Angels Don't Die

by Petrek, Soren

  “Sir, your cabinet meeting is in an hour, we should get the cars ready and get you on your way,” Ariel said.

  “Regardless of who did this, we must be extra vigilant, Ariel. The PLO might be clumsy, but they are rabid. They’ll strike back.”

  “We’ll be on our guard. May I ask you if your suspicions concerning the attack on the PLO are confirmed?” Ariel said.

  “One shooter, small caliber weapon, silenced no doubt. Agents canvassed the neighborhood; nobody heard or saw a thing. The front door was still locked, double bolted from the inside. The killer gained access through the upstairs window and fled by means of the roof,” Hartmann said.

  ‘How do you know, sir?”

  “Because that’s what I would have done.”

  “Yes sir,” Ariel said, lacking any other response.

  Hartmann shook his head and grimaced at as he closed the report.

  “What is troubling you, director? Can I help in any way?” Ariel asked.

  Hartmann looked up at her, “It might just be the musing of an old man, but I think we have just acquired a very dangerous ally. A woman I trained in the war for the British SOE. Your instructors may have referred to her in your ‘espionage’ history lessons as l’ange de la mort.”

  “I thought they were exaggerating or perpetuating a myth to get our attention,” Ariel said.

  “She is no myth. I’m sure I would know if she was dead. I only know of one mission she undertook after the war, when a Nazi General was killed in Argentina. He had been involved in the Massacre of French civilians at Oradour Sur Glane. It was an incident our friend took very personally. Her cousin and four year old niece were burned alive in a church by the SS,” Hartmann said.

  “How horrible,” Ariel said. “Why would she be here?”

  “I can only surmise that if it is her, she is here at the request of an old comrade. Only that would bring her out of retirement.”

  “We know the NSA agent’s father is a recently retired Colonel in the American paratroops,” Ariel said.

  “I’m probably wrong, and hope I am. I would love her assistance, but she has earned her peace.” With that Hartmann rose and followed Ariel out of the room towards the elevator that led to the basement and his transportation to the cabinet meeting.

  Madeleine made her way through the market towards the Mossad HQ. The time had come to determine whether Hartmann was alive and whether he could help. She also wanted to see her old mentor again. She was dressed like an elderly woman, and she paused now and then to look at goods at the various stalls in the market. She was feeling apprehensive. After her attack on the PLO, anything could happen and she wanted to be prepared.

  As she approached the Mossad building, she immediately saw that several new vendor stalls had been moved from the more travelled area of the market in the small square adjacent to the Mossad building. The carts looked used and worn, but the vendors themselves seemed out of place. Of the ten or so that were tending the carts, all of them were young men.

  Most market vendors in the area operated family businesses and the proprietors were as varied as the population, young, old, men, women and often children tended the stands either alone or in groups. They also tended to group together, hoping that a customer tempted by one stand might choose theirs instead if they saw something that they liked or could be cajoled over by the incessant sales pitch the vendors kept up. It was early, she thought, and if the Mossad wants these men cleared, they could easily accomplish that. She scanned the roof tops. From the ground she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  Madeleine decided that she would simply walk through the front door and get a message to the director. It was worth a try. If it was Hartmann, he would recognize the old SOE code and grant her entry.

  A PLO operative wearing a black and white colored turban lay prone on the roof of the building adjacent to the Mossad command center; he and his strike team were ready both on the ground and in the top floor offices of three of the buildings that stood across the square from their target. The occupants of the offices they held, had been neutralized either by a bullet or were securely bound and blindfolded. He only needed seconds once the Director’s motorcade left the courtyard of the adjacent compound.

  The strike team leader and his superiors were convinced that the attack on their PLO brothers had come from the Mossad, who had a reputation for aggressive, proactive strikes against their enemies. The attack on the director had been planned for many weeks in anticipation of the coming war. Striking the Mossad would create confusion. It was an insurgent tactic designed to draw attention and resources from an assault on two fronts. He smiled as he considered that his group was learning quickly. Killing the director and several of his agents would send a forceful message and strike fear into the Israeli government at a crucial time.

  The strike team leader glanced over the rooftop and saw several of his operatives lying prone and silent. They each carried an AK- 47 assault rifle, gladly donated by the KGB. His men on the ground would prevent the director from getting back inside his building when the attack started. His snipers on the adjacent roofs would neutralize the Mossad agents protecting the roof top. With luck the rocket launcher at his side would find its mark and the director’s vehicle would be struck killing the man inside. He had another man with a launcher to take out the lead car, after it passed through the gate. The director was in the car behind it. The third car would be disabled from below and effectively block access back behind the gate and the car’s escape in that direction.

  The strike team leader crept forward and scanned the front of the Mossad building. He had been informed through a low level employee on the capital staff that a cabinet meeting was scheduled for later in the morning. The director would certainly attend. He rarely traveled by helicopter. If he did, a rocket could take that out as well.

  Four Mossad agents rode in the lead Mercedes and watched the area in front of the courtyard. It was early and although they noticed some more merchant carts, the director was en route to an important meeting and delay was out of the question. The driver checked his rearview mirror and saw the director’s car following at a safe distance and it was similarly followed by a third vehicle.

