Motherland

by L. Todd Wood

  Col Blackman, It’s been a long time. Was thinking about the Yukon a few days ago and thought of you. How are you?

  Connor clicked send. There, I did it. He didn’t expect a response any time soon. Connor finished his meal and then started walking back to the hotel. He entered the small market and bought some supplies, including something to disinfect his wounds. Soon he was back in the hotel room, and fatigue hit him again like a ton of bricks after the long ordeal. He locked the door and lay down in bed. Soon he was fast asleep.

  The phone beeped and vibrated. Connor sat up in bed, remembering where he was. He looked at the phone. He had been asleep for an hour, his body attempting to recover. There was a Facebook message on the phone.

  Connor, good to hear from you. I’m doing well and currently in Europe for some R&R. Stay in touch. Blackman.

  Connor texted back.

  Where in Europe?

  I’m in Croatia. On the coast. It’s beautiful here. Have you ever been?

  No never. I’m sure it is lovely. But funny, I’m in Italy. Would love to hop over and have a beer.

  Come on over! I’ve got some nice Cubans as well. I’ll buy you dinner.

  I’ll take you up on that. How about tomorrow afternoon?

  Deal. Message me when you’re in-country. I’m in Hvar at the moment. Take the ferry.

  Will do. See you tomorrow.

  Well, that’s done. Connor drifted off back to sleep.

  He awoke sometime later, feeling rested. The effect of the drugs had worn off. I must have slept for two hours. He dressed and walked down to the lobby. The attendant was there as usual, talking on the phone.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Can you have a taxi to the train station in thirty minutes?” She nodded her head in the affirmative, still chatting in Italian. “Thank you,” Connor replied. She nodded again without missing a beat in her conversation. Soon Connor was on his way to Croatia.

  Connor stepped off the ferry in Hvar, Croatia and mingled with the throng of tourists excitedly headed for the old city. He marveled at the ancient stones of the boardwalk and the obvious significant history of the town. The gulls swooped in off the water, desperate to find a scrap from the cafes along the promenade and the smell of the sea permeated the air.

  It had been quite a long journey. He had taken the taxi to the local train station in Brindisi then boarded a ferry at Ancona across the Adriatic to Split, and then the ferry continued to the island of Hvar. The ten-hour boat trip to Croatia had evaporated overnight, as Connor rented a nice berth to sleep in for the ride. He now felt refreshed, strong, and himself again. Now I can deal with this situation, he thought. It did not take him long to rent a scooter at the docks and soon was on his way to the southern coastal highway. The ancient fortress of Hvar rose up the mountain beside him as he made his way through the twists and turns of the crowded port. Soon he left the urban area and was alone on the meandering highway along the blue waters of the Adriatic, the pleasant odor of the sea bathing his face.

  Twenty minutes later, Connor slowed to a stop on the side of the highway at an overlook to get his bearings. The sea stretched out before him as the sun rose in the sky. The warm wind created a beautiful scene as the wild lavender thriving on the side of the mountain road added to the wonderful smell.

  Hvar was an ancient island of the Greeks and the Romans. Its unique location in the Adriatic, off the Dalmatian coast, made it an important port to control trade in the region for centuries. The Greeks also developed the mountainous island into a terraced agricultural paradise for olives and other crops, and the field divisions were still visible and protected by UNESCO as a world heritage site. The island changed hands after the fall of Rome from a major Venetian naval base, to pirates, to the Ottomans, Napoleon, and then became part of the Austrian empire, where it enjoyed peace and prosperity, only to fall into decline in the twentieth century. Recently, however, tourism had rejuvenated the island’s economy and now was a driving force for a more optimistic future.

  Connor, having verified his position, now remounted the scooter and headed down the winding highway to the very small village below. He soon slowed and turned into a gravel driveway that led to a tiny community along the rocky beach. He parked the scooter and walked to the group of buildings on the cliff overlooking the water. He found Colonel Blackman sitting alone on a balcony, drinking a beer and smoking a fat cigar.

  “Hello, my friend! It’s been a long time,” he bellowed as he wrapped Connor in a sincere bear hug. “It’s really good to see you!” Blackman was a large man and still strong in middle age.

  He must be over sixty now, Connor thought. He looked the same, just with gray hair and a few more pounds here or there but seemed to be in really good shape. “You haven’t changed a bit!” Connor shot back. “It’s good to see you as well.”

  “Have a seat and a drink,” Blackman ordered. He then pulled out a similar cigar and handed it to Connor. “And one of these.”

  “I don’t mind if I do.” Connor sat and did as he was told. They chatted about the old times for a while then silently enjoyed the view. Soon lunch was served, and they ate their fill of local seafood and vegetables.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what the hell did you do to your forehead?” Blackman asked as the lunch dishes were taken away.

  Connor was silent for a moment, not sure what to say. Connor’s phone was tucked nicely in the satchel lying at his feet. He was sure that no one could hear what he was about to say. He looked Colonel Blackman in the eye. “I’m in trouble, Colonel.”

  “I thought so,” said his former senior officer. “But I thought I’d let you bring it up first. And?”

