by Ty Patterson
‘What about the servers?’
‘They don’t help in the kitchen. Security protocol. They will back up the guards if needed.’
‘They are soldiers?’
‘Yes. I, too, have to go through rigorous training.’
Our masks will pass. Magal took the liberty of staring openly at the servers, who ignored him. Lipman did a good job.
The kidon checked out the various weapons on their bodies and noted how they moved. Both are right-handed. Rifles across their backs, secured firmly, but available for quick action. Handgun across the chest. Grenades in pouches around their belly. Knife down the thigh.
He went out of the kitchen and inspected the guards at the conference room as well as the kitchen. They had their rifles in their hands and more gear on their bodies. The soldiers down the hallway were similarly equipped.
* * *
Ten am
* * *
‘Werner cracked it.’ Beth approached Zeb and led him to where Meghan was, on a couch, headphones wrapped around her ears, head bobbing to some beat. ‘Cracked it during the night, but we had connectivity issues.’
‘Such as?’
‘Heavy cloud cover, late in the night. The satellite signal dropped.’
‘You haven’t hooked into the base’s network?’
‘And give the IDF an opportunity to hack into us?’ She rolled her eyes and tapped her sister on the shoulder.
‘Files. Lots of them,’ Meghan told them. ‘In Russian. I am getting them translated. But heck, this dude, it looks like he dumped FSB’s operations on that thumb drive. This might take some time.’
‘Try keyword searches,’ Zeb suggested.
‘Way ahead of you. Am doing that. Trouble is, which keywords to search for?’
‘I don’t know.’ Zeb shrugged. ‘You two are smarter than me, aren’t you?’ He walked away quickly before they could retort.
* * *
Eleven am
* * *
Andropov called. ‘Raskov. You remember him?’
‘Yeah,’ Zeb answered. ‘Meghan’s going through his files.’
‘She is?’
Zeb heard him bellowing at some Yuri.
‘You’re ahead of the curve,’ the Russian came back to him. ‘My cyber guy encountered some basic problems. We lost the Internet for a while. This is Russia, my friend.’
‘Grigor,’ Zeb stopped his friend before he launched into a tirade. ‘We’ll share what we have. You called for a reason?’
‘Yes. Raskov’s killing. It matches another killing in Saint Petersburg a year back.’
‘Same cuts—’
‘Same everything. I’ve got the photos with me. The police suspect it was even the same weapon.’
‘The killer wasn’t found?’
‘No. Ask me about the victim.
‘Who was he?’
‘An arms dealer. Suspected of supplying EQB.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
IDF Base
Ten days after Assassinations
One day to Announcement
* * *
Zeb’s world shrank. He bowed his head to focus on Andropov’s words.
‘EQB arms supplier?’
‘Yes. He was on our radar, too. We would have taken him out, but someone acted faster. He had enemies. Many. In Russia as well as outside.’
Zeb thanked him and headed blindly to the drink stand. He looked at no one. Was dimly conscious of Meghan’s eyes on him. He didn’t speak to her.
He took his coffee mug, thinking rapidly. EQB. Israel could have killed him. Don’t jump to conclusions. He had other enemies too, according to Grigor. What’s his link to Raskov?
‘EQB!’ He hurried to the sisters. Coffee spilled on his wrist and burned. He didn’t register it. Beth sprang up and mopped his hand with paper towels. ‘And Hamas. Search for those.’
‘On it,’ Meghan typed.
‘Avichai,’ Zeb called out softly on his collar mic.
Levin didn’t respond.
Must be with the commander.
That feeling returned. The one he’d had the previous day. Like he was missing something obvious.
* * *
Twelve pm
* * *
Magal and Shiri drifted casually toward the kitchen. The cook was arranging plates on a counter. His assistant was working a blender. Its sound merged with that of a noisy exhaust fan, drowning out conversation.
Neither man looked up at the visitors.
Magal picked up two carrots, tossed one to Shiri, munched on his and went inside the supply room.
The servers were at the back. They were straightening their uniforms and putting on white gloves.
‘You both checked these racks?’ Magal asked them. ‘Carmel said we have to inspect them.’
‘Nothing here,’ a soldier replied as he tugged at his clothing.
‘Let’s do it again. It shouldn’t take long. NOW!’
He used his command voice. The soldiers looked at each other and shrugged. It really wouldn’t take long. They still had time.
‘Let’s start at the back.’
Magal and Shiri spread apart. They followed the soldiers and, when it was deepest and darkest in the supply room, they struck.
* * *
‘Nothing about EQB,’ Meghan announced over his earbud.
‘Zeb?’
‘Yeah, I heard.’ He went to the central space and looked down the hallway. Nothing jumped out at him. His radar was pinging, however, soft and low. He looked at the entrance.
Soldiers on guard. No vehicles arriving. Clear passage.
‘Search for Hamas.’
‘Copy.’
He took a step forward. Brought his mug to his mouth and sipped. Assured himself that it was nothing. He was overreacting. We are possibly in the most secure location in Israel.
Even as he thought that, a memory stirred. Something about knife work. Someone preferred a blade.
He tried to grab it. It remained elusive.
