Poison Wind (Jackson Chase Novella Book 3)

by Connor Black

  “Anat was rather blunt.”

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “‘Better your funeral than one of ours.’”

  What a chipper lot they were.

  At this point, we broke up into three teams. Haley and Hess would work through the historical data we had from Vatchenko’s earlier laptop at the Embassy. Novgorod and Joe would go to the local Shin Bet office to go over asset insertion, support, and extraction procedures. Agent Hadas had another plan for me, and explained that we’d be meeting back up with Novgorod and Joe later in the day.

  “What is this place?” I asked as Agent Hadas parked the car. We were back in Jaffa on a crooked, narrow street, with my host having wedged the Audi up onto a sidewalk.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” she replied.

  We entered a tiny shop. A front room contained a few laminate tables and dented aluminum-framed chairs. The patrons appeared to be strong and rough, leading me to think they were largely laborers from one of the many construction sites. Hadas stayed near the door, but gestured me towards a second room, which appeared to be a kitchen with a small ordering counter and cash register.

  “I will get a seat. Why don’t you order us some masabacha and pita while I get a table?”

  Behind the counter, a few young men worked the kitchen, cleaning pots and pans. One worked over the stovetop, stirring with a large wooden spoon. An elderly man behind the counter turned to face me and raised his eyebrows. In Arabic, I asked for masabacha for two along with pita. He responded in Arabic as well, and I paid and returned to the front room to see that Hadas was just now turning towards a table.

  “Was that some sort of test?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Ken.” Yes.

  “And how did I do?”

  “You passed. How did you know to speak Arabic with him?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Not sure. Instinct, I imagine. Something about his appearance, dress, maybe something I overheard in the kitchen. The cues all of us use to assess posture, temperament, and the like.”

  “And I also watched the man’s reaction when you spoke. Abu Hassan is his name, by the way. The owner.”

  “If he’s Farid Hassan’s grandfather, it’s sure going to save us a lot of hassle.”

  She gave a little laugh. “You are not that lucky, I am afraid.”

  “And what did you see in his reaction?”

  “Nothing, which is why you passed. He tends to make a grumpy face when someone’s Arabic carries an accent.”

  Abu Hassan came to our table and set down a bowl of hummus, along with a plastic plate of pitas and small raw onions cut into quarters.

  “Shukran,” Hadas said to him. Arabic for thank you. The corners of his lips turned down slightly at the hint of Hebrew in her accent.

  “Bevakasha—Please,” he replied in Hebrew, clearly understanding she was an Israeli Jew and not an Israeli Arab.

  “Like that, I see,” I said with a chuckle.

  “Ken,” she said, smiling for the first time. “I guess I have some work to do on my accent.”

  “So tell me what we are having here, Agent Hadas.”

  “I think you can call me Anat at this point.”

  “And I hope you’ll call me Jackson.”

  She nodded, and then tore off a piece of pita and stirred it into the mixture. “This, Jackson, is a type of hummus at its very best. Some of the hummus, or chickpeas as you call them, are left whole. It’s cooked with cumin, garlic, and lemon, and is always served warm.”

  She took a bite and I followed. It was absolutely delicious. But I also found it rather nice to see that there’d been some thawing of the frozen ground between us. She’d been less abrupt, and the smile she’d shared meant I’d been accepted, even if only a little.

  As she bent her head down to scoop up a bit of the hummus, I could see her mass of dark hair had just a few flecks of cinnamon. I also caught another glimpse of the blue ribbon she used to hold it in place. I’d noticed it last night as well, though I wasn’t sure why. Not that I was a fashion consultant—far from it, in fact, given that I was in my usual outfit of a brown T-shirt, tan tactical pants, and sturdy boots—but the brightness of the blue didn’t really go with the highlights in her hair. Or the jeans and leather jacket.

  “Tell me about the ribbon you use in your hair,” I said, thinking I could connect on a personal level and continue the thaw.

  She paused for a minute, taking another bite.

