left.

  A short time later, a short, thin balding young man tapped on his door.

  “Yah. Enter.”

  “I’m Morris Talb, director of collections.” He handed Avram a folder. “I noticed that Personnel hasn’t assigned you an email address yet, so I printed these out. Michael Ashmel’s phone records, both cell and landline. You’ll find that someone called Ashmel’s phone several times in the days preceding the explosion. I also investigated the numbers of his callers. Chatter suggests that Alma was kidnapped two days before the explosion. Some of the calls were made from Moscow and some from Damascus.”

  Avram nodded. This was a mild surprise. He had wondered if the Russians might have played a part in the destruction of Ashmel’s life, but Syria? What could that crumbling country have to do with Ashmel’s death?

  CHAPTER 12

  Stanford University Quadrangle

  March 16, 2:47 p.m.

  Ann sat in the quad on what had become her favorite bench, shivering in the fog. She’d expected her parents to call over fifteen minutes ago, and she was due in her next class in another thirteen minutes.

  Her cell buzzed. It was Jon, not her parents.

  “Jon, I was expecting a call from my parents. What’s happening?”

  “Avram and I just spoke. He’s reactivating me into the Mossad.”

  Ann felt her body tense up. “That would be in Israel, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes. We have to decide how to handle this.”

  “But what if the job I want is in Washington or New York? What would I do in Israel? I want to have a chance at a career.”

  Now, Jon was silent for some time. “Actually, I was about to broach just that topic. Would you consider working for the Mossad if I worked there too?”

  Now it was Ann’s turn to remain silent in thought. “Doesn’t the Mossad have regulations about operatives with relationships not working together?”

  “Yes. But Avram isn’t just working for the Mossad. He just became the ramdas of the Mossad. He makes the regs and he decides when to make an exception. What if I became a kidon again and you worked as a yahalom?”

  Ann remembered that a kidon was a black ops assassin and a yahalom was a hacker. “Let me think about this. And, Jon, it’ll be after we’re married, not before.” She terminated the call.

  The throng of students passing grew thicker as those emerging from the class that had just ended marched to their next one. Ann’s left foot began tapping, indicating she felt restless. Finally, she felt the cellphone pulsing against her pocket.

  “Hi, sweetie,” said Cassie.

  “Hey, Ann.” Lee sounded happy, as usual.

  “You’re late, guys. I only have a few minutes before my next class.”

  “Okay, Ann. So, what was so important that you left us that message?”

  “This is about Jon and me. I want you both to know that we’ll marry with or without your permission. It’s my life. When I was twelve, you controlled me, but after living homeless for over a year, I knew that was good for me. I’m over twenty-one now. You can no longer control me.”

  Ann heard one of them sigh. Then Cassie spoke. “Ann, I think you’re making a terrible mistake. Jon is thirty-two and you’re nearly ten years younger. That’s not good. And he’s operational. A professional spy. It’s a dangerous profession and you could become a choke-point for him. Remember what happened to me after I worked for a spy agency. I was cast out for doing my job, disavowed, and then hunted. This could easily become a terrible life for you.”

  “Mom, I’ve already served as a covert operative. Unofficial, without cover. Even more dangerous. And some of the positions I’m interviewing for are with intelligence agencies. So, I already live in his world. As for the age difference, living with you and Dad, both of you spies, well, it means that I had to become more mature to be able to deal with our family of coverts. And all the secrets we hold

  “And it’s not just you and Lee, but also Uncle Misha. Remember that he took me to Moscow where we destroyed their electric grid? That was dangerous. Being with Jon isn’t any new challenge. I want this. Jon and I want to marry as soon as possible. So, the question is, would you like to help me plan my wedding, or should Jon and I elope?”

  Lee’s voice chimed in. “Ann, Cassie and I work for Jon. How are we supposed to deal with seeing him as your husband and also as our boss?”

  She had heard her voice rising and realized too late that she was becoming too emotional. She should just let the logic of her argument do the work for her. She took a deep breath to slow herself.

  Ann realized that the bigger issue for her parents was that they reported to Jon. “Look, Jon just told me that Avram is now the director of the Mossad. He’s reactivating Jon. Avram wants Jon back in Israel, working for him. So very soon neither of you will work for him, and with him leaving, you’ll both get a promotion.”

  Now, she heard both of their voices talking so low she couldn’t make out the words. She suddenly realized she’d already won.

  Lee spoke. “Ann, suppose we agree. What can we do to be part of your life with the man we’ve worked for after he’s left New York?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll still be your daughter. There’s another matter now that we’ve settled my future. It’s traditional that the parents of the bride pay for the wedding celebration. I want a small wedding. Maybe fifty people, including about a dozen of my friends. Can we do that?”

  Lee spoke again. “Fifty? We have many more people that we’d want to invite. People you know. Relatives. My relatives. My friends at work.”

  “Daddy, how many relatives and friends do you want to invite?”

  “I’m not sure exactly but I think there are a lot.”

  Ann thought for just a second. “I’m thinking this is about to become a spe
ctacle. Make a list and email it to me. Then we’ll talk.” She looked at her wristwatch. “I gotta go. Class time. Bye. I love you both.” She hung up, feeling frustrated and unhappy despite her win.

  * * *

  When classes ended for the day, Ann called Jon, hoping for support. “Hi, baby, how was your day?”

  “A ton of bureaucratic bullshit, boring and insipid. How was yours?”

  “I spoke to my parents. They have decreed their terms for our wedding. They want a ton of people. I was hoping for fewer than fifty.”

  “Well, at least they are no longer screaming that it’s a bad idea.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. But I wanted something more intimate. Not a three-ring circus.”

  “Ann, pick your fights carefully. We both want them involved in our lives. You love them. We’ll need them. Please be willing to compromise. Just a bit, okay?”

  “I guess you’re right. But that will take longer, and Avram wants you with him soon—"

  “No ‘buts.’ Let them win one occasionally.”

  She remained silent, stewing. Then: “Okay, okay. Of course, you’re right.” She paused and looked for a way out of this topic. “So, where do you want to go for our honeymoon?”

  * * *

  Avram Shimmel’s landline buzzed and he picked up its receiver. “Yah?”

  “I’m Chief Inspector Abraham of the Galilee police force. I need to speak with Avram Shimmel.”

  “I’m Shimmel. What have you learned about the terrorist attack?”

  “We’ve rushed the processing of the evidence and are currently completing the DNA tests to determine the identities of the victims so we can notify their families. We have concluded that Ashmel was wearing an explosive vest that was made in China. We believe that when he died, he was holding the steel box with Alma Ashmel’s right index finger inside a foil-lined pocket of his heavy coat, behind his back. He’d placed the box in a liquid-armor-covered container. So the box itself survived with very little damage. The finger had been severed nearly a day before the explosion.”

  Avram already knew all of this. It just took the police longer than it took the Mossad to process evidence. He frowned. “Anything else?”