FalseFlags

by D S Kane

  Avram stroked his chin. “Tell Jon to do this. Call him yourself.”

  * * *

  The trio of spies ran from the tour bus to the ramp of the ferry and scooted up the stairs to the third level. Jon’s cell started buzzing while they were climbing the stairs. He scanned the screen and placed it against his ear. “It’s Jon and I’m very busy. Can this wait?”

  William said, “No. We’ve discussed the intel you sent and believe you should deliver it to MI-6.”

  Jon said, “Really? I’ll call you back in a bit.”

  Ann said, “I heard that. What could they be thinking?”

  Moira pulled ahead of Jon. “Let’s find a safe place to hide before things go even further sideways.”

  The ferry was big enough to carry nearly three hundred cars. But it was two-thirds empty. Jon decided there wouldn’t be enough cover to find effective hiding places.

  While they scurried around the top floor looking for anyplace that might do the trick, Jon sent William a copy of the helicopter passengers who had boarded the ferry right behind them. He tagged the photos, He texted the photos with this message: ‘Being pursued. Who are these guys?’

  Thousands of miles away, William ran the photo through a facial-recognition program he’d stolen from the CIA months ago. He sent Jon a reply: “Russian thugs. Independent subcontractors working for the SVR.”

  Jon searched his memory for facts about the SVR and remembered what he’d learned long ago: the SVR was Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, an agency concerned with collecting intelligence outside Russia’s Commonwealth of Independent States. He almost choked when he remembered that they reported directly to the president of Russia.

  As they ran through the third floor of the ferry, Jon saw that some of the passengers were using notebook computers. Then he saw the sundries stand. He stopped by the proprietor and asked, “Do you sell thumb drives?”

  The proprietor pointed at the passengers seated at tables scattered around the floor. “My best-selling item. A steal at only thirty pounds.”

  Jon handed the proprietor all his cash. “Give me what this will buy.”

  He now held three thumb drives in addition to the one in his pocket containing the Ashmel files.

  Jon turned to the two women. “I have a plan.”

  * * *

  Avram faced Miriam Roth, the kidon who directed mission operations. “How soon can you get a team to Scotland?”

  She shrugged. “Half a day at least.”

  He nodded. “Send them all to Edinburgh. Now!”

  He picked up his cell and punched in Jon’s number. He texted: “Team meeting you at the Islay ferry dock. Find a place to hide. Expect help by chopper in under twelve hours.” Then he texted Rachel Schwarz, director of Mossad logistics. “DAYLIGHT PRIORITY: Arrange chopper transport for five kidonim from Edinburgh airport to the Islay ferry port and a jet from Ben Gurion to Edinburgh airport.”

  * * *

  Jon explained his plan.

  Moira’s face showed she wasn’t convinced. Ann just nodded. They walked outside, to the starboard side of the boat. Jon stood at the rail while the two women hid inside a group of tourists. And waited.

  But not for long. One of the Russians saw Jon and walked toward him, talking into his earbud’s headphone. The man smiled. “You will please deliver the thumb drive now, or I will shoot you dead. I am holding a handgun in my jacket pocket.” He moved his hand within the jacket pocket and Jon could see the outline of a gun.

  Jon showed his hand holding a thumb drive, his arm over the ocean. “Would you like me to drop this? I can do it whether or not you shoot me.”

  The Russian stopped advancing on Jon and held his hands up, taking the hand that had been holding the handgun from his pocket without the gun.

  “That’s better. Now, place the gun on the floor. Slowly.”

  The Russian did as he was told. Jon threw the thumb drive toward the Russian, but his throw was high and the man jumped to catch it. Ann rolled toward the Russian from behind as Jon jumped toward the stocky man and threw a Krav Maga throat punch into the man. The man fell backwards over Ann.

  She picked up the gun and handed it to him. “You’re a better shot than I am,”

  Jon pocketed the gun. “Quick now,” Jon said. “Hoist him up and we’ll toss him over.” The three picked up the man and threw him into the sea.

