Crossing the Lines

by Jacob Ganani

  The small boat had been tossed about in the rough waters as if about to capsize, but for the two soldiers aboard, the worst part of the ordeal was over. The first, who realized how close he had been to drowning, stood, recovering, at the stern. His colleague at the bow had uncurled from his bouts of nausea and now smiled with relief. They were satisfied, despite the suffering they had undergone. The mission was complete, albeit at a considerable delay, but complete nonetheless.

  They believed they had done a good job, given their inexperience as seamen and the harsh weather conditions they had faced. Only no one had clarified beforehand what would happen if their schedule went awry and they were late entering the marina.

  The boat passed the harbor breakwater, thrust forward by the last of the waves to glide into relatively quiet water. The short man in the gray rain cloak recognized the prearranged turning point and turned the helm toward dock number three.

  ***

  Cantor suddenly felt a sense of unease, an elusive, vague feeling that came from nowhere but insistently foretold that things were about to go wrong.

  However, nothing really happened. The view of the wet docks had not changed. Radio silence was still in effect, and even the faint, distinctive sounds of the helicopter in the clouds above him sounded monotonous and distant, as before. There was nothing to explain the concern that had begun to grow inside him. But the feeling was there, and Cantor knew that these strange traces of intuition sometimes proved to be true and should not be ignored.

  The dock was approximately 250 feet long. The water line was clearly visible along its entire length. There was no way he could miss a vessel approaching the dock. If he was needed as backup, he could reach the water line within four seconds. The chances that they would actually need him were slim, but he was ready. The ground was wet and slippery. He knew that, if he ran, he would have to be careful not to slip.

  As the clock drew closer to 11:00pm, Cantor felt a positive tension building inside him, a tension that served as the necessary ingredient for sharpness of action. His night vision was already at maximum acuity. He could see the minute details of the boats docked along the platforms. The medication had dulled his back pain to a tolerable level. The drizzling rain occasionally created a lace-like curtain, distorting the scene, but not to an extent that concerned him. He craved a cigarette, but pushed the thought away.

  Three clicks sounded on the radio transmitter. It was the signal they were all expecting. He pulled his service revolver from its holster and felt the weight of the Jericho, almost 3 pounds of steel. He scanned the waters across from him with the concentration of a hypnotist. The lace curtain of water droplets faded as the rain abruptly came to a halt, as if stopping at precisely the right time for the unveiling.

  ***

  The interception team maintained their positions on the rooftop. For the umpteenth time, Yeremi Gantz wiped drops of water from his sniper rifle’s telescopic lens. He and Dori had fully exhausted the foremost attribute of any sniper - patience. They had already endured two hours of almost motionless and uncomfortable lying in wait. Black rain guards covered the delicate mechanisms of their rifles. Their own state of wetness was much worse, but the rifles were more important. They exchanged as few words as possible and, when necessary, spoke in short, hushed whispers. Their task was to cover Haddad and Uri when they made contact with the target.

  If such contact was ever made.

  Gantz was a forty-two-year-old bachelor. He was sometimes asked why he had never married. He had a pre-prepared, vague answer: “It never worked out,” giving no further explanation. Lately, he had taken to blatantly rejecting his friends’ attempts to set him up with women, which discouraged them from trying to do so again.

  Dori, his partner, had recently divorced. His first marriage had been short - less than two years. It was rumored that he had married his ex-wife for a second time after a tumultuous and unrequited relationship with another woman. This most recent attempt had also failed. Correcting one mistake with a second mistake had created a problem rather than a solution.

  From a bird’s eye view, they looked like two piles of rags on the roof, frozen, tense figures, eager for action.

  ***

  As Cantor cocked the hammer of the Jericho, a flash from his past gripped him again. The cursed parking lot in Paris. Standing with the pistol in his hand, aiming at the target car and then the sudden flash of a blinding spotlight and the terrible blow to his upper body... a most damnable memory emerging at a most inappropriate time.