  Without warning an explosion lifted his Mercedes, with incredible concussive force. The two agents in the back of the vehicle were slammed into the roof of the car, but the armor and the bullet proof glass held. Ducking, he shifted his body towards the middle of the front seat as his partner in the front passenger seat did as well. Blood ran out of the driver’s ears and his left arm felt like it had been smashed with a hammer. The car landed on its side leaning against the sidewalk. Groping for the seatbelt latch, he tried to see the director’s vehicle through the spiderwebbed windshield. He heard and felt a second explosion and saw that the director’s vehicle was struck. The weight of the vehicle or the poor aim of the second rocket operator had simply spun the director’s car so that all four tires were still on the ground, but it was disabled and immobile.

  Madeleine saw the man stand and aim the rocket before he fired. The sudden movement on the roof caught her attention from below. She scanned the damage to the vehicles and immediately accessed the attacker’s tactics. They held the high ground and would fire on the disabled vehicle with more rockets and ground fire until they were pulverized. She ran towards the drainpipe, shedding her outer clothing as she moved. With one movement, she tore the sniper rifle from behind the trash can where she had hidden it, slung the strap over her shoulder and began to scale the drainpipe. She reached the top and paused. The men on top of the roof were concentrating on the tumult below, and she pulled herself over the rim of the building and drew her pistols before they knew she was there. She killed three before any of the men turned. She fired three more times as the men on the left turned to bring their heavy machineguns around to fire at her. All three died before their weapons could be raised and fired. She ran to the edge of the building and unslung the sniper rifle from her back
. She positioned herself between two air conditioning units, to protect her from the gunfire she would draw when she began to fire on the men she knew were advancing on the stranded vehicles below.

  “Sir, are you alright?” Ariel said, turning towards Hartmann, shaken by the blast, but otherwise unhurt, surprised to see the pistol in his hand before she had even thought to pull her own.

  “So, it has come,” Hartmann said, scanning the street through the windshield and rearview window. “If any of us is going to survive, we have to get out of the car.”

  “Sir, we need to get you back inside the building into the safe rooms. You run for the entryway when I open the door. The others will stay behind and provide covering fire,” Ariel said.

  “I’m not running from these bastards,” Hartmann said forcefully. “We’ll all retreat together. But they’re on the roofs, so keep low and move fast. Have an extra ammo clip in your free hand when we get out. We’ll all go together, but don’t bunch up. And nobody shields me.”

  Ariel watched the transformation in Hartmann. Years seemed to slide away from his face and a dark anger entered his slate grey eyes. In an instant she knew all the stories about him were true.

  Madeleine saw the doors of the middle vehicle open as the skirmish line from below directed their fire on it. Identifying the leader of the skirmish line, she fired a heavy caliber bullet into his back, between his shoulder blades. She worked the bolt and killed two more before the inexperienced men on the street scattered to take cover. Darting to the back of the ventilation unit, she brought the gun around to fire at the men on the roof of the building to her right, killing two and scattering the others. The rocket launcher lay where the dead sniper had dropped it, and she ran in a low crouch to collect it. Return fire came from her right striking the heavy metal unit shielding her from attack.

  Hartmann crouched behind the armored door pointing his pistol towards the advancing team. He saw three of the men drop as Madeleine’s heavy caliber bullets tore through them. There was a shooter on the middle roof top. The attackers on that roof were neutralized and whoever was up there was friendly.

  He looked from side to side and over his shoulder at the doorway to the Mossad building. If he had been planning this attack, there would have been two rocket launchers. One of them might have been neutralized, but the second could blow them all to hell if they tried to get through the doorway of their building.

  “Change of plan,” he shouted. “We are going to go forward not back. There’s a friendly sniper on the roof across the street, someone with great skill. When we move, run to the building across the street. Space yourselves and don’t run in a straight line. Remember your training, don’t concentrate on me. I have one more run in me. I’ve had much better soldiers shooting at me before. When I take off, then you do as well. I’ll see you inside the warehouse across the street,” Hartmann said.

  As if reading Hartmann’s mind, Madeleine picked up the rocket launcher, primed and fired it directly onto the roof of the building to her left. She was only exposed for an instant, ducking down before the return fire from her left could be brought to bear.

  “Go!” Hartmann yelled seeing the rooftop detonate. He fired in the direction of the remaining attackers on the ground. The men on the roofs were momentarily stunned by what they saw from below. Their advantage was evaporating before their eyes and several Mossad agents were headed in their direction.

  Following Hartmann’s lead, the men and women in the third vehicle sprang forth firing above and below as their director led the charge across the street towards the warehouse. Above, they saw a flash and a loud report as the sniper on the adjacent rooftop fired on their enemy’s remaining rooftop position. Two of the advancing Mossad agents were hit by machinegun fire. Ariel was struck in the arm, the bullet passing through the meaty portion of the back of her arm. Ignoring the wound, she fired killing one attacker and wounding another.