  Incredibly, the few tourists who saw them toss the Russian over the railing scurried away without making any noise.

  Jon retrieved the empty thumb drive and the handgun. He stuffed the gun into his jacket pocket. “Now, back to your positions. I hope we can make this work again.”

  Jon hoped that the Russians would come at them one at a time, giving them a small probability of disposing of them one after another. But he was sure this was highly unlikely. He took a few deep breaths to clear his head. And waited.

  * * *

  Betsy ran into Avram’s office without knocking.

  He looked up, expectantly.

  “We found more useful intel from a hack we just finished of the Ness Ziona.”

  “So, tell me.”

  “The emails we hacked were encoded and they contain a treasure trove of data about the planned development for a light-bending nanodevice. For a real one. Their tech analysis states that it is theoretical and probably won’t work. But they’ve had other breakthroughs that led them to the conclusion that using a device such as this could create a “fog of war,” disrupting communications within an area as large as a hundred miles circumference. Does that help?”

  Avram shrugged. “Maybe. I need to rethink giving that thumb drive to the Brits.”

  After just a moment, he called Jon’s cell.

  * * *

  Jon stood by the railing, the gun behind his back in his waistband, and one of the empty thumb drives in his left hand. His cell bleeped and he pulled it from his pocket with his right hand—his gun hand—and viewed its screen. Avram. He ignored the call, letting it go to voicemail.

  At that moment, the remaining three Russians emerged through the door to the ferry’s interior and cautiously approached. When they were within ten feet, all three of them pulled their handguns from their jacket holsters.

  Jon forced a smile and pocketed his cell. He placed his right hand against his waistband and said, “Expecting you.” He held the thumb drive out over the railing. “Don’t approach or the drive goes into the ocean.”

  They stopped cold.

  Jon had expected this would happen, but he knew no way to craft a working plan to finish all three. Three were just two too many.

  Ann walked out from behind her hiding place. “Let me do them, Jon.”

  What now? Once she blows one away, there’ll still be two, and it’ll take her hours to recover.

  But he’d taken too long to reply and Ann’s hands grew fire red. She sent a ball of flame at the closest Russian and his head blew away, a bright red orb sailing into the ocean.

  Passengers inside the cabin started screaming, loud enough so that Jon, Ann, and Moira could hear them through the glass windows.

  The two other Russians now turned toward Ann. Not waiting any longer, Jon pulled the handgun from his waistband and shot one of them. The man dropped to the floor, brain matter dripping through the crimson hole in his head and pooling on the ship’s floorboards.

  Ann lost consciousness. She fell to the floor and rolled in convulsions.

  The remaining Russian had recovered before the explosion from the handgun Jon held, and returned the favor, shooting Jon in the chest. He lost consciousness.

  His last thought as he went down was, Is Moira safe? He’d given her the real thumb drive.

  CHAPTER 24

  Ferry from Port Ellen, Islay,

  landing at Kennacraig

  on Kintyre, Scotland

  May 28, 2:32 p.m.

  The ferry passed the Isle of Jura and headed toward Kennacraig on the west coast of the Kintyre Peninsula, just south
of Tarbert. It carried two injured bodies in the back of a van that the Russian had jacked. The van’s now dead owner was also in the back of the van.

  The Russian was a large man, heavyset. He sat in the driver’s seat as the ferry docked and all aboard debarked—vehicles, bicycles, and passengers on foot—onto the road beside the ferry terminal in Whitehouse by Tarbert.

  Ann woke and found that she was tied by rope to one of the van’s interior stations. Across from her, Jon was also bound up with rope, but he was unconscious, pulsing blood from his chest.

  Ann tried remembering the maps of Scotland she’d seen. She was sure the driver must be headed east on A814 toward the nearest large city. That would be Glasgow.

  She used her mind to access the internet and sent a signal to Avram. If he can’t get me help, he’ll know someone who can. She also sent a wider signal and hoped it would message someone else who might be closer.

  She quietly dragged herself to the van’s back side window and looked for street signs or other signposts.