  And then, suddenly, his radio transmitted two quick clicks. Cantor observed a bow wave forming in the water. A fraction of a second later, a boat came into view - a small fishing boat whose motor was inaudible over the howl of the wind. He noticed two dark figures on the narrow deck. The first, dressed in a dark rain cloak, was at the stern, near the helm. The other, in a large windbreaker and waterproof motorcycle pants, stood at the bow. The latter held a heavy rope. Another second passed and the boat stopped abruptly as the bow hit the dock. Far from elegant, Cantor thought. He saw the stern drift outward and gathered that the man in the cloak had turned off the engine before the boat was properly docked. A rookie mistake. Cantor was an experienced sailor. The man should have turned the bow outwards and revved up the engine. This would have aligned the boat with the length of the dock. Ultimately, the man he was watching was a rookie sailing in waters meant for pros.

  Meanwhile, the figure at the bow hopped onto the rain-sodden dock, pulling the line with his right hand. This action demonstrated that he, too, was not an experienced seaman. He tossed the line and missed the bollard. As the boat drifted away from the dock again, he managed to leap over the line that was tangled under his feet, almost dragging him into the water. He moved to the left and wrapped the end of the line around the mooring cleat with a violent pull that made the little boat jerk precariously. Cantor noted with appreciation the composure of the first figure. While his colleague awkwardly attempted to tie the boat, he stood by, patient and quiet.

  Apart from the surreal scene of the boat struggling to moor, nothing was moving along dock number three, nor the wharf from which all the docks protruded like the fingers of a giant hand. The scene was desolate and abandoned, like a distant, remote desert.

  Again Cantor felt a sense of foreboding. At that moment, just as he was overcome with doubt, radio silence was broken: “GO!” A glaring searchlight illuminated the boat with a blinding white light. Cantor saw Haddad rising from the pile of nets under which he was hiding and storming toward the boat. Another second passed and Uri leapt from the other side with his gun raised at shoulder level. He heard him yell, “Police!” with a force that overcame the roar of the wind.

  The two drenched figures, one on the dock and his friend on the boat, froze. Together, with precise choreography, they raised their hands high above their heads as an exemplary model of quick, unhesitating response. They did not seem surprised. A bad sign. The man in the rain cloak looked for a moment like a giant bat spreading his wings to fly. Haddad halted his onslaught 10 feet away from the man on the dock. He shouted, gesturing with his left hand to lie on the ground. The man obeyed immediately. His friend, hands stretched as high as the clumsy cloak allowed, stood on the boat and waited for instructions. Cantor caught Uri looking up at the roof and realized that he was making sure their backup has them covered. He nodded. Haddad approached and quickly searched the man on the dock. Even before he completed the search, Cantor knew the man was unarmed.

  The wind changed direction and Cantor now clearly heard Uri’s voice. “Is anyone else in there?” he asked, keeping his Jericho aimed steadily at the man aboard the boat.

  “No. Just me and him,” the man shouted back.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I swear, there’s just the two of us.”

  “Are you armed? Guns, knives?”

  “No, why would we be?” he said mockingly, as if it was the dumbest question he had ever heard.

 
“Keep your hands held high and step over to the dock, slowly!” Uri instructed.

  The man shifted his foot, trying to find a grip on the wet ground and stepped easily onto the concrete platform.

  “With your right hand, pull the cloak off over your head!” Uri ordered.

  The man slowly lowered his right arm with his fingers spread wide open, took hold of his cloak, and pulled it slowly over his head. Cantor realized that the police teams were watching a stand-up comedy routine with the joke on them. There was no way this clown would give anyone a reason to accidentally shoot him. The man, moving in slow motion, held the tip of the cloak with two fingers and let it fall to the ground. Two rifles and a pistol were aimed at him as his left hand was revealed to be empty. Uri lowered his weapon and shouted, “On the ground, hands at your sides!”

  The man lay on the wet platform, exhibiting no fear or distress in his movements.