  “When I was very young, my grandmother’s first job when she moved to Israel was working in a factory making clothing. It was mostly uniforms, but one day, they were making Israeli flags. She brought home some tiny pieces of leftover fabric, and made them into hair ribbons for my sister and me.”

  “That same one?”

  She laughed. “No, I was a tomboy, constantly playing outside. Those ribbons were dirty and tattered very quickly. But now, when I find ribbons of that same color, I pick them up. On days when I wear one, it reminds me of her.”

  “Has she passed away?”

  Anat nodded. “This is what happens. Life, I guess.”

  There wasn’t more to say to that, and I continued to wonder why I had noticed the ribbon. I watched while she ate. She wasn’t delicate by any means, and seemed to enjoy this little treat. She’d taken her jacket off by now, and her skin was a warm Mediterranean honey color. A small star of David necklace swung on its thin chain as she dipped pita into the bowl.

  Suddenly, it came to me. She looked up to catch me staring.

  “Figured it out?” she asked. There was a bit of cheek in her voice.

  “You were in Africa,” I said, remembering. Some months ago, we had taken down a terrorist in Tanzania. He’d killed eleven people in a hotel bombing: three Americans, three local nationals, a British family of four. And one Israeli.

  Just before leaving the country, we had found a basket of oranges in our hotel room. Tied to the basket’s handle was a small blue ribbon.

  Anat rewarded me with a smile. “Yes, both Uri and I were there, searching for the bomber. But we were late, and you had already delivered the justice we’d sought for the Israeli who was killed. The oranges were a thank you.”

  “The bomber there was a part of this network. He was the first to put us on Vatchenko’s trail. The trail that led us here.”

  She nodded. “I know that now. But believe me, when we saw you and Joe and Haley at the café last night, we were very surprised.”

  “This whole mission really started in Africa.”

  “And it will finish here. In Gaza,” she said. And then, in her no-nonsense way, she set us back to the task at hand. “Now, eat some of this with onions. If you’re going in, I can’t have you smelling of hotel soap and minty toothpaste.”

  Instead of going back to the Embassy or her office, Anat took me to HaKirya, the Israeli Defense Forces headquarters in the center of Tel Aviv. The location seemed strange, as I was used to military bases being kept rather separate from large cities. But here we were, across the street from the art museum and a stone’s throw from the main highway that stretched from one end of the city to the other.

  We made our way through several checkpoints winding through the compound, eventually ending up in a dreary concrete building that looked more like a prison than anything else. She led me inside, explaining on the way that in addition to my now-not-so-minty breath, I needed to look the part, and there was no better than the Mossad’s wardrobe department.

  “This is where I’d expect to see military intelligence based,” I said as we entered the room.

  The response came from behind a rack of clothes. A female voice.

  “We are a small country—Mossad, Shin Bet, Army Intelligence—we are all family.”

  She came around to face us. A small, elderly gray-haired woman in a long skirt and fraying sweater. Reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, so close to the edge I wondered if they’d fall off. But a slim gold chain dangled from her
temples just for that eventuality.

  “Safta, this is Jackson,” said Anat.

  “Oh my, isn’t he a large one,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Safta,” I said, extending my hand. She gave a little laugh.

  “Safta isn’t a name,” Anat explained. “More like a term of endearment. It’s a casual form of Grandma. What we all call her.”

  The elderly women was inspecting me, lifting my hand and checking my skin. Even giving a little sniff. She was quite cute, in that grumpy grandma sort of way.

  “Mind if I call you Safta as well?”

  She stopped, peered over her reading glasses, and replied in Arabic.

  “Yumkinuk alaittisal bi Jidd.” You can call me Jidd, the Arabic word for grandmother.

  “Shukran, Jidd.” Thank you, Grandmother.

  She continued speaking Arabic. Whether it was to get me prepared or test me, I couldn’t tell.

  “First, your hair. Come.”

