“As I fully expect.” Kasra met his eyes with his own. “Now, come, and let us have tea. I have it imported. It is very good.”
“That would be welcome. The stuff they drink here is like the dung of a sick camel.”
Both men laughed, and Kasra gestured at an area with desks and chairs. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you more hospitality than this, but it is a place of work, and space is always at a premium for the cars.” Kasra’s shop specialized in accident repairs, as well as the thriving stolen-parts business with which he subsidized his legitimate income.
“It is like a palace to me,” Abreeq said quietly.
When they had their steaming cups on the desk before them, Abreeq leaned toward Kasra. “We are almost out of time, my friend.”
“I know. We will be finished with the truck tomorrow, and then we’ll be ready to paint it.”
“The device will be here in three days, just in time for the match. Will you be ready? It appears there is still much to be done.”
“I have closed the shop. This is all we are working on. You have my word that all will be as promised at the appointed time.”
Abreeq sat back. “Then it is as good as done.”
“Yes. It was never in doubt.”
After the requisite socialization, Abreeq said his farewells and made his way back to his car, noting that the street was still deserted. He’d arranged with the Russian arms merchant to have the bomb delivered the night before the big game, so that any chance of it being discovered while they waited was minimized.
Now all Abreeq had to do was show up for his shift, and when the truck delivered the kegs of beer for the event, ensure that the one with the device in it was placed in the VIP area, where it would detonate and kill the fat, privileged nonbelievers gathered for their silly match, as well as shower half the stadium with deadly radioactive dust.
Abreeq would slip out of the coliseum five minutes before the bomb went off, and be well away when the explosion rocked the facility. He had no doubt there would be a manhunt as the police pieced together the employee records and footage from the ubiquitous security cameras, but he had another identity ready and would have changed his appearance and be off the cursed island before any effective action could be implemented by the authorities.
The stolen vehicle started grudgingly, and as Abreeq pulled away from the warehouse, the flutter of anxiety in his stomach quieted. Kasra seemed confident, and he had never failed Abreeq in other endeavors. If he was sure he would have everything in place, then he would, in which case success was preordained.
Still, he could not afford complacency and would check in with the man daily to ensure nothing went awry.
At work, Cliff’s untimely demise was greeted with fake sympathy by the staff, and his replacement, a jolly woman named Lois, was a refreshing change. Abreeq almost felt bad that she would be seared into ash in only a few days.
But it was Allah’s will.
At least it would be mercifully quick for her. Unlike so many of his people, who daily suffered the torture of the damned.
He headed the car toward the highway for the two-hour drive back to Manchester, and was humming along with an insipid pop song on the radio by the time he rolled up the on-ramp.
Chapter 23
Dhaka, Bangladesh
Uri waited nervously in his provisional headquarters for the new arrival from Israel. The man had touched down forty minutes earlier and would be there any minute. Uri had spent the last day and a half doing damage control, trying to locate his watcher, filing reports, and speaking with his network of informants in the vain hope of getting a lead on Ajmal Kahn’s whereabouts.
None of which had yielded anything but disappointment. The imam had vanished like a ghost, and Uri knew he likely wouldn’t resurface for months, or years, popping up somewhere else like a malignant tumor. His contacts hadn’t even heard a rumor, which in Dhaka was almost impossible. The city was fueled by gossip and speculation – whispered innuendo was the glue that bound it together.
In Uri’s entire career, he’d never lost an operative and a local asset in the same day. Outside of a war zone it was virtually unthinkable, especially on a surveillance op. Despite films and books to the contrary, being a field operative consisted largely of mundane surveillance, sorting through trash, milking locals for information, and spreading favors and money around. The James Bond stereotype of dashing superspies saving the girl while shooting it out with the megalomaniac couldn’t have been further from the truth. As with all things, reality was far less glamorous than the Hollywood depiction and mostly involved dirty tricks, lies, cheating, stealing, and generally being an untrustworthy weasel and sociopath, all in the name of God and country.
He used to joke with his few friends in the agency that it was a good thing intelligence services existed, because otherwise there would have been a lot more serial killers plying their trade. Officially sanctioned murder required a certain personality type, as did spending years pretending to be something you weren’t. And once you were in the life, it was impossible to get out until the game had used you up – assuming you were able to get out at all. Like Nietzsche’s infamous abyss that stared back inside you when you stared into it, the service was a greedy engine of destruction that fed on the vitality of its members.
His rumination was interrupted by a nondescript man with a shoulder bag entering the building, captured by the hidden cameras. The time had arrived. Uri had no question about what was to happen, only speculation about how bad it would be.
The knock at the door came a minute later. Uri had aired out the rooms so they didn’t reek of tobacco, although like so much of late, his efforts had largely been ineffective, the smoke having permeated the walls. He rose from his position behind the desk and moved to the door.
The man looked fatigued from his trip, or perhaps that was a genetic quirk, like the circles under his eyes. Uri motioned for him to enter and shook his hand halfheartedly as he brushed past, and then moved back to his desk and sat.