  Hartmann ducked inside the warehouse as the rest of the Mossad team followed. Ariel dove through the doors just as two of the agents behind her were struck from above. One of the men fell inside the room, the side of his head opened by a sniper’s bullet; the second was struck in the leg. She ran towards the second man, grabbed his free hand and dragged him over the body of the first man and into the building.

  Out of rockets, Madeleine tossed the useless rocket launcher aside. It was time to get off this rooftop and assess the situation below. She knew the enemy had a contingency plan. They had been trained by the Russians, and she knew how they worked. Setting aside the rifle, Madeleine reloaded her pistols and tucked them away before heading down the drainpipe.

  There had been no rear attack on her position. Either they had realized too late that she had taken the roof, or they were out of soldiers. Picking up the rifle, Madeleine fired three consecutive shots to her right and ran sideways towards the drainpipe and escape. That will keep their heads down; she thought as she dropped the rifle and flung herself over the side, sliding down the drainpipe more quickly than she had climbed up it.

  Finding the street beneath her feet, she crouched, gauging the distance to the warehouse. She was headed to the middle building. Hartmann and the other agents needed her help. There would be an all-out attack on them from the street and any other PLO operatives held in reserve.

  “Find cover,” Hartmann yelled, glancing at the stairwell and elevators. “The men in the street will attack from outside and possibly they have people on the upper floors as well.”

  “What about a response team from our side?” Ariel said.

  “Somebody nearby will call in the military, but we won’t live to see them arrive without a great deal of luck,” Hartmann responded.

  With a burst of machinegun fire, men charged in from the street and from the stairwell. The agents formed a defensive circle inside the circular reception desk. As they returned fire, it became apparent that their attackers were being fired on from behind. Ariel caught a glimpse of a lone figure firing and moving, running as each attacker was killed. The figure used two silenced pistols and was gone before each group of attackers could counter as their comrades fell dead with each shot. Long black hair fell out from under a dark cap as the shooter ducked behind a brick pillar. Ariel shot a quick glance at Hartmann, who had seen their ally as well. His face widened into a smile. She had never seen the director smile like that or heard him laugh. Hartmann whispered something to himself in German. She thought she heard him say, Madeleine.

  Sirens burst through the sound of dwindling gunfire. With an order barked in Arabic, the remaining attackers ran in retreat.

  “Follow them and create a perimeter,” Hartmann yelled. The highly trained agents rose as one and moved after the retreating soldiers. Ariel stood to move as well, when Hartmann put his hand on her arm. “Wait a moment, Ariel. There is someone you must meet.”

  “Who?” Ariel questioned.

  “L’ange de la mort,” Hartmann said.

  From behind and to the right, Madeleine called out walking up slowly, a single pistol held at her side.

  “Drop your weapon,” Ariel shouted preparing to raise her own.

  “Do that and you’ll die,” Hartmann said placing his hand on top of Ariel’s forearm. Ariel looked at Hartmann. His eyes were fixed on the approaching individual.

  Pulling her hat from her head and shaking out her wild mane of black hair, Madeleine said, “Has the world forgotten how dangerous it is to shoot at the great Berthold Hartmann?” Her face held a smile reserved for loved ones and old friends.

  “Madeleine Toche,” Hartmann said, walking past Ariel. Madeleine holstered her pistol and walked towards her old mentor.

  “It’s good to see you,” Madeleine said, reaching out to grasp both of Hartmann’s hands in hers. “What did you do, start another war?”

  “It’s certainly going to start soon now,” Hartmann said, glancing around. “I assume you’re here for the NSA agent. Perhaps we can discuss how I can help you.”

&nbs
p; Madeleine turned in the direction of the approaching sirens. She leaned towards Hartmann and whispered the address where she and the others were staying.

  “I will meet up with you later,” Madeleine said.

  “Before you go, I’d like to introduce you to Ariel.”

  Madeleine turned to face Ariel, smiling.

  “Your skills are formidable,” Ariel said reaching out for Madeleine’s hand.

  “I watched you fight, you have no fear. I appreciate you watching out for Director Hartmann, although if you knew him as I do, he hardly needs minding,” Madeleine said, with a quick glance towards her old mentor.

  “It’s good to see you and have you fighting at my side again,” Hartmann said with conviction.

  The sirens grew louder. “I have to go now,” Madeleine said gesturing with her head towards the sound.

  “Here, I believe these are your brand,” Hartmann said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a package of Gauloises.

  Madeleine smiled and shook her head, accepting the cigarettes.

  Without another word, Madeleine was on the stairs and moving out of sight.

  “How will she get out? The response teams will have closed off the neighborhood,” Ariel said, watching Madeleine disappear.

  “Ariel, she will disappear as if she was never here. There is a level of training and experience far above your own. The training I can share with you, the experience, never. It is not something you would ever covet,” Hartmann said.

  “How does she know you?”

  “I trained her,” Hartmann said. “Let’s get out of here and find out what’s going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re not at war by now,” he sighed. “I could use a drink. I’m getting too old to be blown up in a car anymore.”