  “Do you remember the mission in Rainy Pass, from long ago? Where we found that WWII P-40 melting out of the glacier?”

  “Yes, I sure do,” said the colonel, sitting straighter in his seat, Connor having acquired his full attention.

  “You found a satchel in the rear compartment. It was obviously a significant find. The entire air wing command structure was interested in the find. I need to know what was in the satchel. I need to know what we found.” Connor quit speaking and looked out at the sea.

  Colonel Blackman didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he spoke. “Why do you need this?”

  “I can’t go into it right now. However, let’s just say it’s a matter of life and death. To be precise, my life or death.”

  “I see. Does that have anything to do with your forehead? And the blood dripping out of your upper arm?” Connor turned his head to look back at the colonel and then at his shirt, where a blood red circle had appeared. “Yes, I notice things like that.”

  “Yes, it does. You were always someone I knew I could trust. So I decided to talk to you.”

  “And you can’t tell me any more than that?”

  “Not at the moment. Maybe in time.”

  “That’s extremely classified information you’re asking about. You know that I presume. You remember what I had you sign?”

  “Yes, I realize that. But I still need your help.”

  “Okay. Let me think on this for a few minutes.” The colonel pulled out another cigar from his shirt pocket, removed the wrapper slowly, cut off the end, and lit the other end in a circle of flame. The fragrant smoke wafted out over the sea, creating an interesting contrast to the smell of the ocean life. Then he turned back to Connor and looked him in the eye with a serious look on his face.

  “What I am about to tell you could get us both killed. It looks like it came close to getting you killed already. I’ve pretty much pushed it to the recesses of my mind since that episode twenty years ago, but it’s obvious it can’t stay there. I’ll tell you what I know. Since I was the only one they could trust on the mission, who knew everything about rescue and was familiar with our search procedures, and I also was a senior officer with experience and judgment, they read me into the situation somewhat, so I would know what to look for.” The colonel paused, took a draw on the cigar,
and exhaled slowly, the smoke disappearing into the afternoon sky. He turned to Connor.

  “Towards the end of World War II, the United States and Russia were both fighting Hitler in a match to the death. Nuclear weapons were being developed, and no one knew how far the Nazis were in their progress on such weapons. But this was not the end of the story. There were other weapons being developed, other technologies. At the same time, the U.S. was helping Russia through the lend-lease program, supplying aircraft and other machinery. The planes were flown to the Soviet Union through Alaska and across the Bering Strait. Apparently, the aircraft that crashed, that you discovered, was one of these planes to be delivered. However, there was more to the delivery than meets the eye. There was something on that plane as well to be delivered to the Russians. What it was? I don’t know. But it was in the satchel that I found. They told me what to look for. I found it and turned it over to them. Any more than that, I don’t know. This information remains Top Secret Compartmentalized. Does that help you?”

  “Well, it sure makes a lot of sense and kind of fills in a lot of holes that I was wondering about. But I need to know more. Do you have any idea of how I could do that?” Connor asked.

  Colonel Blackman leaned forward on his elbows across the table, looking Connor in the eyes. “I might. But why don’t you tell me first what’s really going on?”

  “The trail goes back to the Americans,” said the intelligence officer to the Israeli prime minister. “We have absolute proof of that. There can be no denying this.” The officer let those words sink in as he studied the prime minister’s face for some kind of cue as to whether to continue with the briefing or give him some time to digest what was just said.

  Prime Minister Dahan stared silently out the window at the Syrian border from the location in the Golan Heights, having come to inspect the force structure on Israel’s northern border on somewhat of a surprise inspection, the intelligence officer had traveled with him and scheduled a briefing. The prime minister didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, when he spoke, he spoke as if he were alone, as if there were no one else in the room.

  “I have feared this outcome. I hoped it wasn’t true, but I have feared the answer to the question of who was behind the placement of the tactical nuclear warheads in Israel last year. That day has come. Israel is on her own. America has turned on her. At least the current government has anyway.” Then he turned and faced the intelligence officer. “Continue with your briefing.”

  Natasha sat in the safe house in the middle of Tel Aviv. She was worried sick. They had told her nothing as of yet what had happened to Connor. That could not be good. The door to the room opened. Peter Quinn walked in and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her head in his shoulder and wept.

  “I’ve spoken to the appropriate people. The good news is, we think he is still alive. The other news, good or bad depending on the way you look at it, is that we think he has been secretly taken out of the Gaza Strip on a freighter. We don’t know to where. That’s all I know.”

  Quinn was an old colleague of Connor’s from way back, an energy analyst to be exact. Connor and Peter had been through a lot together over the decades on Wall Street and most recently with the activities in Brazil over the previous year that involved Natasha as well. The three of them had been spirited out of Brazil by the Israelis, and now he worked for the Mossad as well in an analytical capacity. Natasha trusted him completely.

  “I’m going after him, Natasha.”

  “You can’t, Peter, it’s too risky. You’ll be killed!”

  “He saved my life once. He got me out of detention in the states when that corrupt DHS guy was after me. I owe him the favor, even if Connor wasn’t my very best friend.”

  “Be careful. I want you both back.” Peter gave her one last hug and left the room.