  Leading me over to a barber’s chair, she had me sit. At some point she must have waved Anat away, because looking around, I saw it was just Grandma and I now. By my own standards, I needed a haircut. But Grandma wished she had a bit more to work with. Still, she roughed up the edges.

  “Please don’t wash it tomorrow. They use the same shampoos we do, but with less fragrance and not every day as you might.”

  I would have nodded, but there were scissors in her hand at this point.

  “Now, your face. Not much of a chance for a beard in twenty-four hours.”

  “Not sure that would even do it,” I said. I was a fair amount Maori in heritage. And while that gave a nice olive tint to my skin, my distant relatives in their piupiu and canoes didn’t pass along much in the way of body hair.

  “Mmmm,” she said, looking into my eyes. “Your green eyes are very pretty. I see what Anat meant. But they are light and bright enough that they make you stand out. We’ll have to get you into some brown contacts.” She went to a set of shelves and dug around in some bins.

  “What Anat meant?” I asked.

  Grandma made a tssk tssk sound. “Not now, Jackson. We’re busy.”

  She extracted a small foil package, tossed it back, and took another. It apparently met her approval, because she peeled back the top to show two brown contact lenses, each in its own little indentation.

  “Have you ever used contact lenses?”

  I shook my head, no. She gave me a demonstration, and then I tried for myself. The first one was difficult, but I was able to insert the second easily enough. After I’d gotten it in, she set me on a stool in front of a dreary wall. Muffing my hair up a bit, she snapped a few photos and fiddled with some buttons on the back of the camera.

  “Now, stand.”

  I did, and she made dismissive noises as she circled and inspected me.

  “The height we can do nothing about.” I stood just a touch more than six-foot-two. Clearly, I’m no Steven Adams, but I do know that I am taller than the average Middle Easterner.

  “You stand in a very military way. Hunch your shoulders a bit.”

  I did. “That helps some. Give a little more bend. Make like your back is slightly sore. There, better. You project military and you’ll be flagged instantly. Try this: you’re a laborer, tired and sore. The government of Israel has cut off hope. You work for next to nothing. Keep those thoughts, and your body language will follow.”

  She stood and looked me over, and then said, “Now, wardrobe. With me, please.”

  I followed close behind as she moved several wheeled racks around. She’d take a hanger off the rack, look at it and then back at me. Some she folded over her arm, most she put back. Eventually, we made our way over to a set of shelves stacked with shoes and sandals. She rummaged around at the end of a lower shelf, where the larger sizes were kept, and extracted a dirty pair of sandals. Then, she placed the pile in my arms and instructed me to dress.

  I glanced around. There was no changing room.

  “Darling,” she said, “now is not the time to play modest.”

  I shrugged and undressed right there. The jeans she’d given me were slightly dirty and frayed at the bottom hem. They fit well, I thought as I cinched a scarred and peeling leather belt. The shirt was a button up, slightly tattered from use. It was a pale brown. The inside was off-white with light gray stripes.

  “Reversible,” she said, “if you need to adjust your appearance.”

  A slightly sweet smell of body odor wafted as I put the shirt on, and my face must have squished up slightly.

  “We are used to heavy perfumes in our laundry, and fragrant deodorants. This has been hand-washed. It’s also loose fitting. Ordinarily, I’d put you in a reversible T-shirt, but I want to hide your body somewhat. It’s obvious you’re very fit, and I’d like to minimize that.”

  I nodded and moved on to the sandals, which were more comfortable than I would have imagined. I mentioned this to her.

  “We make sure the soles on these are all good, because we know speed can be important.”

  She looked down at my feet and then went to a dirty plastic bin and pulled out a heavily-stained rag and a crusty bottle of hair coloring. She directed me to remove the sandals, sit, and place my feet on a stool.

  “You’ve worn these shoes to work for years. I’m going to show that effect. This should last for a few days.”

  She put some of the dye on the rag, and roughly rubbed some in at certain spots on my feet. After adding more to the rag, she rubbed a touch here and there under my toenails. Regarding her work, she made a sound that showed she was satisfied, and then did the same thing to a slightly lesser extent on my fingernails. The application was subtle, but I understood how much details matter when blending in.

