CLUB KYIV, KIEV, UKRAINE, 2004
“No, I will not sell you just one missile,” Dostiger said as he slammed his fist down on his desk. “Your superiors ordered an entire shipment. Not one, a shipment!”
The Iranian agent’s eyes darted around the room as he avoided the crazed Ukrainian’s gaze. The opulence of the arms dealer’s office unnerved him. Located in Kiev’s most exclusive nightclub, it emphasized the power and influence of the man he’d angered.
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Things have changed. The Americans have sold Israel the latest countermeasures, and our sources tell us they’re fitting them to all their aircraft, military and civilian—”
Spittle left the Ukrainian’s mouth as he cut in. “I’m not selling cheap Chinese junk! These missiles are state-of-the-art. They will tear the Israeli jets from the sky no matter what toys the Jews bolt to them.”
“You tell us this, but how can we—”
“Because I would not sell them otherwise. Because I do not sell empty promises. I sell weapons that kill!”
Dostiger took a deep breath, stood, and poured a whiskey from the decanter on his desk. Limping, he turned and walked to the one-way glass that separated his office from the nightclub below. He watched the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor and sipped his scotch.
“How many weapons have I sold you?”
“But—”
“And have they not worked as I promised?”
“Yes, of course. You always deliver.”
He turned back to face the Iranian. “No! The Revolutionary Guards come to me because no one else can deliver!”
The Iranian flushed. “Let us buy just one. We will do tests, and if we are happy, then we will buy more.”
The Ukrainian smiled, a twisted grimace of a smile. “And let you copy the technology?” There was a guttural laugh as Dostiger limped back to his desk.
“We would never—”
“No? Because that’s exactly what I would do.” Dostiger sat down. “But then I would also want a demonstration.” His lips stretched into a grin.
“What… what do you mean by ‘a demonstration’?”
“The Revolutionary Guards want to shoot down Israeli planes, yes?”
“No, not the Guards. Hezbollah!” the visitor replied.
“Hezbollah, Guards,” he shrugged. “What matters is business and Iran will not part with money unless results are guaranteed. Yes?”
“That is correct,” the Iranian said sitting up in his chair.
“So! I will demonstrate the weapon.”
“What sort of demonstration?”
“A display of the missile’s capability against an Israeli aircraft.” Dostiger’s face was impassive but his voice was cold. “A passenger aircraft. If the demonstration is successful, then Iran will purchase ALL of the missiles.”
“You would attack an unarmed Israeli passenger jet to ensure the sale?”
“Correct!” Dostiger’s eyes glinted.
“What about reprisals? What about the Americans or Israel? Surely they will hunt even you down?”
The Ukrainian laughed. His pitted and scarred face reminiscent of a macabre gargoyle. “What are the Jews going to do? They will blame Hezbollah, use it as an excuse to occupy more Lebanese soil, and I will make even more money selling rockets to your comrades.”
“You’re not worried they’ll come for you?”
Another laugh. “The Americans will not touch me! The CIA wants the latest Russian technology as much as everyone else. One jet and a handful of Jews are… inconsequential.”
“Maybe to the Americans, but Mossad—”
“Mossad? Israeli intelligence are toothless fools; outside of the Middle East they are nothing. Look around, comrade, I own the Ukraine. Here I am a king. Do you think I should fear Mossad when I am surrounded by the best security money can buy?”
The Iranian could only nod. Dostiger’s headquarters was indeed a fortress. Heavily armed guards manned all the entrances and CCTV cameras watched every space.
“My men will conduct the attack, and I will continue my business as I always have.”
“This will need approval from the head of the Guards,” the Iranian said.
“The decision they need to make is whether or not they want to continue doing business with me. Tell them to watch the skies over Israel. I will show them what my missiles can do.”
The Iranian smiled for the first time and stood up. He held his hand out. “You are a cunning man, Dostiger.”
“Not at all.” Dostiger shook the Iranian’s hand. “I am simply a businessman.”
***
BARCELONA, SPAIN
The dingy internet café was hardly the most enticing location in the picturesque city of Barcelona: half a dozen obsolete PCs, cheap plastic chairs, cracked linoleum, and the stale stench of cigarettes. It wasn’t the place to be enjoying a holiday but Bishop didn’t notice. While other tourists explored the history and culture of the coastal city, he scrolled through the latest news from the world’s conflict zones.
He noted the ongoing violence in Iraq with disgust. The headlines were all the same: bombings, kidnappings, beheadings, and increasing casualties. More soldiers dying, more innocent civilians slaughtered, and all for what? Oil. No one seemed to care that thousands of people die every day in other conflicts throughout the world. Shaking his head, he closed the web page and logged into his email.
There were two new messages. Bishop’s mood improved instantly as he opened one from his father. His parents had arrived safely in Tel Aviv and were visiting friends. In a week they would meet him in Spain, his mother’s birthplace.
