by Mark Dawson
Angola? That was something else.
He doubted whether there was a worse place on Earth.
They called it The Farm. It had been a slave plantation a hundred years earlier, and the penitentiary was nestled at the heart of a tract of 18,000 acres that was larger than the island of Manhattan. It was penned in on three sides by the Mississippi and on the fourth by twenty miles of scrubby, uninhabited woods. It was said to be virtually escape-proof and Scott thought that that was probably true. More than 5,400 men were imprisoned within its razor wire. Most would die there.
There was a small yellow gatehouse and a homely red brick sign at the entrance that could have marked the gates of a national park. Scott drove through, noting the museum and gift shop where he could, should he have so chosen, buy a pair of miniature handcuffs, jars of inmate-made jelly, and mugs that read “Angola: A Gated Community.”
Funny, right? He remembered it and allowed himself a small chuckle. It distracted him from the nerves that had settled, like a cold fist, in his gut. He always felt that way before interviews with this particular client. The man had something about him.
He drove on until he reached the main prison building. It was surrounded by several tall fences, the razor wire gleaming in the sunshine. He parked his car in the lot and made his way to the gatehouse.
There was a small queue of people waiting to get into the prison. He stood in line for the scanner, passing his briefcase to the guard so that it could be put through the X-ray machine.
“Come,” said the guard on the other side of the security arch, beckoning him on.
Scott stepped through the arch. It remained silent. He smiled at the guard. The man looked at him, blank and bored and slightly unfriendly. Scott took his case and joined the queue for the kiosk.
He stepped up to the window.
“Name, sir?”
“Reed Scott.”
“What’s your business?”
“I’m here to see an inmate.”
“Prisoner’s name?”
“Claude Boon.”
The woman tapped the name into her computer and scratched her head as she waited for the information to be retrieved.
“Relationship to Mr. Boon?”
“Attorney.”
“ID, please.”
Scott took his driver’s licence and passed it through the slot beneath the window.
The woman looked at the licence and then up at her screen. She nodded her satisfaction. “That’s it, I got you. Ten o’clock, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You know the drill?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
She reached down to press a button and, with the buzz of an electric motor, the door to the right of the kiosk opened. Reed swallowed, nodded his thanks, and went into the prison.
*
HE SAT DOWN, rested his briefcase on the table, took out his papers and arranged them before him. It was five to ten. He knew that his client was going to be on time. Claude Boon was professional and motivated. And where else was he going to go?
Scott looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. He had the sensation of being watched and appraised and, as usual, he felt vulnerable. He knew that his disguise was excellent. Indeed, it was more than a disguise. After all, he was a lawyer, and he had been for all of his adult life.
But there was more to him than that.
Scott worked for the Israeli national intelligence agency. The Mossad. He was a sayanim. The agency had sayanim across the world, local assets that remained in deep cover until there was a need for them and they were activated. Mossad field agents, or katsas, needed support as they prepared for operations in foreign countries. The sayanim provided it. Regardless of their allegiance to their country, each sayan recognised a more fundamental loyalty to Israel, and would do anything to protect it from its enemies.
Sayanim fulfilled many roles. A car sayan, running a rental agency, could provide a katsa with transportation. A sayan with an interest in property could provide accommodation on short notice and at no cost. A sayan inside a police department might provide useful information on investigations, and a sayan physician could treat injuries while keeping the identity of his or her patient secret. Sayanim received only expenses for their work, but they carried out their tasks because they loved their spiritual home, not because they wanted remuneration. In their turn, katsas could not operate without them. The agency itself depended upon them.
Scott heard the clank of the shackles from the corridor and unconsciously stiffened in his chair. His client was the sort of man who could make you nervous just at the thought of him. He had been indicted for seven murders and, in the three months that he had been in Angola, he had managed to kill one inmate and seriously injure another two. He was being held in solitary confinement. The measure had not been taken because he was being punished or even for his own protection.
Claude Boon had been put in the hole for the protection of the other inmates.
The door opened. The man who stepped inside the room was not imposing. He was forty-five and obviously in excellent shape. He had been fit before, but, now that he had little else to do save working out, he had added muscle to his frame. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was conventionally handsome. He was dressed in the standard-issue Louisiana Department of Corrections orange jumpsuit. His real name was Avi Bachman, but, for the purposes of the American judicial system, his name was Boon.
The door closed, and Scott was left alone with him.
“Claude,” the lawyer said.
“Don’t give me ‘Claude’ like we’re best friends. What’s happening? What the fuck is happening?”
“I know, I’m—”
“It’s been two weeks since I last saw you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry about that, but what you’ve asked is not a simple thing. You do know that?”
“I’m not interested in excuses. I’ve been in here for three months. I told you what would happen if you didn’t get me out. Do they think I’m bluffing?”
He raised his hands in supplication. “No, Claude, they don’t. They believe you.”
Boon slammed his palms against the table. “So why am I still in here?”
