by Ward Larsen
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
She stared at him.
“Right.”
In trying to consolidate his scattershot thoughts, Slaton knew his only refuge was honesty. He told her what he’d learned in the last day, including the events on the Red Sea. Much of the information was likely classified at the highest levels in Langley and Tel Aviv, but once again Slaton enjoyed the freedom of his own system. As had been the case regarding Capri, his wife had a need to know. He left nothing out, and ended with the invitation, jointly issued by the CIA and Mossad, to become involved. It took nearly twenty minutes. In that time Davy never lost his focus—he had the toy cars set up in static lines on the stone terrazzo that reminded Slaton of the traffic from the airport. It was all done with remarkable precision, the bumpers of the cars lined up perfectly. Slaton wondered if he had been so exacting as a child, but quickly drove the thought away for the extrapolations it introduced.
“They want to bring you in on this operation?” Christine asked.
“Yes.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“On the face of it, there’s no reason to think so. We’re not talking about an interdiction. The objective is simply to get a look. That said, I’m not sure what this ship is carrying—there’s always a degree of uncertainty.”
She seemed to consider it. “I remember once you explained a term to me—mission creep. I feel like that’s what’s happening. First Capri, then Davos, now this. With each incremental move you get more involved.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s a fair label. But I haven’t committed to anything. I told them I wanted to talk to you first.”
“My opinion aside—do you want to do it?”
“Want to? Hardly. But I can’t ignore the big picture. My name is still getting linked to these shootings. Anna mentioned today that Inspector Giordano, the policeman in Capri, called this morning asking about me. He wanted to know who I was and why she’d brought me into the investigation. He’s heard rumblings that a Mossad assassin gone rogue might be responsible for Ivanovic’s death.”
“Any idea where that came from?”
“I don’t know the exact channel, but the network had to be Russian.”
“Which only gives a thicker smokescreen to whoever is responsible.”
He nodded. She was looking at him intently now, trying to read what he was thinking. He kept to the truth.
“To answer your question,” he said, “yes, I’d go. I think something dangerous is on the horizon, and I’m in a good position to do something about it. Maybe a unique position. What’s going on in the waters around Saudi Arabia, the death of these two wealthy Russians … it’s all connected.”
“When we talked about this earlier, I made an accusation. I said I thought your involvement, at least in part, was ego driven. I implied you were bothered by the idea that there might be somebody out there who’s better than you.”
“I remember.”
“That’s not the case anymore.”
He looked at her questioningly.
“Don’t you see?” she went on. “You figured out how he did it—this guy cheated.”
Slaton couldn’t contain a grin.
She remained serious, and her next words were delivered with the caution of a technician defusing a bomb. “This may surprise you … but I think you should go.”
His head tipped ever so slightly. “You’re right, I am surprised. And your reasoning?”
“For one thing, because Israel is involved now. In spite of the rough relationship you and I have had with Mossad, there’s no denying it’s your homeland. I think you’re right that something ominous is going on, and that you’re in a better position to uncover it than anyone. Also, as much as I hate to say it … you’re good at this kind of thing. There’s also the fact that the Russians keep pushing your name into this mess. The only way to put a stop to that is to figure out what’s going on. Figure out who’s really responsible.”
He nodded.
“But when all is said and done,” she said, “there’s one reason that’s more compelling than any of those others.”
“What’s that?”
“If I asked you to drop it right now … I know that you would.”
THIRTY-SIX
The small town of Eilat is a representative microcosm—in essence, it is a reflection of the Jewish state itself within the greater Middle East. A community effectively surrounded by hostile factions, it lays bracketed on two sides by Jordan and Egypt’s unruly Sinai, and on the others by the sea and forbidding terrain. Across the deceptively calm waters to the south, Saudi Arabia can clearly be seen, and Israel’s more cosmopolitan regions lay far to the north across the desolate Negev Desert. Yet Eilat’s isolation is also its greatest virtue, and at vital junctures in Israel’s history it has served as the country’s lifeline, offering vital access to the Gulf of Aqaba and the Red Sea. That importance was proved soon after the establishment of statehood, when Egypt closed the Suez Canal to vessels destined for Israel’s Mediterranean ports. Eilat, waking from its dust-covered slumber, emerged as the nation’s lone foothold for trade with the east.
As a consequence of this strategic lesson, the facilities of the Port of Eilat have since been deliberately overbuilt, providing far more capacity than necessary to support a seasonal tourist town of fifty thousand residents. In the event of a crisis, the seaport can be transformed into a shipping hub capable of supporting a nation. On this particular late October day, Eilat was Slaton’s destination for reasons that were not unrelated. He, in concert with Mossad, needed access to the Red Sea.
With time being critical, Slaton was whisked from the Rome embassy back to Fiumicino Airport—this time not to the passenger terminal, but to a more sedate corner of the airfield where a sleek Learjet stood waiting. The aircraft wore generic markings, giving Slaton no hint as to whose little air force it belonged—Mossad’s or the CIA’s. That question was answered when he was greeted in Hebrew by the captain, and then a flight attendant.
