Chapter 51
Reims, France
Vahid was becoming increasingly stir-crazy as the days passed with no word from his patron, and had taken to touring the town’s museums and galleries to make the time go by. Today he’d finished a splendid morning in the main cathedral, admiring its breathtaking architecture and ornate decoration, a marvelous feat by any stretch of the imagination and a testament to man’s ingenuity.
His Russian captors had grown lax when Vladimir failed to return, and had ultimately allowed Vahid to do as he liked, supplying a single bodyguard to protect him and ensure he didn’t bolt. Nobody would tell him what had become of the Russian, but he got the feeling it wasn’t good, because all talk of going to St. Petersburg had stopped and they were now in a state of suspended animation, waiting for his reappearance – or the emergence of another authority figure.
Someone was still paying the bills, so Vahid wasn’t worried. Every day he had another two hundred euros awaiting him on the breakfast table, so he was able to attend to his needs, such as they were: a light breakfast at a café on the square, lunch at one of several bistros he’d discovered that had excellent chefs, dinner at one of the many gourmet restaurants that were shining stars in the Michelin crown. All in all, his existence wasn’t unenjoyable, although he had a pronounced sense of foreboding each day when he awoke.
Like it or not, he’d allied himself with Vladimir, and if something had happened to him, where did that leave Vahid? It wasn’t like he could take out an ad in the paper – nuclear physicist and bomb maker extraordinaire, will work for anyone who can foot the bill.
That there had been no news of his first device detonating worried him, and he suspected Vladimir’s disappearance was linked to the failure of that operation. Hopefully nothing had gone wrong with the bomb – he didn’t want to think about the consequences of his handiwork having been the weak link.
Vahid sipped a glass of red table wine as he finished his lunch at a sidewalk table, a seafood crêpe that was as delicious as it was filling, and signaled to the waiter for the check. The man arrived, all pomp and ceremony, starched white shirt and black apron with the café’s name emblazoned across it, a uniform worn with pride, and Vahid paid, taking care to leave an overly generous tip – after all, he could afford to, now that he wasn’t living on a teacher’s salary in Iran.
He finished his drink and pushed back from the table, enjoying the sun’s warmth as he stood, and made his way across the street to where the Russian would be waiting with the car. He crossed the busy thoroughfare and saw the Volvo sedan with windows tinted so dark they were opaque, by the front of the theater, where a pair of schoolgirls stood, all legs and long hair and shy smiles, catching his eye for a moment before he breezed past and moved to the vehicle.
He was almost to the car when he sensed someone behind him, and he was turning when he felt the hard muzzle of a pistol dig into his ribs. Tariq’s distinctive voice whispered in his ear.
“Get into the car. Don’t make a fuss, or I’ll blow your spine apart. Don’t even try me, or I’ll do it, I swear.”
Vahid’s blood ran cold at the killer’s words. He had no doubt he would make good on his threat.
“Okay. Just calm down. I’m going,” Vahid said, his mind racing furiously.
How had the Iranians found him? Was it a double cross? Had the Russian sold him out, now that his usefulness was over?
Vahid climbed into the car. He didn’t recognize the driver, but his heart sank when he saw his customary bodyguard sitting in the passenger seat, eyes unblinking, a small perforation below his ear revealing a slim trickle of dried blood.
Tariq sat next to Vahid, pistol now nestled in his pocket again, his hands more than sufficient to snap Vahid’s neck like a twig if he wanted to. The driver eased into traffic, and Tariq eyed Vahid, the hatred palpable.
“So we meet again, professor,” the Iranian spat, pronouncing the title like an insult.
“I can explain,” Vahid began.
Tariq smiled, the expression as chilling as if he’d bared fangs. “Really. Well, then, by all means, do.”
“They kidnapped me. Forced me at gunpoint with them in Switzerland. And they’ve had me under constant surveillance. You see that for yourself. This man is only one of many.”
“So you were forced against your will?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ve been watching you for several days. Your captivity seems to include a lot of fine dining and art. Oh, and a rather remarkable brothel, if I may say so myself. Makes me wonder how I can get kidnapped by the same group.”
“It’s…I’m telling the truth.”
“Of course you are. And I’m sure that when the court hears your story, along with my photographs and testimony, they will take appropriate action.”
“The court?”
“Oh, yes, we’re headed back to Tehran, where an Islamic tribunal will decide your fate. I will say that I missed your trips to the mosque, as well. Let’s see – hookers, alcohol, no prayer…seems like you might have turned your back on being a good Muslim, no?”
“I…”
“You are no doubt aware of the penalty for apostasy under Sharia law, are you not? It’s death, professor.”
“I told you, I was kidnapped.”
Tariq nodded as he withdrew a syringe from his inside jacket pocket and held it aloft. “Yes, you did, professor. Yes, you did.”
Chapter 52
Tel Aviv, Israel
Maya sat in an uncomfortable steel chair, waiting for her interrogators to return. She stared at the drab olive walls, the paint peeling around the corners of the ceiling where the painters had applied the puke green color too thin, and reminded herself for the umpteenth time that this was as much a part of her chosen career as being in the field chasing miscreants.