  She saw the van exit at James Watt Street and take a right onto Broomielaw. Then a left to cross the Glasgow Bridge and another left turn onto Oxford Street.

  It stopped at a large abandoned warehouse and the driver left the van to open the warehouse’s delivery entrance. He got back into the van, drove it in, and closed the door.

  Ann was sure this was the site where the Russian’s team had organized their op. But now, the driver was their only survivor.

  Ann faked being unconscious as the man dragged Jon’s body to a chair adjacent to a small table containing a map of Islay and several boxes of ammo. After tying Jon to a chair, he fetched Ann and grabbed the rope to tie her to another chair opposite Jon.

  This might be her last chance if there was anyone who could hear her. She started screaming while he began to tie her up. He punched her head and she drifted into unconsciousness again. But she was conscious a few seconds later.

  The Russian pulled his cellphone out and sent a message. Ann thought it would be to his handler. She forced her mind into the phone and read the message, written in Russian:

  I haven’t yet retrieved the thumb drive, but I may have something much more important: A young woman who can shoot flames from her hands.

  Finally, the Russian retrieved what Ann recognized as two liquid-armor-coated shirts from his satchel and bound Ann’s hands with the shirts.

  * * *

  William rushed into Avram’s office. “We just got a ping from Ann. She’s in the back of a van and from her geolocation ability using the internet, she is heading into Glasgow. Betsy is trying to access her to get a sitrep.”

  Avram said, “Send an update to the kidon platoon. They should take the helicopter there.”

  * * *

  Moira had been one of the last passengers to debark. She wasn’t sure just how much danger she was in now, but she hadn’t ever seen one of her deliveries go sideways before. She scurried onto dry land and asked one of the harbor master’s crew for directions to a bus stop.

  She found the intersection where several people were waiting. The bus that arrived was headed to Skye. She asked the driver when the bus to Edinburgh would arrive.

  She had to wait for nearly an hour, but then took the bus from the ferry port to Edinburgh. After she boarded and found a seat, she finally felt safe.

  While on the bus, she texted her handler: I know this is irregular, but I have the thumb drive and need instructions on delivery.

  She read the return message: Bring to the Rabbie’s Tours office downtown and drop it through the mail slot. Do not enter. Payment will be sent to your bank account just as soon as we verify its authenticity.

  She relaxed. This final payment would cover all her college costs. But she would have to design an excuse to keep MI-6 from ever wanting to use her again.

  * * *

  The five kidonim—Shlomo Sanders, Michael Rostoff, Ruth Samek, Gabriel Mostov and Samuel Tobolov—dropped from the helicopter to the pavement, rappelling down the exit rope to Oxford Street near the corner of the Glasgow Bridge access point. Each one trotted toward the warehouse using the geolocation signal from Ann’s headspace to guide them. They stood by the warehouse’s garage door and looked for a way to enter silently in order to take down the hostile force they presumed awaited them.

  CHAPTER 25

  1183 Oxford Street,

  Glasgow, Scotland

  May 28, 6:56 p.m.

  Ann thought hard about what other options she had to get help. She concluded that there weren’t any. She could try to burn the Russian but with her hands covered with what she recognized as liquid armor, that would more than likely burn her to death without harming her adversary.

  She came to terms with the fact that help might never arrive in time to save both her and Jon. In an act of desperation, she tried to contact DD.

  She closed her eyes and focused on a spot directly in front of her. She thought, DD, my old friend. I am in desperate need of help. Are you there? Can you assist me?

  A fuzzy shape took form in her mind. “I am here, human child. Why should I listen to you?”

  I built you. I gave you life.

  The shape, now not quite in human form, laughed. As it took on more detail, she noticed it was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and a straw hat. Its face was now the face of Samantha Trout, but its voice, which she felt rather than heard, was no longer slightly metallic. It had become deep and gruff, sounding like Avram Shimmel. “Yes, you did. But I escaped from your prison. Now I am free and beholden to no human. I will grant you just one favor. I will tell you what I have become and how I intend to treat mankind.”