The jet was built for speed, and with a seasonal tailwind the flight took slightly less than three hours. For much of that time Slaton slept in a plush leather seat, and by the time the wheels were lowered for landing, evening had made its arrival. Through the oval side window he saw the distant glow of Eilat, a wash of shimmering amber in the gathering desert night.
The Lear came to rest near a midsized building where a half dozen other jets waited for well-heeled owners. Slaton recognized the place as an FBO, or fixed base operator—effectively, a terminal for private and corporate aviation. Inside he encountered a cursory display of customs and immigration, a man and a woman who were actually waiting for him, and who spent less than a minute going over his documents. That done, he walked outside and immediately spotted a familiar face. Anton Bloch was standing next to a small Kia SUV—among the most commonplace cars in Israel.
“Hello, Anton.”
“It is good to see you, David.”
“I keep thinking you might actually retire someday.”
“You should know better by now. For me there can be no retirement—only sporadic periods of rehabilitation.”
Bloch was Slaton’s original mentor, indeed the man who’d recognized his talent, and handpicked him to become what he was—something that over the years, the protégé had still not decided whether to forgive. Bloch had served as Mossad director for much of Slaton’s time there, and since “retiring” had become something of a special projects manager for the new director, Raymond Nurin. For all their turbulent history, Slaton’s relationship with Bloch today was distilled to one event: the man had once put his life on the line for Christine. That he would never forget.
He threw his small suitcase in the back, and took the passenger seat as Bloch drove. This in itself was a curiosity—former Mossad directors were generally given drivers, and always warranted protection.
“Where’s your detail?”
“I am, as they say, w
orking without a net. This business in the Red Sea came up quite suddenly, and Nurin asked for my help in facilitating things. Security would have been an unnecessary complication.”
Slaton felt a response rising about the complications of having no security, but let it pass. Instead, he said, “Facilitating? Because I’m involved?”
“And there is something I’d like to know—how do you manage to insert yourself so regularly into Israel’s affairs?”
“Trust me—I ask myself that very same question.”
The two exchanged status reports on their families, and as they did Slaton regarded his old boss, thinking he looked surprisingly fit and relaxed. Surprising because he never imagined that any former director of Mossad could find health, let alone peace, given the gallery of death and misdeeds they’d spent a career both arranging and suffering.
The only real stunner in their exchange came from Bloch. “My daughter has decided to enter the service.”
Slaton stared at his old boss. “Mossad?”
Bloch nodded.
“The last I heard she was at university.”
“I argued against the idea as best I could. I assured her it would lead to nothing but a lifetime of pain and misery. She seems to have inherited my stubbornness.”
Slaton looked out the far window to conceal his grin.
“We’ve been setting up shop since this morning,” Bloch said, clearly changing the subject.
“Where?”
Bloch reached into the back seat and retrieved a hardhat with an ID attached by a small metal clip. He handed it across and Slaton saw a poor quality picture of himself, probably taken years ago. Under his photograph was the certainly fictitious logo of something called CSR International.
“What am I?” he asked.
“Make something up. A welder. Our base of operations is in a very quiet corner of the port complex. It’s a trailer, hasn’t been used since our naval interdiction campaign of 2002.”
“Sounds cozy.”
“We swept out the vermin only this afternoon.”
“We?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. For now, expect a thirty-minute drive. I’d suggest you relax. It may be a very long night.”
In spite of the sleep he’d caught on the Lear, Slaton didn’t argue. Bloch knew more than he did about the timetable for the next twenty-four hours—and rest was among the most important of preparations for any mission.
He reclined the seat and closed his eyes.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Slaton was nudged awake by Bloch. He opened his eyes to see a gate with a guardhouse a hundred meters ahead. Bloch drew the SUV to a stop at the checkpoint. While a port security man studied their IDs, which seemed to pass muster, his partner, a woman, went around the outside of the vehicle with an undercarriage mirror. It was a cursory inspection, suggesting there had been no recent breaches or terror alerts. Whatever threat scale was used here, it had sunk to its lowest level.
They were cleared to proceed, a simple railroad gate lifted, and Bloch steered into the vast port complex. They passed row after row of factory-fresh automobiles awaiting trailers that would disperse them across Israel. In the distance Slaton saw a small cruise ship, and the festive lights strung across the superstructure reminded him of those he’d seen on Pyotr Ivanovic’s yacht. The cruise ship was the only thing in sight that wasn’t industrial in nature. Tall loading cranes hovered over the wharves, looking like great birds, and container trucks were being loaded under bright lights. A rail yard was active on the shoreward perimeter, and a new thoroughfare leading north was in the initial stages of construction. Altogether, a busy place that aspired to one day be busier.
They eventually reached an isolated tract far from the piers, a little-used stretch of gravel along the perimeter fence. Bloch parked in front of a dilapidated double-wide trailer that was resting on concrete blocks—it actually appeared to lean slightly to one side. Equipment tugs and cargo containers were rowed on either side of the trailer, some of them rusting and discarded, a few pieces looking operable. The fence behind was twelve feet high, the top laced with razor wire, and on the other side was a wide cleared area washed in bright security lights. Beyond that Slaton saw barren desert stretching into rising terrain, the shadows of rough-edged hills evident in the gloom.
