by Arno Joubert
“You implemented a Korean-manufactured lattice security system, at least three years old. A known weakness of the system was that it is susceptible to heat. The plastic melts and a system override kicks in, automatically opening the doors when it senses temperatures above a hundred and forty degrees.”
“So what, man?” Perreira asked with irritated wave.
Zach sighed. “The product was designed as a clocking system for mines. When a fire occurred, the doors needed to open.”
“How do you know this?” Callahan asked.
“It’s my job to know everything there is to know about securing Mossad HQ. Your system failed my checks.”
Perreira grinned. “Funny you didn’t think about that at your own place.”
Zach glared at him.
“All right, what did you use to get in? A lighter?” Callahan asked.
Zach took a deep breath and continued. “Yes. We simply had to heat the sensors in the corners of the motherboard.”
“So you heated it and the doors opened up?” Callahan asked incredulously.
“Precisely.”
Bruce pointed his gun at the three soldiers. “C’mon then!”
The man on the left lunged at him and was rewarded with a third eye between the other two. Bruce turned towards the second soldier, but the man grabbed the nozzle of his Glock and twisted it around, breaking Bruce’s trigger finger.
The soldier yanked the gun back and easily dislodged it from Bruce’s hand. He released the cartridge, tossed the gun into a corner, and then turned to face Bruce.
Bruce studied the soldier. He was fresh-faced, couldn’t have been older than twenty. He was shorter than Bruce, five-ten he guessed. Broad-shouldered with muscular arms, ranked as a sergeant, the workhorses of the military. The man had numerous tiny cut marks on his forehead and chin. This guy had been in a couple of bare-knuckle fights.
The soldier hunkered forward, hands in front of his face, in a boxer’s stance. Bruce kicked out and landed hard on the soldier’s thigh. He then hammered three blows into the man’s shoulder, and the soldier covered up, the way Bruce knew he would. The sergeant dropped his arms to let the sting out. Lactic acid would build in the arm, rendering it ineffective within a couple of seconds. Bruce shifted his focus to the second man but had to jump back when the sergeant pulled a knife from an ankle holster, rolled towards Bruce, and lashed out at his hip. Bruce shimmied and narrowly avoided being cut.
He twisted and connected the man flush on the chin with his elbow. Not a perfect blow, but it stunned the soldier momentarily. The soldier to his left saw a non-existent opportunity and rained punches onto Bruce.
Wrong move, pal.
Bruce took a couple of glancing blows on his arms, feinted right, and connected with a perfectly-timed knuckle punch to his attacker’s throat. The man’s eyes bulged, and he slumped to the ground, clutching his neck with both hands.
Bruce waved the sergeant forward, trying to shake the pain from his broken finger. They both looked up as Weinstein stumbled into the room.
“Hold it right there, Bryden.” Weinstein pointed a gun at Bruce’s chest.
Bruce slowly lifted his hands. Shit.
Weinstein raised the gun to Bruce’s head and then pointed it to his own.
What the . . .?
Bruce closed his eyes and the shot reverberated through the room.
The sergeant glanced at Bruce in bewilderment and raised his hands in front of his chest. “Look, I want nothing more to do with this.” He jerked his head in Weinstein’s direction. “I took my orders directly from the colonel. The colonel is dead; I’m relieved from my duties.”
Bruce nodded his head and the sergeant spun around, heading towards his injured colleague who was still writhing around on the floor. Weinstein lay in a pool of blood, his feet beneath his bottom, slumped on his side.
“Wait,” Bruce called.
The sergeant stopped and turned around, reluctantly.
“Why did you not use my gun to shoot me? Why aren’t you armed?”
The sergeant strode to a door at the far end of the room and opened it. “This is what we were guarding.”
The door led to an adjacent room. Inside stood an assortment of cardboard boxes and wooden crates packed to the ceiling. “What is it?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Explosives. Ammunition. Land-to-air, air-to-air. Nimrod antitank missiles, Baraks. You name it.”
Bruce whistled.
“A stray bullet could have blown this whole damn city up,” the sergeant said.