Reed instinctively turned to the door, but there was no sign that Boon’s raised voice had been overheard. “Calm down, please.”
He leaned over the table, the chains rattling. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”
“Let me remind you of a couple of things. You’re in a maximum-security facility. Not even including the inmate you killed, you’re going to be put on trial for multiple homicides. The D.A. is up for re-election. He’s on the record that convicting you is his number one priority. I mean, he’s got a real hard-on for you. He wants the death penalty in the worst way. They know how dangerous you are, Claude. All those things taken into account, maybe you can see that this isn’t a walk in the park, not even for us.”
“Who’s us? I asked and you never said. Who’s on this?”
“The director.”
“Blum?”
“He’s supervising this personally. Believe me, he wants you out of here as much as you do.”
He laughed bitterly. “I doubt that.”
“It’s true, Claude. I’m reporting directly to him.”
“Stop calling me Claude,” he said irritably. “We’re not friends.”
“I’m sorry… Mr. Boon.”
Reed Scott leaned back again. He made the mistake of looking into Boon’s eyes and wished that he hadn’t. They were the eyes of a killer. There was no empathy there, nothing that suggested that he felt anything. They were a blank mirror. They sent a shiver of discomfort up and down his spine. They made him wonder how many men and women had looked into his eyes, appealing for clemency, right before he dispatched them.
Angola maintained a punishment unit known as Camp J. Scott knew a little about it. The block combined extreme isolation and deprivation. Normal visits were forbidden; prisoners we
re not allowed any personal items and their meals consisted of a lump of ground-up scraps known as “the loaf.” The unit was plagued by suicide attempts. That was where they had put Boon.
“How are they treating you?”
“Tolerably. This is nothing to what I’ve been used to before. I’ve been in the Bangkok Hilton.” He gestured around the room. “All this? Five-star luxury compared to that.”
“Of course.” He shuffled his papers and then looked around with an exaggerated, knowing motion. The confidentiality between prisoner and attorney was sacrosanct, but he was not naïve enough to think that there was no chance that they were being eavesdropped on.
“Mr. Boon, listen carefully. You have an important hearing tomorrow.”
Boon raised an eyebrow. “What hearing?”
“It’s a preliminary thing. We’re presenting evidence to the judge.”
“When?”
“In the morning.” He steeled himself to look straight into Boon’s eyes, making sure that he understood what he was being told. “You’ll be taken to Baton Rouge by the deputy sheriffs. They’ll move you at eight or nine.” He stared at him and gave a nod. “I’ll see you at the courthouse.”
Boon picked up the signal. “Is there anything I need to do?”
“You just need to be there. I’ll take care of everything else.” As he spoke, the lawyer collected his fountain pen from the table and removed the lid. A small device dropped out onto the table. It was about the size of a salad crouton. Boon saw it and covered it with his hand.
“Any questions, Mr. Boon?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
Reed stood, collected the papers from the table and slipped them into his briefcase.
Boon stood, too, his shackles rattling. “I’ve been patient. Three months is patient. But I’m still in here and he’s still out there.” He spat the word. “The thought of that, after what he did…” His anger scorched the rest of the words away.
“We understand, Mr. Boon, we do. Be patient. It’s in hand.” He raised his voice. “Guard!”
He walked to the door, putting his body between it and Boon. He watched, through the corner of his eye, as Boon put his hand to his mouth.
The door opened and the guard came inside.
“You done?”
“I am, thank you.” He turned back into the room. “Goodbye, Mr. Boon. Get a good night’s sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
Chapter Two
THEY HAD two safe houses. The first was in Merrydale, north of Baton Rouge. Both properties had been rented two months earlier by a Mossad advance agent working with a local sayan. This house was designated Moaz, or “stronghold.” It was a nondescript property in a middle-class street. It had been chosen because it was average, and because the neighbourhood in which it was situated was known for housing transient workers. It was the sort of place where newcomers would attract little in the way of attention. Perfect for what they had in mind.
The two agents had been in the country for three days. Their papers recorded them as Mr. and Mrs. Rabin, a young couple from Tel Aviv who had come to Louisiana for a holiday. They had landed at New Orleans, checked into a hotel, stayed there for long enough to be noticed by the staff, and then made their way west.
Malakhi and Keren Rabin were two of the Mossad’s most effective kidon. The word meant “bayonet” in Yiddish, and the kidon comprised the Mossad’s assassins. The unit included forty-eight men and women. They were all in their twenties and all of them were fastidious in ensuring that they remained in the best physical condition possible. They lived and worked outside Mossad’s headquarters in Tel Aviv and in a restricted military base in the heart of the Negev desert.
The Rabins often worked together. Their status as a married couple had proven to be an excellent cover. Their last assignment had been in Paris. They had once again posed as tourists and had assassinated a prominent Iranian arms dealer who was alleged to have supplied Hezbollah with the Katyusha rockets it had been firing into northern Israel. They had carried out their orders and blended back into the background, just another couple of tourists enjoying the hospitality of the City of Light.
