JET - Forsaken

by Russell Blake

  “Van’s up there,” he said, indicating the parking area above the fuel dock, and led them up the gangplank to an ancient VW van that was more rust than metal. “Toss your stuff in back and climb in.”

  Jet didn’t ask the man’s name and he didn’t offer it, which apparently worked for all concerned. They loaded into the van and it started with a cloud of blue exhaust. He jammed the shifter into first with a grinding of gears before it settled into place, and tromped on the gas. The old van responded with a shudder and slowly picked up speed as it climbed the driveway to the street above. Matt made a face and looked at Jet, who shrugged and patted Hannah’s hand.

  Outside of the marina gates, a motorcycle policeman approached the van, hand on his gun, and Jet stiffened. Their driver remained relaxed and exchange pleasantries with the cop, who gave the passengers a cursory once-over before returning to his bike, belly sagging over his belt.

  “Don’t worry. I know him. He’s harmless,” the driver assured them, and ground the gears again before lurching forward unsteadily, the engine laboring like it was on its last legs.

  It took them an hour to travel fifteen miles, the van rarely making more than jogging speed along the narrow roads. The airport turned out to be relatively modern and well outfitted, and the driver steered the van to the curb in front of a small building that served as the private terminal. There, a tall man with a military bearing wearing aviator sunglasses greeted them at the door with a smile that seemed unfamiliar on his thin lips.

  “You made it! Congratulations. This way to the plane,” he said abruptly.

  A Citation X sat on the tarmac near the terminal. By the stairs a flight attendant in black slacks and a rainbow-colored blouse shielded her eyes from the sun. They ascended the steps, Jet strapped Hannah in beside her, and the woman raised the stairs as the man who’d greeted them joined the other pilot in the cockpit and started the engines.

  Five minutes later they were pressed back into their seats as the small jet sped down the runway and streaked into the sky, Hannah peering out the window beside her in awe of the experience. The plane banked over the island and climbed to cruising elevation as Sardinia disappeared beneath its wings, and when it had stabilized, the attendant brought them breakfast, which they gratefully consumed.

  Once at cruising altitude, the attendant returned to collect their plates and glasses and informed them in lightly accented English that the flight would take a little over three hours, and they should call on her for anything they wanted during the trip. Jet thanked her and reclined her wide leather seat. Matt and Hannah followed her example, and the drone of the turbines drowned out all else as they closed their eyes, the hardest part of their journey complete.

  Chapter 22

  The plane touched down on the landing strip of a military airstrip ten miles outside Tel Aviv with a puff of smoke from the tires and rapidly decelerated as it neared the end of the runway. It veered toward a collection of buildings where six fighter jets were parked, their windows glinting in the blistering afternoon sun. A black SUV was waiting near the jets, and two men emerged from the vehicle as the flight attendant lowered the stairs and guided Jet and her family onto the Tarmac.

  Jet blinked in the sunlight, and one of the pair approached.

  “Welcome to Israel. I’m Guy, and my partner is Doron. How was your flight?”

  “Good. Smooth.”

  Guy regarded Matt and Hannah and nodded to them. “We’re to take you to a safe house nearby.”

  “Perfect.” Jet paused. “We’ll also need to change some euros.”

  “The house comes fully stocked, so there’s no rush. There are a number of money-changing places in town and along the waterfront that can do it for you.” He motioned to the SUV and switched to English. “Need any help with your bags?”

  Matt shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

  “Then this way, please.”

  The drive into Tel Aviv was mercifully short, and Jet was surprised when the truck stopped in front of a contemporary high-rise condo building near Ginat Zemach, a little park behind the theater in Habima Square. Guy sensed her puzzlement and twisted toward her from the passenger seat.

  “Two-bedroom condo on the fifth floor. Security building. I think you’ll like it. It’s temporary, but it has everything.”

  She didn’t comment on the temporary, instead opening her door and stepping out of the vehicle, Hannah right behind her. Guy joined her, Matt in the rear with the backpacks, and the Mossad operative led them into the lobby, where a security man sat behind a counter, a headset in place. Guy nodded to the man.

  “Yosef, these folks will be our guest for the next week or two. Treat them well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They loaded into the elevator and stood packed too close together until it pinged and the doors slid aside, revealing a travertine hallway with doors on either side. Guy walked to the second one on the right and slid a key into the lock. He pushed it open and stepped inside. “I’ll show you around and let you get settled, and then I need to take you to speak to the director,” he said to Jet.

  Matt leaned into her and whispered, “Does he even know we’re here?”

  She rewarded him with a smile and followed Guy inside.

  The condo was nicely appointed and clean, with a view to the sea. The tour lasted only a few minutes, and Guy handed Jet two sets of keys and regarded her from the foyer. “We’ll be waiting downstairs. Take your time.”

  The door closed behind him, and Jet pointed at the air-conditioning duct and then to her ear. Matt understood and moved close to her. “You want to take a shower before your meeting?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’m covered with road dust.”

  “Me too. You first.”