Bruce checked his broken index finger. It stood out at a peculiar angle, starting to swell. It throbbed like a bastard. “That was a smart move,” Bruce said, holding his finger in the air.
The man studied Bruce with narrowed eyes. He stood lightly, like he had springs attached to the soles of his feet, ready for any retaliation.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
The man relaxed. “Allen, sir. Staff Sergeant Neil Allen.”
Bruce retrieved his gun and magazine clip then pried Weinstein’s gun from his fingers. “Where is Cohen?”
Sergeant Allen waved his thumb, like a hitchhiker. “Down the passage.”
June 16, 1992
Jaffa, Israel
20:13
Callahan paced around the room, his hands behind his back. He turned to Zachary. ”How did he get past the security cameras?"
Zachary licked his lips. “You were running an MVS 3.8."
“Speak English,” Perreira said.
“It was a massive mainframe that could operate a smallish city’s infrastructure on its own,” Callahan said, staring blankly at the wall.
“So what?” Perreira asked.
Zachary glared at Perreira then continued. “Bruce helped me hack into the mainframe by mounting a special tape with my software on it. Afterward, I was able to manipulate your security system.”
“What did you find?” Callahan asked, a slight panic in his voice.
“Everything checked out. Your organization, code named “The Dalerians,” had been allocating funds assigned to you by the UK government. You were supposed to set up safe houses in Europe for their undercover agents and military.”
“We did,” Callahan said.
Zachary glared at Callahan.
Callahan nodded, fidgeting with his cufflinks. “I’m not revising my ‘bullshit story,’ as you called it, until I find out exactly what you know.”
Zachary sighed then licked his lips. “As I said, everything seemed kosher. After monitoring payments authorized by you, I picked up an allocation of funds that were supposed to be transferred to the British embassy in France.”
Callahan fidgeted with the seam of his pants. “So what?”
“I traced the account to whom the payment was made. It led back to Platinum Private.”
“Captain Cohen. There is nothing suspect about the transactions I authorized,” Callahan said, his face turning red. “The government pays private vendors all the time.”
Zachary shook his head, smiling. “You screwed up with the payment to Platinum Private. They have no affiliation with any government entity.”
“Enlighten me on how you came to that conclusion,” Callahan said, plonking down on the edge of the table.
“You were running a racketeering ring, paying millions of pounds per month to private beneficiaries, all of whom linked back to Platinum Private.”
“And you found all this by checking the bank records?” Callahan asked with a smirk. “Impossible.”
Zachary rolled his head on his shoulders and closed his eyes. “You were using a normal typewriter to type faxes you would send to your operatives with their instructions. Fortunately, you had a CCTV camera behind your back. I could read everything you typed.”
“And what do you know about the Cubans?” Perreira asked.
“Platinum Private is a shipment company, handling the transfer of goods between countries. Callahan supplied Cuba with western contraban
d. There is a trade embargo between the West and Cuba.” Zach looked up defiantly.
“Go on,” Callahan said.
“You were shipping tons of shit to Cuba. Playboys, LP records, ketchup. The latest shipment was two thousand VHS recorders, five hundred air-conditioning units, and fifty Chevy SUVs.” Zach turned to face Callahan. “You purchased the items by stealing some cash from the British government and then selling the products at inflated markups.”
Callahan chuckled nervously, a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek. He dabbed at it with a blue handkerchief. “The Cubans do enjoy the Western luxuries, even if they don't say so.”
Perreira chuckled.
“All of the ‘sundries’ payments totaled more than three million pounds per month. You were handling millions of pounds worth of currency per day, receiving cash for information and haphazardly allocating some to yourself.”
“Who else knows about this?” Perreira asked, standing up.
Zachary shrugged. “Everybody."
“Shit,” Callahan said, mopping his brow.
Perreira held up a hand and cocked his head, listening intently.
“What’s wrong?” Callahan asked.
“You hear that, man?” Perreira asked.
“What?”
“I heard a gunshot,” Perreira said.
“So? Probably Weinstein doing his job,” Callahan said.