  Cantor switched on his radio. “Haddad, permission to approach?” Haddad glanced at him and waved him over.

  Cantor advanced and peered into the boat illuminated by the bright spotlights. It was empty, cleared of everything. Even the usual gear found on most boats had been removed from it. Apart from the helm, under which the little engine was installed, there were two benches along its sides. They hid storage compartments under their wooden lids. He hopped skillfully onto the boat and lifted the lid off the compartment on the right. It was empty. He did the same for the left compartment with the same result. It was also apparent that there was no hidden hatch. The overly simple structure of the boat ruled that option out. He wrestled with the possibility that the boat was towing a cargo in the water behind it, but that would have to wait until the technical team entered the scene. They had already emerged from the darkness with a truck crane.

  The bitter taste of failure caught in Cantor’s throat as he turned to Haddad, whose face marked the same feelings. No words were necessary.

  “On your feet, let’s go!” Haddad ordered the man stretched out on the ground.

  The short man rose to his feet. Cantor hopped off the boat onto the dock and kicked the cloak forward as Haddad advanced threateningly toward the man, staring intently into his eyes. “Just give me a reason, you jerk...”

  But if he was hoping the man would be tempted to give him a reason to vent his frustration, he was left disappointed. The man did not utter a word. His taller colleague, his hands still in the air, said, “Where’re we going? Where’re you taking us?”

  “Shut up!” Haddad sounded annoyed and dangerous at the same time.

  Only the tall one was not impressed by Haddad’s rough tone. “Hey, cop, relax. There’s no way you’re taking us in!”

  Haddad took two quick strides forward and grabbed the man by the neck as he stuck the muzzle of his Jericho under his chin. Cantor leapt forward, gripped Haddad by the shoulders, and pulled him back.

  “Fuck off, Cantor!” Haddad grunted, shaking him off.

  Cantor moved to stand between Haddad and the tall man, moving his palm out toward the ground to calm Haddad’s rage. There were procedures they had to follow even when they preferred there weren’t.

  Haddad turned his back on him and returned the gun to its holster.

  Cantor turned to the two and said, “You’re being detained for interrogation.”

  “What for?” asked the short one.

  Cantor ignored the question, “What were you doing out there?”

  “We were fishing,” volunteered the tall one.

  “When did you set sail?”

  “Four o’clock, maybe five.”

  “Yeah, sure, and the fish weren’t biting and the net was swept away into the sea, am I right?”

  “That’s right, swept clean away.”

  Right.

  “Do you have IDs?" Haddad intervened.

  “Sure, but not on us. Why would we take documents out to sea?”

  “Playing dumb, huh? You could have put them in a waterproof bag, you idiot!” Haddad exclaimed in a disgusted tone. “Where did you say you set sail from?”

  The short one took the bait. He turned and pointed toward the boat, “From here.”

  First lie.

  “Where exactly? Show me.”

  The men exchanged glances. The tall one answered quickly, “The boat was being repaired. It was only returned to the water this morning, maybe from here… I’m not sure.” This was enough for the angry and frustrated Haddad. He turned to the police sergeant who was waiting patiently for the questioning to come to an end.

  “Cuff them and take them to the station,. Check their records and the boat’s records. Write them up for operating a motorized vessel without a permit, endangering the public, self-endangerment and failure to present ID. Clear?”

  “Got it.”

  “Come with me for a minute..." Haddad said to Cantor and began to walk away.

  “I’m sorry -” Cantor began, but Haddad interrupted him sharply.

  “There’s no need. You were right. Another second and I was going to get myself in trouble. Don’t mention it again.”

  Cantor smiled with relief, “Mention what?”

  But Haddad didn’t smile or soften his tone of voice. “I want you to review all the surveillance shots we have of Sexta’s gang, okay? I want you to look for these two through every single frame, and I want it done urgently.”

  “No problem.”

  “Update me, no matter what you find,” Haddad clarified.

  “Understood.”

