by davidberko
“Operation Switchblade: an asset recovery mission at zero hour. Damion Westover had a contract with our government on some breakthrough weapon designs.” “You mind elaborating on the scale of this operation?”
When there was pause in Alfred’s reply, Malach quickly explained, “I’m trying to ascertain why you had to go in there as opposed to the weapon blueprints being delivered to you per your contractual agreement with Westover Ventures.” Alfred nodded with understanding and answered, “The venture’s business partners, Damion Westover and his chief scientist
Christophe Gerard have gone MIA. Sentinel used landsat to track their whereabouts to a top-secret Scorpion black site in the Ozarks. We believe Scorpion to be holding them there against their own will for a whole litany of reasons—which is partly why I’m contacting you.”
Malach Kemper spread his hands out across his glass workstation. In response a virtual keyboard mapped out for him. His wiry fingers rapidly typed a message into a search field. He quickly made up his mind he wanted the results to materialize on the heads up display nearby.
“Mr. Demsky,” Malach resumed the conversation as he took in the data at the same time, “I have in front of me a transcript from an Intel dump which I think dovetails nicely with the subject we’re on.” “Okay?”
“Four days ago one of our agents stationed in Barcelona interrogated two midlevel German diplomats who were in town with Germany’s Interior Minister Sofia Keller and the rest of her entourage.” “Uh-huh…”
“The significance of that being these Germans tipped us off to some plans the
Fourth Reich and Scorpion have in the works. But it’s really much bigger than those two players. As powerful as they (Scorpion and Germany) may be, they don’t hold ALL the cards. We’re talking worldwide implications.”
Alfred was beyond intrigued now. His mind worked fast to recall previous conversations with various people to frame his next question. Alfred had Israel’s president to thank for getting himself at least on the right footing. If only Malach Kemper could give him further direction and increased insight into the enemy’s plans…then Alfred would be a hero to the FRN, but more importantly an indispensable member on Alexander’s National Security Council.
In a word? Job security. That’s what this was about.
“Malach, correct me if I’m wrong; I assume you have ongoing ops within the UIC? Yes?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
This didn’t surprise Alfred. He grew even bolder. “Is there anything in your reports that would indicate a Scorpion connection with King Kahlil himself?” The silence was deafening.
Thanks for confirming what I’ve known all along, bitch, Demsky triumphantly thought.
Kemper came back with a copout.
“Implicating the king to underworld scum (Scorpion) is beyond insane. It’s entirely out of the question.”
Kidon’s director seemed unusually adamant in denying any Scorpion/UIC association Demsky noted. He would continue to exploit this weakness then and see what nuggets he could bag by the end of the transaction.
--
Tel Aviv, Israel
The elevator doors to the lobby on the thirty-ninth floor opened with the same sense of urgency as the passengers that once occupied it. The trio from the roof made haste through the labyrinth of sterile passageways to the other end of the floor.
Along the way Stacy used sign language to communicate to Esther she was free to go. To where? A sector in the tower where young cadets trained in, ran missions from—the whole gamut.
Esther simply split from her step-mom who still had Azriel in tow. She hung a few hairpin turns then simply vanished off into a land very few knew existed.
Meanwhile Stacy faced what would come, alone…with the boy. Her choice. For paternal reasons she wanted to do some hand-holding with Azriel while the boy’s mind and consequently his destiny would be altered by modern science.
“You’re gonna do just fine, son,” she said in a soothing manner as they approached an operating room. She also had an implant in her wrist that radiated a signal the door recognized. It compliantly swung open for her before she was even ten feet from crossing its threshold.
A gigantic white machine Azriel had never seen the likes of before unhinged its jaw like a snake, ready to swallow his limp body…whole.
Throughout the whole experience he began to rapidly lose cognitive ability to decipher what exactly was happening to himself. The room began to spin a little. Stacy’s face which hovered only a few feet away he guessed now came in strangely distorted. Things began to dim, even before the woman entered in her premeditated commands into the console.
Azriel continued to watch her until he felt he could no longer win the tug of war battle against unconsciousness. In his hazy last seconds before the lights went out he noticed her staring out at him with an unreadable expression etched into her features. All this time words had evaded him. For whenever he attempted to ask her a question his tongue refused to comply. Instead it chose to stay plastered to the roof of his mouth, unwilling to loosen itself so as to allow speech.
His struggle against the impending darkness that closed in from his peripherals soon came to a close after Stacy decisively pressed the button to start the procedure.
The doors to the contraption shut with a finality after Stacy initiated the operation. Up on a monitor a live feed of Azriel’s spiking brain activity revealed to the inquisitive woman just how exactly a cerebrum memory transfiguration affected a thirteen-year-old’s gray matter. Stacy’s narrowed brown eyes remained fixated on the images until a familiar ringtone in her ear effectively broke her stare.