Perreira shook his head and strode to the door, peeking outside. “No, there are three marines, but I heard one shot. I told Weinstein to kill all the soldiers. They knew too much about our operations.”
Perreira and Cohen glanced at each other with sudden comprehension. Callahan strode towards Zach, grabbing him by his chest. “Where is your beeper thing?”
Zach shrugged, smiling. “GLD.”
Callahan pushed Zachary back in his chair then turned around, scanning the room. “I’m getting the hell out of here.”
”No, I'll kill the bastardo.” Perreira opened the drawer and fumbled for his pistol. He grabbed a Beretta then tossed the table over on its side and ducked behind it.
The door stood ajar and Bruce peered around the corner. Zach sat there squirming, tied to a chair. He cast Bruce a wide-eyed glance and gestured with his chin to somewhere inside the room. Bruce nodded then peeked inside. Towards the far end of the room, a metal table had been upended. Sun-bleached curtains stirred in front of an open window.
A man with a black ponytail stood up from behind the table and a silver Beretta barked as he fired at Bruce.
Bruce jerked his body back behind the wall as concrete fragments shattered from the doorway. Zachary’s body stiffened and his eyes widened in fear. Zack tried to scream, but then a bullet exploded into his chest. He stared down to where the bullet had ripped into him, and then his body jolted as two more bullets slammed into his gut and shoulder.
Bruce barged into the room, trying to distract the assailant by firing in the direction of the table, struggling to pull the trigger with his middle finger. He kept his eyes on Zachary, who had slumped forward, his chest moving slowly up and down.
Bruce grabbed the arm of the chair and lugged Zachary out of the room as shots ricocheted against the wall behind them. He stumbled as a searing pain cut into his calf. He limped out of the room, dragging Zachary in the chair behind him, returning fire. The trigger clicked as he emptied Weinstein’s clip.
Bruce caught his breath as he lifted Zach’s head, feeling for a pulse. He was still alive, but blood was oozing from his wounds. He checked the magazine in his gun and steadied himself, sucking in three sharp breaths and skipping back into the room.
Ponytail-man stood up from behind the table, taking aim at Bruce. Bruce kneeled, firing a volley of shots. Ponytail-man roared as a slug exploded into his hand. He dropped the gun and clutched his bleeding hand, trying to stem the flow of blood.
Bruce fired again, but the gun just clicked, empty. He tossed it in the corner and unsheathed his knife. He stood ready, balancing on one leg.
Ponytail-man rushed forward with a snarl. Bruce threw a short right, but the man blocked it and head-butted him in the face. Bruce’s vision went blurry.
Win at all costs.
He dropped to his knees, supporting himself with one hand. The man reacted as Bruce had expected, launching a kick at his head. He caught Ponytail-man’s leg under his arm and stood up. The man bounced around on one leg, trying to keep his balance.
With his free hand, Bruce stabbed the man’s leg, hacking, trying to sever the femoral artery. He slashed and pulled back a couple of times, ripping through the guy’s pants and exposing sinew and flesh.
The guy bucked and rolled, but Bruce held tight, stabbing continuously. He could see huge gashes, bone and tendons sticking out. Bruce pushed forward and swept the man’s free leg from under him, ramming him into the floor. He mounted his chest and thrust the knife with both hands towards the man’s face. The man caught Bruce’s arms, blood dripping from the wound onto his chin and chest.
The man was strong, but Bruce leaned into the blade with his upper body, the tip of the blade inching ever closer to the man’s nose. Both men strained, shaking with the effort. Bruce knew he was winning this fight. The blade inched closer to the man's red, swollen face. He wanted to finish this quick; Zach needed a doctor.
Perreira blinked. His entire being was focused on a shiny blade with an ivory handle that loomed large in his vision. The letters “B.B.” were engraved lengthwise on the blade. It had a serrated upper edge, used for scaling fish or sawing off branches. Or his leg. He snarled as the blade gouged his cheek.