“I’m Abraham Levy. As of today, you’re relieved of all duties and are to return to Israel in order to be debriefed,” Abraham said.
Uri appreciated the direct approach. No BS. A distasteful job they both wanted to be over.
“I understand. I’ve prepared all the case files, as well as a dossier with a list of my assets, pay receipts, and everything else you’ll need to hit the ground running. The only thing I ask is that I’m allowed to finish this business with Kahn.”
Levy shook his head. “Absolutely not. Sorry, Uri. The orders are clear. They want you out of the country yesterday, if not sooner.”
“The bastard killed two of my people,” Uri growled.
“I’m aware of his actions.”
“He has to pay.”
“I respect that. But it’s not my call.” Levy’s face softened like wax held close to a flame. “Look, Uri, you’re an old hand. You know how this works. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. Get on a plane, fly home, and face the music. With your years of experience, they’re not going to take you out back and put a bullet in your head. You’ll probably get a nice pension and an apartment near the beach. Maybe a stamp-collecting hobby. Relax and enjoy it.”
“I know that. If they’d wanted me dead, you wouldn’t have come through the front door.”
“Exactly. And you know I can’t discuss anything involving future actions. So while I appreciate you organizing everything for me, I’m afraid that anything more substantive than restaurant or gentlemen’s club recommendations is off the table.”
Uri nodded. Of course. He’d been a sentimental old fool to believe otherwise. Levy’s hard eyes betrayed his impatience to be rid of him. Uri was now a pariah – the head of station who allowed his people to be butchered. It was almost as though the new man was afraid the taint might be contagious.
“Well, we’re both here. Ask any questions you have. I’ll answer them honestly, br
ing you up to speed on the lay of the land, and then get out of your hair,” Uri offered.
“Fair enough,” Levy said, but Uri could tell that the younger man was humoring him. Still, they both went through the paces, knowing that Uri’s years on the ground could prove useful as Levy set up his own network and thinned out all but the most reliable of his predecessor’s. Uri had no doubt that Levy had arrived with other operatives, but he was keeping them at arm’s length – which was sensible. There was no reason for Uri to know who was on the Mossad’s new team in Dhaka. Yet another indication that he was now on the outside, staring in.
Two hours later, Uri was done with his information dump and readying his departure. He picked up his briefcase and Levy shook his head. Uri’s shoulders sagged.
“Really?”
“Sorry. But I need to check it. Standard procedure.”
“I…I know. But it’s not necessary.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” Levy held out his hand, and Uri placed the case on the desk.
Levy’s search was methodical and fast. At the end, he closed the briefcase and held it out for Uri to take. No apology. Strictly business.
Ten minutes later, Uri was sitting in his one-bedroom apartment, staring at the television, the sound muted. A bottle of Scotch he’d been saving stood by his side, a glass with four fingers poured resting on the coffee table. Levy had given him a ticket for tomorrow’s flight to Rome and, from there, Israel. Uri would leave the place he’d called home for half a decade, taking his few possessions with him, leaving nothing but a note for his landlady apologizing for the abrupt departure. All his correspondence would be burned, the ashes washed down the sink, and his passage through the place would leave no evidence of his presence.
The first swallow of Scotch burned all the way down. A cigarette helped. The second brought with it welcome numbness, and by the time he staggered to the bedroom, the bottle was empty, like the part of him that as a young man had once held his hopes and dreams.
Outside his window, the city continued its frantic machinations, horns honking like the squabbling of irritated birds as late night traffic buzzed and whirred down the street. The sound was a familiar lullaby for Uri, whose last conscious thought was that it had all been for nothing and that he’d failed at every level, the accusatory eyes of the dead in his nightmares reminding him of his inadequacy when he’d been put to the test.
Chapter 24
London, England
The mood in the conference room was tense as Sol Brandenberg faced off across the table from his counterpart in MI5, Alan Timbor, and his assistant, who was nameless as far as Sol knew. Alan was the picture of British civility, his thinning silver hair brushed straight back and his mustache clipped with military precision, and he managed to convey both kinsmanship and frustration with his tone and gestures. The assistant reminded Sol of a toad, pasty-complexioned with oily hair combed over his prominent bald patch. The man stared at Sol bug-eyed, taking notes as though his boss’ every utterance was to be etched onto stone tablets following the meeting.
Sol, the Mossad’s liaison with the British apparatus, played with a Mont Blanc pen as he listened to Timbor’s fluid recitation, and when the man was done, he put the implement down and fixed Timbor with a hard stare.
“Our intelligence suggests you might not be aware of how serious this threat is. We have good reason to believe that the stadium is being targeted by extremists, and there can only be one reason.”
Timbor spread his hands wide on the table, palms up. Sol noted that his suit was expensive – hand tailored, the material impressively understated. “Yes, yes, I see your point, and believe me, we’ve taken all appropriate measures. We’ve screened the employees, double- and triple-checked the security systems, and the management is putting additional security in place for the upcoming Eurocup match. I can assure you we’re taking the threat extremely seriously.”
