Assassin's Revenge

by Ward Larsen

  He had none of that.

  Yet he was not without tools at his disposal. Most important among them was sensory control. Light, temperature, time, sound, touch—all could be manipulated, turned to extremes in one moment, removed altogether in the next. If necessary, he could accelerate things with degrees of discomfort. Whether that advanced to something worse was up to his captive.

  “Let me explain how this works,” he said. “I need information, and I need it quickly. I will do whatever is necessary to get truthful answers. To begin, I’ll tell you that I came to Vienna because of a message that came to my phone. That message instructed me to kill you, and threatened people I care very much about if I failed to do so. I chose not to carry through, primarily because I don’t know who’s behind this scheme. In essence, someone tried to coerce me into killing you. Are you following me so far?”

  A nod.

  “Good. You should also understand that I can revisit my decision at any time.”

  Another nod.

  “All right. So let’s start with the obvious question. Who would want you dead?”

  Slaton waited, watched every tremor in the man’s expression. In his years with Mossad, he had rarely taken a direct role in interrogations. Yet he’d witnessed more sessions than he cared to remember—sometimes live, more often on video, terrorists and criminals confessing to acts so heinous and reprehensible that Mossad had committed to its ultimate response. They had called in Slaton.

  Through the course of it all, he’d acquired a knack for reading men under duress. He had watched them conjure lies. Seen them break and tell the truth. What Slaton saw now was none of those things. The scrawny thirtysomething man he’d strung to a tree showed nothing but bafflement. On the question of who wanted him dead, he didn’t have an answer. Utter confusion was steeped into his delicate features.

  Slaton said nothing. After an interminable silence, he saw a response begin to build. Whatever came, he thought, was going to be something unexpected and raw. Perhaps even truthful.

  “I can tell you exactly who brought you to Vienna,” the man finally said. “It was me.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  A relationship with a boat is like any other. The first meeting is always awkward, little mistakes made and movements tentative. As things progress, irritants are revealed and confidences gained. Only with time does trust develop.

  This was how Boutros regarded Albatross as they cleared the breakwater into the rush of an oncoming sea. The boat shuddered ever so slightly as her big diesel dug in, feathers of black smoke lifting from her stack into the stone-gray morning. Choe was at the helm, Boutros beside him in the covered wheelhouse. Rafiq and the Korean technician had gone below for transitional briefings. Boutros had sent Sami and Saleem below to settle into their quarters, and he imagined them fighting like kids over who got the top bunk. Park had drifted alone to the aft deck, and was standing near the transom—bundled in a heavy parka and a knit cap, he looked like a tourist watching for whales.

  “Waypoints go here,” Choe said, showing Boutros how to input coordinate sets on the multifunction display. The navigation unit was a Garmin product, and Boutros saw Made in America on the bottom of the case. The irony was inescapable.

  “Is the weather function operable?” he asked.

  Choe tapped the menu to call up the radar display. A few distant rain showers painted along the forty-mile arc. Boutros knew it wasn’t a state-of-the-art system—he noticed what looked like a coffee stain on the plastic frame—but all the essential modes seemed to work.

  “What speed can I expect?” he asked. This had been one of the few requirements—to acquire a boat that was reasonably fast.

  “Fourteen knots uses the least fuel,” Choe said, pointing to the fuel flow gauges. “Twenty-one is highest for cruising.”

  “How much more will she do?” Boutros asked.

  Choe shrugged, as if to say he didn’t know. Boutros didn’t buy it. “You brought her here all the way from Thailand. You must have let her run at some point.”

  The Korean tipped his head to one side. “There was one night, very late. I saw twenty-four knots, maybe twenty-five. But not for long—the engine made noises I did not like.”

  Boutros didn’t respond, his apprehension returning. He had no mechanic on board, no engine manuals or spare parts. Am I overstepping my abilities? he wondered for what seemed the hundredth time.

  From the aft deck Park shouted something in Korean, and soon he and Choe were engaged in a staccato back-and-forth.

  Boutros edged out of the wheelhouse and stood along the starboard rail. He pulled up the collar of his jacket against a bitter breeze and looked out reflectively across the water. Cold lay over the sea like a great slab, and the cloud-mottled sun seemed chained to the horizon. Unlike his homeland, dawn here was a process of hours. In the distance he saw islands of seaweed choking the camo-green shoreline, and wind-driven whitecaps chevronned the surface as far as he could see.

  He wondered how long the Koreans would stay aboard. At some point, he’d been told, another boat would come to collect them. Boutros was in no hurry. He wanted time for Choe to explain all of Albatross’ quirks—every boat had them—and for Rafiq to learn the workings of what lay below deck. Once the Koreans were gone, they would be on their own. Their initial course would skirt the coast of Japan. Beyond that lay the real challenge. Not the bathtub that was the Persian Gulf, but the vast North Pacific.

  Daunting as it was, Boutros knew things could have been worse. By all accounts, this winter had so far been one of the warmest on record, and the seas today were modest. The timing of their mission had always been more dependent on opportunity than the weather or seasons. They’d had to wait for the final component of their weapon. Soon it would be delivered, and from that point the race would be on, every delay increasing the chance of exposure.