She blinked and mumbled something. A peek at her smartwatch which had the caller ID confirmed her hunch.
Stacy immediately threw her weight down onto a swivel stool equipped with wheels. Next she leaned in slightly while simultaneously using her powerful legs to careen her mobile seat over to where a stack of monitors cast their blue glow. “How’s he doing so far?” the same concerned male voice she had spoken to earlier on the rooftop intoned in her right ear. “If you are so concerned, then why aren’t you here with me now?” she asked the obvious.
He clarified, “You know why that can’t happen. I just got my ticket punched as the new acting head of Kidon. There is an unimaginably long list of responsibilities I must see to. Otherwise everything I’ve worked so hard to do up until this point will be for naught.”
Stacy pondered the man’s explicit message while she stared at sets of data on Azriel’s progress. What she saw caused her to forget about her otherwise standard rejoinder to the man’s excuse for not being present. “This really is gonna work I think,” the words tumbled off her plump lips.
“The operation?”
“Yeah…”
“What would make you ever doubt it wouldn’t? Azriel isn’t the first person it’s ever
been done to you know.” “Really?”
“Yeah! Relax. I wouldn’t do experimental brain surgery on our son unless it had a proven track record. And to my knowledge,” his voice grew more distant as he read something, “ninety-nine percent of patients that had this procedure went back to their everyday lives like nothing ever happened.” “How long is the turnaround?” Stacy wondered aloud.
“If everything synchronizes correctly according to the pre-programmed parameters? Two weeks.”
His answer shocked Stacy. She marveled at the progress the medical community had made in Israel. The fact that someone with the proper equipment and protocols could change the course of a life in under two weeks overwhelmed the woman.
Seeing is believing though. Until Azriel walked out of the clinic a whole person and called her mom she’d hold on to her inborn skepticism.
--
Chapter 12
Somewhere near the northeastern German border…
The day -long road trip neared the finish line with its crosshairs set on Berlin. The trio of rough and ready individuals had onl
y made two stops the entire journey. Towards the end Baruch began to whine of his rear aching. When Seth threatened something else would be hurting suddenly the man with a sore bottom dropped all complaints.
In Poland it was agreed upon to further discuss mission details. Tyrone would do his best to answer questions or otherwise appear to know what he was talking about.
There were no other patrons seated out on the patio except for the three Mossad men, alone with their devious plans. They had grabbed a table in the back, as far away from people as possible. The shade of the courtyard and the umbrella nearby further obscured them from view.
Tyrone spoke in a low, even voice. “Like I told you before, we’re gonna make this look to be an accident.”
“I still don’t see how,” Seth shook his head.
“Easy,” he replied. “First, we arrive into town undetected, masquerading as local vigilantes from one of the rebel cells in
Spain.”
Baruch reflected, “You said our target Sofia
Keller is stalking the interim governor there in Barcelona, right?” He frowned like he had more to say but didn’t know how to say it.
“What’s his name again?”
“Carlos Castell, that’s your guy in Barcelona,” Tyrone helped him. “Did you have more to say?”
Baruch appeared to be thinking.
“How long do we have to wait until you have your ah-hah moment?” Seth teased his partner.
Baruch ignored the remark. “If we take out the interior minister, but fail to escape, we go down in a shootout with the authorities.” Seth had been listening to Baruch while simultaneously tracking a waitress make her way to their table. She appeared extremely apologetic for not having seen them come in earlier.
Tyrone saw her too around the same time Seth did. Before the woman even came close to where the men were talking he said in an aside sort of way, “Yo misses, three ales for me and my colleagues. Keep the change.” Tyrone winked at her while placing a green bill in her hands and folding her fingers over the money.
She went away without a word to get the drinks.
Seth took notice of how well Tyrone handled the exchange. His mind however returned to what was being said before the little interlude. He had a question. “Is this your plan or rather how things might turn out after we terminate the target?” Baruch looked disappointed in Seth. His eyes surveyed the table where they sat at: the condiments, menus, salt and pepper shakers were all in the usual spots one would expect. He quickly made his mind up to use what was available to aid in communicating their playbook options.
“See these sugar packets?” he tossed three into view in front of Seth’s spot. “They’re the o’s. You with me so far?” Seth secretly admired the man’s clever use of what was on hand. He also nodded so that his friend could continue his undoubtedly lengthy explanation and plan.
“Before I go on, do you have any input on these matters?” Baruch popcorned the discussion Tyrone’s way.
Tyrone hadn’t been paying super close attention since the drinks had just arrived. He kindly accepted them from the lady with a tray. Tyrone duly thanked her then returned his gaze back to Baruch. “Take it away, agent.”
“As I was saying before….” he held outstretched arms directed at the sugar packets.