  Jet led Hannah into the smaller bedroom, and Matt placed her backpack on the bed. “We’re going to clean up, sweetheart. You should do the same, and then we can see what’s in the refrigerator for a late lunch.”

  Hannah frowned. “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Matt and Jet entered the master and he set his backpack down. “I’ve got two more clean shirts. You can borrow one.”

  “I wonder if this place has a washing machine? I’d expect so.”

  “Me too. I’ll do laundry while you’re gone.”

  She stripped off her clothes and walked to the bathroom, beckoning for him to follow. He did the same and she turned on the shower as she eyed the ceiling, where a fire alarm guarded the bathroom entry. Matt followed her stare and then they were under the warm spray, soaping each other under the luxuriant stream.

  Jet kissed him hard. His hands lingered on her breasts, and then she pulled away, her jade eyes flashing. “Assume the place is bugged,” she whispered.

  “I got that.”

  “They might have cameras, too.”

  “Probably. Which means we’ll be taking a lot of showers together.”

  “Grab a taxi to a money-changing booth while I’m gone. I want us to have options.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I’ll stop and get you some clothes, too, if you want.”

  “No, I can do that after the meeting. No offense, but we have different tastes.”

  “You afraid I’ll get you short shorts and tube tops?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  They finished bathing but left the shower running. “They still haven’t given us any paperwork,” she said.

  “I noticed that. The message is pretty clear: we’re under their control.”

  “Not entirely. You still have my spare set, and yours.”

  “Doesn’t really matter, does it? They’re either going to play straight, or we’re screwed,” he said. “As you pointed out when we decided to do this. So far it looks like they’re being honorable.”

  She nodded and kissed him again, this time longer. When she broke away and gazed up into his dripping face, his strong jaw dusted with stubble, she lick
ed her lips.

  “We still have a few minutes to kill.”

  He pressed against her, his interest unmistakable.

  “Anything for the cameras.”

  Chapter 23

  Guy was waiting when Jet stepped out of the building. Matt’s shirt was too big on her, but a relief after days in her own. Guy didn’t comment on her ensemble and merely held the rear door open for her like a chauffeur. They drove for fifteen minutes and, after a brief stint in downtown traffic, arrived at the marina. Jet shot Guy a puzzled look, and he shrugged as he got out of the car.

  “The director likes to look at the boats sometimes,” he said by way of explanation.

  Jet followed him past a massive public swimming pool to the yacht club, where the director was sitting in one of the private dining rooms at a small table near a floor-to-ceiling window. A cigarette lay smoldering in an ashtray in front of him, a cup of coffee beside it.

  “Sir?” Guy called out, and the director twisted toward them.

  “Yes, yes. Come in,” he said. “Have a seat and some coffee, young lady. You could probably use it after your trek.” He pointed to a coffee machine with a row of cups beside it. Guy closed the door, leaving them alone together. Jet walked to the coffee and poured herself a cup, and then carried it to the table and sat opposite the head of the Mossad – one of the most powerful men in Israel.

  Jet waited as he puffed on his cigarette and squinted at a mega-yacht a few miles off the coast, sipping her black coffee, curious to learn why she’d been brought all the way to her home country but unwilling to show it. After several long moments, the old man grunted as though he’d just remembered she was there, and appraised her with a sidelong glance.

  “I used to come out here as a boy. Everything was fresh and new, exciting. There was nothing but a wide-open future of possibility, and after the war, the atrocities, it seemed like we’d landed in paradise.” He paused, wetting his lips. “It’s changed so much I hardly recognize it.”

  Jet saw no reason to comment. If this was the great man’s way of leading up to whatever his point was, so be it.

  He cleared his throat. “I mentioned on the phone that we have a situation.”

  Jet nodded.

  “We have a delicate sanction that needs to be carried out. The assassination of a head of state in a former Soviet satellite.”

  Jet’s expression betrayed no emotion. “You’re all out of assassins? I find that hard to believe.”

  “My problem is that this assignment requires a woman fluent in Russian, capable of carrying out the hit under difficult conditions. Which means someone highly experienced. That narrows the pool considerably.”

  “Mossad is so threadbare they don’t have anyone who speaks Russian?”

  “Nobody that can pull this off.” He blew smoke at the window and sighed. “You’re here, which means you’re in. The target is the president of Azerbaijan. He’ll be appearing at a trade show as the keynote speaker in a few days’ time. His security is competent and not to be underestimated. We’ll fly you there tomorrow morning, where you’ll meet our team in Baku. The rest is arranged. They’ll fill you in on the details. You’ll be posing as a member of an obscure Russian delegation from an outfit that signed up for the conference and trade show before they went out of business. The weapon will already be in the hall – a sniper rifle. I trust you still remember how to use one?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “That’s it? Blow him away and stroll out?”

  “There’s more, of course. We’ve taken care of all the details. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She shook her head. “I’m usually part of the planning process.”

  “Not this time. We don’t have any choice. But we’ve put our best people on it. All you need to do is follow instructions. It should be easy for someone of your abilities – in and out. Clean.” He paused again for another drag on his cigarette. “How’s your daughter holding up?”