Then the effort stopped. Gunshots rang out and Bryden rolled off of him. A second later Callahan’s face filled his blurry vision. Callahan grabbed him by the belt and flung Perreira’s arm over his shoulder, pointing the gun at Bryden.
Perreira tried to walk, but his leg was useless. Callahan had to drag him towards the window, glancing over his shoulder all the time. Then Callahan rested against the windowsill, gave Perreira a shove, and pushed him over the ledge. He managed to break his fall with his healthy leg and rolled to minimize the impact. Callahan jumped out and dragged him into the idling Mercedes.
Callahan slammed the car into gear, and Perreira lurched back as they screeched away. Bryden leaned out of the window, glaring at them. They powered around the corner and Perreira flopped onto the backseat, spent. “Why didn’t you shoot him?” Perreira asked, breathing heavily.
“I was out of ammo. We have a room full of bombs but not one single nine millimetre clip!”
Perreira groaned, clutching his injured hand into his armpit. “I swear by my father’s grave, Bryden is going to suffer for what he has done to me.”
Callahan glanced at the rearview mirror. “Don’t forget about Cohen. He started this all. He cost us our livelihood.”
Perreira closed his eyes, nodded. “Sí, sí. They will all die. I will wipe them off the face of the earth!”
June 18, 1992
Jaffa, Israel
Bruce Bryden and David Cohen stood up as the doctor entered the waiting area. The man walked towards David and smiled encouragingly. Bruce put his hand on David's shoulder.
“David. Good news. Zachary had internal bleeding, but we managed to get it under under control. He's a tough nut.”
David Cohen looked relieved.
“And Sarah? How is she?” Bruce asked.
“Stable. I think she’ll be fine. She needs rest, but she has recovered well.” He nodded at Bruce. “You saved her life.”
“Thank god,” David said, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder. “Becky wouldn’t be able to cope without her.”
The doctor stuck out his hand and greeted the men. David sat with a relieved sigh and glanced up at Bruce. “That was close. Too close.”
Bruce kneeled in front of the older man and grabbed his knee. “David, we need to get out of here. You guys are sitting ducks. It's a question of time before they regroup and try again.”
David Cohe
n shook his head. “No Bruce, we're Cohens.” He punched his leg, a determined look on his face. “And Cohens do not run from anybody. We stay and we fight.”
September 7, 1992.
Jaffa, Israel.
Zachary Cohen wiped cold beads of perspiration from his brow. He pulled the needle from his vein, loosened the tourniquet, and sat back with a sigh. He put the lighter, a bag of meth crystals, and hypodermic needle in a tin and tossed them in the glove compartment. Zachary rolled down his shirtsleeve and grabbed his leather jacket from the passenger seat of the car.
He flipped the rearview mirror down towards him and studied the reflection. A pale, gaunt face stared back at him, dark circles beneath the eyes accentuating the ashen skin. He brushed his curly black hair with his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and prepared himself mentally.
Zachary pushed himself out of the car and strolled towards the entrance gate of a neat, whitewashed villa. A white-pebbled pathway led to the front door.
Some weeds had appeared between the white stones. Brambles sprouted in one of the flower beds. He bent down and tore them out halfheartedly, leaving the roots behind. This annoyed him intensely. He clawed at the embedded tubers, gouging the earth with his thumb. He stomped on the small hole he had made and cursed as a dizzy spell gripped him. He shook off a meth shiver and steadied himself against the gate, regaining his balance.
Symbolic of everything my life has become. Why would she want to stay here?
He opened the gate and crunched up the pathway towards the two-story home. His home. Rang the doorbell, two long buzzes and a short one as he always did when returning. He turned around and sauntered into the garden, inhaling the heady odor of the sweet alyssum blooming in the unkempt flowerbeds. Zach experienced another pang of guilt.
I should be here.
The front door flew open and Becky came bounding down the stairs, an expression of pure joy on her face. She swung a backpack in her hand. She buzzed towards him and launched herself into his arms with a child’s exuberance. He grabbed her and tossed her into the air, catching her gently. She giggled delightedly. Zach put her down, pouted his lips, and tapped them with his finger. “Give daddy a kiss.”