“Next, you’ve got to deal with the x’s. We know Sofia Keller is one of ‘em. Count on there being collateral damage, too.” For the x’s he threw down little ketchup packet(s). Tyrone’s eyebrows went up at the number of packets Baruch laid out. “Expecting a lot of deaths or something?” he facetiously interjected.
Baruch shrugged. “In my line of work, things can get hairy pretty quick.”
To this Seth vigorously bobbed his head up and down in agreement.
“You forget, I was in the field too, you know,” a completely serious Tyrone reminded the other men.
Both active duty Mossad agents exchanged knowing looks of amusement hidden underneath an inconspicuous, well-worn expression that wouldn’t be misinterpreted to mean anything else.
“Let’s get this game plan back on track though, no more interruptions,” Tyrone apologized. “That goes for myself as well,” he added with a stone cold face. Baruch’s eyes smiled at the invitation to proceed with the dialogue. “So after the fact-when they bring in the black bags, tape, the police have finished dusting the scene--the official story that breaks across German airwaves will go something like this: Spanish
Terrorists Assassinate Keller, Lose Their Own Lives in Firefight with Police.” “Beautiful,” Tyrone said. He bestowed as little credit as possible because he knew hatching a grand scheme plan was child’s play for the two professionals he would spot for in Berlin.
Seth felt the need to contribute by this point. He had patiently waited for a good time to jump in.
“Mossad will of course know Baruch and I were the agents on the hit squad. Furthermore, they will believe the part of the official story that confirms our recorded time of death.”
“Or so we hope,” Tyrone said using his gravelly voice. “Otherwise…we’s gots a youknow-what storm headed our way.”
“That’s out of the question,” Seth firmly corrected him.
Tyrone shrugged. “For both of your sakes, I hope your right.”
“Hey, you’re a big part of this too,” Baruch said rather testily. “They’ll come after you as sure as the sun rises in the East and sets in the West.”
Tyrone merely tipped his head back to finish off the dregs in his cup. His hand which previously clutched the stein’s handle brought the glass down against the table with an abruptness that rattled everything to the core, nearly spilling the other men’s drinks over.
Tyrone didn’t apologize for his last actions either; instead, he picked his empty beer stein up and raised it high. “To our success!” he toasted. The others reciprocated the action yet murmured the same message less enthusiastically.
--
Barcelona, Spain
Moisture mixed in with blood, sweat and tears to form the German scent of attrition.
Cell 3a was rife with the smell.
Wendel and Amalia would break in a matter of time. Days, hours…even minutes. Their fortitude seemed better than the interrogation techniques used thus far. But things were far from over.
The endurance of the two detainees put Alfonso in a rare mood. He did his best not to show it. There were times he’d feel the phone in his pocket. He knew all he’d have to do is give the walkie button on it three clicks. Help would be on the way. Aflonso and whomever came calling in response to his signal could tag-team the Germans all day. However, again, the garbage circumstances that had precipitated the cloudy atmosphere were too far along for a storm not to break out at any given moment. One more nettling comment or lack thereof following a question that needed a truthful answer and that’s all it would take to negatively charge the ions and bring on the lightning.
It’s so good we’re in an intimate, high containment cell. If I snap, it’ll be an easier mess to clean up, Alfonso demurred.
Suddenly his pocket vibrated. New information hopefully. Maybe even a little leverage to make Wendel and Amalia sing. Two thumbnail portrait shots lit up the central screen on the device when Alfonso took a time-out to respond to the interruption. The first image had the caption, “Amalia’s best friend, Edda Hartmann.”
Alfonso stayed disciplined long enough for his mind to take a quick snapshot of the ravishing woman staring back at him from the screen. Her brilliant coffee-colored eyes were the focal point of a sculpted face with sweeping cheekbones, a nubby point for a chin, and an elongated crown topped by a stylish blonde updo.
The other image had much worse resolution than the first, yet it was unmistakably a male, forties. Fritz Ritter, Wendel’s poker friend, the caption read. Fritz looked tired in the photo. His features weren’t anything that’d make him stick out in a crowd, but rather quite the opposite. His mousse-colored hair fell across his brow in a layered crop
cut.
“You know what I have here?” Alfonso spoke with his head bowed and the phone now resting on the table within arm’s length from where he sat.
The Germans waited with bated breath.
“Let me show you,” he said turning the phone around, waking it from its screensaver. The first photo to appear in the slideshow was Amalia’s friend, Edda.
Instant recognition glinted in her eyes. Amalia’s free legs started to thrash.
“No, no! You can’t harm her!”
“That would be your choice, now wouldn’t it?” Alfonso eyed her coldly.
The German woman avoided all eye contact at these words. She uttered curses under her breath in her native tongue. Wendel tried to console her. However it had no effect on the woman in distress. Alfonso turned his gaze to Wendel. “I have a picture for you too! I didn’t want you to feel left out, you see.”