He took another step. Slower this time, because he wanted to focus on knife.
Meghan’s voice came on. Strained. ‘Zeb. Raskov was on someone else’s payroll. Zarab Tousi. He was a double agent.’
Tousi! Shock raced through him. Major General Zarab Tousi, head of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. It was the most powerful military outfit in Iran. Its influence was far-reaching. It brutally suppressed protests in Iran and used violence and fear to keep liberal-minded citizens in check.
Tousi had openly stated that destruction of Israel was his aim.
Zeb knew of Tousi. Every intelligence agency in the world knew him. He was dubbed the Handler in some circles for running successful double-agent operations in several countries.
Iran!
Eliel and Navon are of Iranian origin. Their grandparents migrated from that country. Eliel has a Persian soldier’s tattoo.
‘Meg,’ he knew his voice sounded coarse. ‘Search for Eliel and Navon. Their second names. Magal, Shiri.’
He moved quickly toward the hallway.
Looked around him. Didn’t see the two kidon.
‘Beth?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Get Levin. The prime minister. I don’t care who. Send the police to Magal’s house. Check if his foster mother is really ill.’
Another thought struck him. ‘Is she really his foster parent? Just who are those folks in Haifa?’
‘Got it.’
‘Carmel?’
The kidon didn’t reply.
‘Zeb,’ Meghan said, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s them.’
His mug crashed to the floor as he burst into a sprint. Adrenaline surged through him, drowning out the protests his body made. Her voice faded in and out as other thoughts scrambled for attention.
‘Raskov was blackmailing Tousi … photographs of Eliel and Navon.’
They showed me those pictures.
‘Raskov found their identities.’
Knife work. Eli
el prefers that weapon. It’s in his file.
‘He went to Tousi, who said he’d keep it to himself. Then he started blackmailing.’
Eliel and Navon left their post at the Galaxy. They rushed to the fifth.
‘This thumb drive was his protection.’
‘Find Carmel,’ he panted.
‘We’ve got to announce—’
‘No! We need eyes-on. They might start killing indiscriminately.’
How did I miss all this?
He stopped thinking. There would be time later to blame himself. He was thirty yards down. Running at full speed. The first pair of guards turned toward him.
He held his credentials up. ‘You saw Eliel and Navon?’
‘Kitchen.’
‘They’re in the kitchen,’ he relayed.
‘Carmel’s here. They’re all coming,’ Meghan panted, as if she was running. ‘Beth’s gone to find Levin.’
He looked back. Meghan running down the hallway, the Israeli behind her.
The ambassador! She’s in the conference room.
Seventy feet out. Another set of guards. Same question. Same reply.
He skidded as he neared the kitchen. A server stepped out, plates balanced in his hands. He flashed a curious glance at Zeb and went to the conference room.
Zeb crashed into the kitchen door. Cook and assistant, heads down, arranging food on more plates. Blender and exhaust fan making conversation impossible.
A server came out of the supply room. Took several porcelain dishes, stacked them neatly on one forearm and headed out.
‘Eliel and Navon?’ Zeb yelled. ‘Have you seen them?’
The server shook his head, his eyes down.
Zeb darted inside the storage room. Racks. Dim light. He moved swiftly down the rows, checking left and right, Glock appearing magically in his hand.
There, at the back. On the floor. What’s that?
He took one look and lunged out of the room.
‘SERVERS!’ he bellowed.
Chapter Sixty-Three
IDF Base
Ten days after Assassinations
One day to Announcement
* * *
Zeb sprang out of the kitchen. The conference room’s door was opening. The second server was stepping inside. To his right, Meghan and Carmel were nearing.
‘STOP!’
The server didn’t stop.
Don’t want to shoot him like this.
Zeb holstered his Glock in a flash, dived at him, grabbed him by his collar and yanked him back savagely.
The plates went clattering to the floor. The door started closing. The server swung round smoothly and punched Zeb in the belly. His eyes were cold, his jaws set. Zeb staggered back. The momentary respite was what the server needed. His hand flashed to his chest. Dived into a pouch and came out with a grenade.
‘STAND BACK!’ Zeb warned the guards, ‘DON’T SHOOT.’
I should have shot him, he cursed himself, when I had the opportunity.
The nearest four soldiers dropped to the floor and crawled rapidly to the kitchen. Meghan grabbed Carmel and joined them. ‘Go,’ she yelled. ‘We’ll deal with him.’
There was something in the server’s eyes. He seemed nervous as he backed away, holding the grenade in his hand. A muscle twitched on his face.
‘Don’t do this. You can’t escape. Give yourself up.’ He tried to recognize the server, but all he could see was his dark eyes.
All the kidon have dark eyes.
The server’s hand arced. The grenade sailed in the air down the hallway. His hand flashed to the M16 behind his back.
Zeb didn’t linger. He charged toward the conference room and hurled himself inside. The M16 spat behind him, followed by two flat cracks, sounding almost like one.
And then the door shut behind him.
He crashed into a chair, fell over a negotiator. His eyes sweeping around the room swiftly, taking stock.
The negotiators and the ambassador were looking at him in shock.
The room’s soundproofed. But they saw some of that and must have heard the shooting.