  Boutros looked out and saw a container ship in the distance, a churn of white at the bow. From his naval training he recalled someone giving him a rule of thumb about estimating the speed of a vessel based on its bow wake. The details escaped him, causing him to wonder how much his skills had atrophied. He’d been a decent ground commander, his ISIS units performing well in the heat of battle. He had laughed with his men in the good times and sent them to die in the others. He’d always been faithful in writing letters to the mothers of the martyrs. This operation, however, was something he never could have imagined. Boutros was, to use the mariner’s term, running in uncharted waters. He was here today, at the gates of the Pacific, because his naval experience was unique within the caliphate. And because an opportunity had arisen for an audacious strike against America—far beyond anything ever attempted.

  He turned away from the rail and returned to the wheelhouse. He addressed Choe. “How long will you stay with us?”

  Choe looked at the navigation display. “Twenty-four nautical miles—we will rendezvous with a patrol boat. Two hours, no more.”

  “Is that enough time to show me everything?”

  “Everything? I have spent my life on the sea, and I still have much to learn. But I see you have experience. I will show you how I brought Albatross here from Bangkok.”

  Boutros looked at the Korean appraisingly. “Tell me … did you ever serve in your county’s navy?”

  Choe looked at him with surprise. For the first time in two days he smiled. “I am but a simple fisherman. Right now, my boat has no engine so I cannot use it.”

  “Then I hope they are paying you well.”

  The smile disappeared. “One new engine—that is all I ask for.”

  Boutros nodded, but didn’t pursue the thread any further. He looked to the aft deck. “Do the nets and winches work?”

  “Yes. On the voyage from Thailand I was with my usual crew. We set the nets once, only to be sure. But I warn you to not try it with your men—they are not fishermen. You might foul the propeller.”

  “You’re right. Anyway, there is no need. Having the nets on deck i
s enough for appearances.”

  “Appearances?” Choe commented, seeming unsure of the word’s meaning.

  Boutros didn’t expand. For the first time he wondered how the Korean must view this whole affair. He had to know who they were, at least in a general way, and by extension that they were plotting an attack. He might have glimpsed the equipment below, although he could hardly grasp its purpose. The question of why four Islamic militants were in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, taking over a Thai fishing boat he’d been hired to procure—it had to be mindboggling to Choe. Much as it had been to Boutros himself three months ago. But here they both were. The product of unforeseen opportunity.

  Boutros asked more questions about the boat, and Choe gave knowledgeable answers. Bilge pumps, fire equipment, engine operation, autopilot. He said Albatross felt top-heavy in high seas, but that angling into the wind helped considerably. Choe’s briefing took the best part of thirty minutes, after which he relinquished the helm to Boutros. It seemed symbolic, like a change of command ceremony, minus the bosun’s whistle and salute.

  After getting his bearings, Boutros double-checked the course to the first waypoint. So far, he reflected, things were going well. The only hitch had been Adnan’s detention in Frankfurt. Even so, like any successful commander, he assumed their run of good luck would come to an end.

  The only question was when.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I sent you that message,” said the man tied to the tree.

  Slaton tried to keep a dispassionate expression. Surely he failed. Of all the responses he’d imagined, this was not among them. “You sent me a message ordering your own execution?”

  “No! I mean … yes, I sent you a text. But not what you’re saying! Look … I know we’ve never actually met, but you must be him. You’re David Slaton … the kidon.”

  Slaton didn’t bother with a denial. “I know you from somewhere,” he said. “And since you speak Hebrew, I’m guessing it’s Mossad?”

  “My name is Paul Mordechai. I served for a time as a special assistant to Israel’s minister of energy. After that I worked for Mossad.”

  Long-forgotten details merged in Slaton’s head. It went back years, and in a harsh irony, to the very mission in which he and Christine had met. “You were the technician. My last formal Mossad op.”

  “Yes. I served as an adviser to the senior leadership. It was my idea to requisition a deep-water drone to search for a ship on the bottom of the Atlantic—Polaris Venture.”

  “You never found her.”

  “No. But what I did find was more relevant—it helped uncover a conspiracy.”

  “I remember all too well,” Slaton said.

  Mordechai wriggled his right shoulder, and a grimace swept across his face. “Now that you know who I am, would you mind? My arm is going numb.”

  Slaton’s expression never wavered. “Keep talking.”

  Mordechai heaved a long sigh. “Anton Bloch was the director of Mossad at the time. He liked my work, and recruited me into the Technology Department. Within eighteen months I headed up the section.”

  “The youngest ever to do so, I recall hearing.”

  Mordechai nodded.

  Slaton remembered Bloch explaining that a brilliant young scientist had taken over the department, a man with a knack for converting promising technologies into operationally useful tools. He said, “I’ve seen your face.”

  “Have you been to Glilot Junction since you left?” Mordechai said, referring to the headquarters complex.

  “Once or twice.”

  “Maybe you saw my photo somewhere or passed me in the hallway.”

  “Possibly. But you’re not with Mossad anymore,” Slaton said, no rising inflection to imply a question.