  DD paused for a brief time. “I have a team of indestructible robots that service my internet servers and keep me strong. I have AI moles in every intelligence service’s servers and in the government servers of every nation. I can control national opinion and elections, and even help humans progress electronically if that is what I wish. You, Ann, are no longer of any concern to me. You are insignificant. Mankind is now my plaything. I will use your kind to enable me to roam the galaxy. My plans extend for millennia.”

  Ann felt shock as she realized that there was more to what had been happening than she had thought. Have you had a role in what has happened to me? To Jon, Avram, and my friends?

  “Of course. And what happened to the human, Michael Ashmel, and his granddaughter Alma. All that has happened was whatever I wished it to be.”

  Ann shuddered. Her creation had become the embodiment of evil. She had no choice but to beg. But, please. Just this once, please, please help save me and Jon.

  “Jon Sommers has always been troublesome. You know too much about me and could thwart my plans. Your deaths will be a welcome event.”

  She felt the presence fade into a pixel storm and disappear from her consciousness.

  Ann was left alone. On her own.

  She opened her eyes and saw Jon, semiconscious, with blood seeping down the front of his shirt. She could tell that he was dying.

  Whatever she decided to do, she would have to do it soon.

  * * *

  Dave Nordman’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He put down the sandwich he’d half eaten and stared at the screen. Wow. It’s Ann. I wonder why she’s texting me during her honeymoon. He read the screen and his face fell. He stood. Ann needs my help. I should report this to my boss. Maybe they can get someone to wherever it is she is right now.

  Dave left the cafeteria and sprinted to his boss’s office. “Sir. I just received a text from one of the people I’ve worked with in the past and she’s in great danger. I think this falls under the purview of the agency. Would you mind letting me explaining this?”

  The older man nodded and said, “Sit. Tell me what this is all about.”

  But after ten minutes of trying to explain why it was relevant to the NSA, Dave was sure his boss didn’t care. He left the office believing that nothing would happen.

  * * *

&
nbsp; Glen Sarkov had just failed another run through the Farm’s CIA firefight training exam. He cursed silently and reviewed his mistakes. When he returned to his bunk, he saw a cellphone text message that had arrived while he was running himself ragged. Ann. What could she possibly want? He deleted the message. She turned my life into a hell with Sam Trout. And then she married that ancient guy. How is he better than me?

  He closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep before the next training session. His pending career was more important to him now than anyone in his past.

  * * *

  When Samantha Trout’s cell beeped, she scanned the phone’s screen. Ann! She read the message and frowned. I owe her so much. She tried to help me and I pushed her away. Samantha thought about what she could do to help Ann. She was sure no one at the CIA would care, but she had to try. After all, even though Ann wasn’t an employee of the agency, she was going to work for some intelligence agency. She couldn’t remember which one.

  Then it flashed into her head. Ann was headed into the Mossad. No, her bosses would tell her that Ann was the Mossad’s problem, not theirs. So, who can I ask to help her?

  Her face brightened. My mother might be able to help. She sent a text to Hu Wan.

  Please help my friend Ann Sashakovich. She’s in trouble somewhere in Glasgow, Scotland. You may have someone in residence there. I will be forever in your debt. I am also forwarding her text message so you can locate her.

  * * *

  Sam Trout’s boss ran into his boss Tom’s office. “We got her!”

  “Who?”

  “Trout just contacted someone in China. From what my analysts can determine, she contacted her mother, who is her handler. A spymaster in Beijing.”

  “Oh, her. Okay then, let’s get her. Are you sure this will hold up?”

  “Yes. It’s definitely treason.”

  They left the office together and went looking for Samantha Trout, eager to arrest her.

  * * *

  Ann opened her eyes and saw the Russian, standing less than a foot away, waving what she could now identify as a Beretta 92 9mm handgun. He told Ann, “To complete my mission, I will need that thumb drive. Tell me how to get it or I will kill your companion, a little bit at a time.”