The house in Baton Rouge had been readied for their arrival. The equipment for the operation had been sourced and was waiting for them beneath the floorboards in the second bedroom. There were six Beretta 70s firing .22-calibre rounds. They had half-powder loads and suppressors to make them as quiet as possible. There were four Tavor assault rifles with plenty of ammunition. They would often have loaded out with Uzis, but, even though the Uzi was a great weapon, it was chambered in 9mm and a handgun round was less effective when shooting at vehicles. Glass and metal could cause round deflection, a problem that would not be encountered with the Tavor’s high-velocity 5.56mm ammunition. There was a rolled spike strip fitted with a series of two-and-a-half-inch-long metal alloy spikes. The spikes were rugged, with three sharp-cornered edges, a half-inch wide at the base. Finally, there was a small netbook that had been installed with the software to monitor the GPS beacon that had been given to the man whom they had been sent to collect.
The advance agent had also rented two cars and a van for the purposes of the operation. The van and one of the cars had been put in long-term parking at the airport. The transport for the Rabins was a 2013 Honda Accord. It had been delivered to the house overnight, the keys posted through the letterbox.
They transferred their equipment to the trunk of the car before dawn when the street was quiet. They had a large breakfast, not knowing when they would be able to eat again, and then phoned to check whether the operation was still proceeding.
It was.
They locked the house, got into the car and set off.
*
THE RABINS arrived at the waiting area near the Tunica Hills State Wildlife Park at half past seven. It was a wide space that offered parking for a dozen automobiles. The lot was empty this morning save for their Accord. There were picnic tables, an information board that had been bleached by the elements, and a trail that led away into the trees.
Malakhi Rabin opened the driver’s side door and stepped out. It was already hot, despite the early hour. He could see the buildings of a refinery in the distance, the smokestacks wavering in the hazy, polluted air. They called this part of Louisiana “Cancer Alley.” The landscape was baked dry, the vegetation as brittle as tinder. Cicadas buzzed and birds, already addled by the heat, murmured their songs.
Malakhi was six feet tall and obviously muscular beneath the linen shirt that was already damp with his sweat. He reached into the car, took his sunglasses from the dash and put them on. He gazed at the horizon and the thick bank of black clouds that was gathering there.
His wife got out of the car. Keren Rabin was five eight and slender, her toned bare arms suggesting that she spent a lot of time in the gym. That was true, but she also owed her physique to hours of gruelling training on the wrestling mat. She was a skilful Krav Maga fighter. Many of the men that she had eliminated had taken one look at her striking appearance and assumed that she was just another pretty face. She came onto them, flirted with them, and they let their guards down. They took her somewhere quiet, somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed. And that was the last mistake that they made.
“Storm coming,” Malakhi said.
Keren looked down at her cell phone. “They’re saying it’ll be here in half an hour.”
“Going to get wet, then.”
“Better wet than this. It’s hotter than Hell.”
Malakhi nodded his agreement. “Storm might be a good distraction, too.”
Keren glanced at the road. A van was approaching. It was an off-white Chevrolet Express. The Rabins watched as the van slowed and pulled off the road. Dust billowed from the wheels as it bounced across the uneven ground and drew to a halt alongside the Accord. There were four people inside the van: three men and one woman.
This was the second team. They were codenamed Mural. The four agents had been in the country
for a week. They had arrived under the cover of students visiting Louisiana State University as part of an exchange programme. Their pseudonyms were Levy, Peretz, Biton and Dahan.
Malakhi went over to the van and opened the driver’s side door. “Morning,” he said.
Dahan stepped down. “We have a green light?”
“We do.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Just in time for the storm.”
“We were just saying that.”
“It’ll reduce the vis. That’s no bad thing.”
“We were saying that, too.”
The female agent, Peretz, came around the van to the car. She nodded a greeting. “Do you have the gear?”
“In the trunk.”
She reached into the Accord to pop the lid and then went around the back to open it. She took out the Tavors and the Berettas and distributed them to the other members of the team.
Dahan checked the mechanism on the submachine gun. “Same deal?” he asked.
Malakhi nodded. “I don’t see any reason to change it.”
“We know what we’re looking at?”
“Not for sure. They think a van and an escort vehicle. Probably a sedan.”
“And guards?”
“They’ll take him seriously. At least two, possibly four.”
Peretz racked the slide of her Beretta. “Rules of engagement?”
“As we discussed. The priority is getting him out. Anything you have to do to accomplish that is fine. We have carte blanche.”
“Including lethal force?”
“If necessary.”
“And that’s from the top?”
“That’s right.”
She whistled her surprise. All of them shared the sentiment. This was an unusual assignment. Not the scope of it—that was routine—but the country in which it was taking place.
“It’s not for us to ask why,” Keren reminded them.