  In the end, she stood me before a full-length mirror. As I was admiring the amazing transformation, the door opened and Agent Hadas returned.

  “Wow!” she said. “As salam aleikum, sailor.”

  “Wa aleikum ah salam,” I replied.

  “Did you go over washing, prayers, and eating with him?” Anat asked, switching us back to English.

  “No. Will he be going to a mosque?”

  “Hopefully, this will be an in-and-out. But just in case.”

  “I know the washing ritual,” I said. “And I think I can get through the prayers as well.”

  “Good,” said Jidd. “I don’t think you’ll take a meal there, either. But if you do, remember to eat with your right hand, not your left. If there’s meat, tear a piece and give it to the person next to you as a show of kindness or appreciation, if you like.”

  Anat’s phone rang and she took the call. After a brief exchange, she closed the connection. “They’re ready for us.”

  Jidd placed my personal clothes in a bag, adding a container and some solution for the contacts. She then handed me some tattered Shekel notes and a few coins. To those, she added a Palestinian ID card. Despite the photo having been taken only an hour ago, it looked like it was at least a couple of years old. The aging on the card and yellowing of the flimsy vinyl protector were perfect. I was now officially Khaled Massan.

  We thanked her, and headed off to meet up with Joe and Novgorod.

  7

  As we entered a planning room in one of the Shin Bet offices in Tel Aviv, Joe said hello to Anat and then did a double take.

  “Ah, Good to see you again, Mohammed!”

  I smiled and gestured down at my outfit. “They do good work. And it’s Khaled, not Mohammed.”

  “The eyes make a difference.”

  I nodded. “Believe me, I’d prefer to go in tactical gear with a weapon. But they insist that in the event I’m seen, it’s better to be in mufti.”

  Joe nodded, and then his mouth tightened to a straighter line.

  “We’re sending you in tonight. Take advantage of darkness.”

  I nodded. “I guess the asset hasn’t made contact yet, so we’re doing this. Run me through the plan.”

  He grabbe
d a couple of maps and a set of images, and directed us to a large table.

  Uri Novgorod came to the table and said, “There are five ways to send you into Gaza. Simply going through the border crossing as a photographer, suited up as a Quick Reaction Force, stowaway on an aid truck, parachute, and tunnel.

  “If you simply go across the border as a reporter or photographer, you’re escorted as soon as you arrive. Watched, at the very least. That and being part of a uniformed patrol are too high-profile to work.

  “As for aid trucks, we don’t use them. They are for aid, and we send tons of food and supplies in there every day that the citizens really need. We don’t want to jeopardize that. Plus, Hamas intercepts a fair portion of the trucks to seize the food and provisions for themselves.”

  “So we’re down to a jump or tunnel. I thought the tunnels were only used by Hamas.”

  “Yes,” he said. “They are. And we destroy them as often as we can. But we’ve also made a few of our own, for just this sort of mission. I don’t think a jump would be a good idea.”

  “Plenty of jumps under my belt, Uri,” I said.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “I am sure. New Zealand SAS, right? It is not that. I have jumped there many times. It was a training exercise we’d do in the paratroopers—jump in and make our way out on our own. But tonight will be very clear, and the risk of being seen is too great.”

  “So, tunnel it is, then.”

  “Yes. We have one that terminates in a greenhouse a few kilometers from your destination.”

  Novgorod opened a map showing the northern portion of Gaza.

  “Our asset is Mahmoud Nasar. He works in a small shop below his house here.” He pointed to a spot in Gaza city, about two miles from the border. “Anat will brief you on contact procedures later. For now, Joe and I have been focused on infill and extraction.

  “We have a tunnel here, just outside the border, that takes you to this greenhouse.” He drew a line with his finger from start to finish. “From there, you’ll make your way on the surface to Mahmoud’s. You should arrive late evening, around eleven, so being on the streets won’t be entirely out of place.