She’d been released from custody by the Hastings police after Crosby had explained that she was an informant whose identity was protected, and after being thanked by the sergeant she’d located the biker and given the keys back, apologizing for the drama and for losing his phone. He’d looked at her like she was from another planet and shrugged it off, relieved to be alive. Word had rippled through the crowd that a bomb scare had closed the festival for four hours, and he wasn’t holding a grudge against his savior. He would later tell the story of the mysterious woman who’d stolen his bike at gunpoint to a rapt crowd of drunken kindred, and it would continue to be a staple in his repertoire for years to come.
Maya had been called to London and debriefed at length for two days by three different Mossad officials, two men and a woman, each taking a different approach. The first man had been friendly and understanding; the second doubting, distrustful and stern; the final woman neutral and professional.
The questions had varied from leading to unbiased, and at the end of the ordeal several things were obvious. Everyone involved in the London office was trying to find a way to appear to have been assisting Maya at every step. Simultaneously, they were trying to frame her success in identifying, then tracking, and ultimately neutralizing Abreeq as mostly luck on her part.
Their problem was that no matter how she was approached, her story was unvarying, because she was simply telling the truth, recounting her saga – as well as describing the ineptitude and bureaucracy that had taken them to the brink of disaster. But of course, nobody wanted to file a report that implicated them as incompetent or worse, so the questions continued until headquarters in Israel recalled her.
Maya had been accompanied on the flight by an agent who had said precisely six words to her their entire time together. She’d been transported from the airport to a military base, where her debriefing had continued. This time the tone was different, less accusatory, more genuinely interested in what had transpired and how the system could be improved.
A long day and a half of this, and here she sat, her butt numb from the chair, boredom her overwhelming emotion.
The door opened and two men entered. She looked up and her face transformed from unreadable to surprised and happy.
“Uri! What are you doing here?” she asked, rising.
“Apparently they aren’t done with me quite yet,” the older man replied. Jaron stood slightly behind him in a starched uniform that contrasted with Uri’s rumpled garb. “Word is you had quite a little run of it.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Maya agreed.
Both men took seats across from her. Jaron studied her for a moment and then sat forward. “We’re extremely proud of you. You demonstrated exactly the sort of perseverance and courage we strive to ingrain in our operatives.”
Maya felt herself blushing. “I’m sure most of your people would have done the same.”
“I’m not,” Jaron said, exchanging a glance with Uri. “Anyway, we need to discuss your continuation with our group. You’ve been a topic of much discussion and disagreement.”
“What? After all this? I would have thought I’ve proved my worth.”
“Nobody’s questioning your value,” Jaron corrected. “Rather, we’re looking at whether or not you’d do well in a specialty role. As an operative in a squad within our group that specializes in…delicate situations. Extractions. Abductions.”
“Executions,” Uri finished. “Let’s not mince words.”
Maya nodded slowly. “However you think I’d be of the most use.”
Jaron eyed her. “The assignments are usually in hostile regimes, where there’s a high level of personal jeopardy. More so than our usual operations. I won’t lie to you – the survival rate isn’t particularly good.”
“Like I said, I’m up for anything where you believe I’d be of value,” Maya said.
“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” Jaron said. “I’ll get the paperwork that transfers you over.” He stood and moved to the door. “You did a remarkable job in England, Maya. You prevented a catastrophe of unprecedented proportions. It’s a shame your actions will never be known, but you have my sincere admiration.”
Maya watched Jaron leave, and then turned to Yuri. “I’m so glad they didn’t…”
“Terminate me with extreme prejudice? I’m sure it was discussed. Thankfully, I still have value. Besides, since it looks like I’m to live at least a few more summers, I would have been bored out of my mind hanging around the waterfront, drinking too much, watching the pretty girls, and wishing I was young again.”
“Doesn’t sound that bad.”
Uri smiled sadly and studied his hands. “This sounds better.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“Sure. If it means less bureaucracy and more action, who wouldn’t be?”
“As he said, the danger level increases substantially.”
Maya gave him her own sad smile. “Nobody lives forever.”
~ ~ ~
A month later, Mogappair, India
The street market was teeming with humanity, thousands of shoppers moving along the dirt paths between the stalls, the chatter of bargaining a steady hum of offers, protests, oaths, and entreaties. Street urchins ran along the muddy way, chasing each other and laughing, as stern-faced women sought out the best deals, their eyes distrustful as vendors promised them extraordinary quality for a pittance. Spices mingled with the sour tang of unwashed bodies as vendors stirred pots of curry on plastic tables, creating a pall of nauseating aromas that hung over the area like a cloud.
Ajmal Kahn moved along with the crowd, his canvas shopping bag half full of fruit, anonymous in the press of flesh in a pair of worn brown slacks and a white short-sleeved button-up shirt. He slowed as he perused a particularly appealing stack of oranges, and began the process of negotiation with the wizened merchant, whose initial price was tantamount to robbery.