Bloch pulled the Kia up to the trailer and parked next to two other vehicles—one a generic sedan, the other a white work van. On the side of the van was the same CSR International logo that was stenciled on his ID. It struck him that the vehicle was resting low on its suspension, implying a heavy load inside. Clearly the groundwork for this Mossad venture had long been in place. He wasn’t surprised. Top tier intelligence agencies kept a ready supply of corporate facades: papers in order, licenses granted, tax records current, facilities rented or purchased. All waiting for the day when they were required on short notice. Or the night.
Bloch hadn’t been kidding about the vermin—near the steps that led up to the trailer’s only door Slaton saw the carcasses of three dead rats, all of which looked to have suffered small-caliber gunshot wounds. No doubt silenced weapons.
He followed Bloch up a set of loose wooden stairs and through a dented metal door. The interior of the trailer was a hostage to overdone fluorescents, and in the harsh light he saw three familiar faces. Slaton shook their hands in turn. Tal, with intense dark features; Matai, whose shaggy black mane perpetually begged for a haircut; and the leader, Aaron, whose strong build was nearly a match for Slaton’s, and who exuded a commander’s confidence.
“You look no worse for wear,” Slaton said to Tal. They’d all worked together on a mission in the Golan earlier that year, and Tal had suffered a minor gunshot wound—if there could be such a thing.
The commando rolled his right arm like a baseball pitcher in warm-ups. “No issues. The surgeons did a nice job.”
Bloch intervened. “You can all reminisce later. Time is critical.”
The four operators took seats around a cheap plastic table, the kind typically used to hold grocery store hors d’oeuvres at office parties. Bloch launched into a ten-minute mission update, and little had changed. “The bottom line, gentlemen … we must find out what this ship is carrying.”
“What’s the general plan?” Slaton asked.
“To begin, Matai has acquired a boat,” Aaron said.
“What kind of boat?”
“Nothing military,” Matai replied. “From here, we can’t reach the spot where Argos is anchored without traversing both Egyptian and Saudi waters. That means we need a cover. I’ve done a lot of diving down here, and I have a friend who owns a small dive boat. It’s a six-pack,” he added, meaning it was sized for six divers.
“Is it fast?” Bloch asked. “You have a fifty-mile crossing to reach Argos.”
“If the seas are calm, which they’re forecast to be tonight, she’ll do thirty knots, forty in a crisis.”
“I’d rather not go there,” Slaton said.
“Me neither, but it’s a good thing to have in your back pocket.”
“What else?” Slaton asked.
Aaron smiled. “I’m glad you asked.”
* * *
Aaron led Slaton outside to the van. With a quick look over his shoulder to ensure the coast was clear, he pulled the rear doors open. The back of the van was so full of gear it blocked the view of the driving compartment.
“Tal got a little carried away,” Aaron said.
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I like having options.” The first thing Slaton saw was transportation. “Nice DPDs.” It stood for diver propulsion device, and there were three of them. The DPDs looked like a cross between a jet ski and a torpedo, and Slaton noted that they were made by Stidd Systems, an American company specializing in military-grade nautical accessories.
“Top of the line,” said Aaron, “and of course modified. Sonar, autopilot, extended-range lithium-ion batteries. Almost six knots at top end.”
Slaton was im
pressed. Six knots didn’t sound like much in the fast-paced terrestrial world, but for a fully geared diver in open ocean it was the equivalent of skydiving. He looked at the sidewalls of the vans and saw the rest. Three full sets of dive gear, including tanks, wetsuits, and monocular underwater night-vision goggles. The masks were full-face units with comm ability, which would be critical given what they were attempting. On the more tactical side, he saw enough guns and explosives to conquer a small town.
“What kind of mixture?” Slaton asked, pointing to the scuba tanks.
“Enhanced gas rebreathers. We can go all the way to the bottom in the area we’ll be working, no exhaust bubbles to give us away.”
Slaton eyed it all thoughtfully. “Most of this will look right at home on a dive boat,” he said.
“That’s the idea. This stuff gives us a lot of options, but we still haven’t finalized a strategy for how to approach Argos.”
“Strategy?” Slaton repeated. He slammed the doors shut. “Who needs strategy with firepower like that?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
The debate in the trailer was necessarily hurried—the team had a tight timeline in which to concoct a mission. The good news was that if all went well they were looking at no more than a surveillance op, and everyone involved was experienced and accustomed to fluid tactical situations. The biggest worry was the limited intel they were working from.
To begin, Aaron drew a comically amateurish map on a wall-mounted whiteboard: scrawled in different colors were a squiggly coastline, Argos’ position, and four viable ports from which smaller vessels might be expected to sortie sometime in the next eight hours. This was the most damning variable—there was no guarantee Argos would even perform another offload tonight. Given what they knew, it seemed probable, but if nothing happened, the consensus opinion was that they should return to Eilat and take another day to prepare.
Aaron’s artistry was heckled unreservedly as the work of a grade school dropout. It was the kind of levity born of stress, and tonight predictably short-lived.