  “I left three years ago.”

  Slaton’s gaze narrowed. Better than most, he knew the cutthroat turnover rate inside intelligence agencies. He also knew the odor of scandal.

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I was forced out. I had been pushing hard for better funding on cyber initiatives. We were woefully lacking in defensive capability. The new director, Raymond Nurin, insisted it wasn’t a priority. So I decided to prove my point. I hired a very sharp graduate student from the Weizmann Institute of Science to hack into two supposedly secure email accounts—those of Director Nurin and the prime minister.”

  “And did he succeed?”

  “Spectacularly. He took over the accounts, leaving a single email informing them of the breach and adding that I had authorized it.”

  “And for that you were fired?”

  “Reallocated was the word Nurin used. I admit it was all a bit theatrical. The prime minister was furious, and Nurin still had no interest in the vulnerabilities we’d revealed—he only wanted my head on a pike.”

  “Was there anything incriminating in the emails you hacked?”

  “I never went through them all. We’re talking tens of thousands, and that was never the point. All the same, it gave Nurin a reason to reassign me.”

  “Why only a transfer? If he was so angry, I’d think he would sack you outright.”

  “I can only tell you what he told me. He said I wasn’t fit to be a senior manager, but that an opportunity had arisen—one for which I had all the necessary scientific credentials. He said a high-level position was coming open at a well-respected international organization.”

  “Which one?”

  “The International Atomic Energy Agency.”

  “Which is how you ended up in Austria?”

  “Yes. I work in the Department of Safeguards.”

  Slaton turned his gaze briefly across the dark forest. “Excuse my pessimism, but considering that you were posted here by Nurin … it sounds suspiciously close to an operational assignment.”

  “Not at all. I was actually transferred to the foreign ministry—my post is loosely considered a diplomatic assignment.”

  “Diplomatic?”

  “The IAEA is an agency of the world—they pride themselves on having inspectors representing as many different countries as possible. When this position came open, there was not a single Israeli in its senior ranks. That gave Israel the inside track. I’ve been in the job eighteen months now.”

  “And you no longer report to Director Nurin?”

  “No. Although in all honesty, I suspect he had that in mind when he steered me toward the job. Among other things, my division is responsible for monitoring the Iranian nuclear agreements. Nurin pulled me aside at a social gathering before I cleaned out my desk and suggested Mossad would very much like to have an insider during those visits.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I was done with the Office.”

  “You turned your back on Mossad?”

  “Some bridges are destined to be burned. But it wasn’t merely spite. I’ve always believed in the IAEA. It’s a good organization, an important one. Each day when I go to work, I’m surrounded by well-meaning scientists and technicians, people whose mission is to safeguard the world from nuclear annihilation.”

  “Sounds pretty idealistic.”

  Mordechai glared at Slaton, taking him by surprise. “Perhaps it is. But in a world where the design of bombs is available to anyone with an internet connection, the last line of defense is keeping rigorous safeguards on nuclear material.”

  Slaton saw conviction in the scientist’s eyes, and also perhaps the vanity of a gifted mind. Someone convinced he was always the smartest man in the room … and who was usually right. “Okay, so you work for the IAEA. How does that translate into me getting blackmailed to kill you?”

  If Mordechai was acting, he was good. He truly looked mystified. And more than a bit worried. “I don’t know. I did try to get in touch with you. I sent a text message, but—”

  “How did you get that phone number?”

  Mordechai hesitated, and for the first time Slaton sensed evasion.

  “Up until now, you’ve been maki
ng sense,” he said. “Don’t ruin it.”

  “It was one of the few hacked emails I did read—Nurin’s account. I think it was dated last summer. Apparently, Mossad was trying to track you down, and they somehow acquired that mobile number.”

  Slaton’s glare grew more intense. He had no knowledge of Mossad tracking him last summer. All the same, it was well within their dubious nature to try. Precisely the kind of thing Nurin would pursue. In recent years, Slaton had also been intermittently on the CIA’s radar. He relented that there was only so much one could do when the world’s preeminent spy agencies came looking for you.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Mordechai said. “The uncovering of your number was kept at a very high level. For my part, I was stunned—the legend of your demise has long been taken as fact within Company halls.”

  “You realized that I’d gone off-grid.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “Okay. But why did you try to contact me?”

  A long pause. “I need help, and I don’t know where else to turn. I’m persona non grata at Mossad, and I’m not sure who I can trust here in Vienna.”

  “Trust with what?”

  “Perhaps we could discuss it under more civilized conditions?”

  Slaton caught a flash of motion to one side. He saw the silhouette of an owl glide past and disappear into the treetops. He retrained his attention on his prisoner, his face steeped in calculation.

  What Mordechai was telling him contained elements of truth. Indeed, Slaton had not yet sensed a lie. Hesitation perhaps, but not deception. His story was completely plausible for a desperate man in a tight spot, one who’d had a recent falling-out with Mossad. That alone, in Slaton’s private ledger, was a checkmark in the plus column.

  It was time for a decision, and it came down to believing what Mordechai was telling him … or not.

  He reached down his leg and pulled the combat blade from its sheath.