Two minutes later, after pretending to walk away twice, he had three of the succulent fruit in his bag, having bested the man and paid what Kahn thought was reasonable. It wasn’t so much about the money – although since the failure in England his funding had abruptly dried up – as it was about the challenge. It was best to keep one’s skills honed under all circumstances, he thought, and the local vendors were some of the most cutthroat thieves on the continent, worthy adversaries in an ongoing test of wills.
A stand stacked with consumer electronics attracted his attention: piles of radios, flash drives, and knockoff cell phones littered the table display. A large man with an impressive mustache stood beside it, his skin the hue of almonds. Kahn pointed to one of the cell phones. The man held it up for Kahn to inspect, threw out a price, and Kahn laughed scornfully.
“Are you mad? I could buy the whole store for that,” he said.
“It is of the finest quality and will work without problems for years,” the vendor countered.
“It looks like the cheapest grade of junk from China.”
“Oh, no, it is original. Very superior grade.”
Kahn waved a dismissive hand. “I am not a rich man.”
“But you are a discerning one to have spotted this treasure among the rest.”
“My time is short. How much? Best price.”
The vendor lowered his asking price by half – still far too high. Kahn spat beside the stall and glanced at the next one, where an old man was performing dentistry on a worker, extracting a rotting tooth, his instruments in a dirty cup sitting on a stained blanket with a sign offering top-shelf dental work while you wait. The worker’s eyes teared as the street dentist wrenched with a pair of rusting pliers and then held up an incisor in triumph, the root dangling blood and pus. A scraggly rooster picked through the area beside him and then hurried away when the patient uttered a low moan of gratitude as the dentist handed him a sponge with anesthetic on it to stuff in the new gap.
“I can offer perhaps a third of that, and even at that price, it is far too much,” Kahn said, seeming to have lost interest in the exchange. The vendor, sensing that his customer’s attention was drifting away, countered with a price that was closer to a decent deal. He watched Kahn’s face for a sign of reaction, for his eyes coveting the phone, but saw nothing but the imam’s hard stare.
“You will not find anything like this. It is of the latest manufacture. Finest sort, really.”
“It is used. I can see that. I am not a fool.”
“You are clearly discerning. It was my personal phone, only for a few days, and I treated it better than one of my children.”
“I can see the scratches on the screen from here.”
“No, those are from my hand. It is perfect.”
Kahn was shaking his head when he felt a stab of pain in his lower leg. He started, but it quickly faded – one of the myriad shoppers had bumped into him with something. Careless fools, all of them, he thought, and resumed the negotiation. “I will pay no more than…I will…”
The vendor’s face seemed to elongate and distort, and Kahn’s voice sounded distant and hoarse to him as he tried to form words. For some reason his brain’s ability to communicate had failed him, and all he could manage were unintelligible gurgles. The vendor was staring at him like he’d lost his mind, and Kahn tried to turn and walk away, but his muscles had joined his brain’s rebellion, and his legs betrayed him as he took a step.
He dropped to the ground, his eyes glazing over, as the vendor knelt by him, pulling at his shirt collar to open it and give him air. A small crowd gathered around him as he moaned, and then his lungs refused to accommodate his need for air, and his chest stilled.
A black fly landed on his open eye, but he was unable to blink it away.
Ten minutes later, two policemen were holding the crowd back while the ambulance technicians worked their way toward the dead imam, his bag now gone, its bounty now belonging to one of the urchins, his wallet empty after the officers searched it in vain for identification.
Maya watched the commotion from several booths down. The umbrella that she�
��d used to inject the neurotoxin rested by her side, innocuous, half-covered by the folds of her muted burgundy sari. She paused to take a picture with her phone and then pushed her way past the curious onlookers, her mission successfully completed.
At the market entry, she approached a heavyset older man who was chain-smoking at a café table and sat across from him.
“He died like a dog, in the mud,” Maya said.
“One less parasite on the planet. Good job.”
“What time is our flight?”
Uri looked at his watch. “Four hours. We’re good.”
“If you need a filling, there’s a guy down the way doing bargain dentistry. Maybe he can whiten your teeth or something,” she said, smiling, eyeing the full ashtray beside his coffee cup.
“Something to consider. I find it hard to resist a bargain.” He grinned and stubbed out his cigarette. “Did he have anyone with him?”
She shook her head. “No, he was alone.”
“Then we’re done here.”
“We still need to find those who funded him. They’re the real problem. Without their money, he’d just be a goatherd somewhere in the desert.”
Uri nodded. “All things in time, my dear. All things in time.”
<<<<>>>>
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You’ve just read the second of the JET (prequel) series. The other books in the series are JET ~ Ops Files (prequel), JET; JET II ~ Betrayal; JET III ~ Vengeance; JET IV ~ Reckoning; JET V ~ Legacy; JET VI ~ Justice; JET VII ~ Sanctuary; JET VIII – Survival; and JET IX ~ Escape. I hope you enjoy them all.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 25