  For the first time, Haddad’s lips curled into a hint of a bitter smile. Cantor knew what he was thinking. On such charges, photos or no photos, the two men would be released inside an hour, and maybe even sue the police for wrongful arrest.

  Behind him, Cantor heard the tall man exclaim, “This is a false arrest! We have rights!” No one bothered to reply.

  The rain had resumed with an incessant drumming on the sea water.

  “Heading back?” Cantor asked.

  Haddad spat on the platform and nodded affirmatively. Both of them, heads bent against the rain, began to walk toward the gates.

  Only after they had passed through the gates did Haddad break the silence. “Fucking fishermen, the net was swept away… those two wouldn’t recognize a fishing net if they fell over it.”

  “Definitely. Those two knew we were coming, they put on a show -”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “And you’re sure it’s Sexta?”

  “Who else? Do you want to bet these are his men?”

  “Not betting, because I’m pretty sure you’re right, but something’s still bothering me. They found out about our ambush, okay? So they decided to abort the transfer, and don’t tell me they tossed three million dollars into the sea. But why expose themselves? To mock us? Why come back to the dock when they could have continued south and circumvented us? From what I understand, it’s not like Ezra Sexta to let his ego get the better of him. Am I wrong?”

  “Maybe they didn’t even know about the ambush. Maybe they axed the transfer because of the storm? Sounds plausible, right?”

  “Don’t think so. You know why? Because they set sail before we got here. They had more than three hours at sea. That’s a really long time. Maybe they got the order to abort midway through. And you know what? One day, some diver will find their phone...”

  “Well, I agree with you about Sexta’s ego,” said Haddad, and Cantor wondered if he could hear a tone of appreciation in his voice. “Unlikely, but you know, maybe he’s not as smart as we think he is.”

  “I wonder…” Cantor said.

  “What are you wondering?”

  “How did Sexta uncover our ambush so quickly? It’d require excellent intel, don’t you think?”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe the operation was just too big. It’s hard to conceal so many people. Don’t forget that they have ample manpower for surveillance and such. Maybe that’s our problem - too many chances for error.”

  “At the end
of it all, we’ll realize that it was much less complicated than we thought…”

  “That’s usually the case, isn’t it?”

  “I have to point out that, in the Mossad, information clearance and security is usually much tighter,” Cantor said, and immediately regretted the poorly chosen timing of sharing his historical legacy.

  Haddad looked up at him wordlessly. Cantor, who was sure that Haddad did not appreciate the comparison, wondered if he had managed to upset him again.

  Cantor and Haddad walked in sullen silence to meet the other teams. They made their way back to the rendezvous point, where transit vehicles and police patrol cars were waiting. The two detainees, each handcuffed to a policeman, waited by the gate. Unlike the cops, who chose to stay silent, the two spoke loudly to each other, their body language conveying anything but distress. Haddad noticed this and spat on the ground in disgust.

  Cantor stopped and looked at them as they were escorted to the patrol car. He forced himself to put aside his personal feelings. “It’s just one battle lost,” he said to himself.

  Meanwhile, radio silence had been lifted. A small line was forming by the administrative officer’s car as he handed back the detectives their phones. Cantor slid his phone into his pocket without looking at it. At that moment, he didn’t feel compelled to return calls or even check whether he had received any. In fact, there was only one call he would have been happy to receive, but he had a feeling that this particular one would never come.

  Near the gate, away from the commotion, stood an old fisherman holding a fishing rod in his hand and watching the scene with uninvolved curiosity. He blended naturally into the landscape and no one bothered giving him a second look. Then, as the figures of the officers faded into the darkness, the fisherman pulled a cell phone from his pocket and pressed the quick dial.

  Johnny Rice was debriefed on the arrest of his two men.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cantor and Haddad reached the car and tossed their gear into the back seat. Haddad slid into the passenger seat, while Cantor sat behind the wheel and thrust the key into the ignition. A couple of minutes had passed since the teams had met up. Suddenly, his hand froze.