  “She’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “You know the outline of the deal we’ve offered you: your partner and daughter will be issued new identities, as will you, and you’ll live in comfort here, protected by our forces. We’ll provide you a safe house wherever you like, within reason. Your daughter will go to school here, learn Hebrew, grow up normally instead of being hunted like an animal. All is forgiven for our past differences, and we’ll have more of a contractor relationship moving forward. An occasional assignment, and you’re buying your family’s safety.”

  “I need that in writing. As well as a contingency that they will continue to enjoy your protection even if something happens to me. That’s non-negotiable.”

  His weathered face crinkled with a wry smile. “I anticipated you’d require that. I’ve drafted something for you,” he said, and withdrew a white envelope from his jacket pocket.

  She took it from him, removed the document from the envelope, and read it quickly before refolding it and nodding. “I see it’s also signed by the chief justice of the Supreme Court.”

  The director grunted. “I figured you’d want at least one reputable party to the transaction.”

  Jet slipped the agreement back into the envelope. “Why do you want the president killed?”

  “Does it matter? We do. That should be enough.”

  “I know nothing about Azerbaijan. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “I’ll see to it that you have all the background materials you require to become an expert.” He eyed her. “How’s your Russian?”

  “Fluent. Which you know.”

  “Little rusty?”

  She held his beagle-eyed stare. “Not at all.”

  “Good.”

  They sat in silence and Jet finished her coffee. She set the cup down on the table and studied the director. “Is that it?”

  “I could bore you with operational details, but I see no point. You fly there, you carry out the sanction, you’re back by the weekend, basking in the sun. A simple matter for one as skilled as yourself.”

  “I don’t like that I’m relying on the planning of people I’ve never met.”

  “It’s a necessary evil in this case. In the future, I’ll see that you’re part of the process.”

  She hesitated. “I recall our last operation didn’t end well. I hope Isaac made it.”

  The director waved away the comment, as though it were beneath consideration. “That was a different situation. I feel far more confident with your family as leverage. Remember that we still had some lingering doubts about your motives at that point. Now there can be none. You’ll do what’s required to keep them safe. As to Isaac, he survived.” He stubbed out his cigarette and felt for a pack in his jacket. “I’m a simple man as I get older. There are only a few things you can depend on. A mother’s love is one. Greed is another. I understand that you’re financially independent, so that leaves love. A powerful force, and one I trust will ensure you carry out your mission without any mishaps.”

  “I don’t need to tell you what will happen if anything…if you don’t honor your side of the bargain.”

  “No need at all. Remember, I’m more than aware of your capabilities. We’re beyond vulgar threats.”

  She turned toward the marina. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

  The director exhaled heavily and stabbed a cigarette into his mouth, glancing at the lighter on the table before raising his eyes to meet Jet’s. He lifted the lighter and nodded, his attention drifting back to the yacht in the distance, the flame dancing as he held the Zippo before him like an offering.

  “Perfectly.”

  Jet let herself out of the room. Guy was waiting in an overstuffed chair and leapt to his feet when she emerged from the doorway.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “I need to buy clothes. I hope you have a credit card.”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  She thought for a moment and nodded. “What’s the biggest toy store in Tel Aviv?”

  He app
eared perplexed and then held up his phone. “I’ll check.”

  “Let’s get clothes first and make that our last stop.”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter 24

  Caucasus Mountains, near Tufandag

  Sanjar Nabiyev’s grip tightened on his rifle as he and Ygor Kazamov negotiated a mountain trail that rose at a near vertical grade. Greenery surrounded them, the high altitude air was crisp, and the weather idyllic. The only sound to be heard was their boots on the track and an occasional loose rock skittering down the side of the mountain when one of them misstepped.

  Nabiyev, the prime minister, was the second most important member of the government; a wiry man in his forties with a birdlike face and cruel features, his eyes so dark as to be nearly black, his ebony hair cropped close to his skull, still thick as a teenager’s but graying at the temples. He was the guest of Kazamov, a Russian oligarch who had a large mountain retreat in the Caucasus range, where the pair had spent the night drinking vodka before embarking on the morning hunt.

  They had allocated four days to hunt Dagestan tur, a particularly prized ram with elaborate horns that sportsman from around the world sought for their trophy walls. But the elusive goats were difficult to spot, and the hunt required both stamina and guile – the former quality eluding the pair of hunters in the throes of their hangovers.

  “What do you make of the political situation, my friend?” Kazamov asked at one of their frequent breaks.

  “It is, as always, complicated. Nothing new there.”

  The Russian unscrewed the top of a leather-wrapped flask and took a long pull before handing it to Nabiyev. The vodka burned like fire going down, but began working its evil magic within moments, and the worst of the pain in their temples receded as the congener production that was partly responsible for the hangover stopped when new alcohol entered their systems.

  “Hovel isn’t playing ball any longer. That is troubling. The cost of continuing our operations is increasing, and the administration seems intent on creating obstacles at every turn,” the Russian complained.