“Have you rounded up any suspect groups in the area?” Sol tried to make the suggestion sound reasonable, but knew the reaction it would generate. He wondered absently what a suit like Timbor’s might cost, and whether Timbor flew someplace like Hong Kong once a year to have his clothes made for him, or preferred the London tailors, who were world-renowned if ungodly expensive. Probably London, Sol thought. That fit with the public school accent and condescending tone.
Timbor looked as though he’d taken a bite of something rancid. “That’s not how we play here, Sol. You should know that. It would be racial profiling. The outcry would be heard all the way to Parliament. They’d want my head on a pike before the day was over.”
“It sounds like it’s gotten lost somewhere that the extremists who are behind most acts of terror are young Muslim males. How is it profiling if you target the group most likely to be targeting you?”
“I completely agree, old man, but my hands are tied. Fortunately the security is tip-top. There’s simply no way for these buggers to pull anything off while we’re watching.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
The assistant sighed. Timbor glanced at him and then back at Sol. “I want you to express to your government how grateful we are for bringing this to us. God knows we all have to pull on the same oar if we’re going to win this struggle, right?”
“Right, but it’s a bit alarming that you’re not doing anything special about it. Not to put too fine a point on the matter, but we lost agents to get this data, and now it’s being virtually ignored.”
“Not at all ignored, Sol. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. We’re taking it under advisement and allocating all our resources to ensure nothing happens. I fully appreciate that in your country you’d handle it differently, but it is what it is.” Timbor looked at his gold watch and, seeming to read Sol’s mind about his sartorial splendor, adjusted his cuff. “Now, does that put the matter to rest?”
“I appreciate the time. I know how busy you must be,” Sol said, failing to keep the irony out of his voice.
Timbor rose and gave him a Gaelic shrug. “The devil never sleeps. We do what we can. Thanks so much for stopping by. We must do lunch soon. At my club. Fabulous haddock.”
Sol stood and shook hands with the English intelligence officer, insincere smiles locked in place on both of their faces, and allowed himself to be shown out of the townhouse that served as one of MI5’s London safe houses. Once he was ensconced in his car, Sol placed a call on his scrambled cell phone. The London head of station for the Mossad, Ariel Gorshen, answered almost immediately.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“About as we expected,” Sol said, and filled him in on the meeting.
“So they’re basically doing nothing and hoping their screening will foil any plan,” Ariel said flatly.
“That’s right.”
Ariel sighed. “I owe you five pounds. I was sure they’d take this more seriously.”
“Right. Well, it’s in character. They’re great at cleaning up the mess after the fact. Not so much at preventing it.”
“I don’t feel comfortable leaving this sit. Do you get the feeling they’ll have a problem if we deploy some of our agents to nose around?”
“He read me the riot act about racial profiling.”
“You think he meant it?”
“No. But he had to get it on the record.”
“All right, then. I’ll be in touch.”
Sol hung up and shook his head. He knew that Ariel would feel obligated to devote resources to the matter, especially given that the agency had paid in blood for the information. While he couldn’t blame the British for taking the approach they had, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d be so laissez faire if one of their own had died to make the discovery.
In the end, it wasn’t his problem. He’d handled the negotiation, both parties had said what they needed to say, and the delicate waltz of relations between intelligence agencies continued apace, nothing revealed and nothing learned other than
man’s capacity for deception.
Chapter 25
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
A dense brown cloud darkened the sky to the south of the city as one of Dubai’s notorious dust storms strengthened on the horizon over the Rub’ Al Khali desert. Ajmal Kahn stepped from the elevator in the Al Seef Tower and found himself facing four hardened men in Western business suits, obviously armed, the bulges of their shoulder holsters telegraphing the seriousness of their intent.
He permitted himself to be searched, and then the taller of the men murmured into a headset and waved for him to enter the only door on that level. He did and found himself looking through a wall of floor-to-ceiling picture windows at a host of magnificent towers reaching for the sky, the blue of the Persian Gulf seemingly only footsteps away.
The room was cavernous, furnished in expensive Danish contemporary, and he was standing, unsure of how to proceed, when a voice called out from his left.
“Come in. Please. Make yourself at home. What can I get you?”
Kahn turned to face the speaker, a small, plump, hirsute man with an olive complexion, wearing a Versace shirt and ivory linen slacks.
“Aram, it is good to see you again.”
“Always an honor. Would you care for some refreshment? Perhaps some tea?”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Sammy? Tea for us both,” Aram called out, and motioned for Kahn to follow him to an expansive set of sofas facing the breathtaking view.
“This is fabulous. Really,” Kahn said, knowing that his Saudi host reveled in earthly possessions like the suite. “I’ve never been to Dubai before. Impressive.”
“Well, it’s no Dhaka, but we make do.” Aram smiled, displaying receding gums that matched his hairline. “I trust you had no difficulty with customs.”
“No. All was as you said it would be.” Aram had arranged for Kahn’s safe arrival and had smoothed the way with immigration so that he was waved through without incident.
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