  Chapter Six

  Connor mounted the scooter and headed back up the mountain highway towards the main port of Hvar, the satchel hooked securely around his waist. The smell of fresh lavender bathed the air in sweetness. The feeling of freedom was exhilarating, even if it wasn’t real. The sharp pain in his arm brought that reality home.

  It was difficult not to tell the colonel what was going on. He just said, “No, I can’t tell you. I don’t want to involve you,” and left it at that. Colonel Blackman seemed to understand but was very concerned.

  “I have someone for you to contact,” he finally said before Connor left the bar. “Before I retired from the Air Force, as you know, special operations became quite the show, due to the events of 9/11. I made many contacts on the black side of things while working in counterterrorism. Many of them are not very nice people. But, you need these type of people when the shit hits the fan. One of them, I know, is currently in Moldova. He stays in the gray areas of the world. It suits him better. His name is Vitali. That’s all I know him by. Here is an email address and a phone number. I’m sure he can help at least point you in the right direction. He owes me. Good luck, Connor. At least keep me in the loop, okay?” As Connor walked away from the bar, the colonel added, “Tell him Colonel Klink sent you. He’ll like that.”

  I’ve got to get to Moldova. I need some help and I don’t know who to turn to. I could contact the Mossad, but not yet. And I’ve only got thirteen days left before this thing goes off in my arm, and I’ll never see Natasha again.

  He drove the scooter back to the port terminal and caught a return ferry to Split. Then he bought a plane ticket to the former Soviet nation of Moldova, the poorest country in Europe. The cab ride to the airport was fast. Soon he had left the European Union on his way to the east, his mind troubled as the water of the Adriatic drifted out of sight in the plane’s window.

  Prime Minister Dahan was back in Tel Aviv, and he was worried, very worried. Without American support, Israel was blowing like a leaf in the wind. And that support had definitely dried up. Arms shipments, money, logistical support, everything had dwindled to a trickle. It was obvious the American government had an alternate agenda as far as the Jewish State was concerned. An alternate agenda indeed.

  At the same time, the Persian army and their Shia friends in Syria and Lebanon were massing. Russia had spent the last few years selling Iran every kind of weapon imaginable. Their air defense network was now tight. The S-400 and S-300 weapon systems were being deployed systematically throughout Iranian-controlled territory, even in Iraq and Syria under the watchful eye of the Revolutionary Guards.

  I am responsible for this country. I have to find a way to ensure her survival. It is on my shoulders. I’m not going to go down in history as the man who lost the Jewish State for the Jewish people. He called his assistant. “Have the defense minister come to my briefing room right away!” Maybe it’s time to make friends with the Russians.

  Connor exited the airport in Chisinau, Moldova as Ivan Yaroslav. The trip was painless, except for his bleeding arm of course. He had managed to get the wound to stop bleeding while in the lavatory on the plane. He even changed his shirt, no blood stains now to attract attention. He couldn’t do anything about the wounds on his forehead. He’d bought a few things at the market in Hvar, before heading straight for the small airport to Split, switching planes in Kyiv, then Moldova. It was evening. The air was again warm. The passage through immigration control and customs was noneventful.

  The difference between the East and West was striking. The buildings were all drab, Stalinist, concrete structures left over from the Soviet era. A few colorful establishments dotted the landscape from new construction. He boarded the small bus to the center of town, preferring to mix with the public and watch for a while, rather than attract attention in a taxi. As he rode into the city, he noticed each apartment complex looked exactly the same, with similar small shops located in the base of the massive buildings, providing food and other supplies for the thousands of residents. The trip cost less than a cheap cup of coffee in the U.S. The Moldovan currency, the leu, had been devalued significantly. He arrived outside t
he hotel a half hour later and strolled into the lobby. Check in was quick and no one gave him a second look. Soon he was alone in his small room.

  The hotel was a study in the Soviet experience. I’m definitely back in the U.S.S.R., he thought to himself. The room was functional but spartan. It seemed like everything in the hotel was original from the middle of the last century, but it was fine by Connor. One could blend right in to a place like this, drift into the woodwork, if you will. And that’s what he wanted to do, find out what he needed without anyone finding out about him. The window looked out over the city as the sun sank finally below the horizon, outlining the buildings in an orange glow.

  Connor took the piece of paper with the phone number and email address he was given in Hvar out of his pocket. He looked at the phone for a while, felt the hole in his arm with his fingers softly, and tried to make a decision. Again, I have no choice. Connor couldn’t risk not using the phone, not yet. He picked it up and dialed the number.

  “Da?” a voice answered.

  “Yes, I need to meet with you. Colonel Klink sent me.”

  “Ha.” Silence. “Where are you?”

  “Hotel Chisinau.”

  “A car will pick you up in thirty minutes. Be outside.” The line went dead.

  Connor waited in the lobby at the bar, where he ordered and nursed a drink. There were several businessmen at the bar as well; none paid any attention to him, which was just the way he liked it. At the right time, he walked outside, ignoring the doorman. Like clockwork, a late-model, dark red SUV pulled up, and the driver leaned over to open the passenger door. Connor jumped in and they sped off.