The other server was to his front and left, jumping back from laying down his plates. His eyes were on Zeb.
The grenade exploded in the hallway. The room shuddered, its windows shook.
‘DOWN! ON THE FLOOR,’ Zeb ordered the negotiators, who were shrieking and cowering in fear. He repeated the command in Arabic.
The server stood immobile. He looked stunned.
Or he’s working out his next move.
The Israelis and Palestinians threw themselves to the floor. Alice Monash joined them.
Zeb climbed onto the table and drew out his Glock. Then the server acted.
He grabbed a chair and threw it in Zeb’s direction. It was heavy: leather-backed, with rollers. Despite that, he picked it up as if it weighed nothing. The next moment, his hands flashed to his M16.
Zeb ducked. He stepped on a paper towel, which slipped on the smooth surface. He stumbled. The heavy missile caught him on his shoulder, and his Glock went flying.
He went with the momentum, rolling on the table as rounds ripped the air above him. Moving faster than his assailant thought he could. Screams burst from the civilians.
‘STAY … DOWN,’ he panted, and then his feet were smashing against the server, and the two men crashed on a chair and fell to the floor.
Zeb on top, gripping the M16 firmly, directing it toward a rear wall. The server trying to gain control of the weapon, punching at Zeb with his free hand, bucking his hips in an attempt to dislodge him.
Zeb let go of the weapon. The server brought the barrel up and started turning it down. Zeb grabbed the fallen chair and pulled it hard. Its roller smashed into the hostile’s neck, choking him. His grip loosened.
It was the opening Zeb needed. He slammed an elbow into the man’s shoulder, grabbed the M16 from a weakened palm and flung it away. It was too cumbersome for close-quarters combat. He reached for his Glock when the server reared up and headbutted him.
The blow felt like a block of concrete. Zeb’s forehead split. Blood poured down his face. He reared back from the impact, struggling to bring up his handgun after a vice-like grip clamped around his wrist. The server, who was forcing the Glock to the American’s body, twisted his wrist painfully until it reached close to the breaking point.
Zeb gritted his teeth, panting harshly, and willed his body to counter the move. Sweat dripped down his nose, mingled with blood. The server’s eyes were dark, fathomless, his face scrunched in concentration.
Zeb weakened his grip suddenly. His gun arm swung wide under the attacker’s pressure. The weapon triggered and shot into the ceiling. He let go of the weapon, and this time, it was his turn to headbutt.
Except that the server wasn’t there. He had kicked away, catching the American on the chest, and now sprang to his feet.
He ripped away his mask. His hand flashed to his thigh and came up with a knife.
‘Eliel, why are you doing this?’ Zeb asked hoarsely. He grabbed the edge of the table and got to his feet unsteadily.
The kidon attacked in reply.
Zeb saw the knife coming, weaving and dancing in the air, heading toward his chest. He swayed inside the arc of the slice and put out his left hand to guide the blade away.
It was misdirection.
The operative’s left fist slammed into his side like a shovel. He thought he felt a rib crack. Fire lanced through him. He took a step back to make space and felt wetness down his left side.
He looked down in surprise and saw a thin, reddening slash in his clothing.
Eliel had cut him on the upstroke, even as he had punched him in the side.
‘I should have killed you the moment I knew who you were.’ The kidon’s lips parted in a feral grin.
Zeb shook his head to clear his mind.
Eliel was possibly the best operative Mossad had. He would need his wits about him.
‘I did think a
bout killing your friends. I would have enjoyed cutting their pale skin.’
That was a mistake.
A red mist descended on Zeb. It surged through him, woke the beast in him, gave him power and speed.
He roared inarticulately. Grabbed the nearest furniture, a chair. Swung it around one-handedly and let fly at Eliel, who was charging again, saw the incoming missile and ducked. But another chair flew straight at him and crashed into his chest, and he staggered back and fell.
Eliel reacted almost instantly. He looked at Zeb. Then at the M16, which lay close by. He threw his body at it, got hold of it, and started triggering as he brought the barrel down.
Zeb moved faster than he ever had.
He left the ground, aiming for the Glock that was underneath an upturned chair. Its leg slammed into his side. A groan burst out of him, but his hand kept scrabbling desperately until it touched the weapon.
He grabbed it. Its butt fit comfortably in his palm like it was home. He turned around awkwardly, the furniture digging into his back.
The M16 had stitched a straight-line pattern on the roof, rounds coming down the wall toward him, Eliel working the weapon with lethal efficiency, his eyes hot as if they could burn Zeb with their gaze.
Concrete chips smacked Zeb’s face. He heard shouting as if from a distance. Screaming. He thought he heard Meghan’s voice. Beth’s as well.
He would take his time, even if Eliel shot him. He gripped the Glock, straightened his arm. Something singed his cheek and then Eliel filled his sight and his finger moved automatically and the gun bucked in his hand.
The kidon’s body jerked. The M16 fell away from his hands, one last round burying itself in the wall.
Bodies moved.
Zeb looked up, tiredly.
Beth and Meghan. Behind them Carmel. Dalia. All the remaining kidon. Levin, near the door.