The second email was from Mirza Mansoor. Ever since the incident in Sierra Leone four years ago, they had remained in contact, exchanging emails. It had turned out that Mirza was a veteran special forces operator. The reason the Indian had been in Sierra Leone in charge of a regular infantry section was not something he’d been willing to divulge. However, Bishop knew that Mirza had gone back to an elite unit, despite being apparently demoted by Colonel Kapur. The Australian’s career, on the other hand, had been sidelined. His otherwise perfect record marked with a single count of insubordination.
Bishop opened the email:
I hope you are making the most of your holiday, my friend. Make sure you are taking the time to relax and enjoy life outside the army.
I have started a new job with a contractor based out of India, good money but a little boring. Thanks again for the job reference. Hope you visit sometime soon.
Mirza
He typed a quick response and hit Send. Gathering his belongings, he paused at the counter to settle the account.
“Ah, are you Mr. Bishop?” asked the pimple-faced youth behind the till.
Bishop looked over his shoulder, quickly scanning the other users in the room. None of them looked familiar or particularly threatening. He turned back to the attendant. “I might be. What do you want?”
“A man left this for you.” He handed over a crisp white envelope.
Bishop opened it and pulled out a business card.
He looked around the room again and out the window to the street.
“Who gave you this?” he asked.
“An older man: big black American.”
“When?”
“Umm, hour ago, maybe more. He said to give it to Mr. Bishop, with the brown jacket.”
Fuck, thought Bishop. Is this a scam? How the hell does he know my name? He looked back at the card. It resembled a military patch, the sort of thing Special Forces sometimes wore. ‘Sometimes the answer can be found in a book’? It felt like a puzzle, a clue to some sort of treasure hunt.
He took the card back to an internet terminal and punched the address into Google Maps. It was close, only a few blocks away. He rocked back in the chair, trying to make sense of it all. He knew there was no way he could turn his back on this. He threw a few coins on the counter and left the café.
W
alking out onto the busy footpath, he joined the throngs of tourists, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, searching for a tail. Nothing, no one seemed to be paying even the slightest attention to him.
Hauling a battered Lonely Planet guide from his leather satchel, he thumbed through the pages. He briefly read the description of Barri Gòtic, the Gothic quarter of old Barcelona. The route seemed simple enough, a pleasant walk through the ancient streets.
Although Bishop had been staying in Barcelona for almost a week, he hadn’t made any effort to explore the city. So far he’d either been thrashing himself with a vigorous exercise regime, drinking in dimly-lit bars, or surfing the internet. Maybe it was time to stop dwelling on things he couldn’t change and make the most of his holidays. At least the cryptic card had given him something to break the self-destructive pattern he’d fallen into.
Strolling through Barcelona, Bishop began to see the city in a new light. The sheer magnificence of the architecture enthralled him, the ancient buildings steeped in over two thousand years of history. He wandered absentmindedly, forgetting his mission, drawn away from the traffic-lined roads into the quiet cobblestone streets.
When he finally remembered to check his map, he had been walking for nearly thirty minutes. He looked around to gain his bearings. The streets were old and narrow, hemmed in by ancient sandstone walls. By pure luck it looked as if he had stumbled into the Barri Gòtic. He checked the brass plaques that announced the names of the streets, searching for his destination. Bingo! Carrer de Cervantes, the street he was searching for.
The ancient alley narrowed, the old buildings closing in on both sides. Stones underfoot were worn smooth and he could almost hear the cries of medieval street merchants hawking their wares. He paused at a small doorway cut into a sandstone wall. An ancient sign that hung from rusted chains proclaimed Librería de Viejo.
A brass bell jingled as he pushed open the sturdy door. He inhaled the musky smell of gently aging books. A weather-beaten man perched behind an antique cash register beckoned him in, smiling.
Bishop gave the old man a once-over, scanning the rest of the shop for any potential threat. The narrow room was packed from ceiling to floor with leather-bound books and manuscripts. Several rolled parchments gathered dust on the highest shelves, evidence that the annals of this establishment had graced Barcelona for more than a few decades.
“He said you would come.”
The voice startled Bishop and he turned back to the man. “Excuse me?”
“Your friend, he said you would come.” The old man had left his stool and was hobbling toward Bishop, a book tucked under one arm.
“I’m sorry. What do you mean?”
The shopkeeper laughed. “He said that a lost soldier would come. You have the presence of a soldier, but you wander like a man with no path.”
“I used to be a soldier but that’s another story. Tell me about this man. What did he look like?”
“Like you. Once a soldier, always a soldier.”
Bishop’s eyes narrowed and he handed over the card from the internet café. “Have you seen this before?”
The old man adjusted his glasses and studied the card intently. “This writing, it is Latin.” He ran a finger along the script that crested the shield embossed on the card. “Justicia ex umbra. It means ‘Justice from the shadows.’” The shopkeeper handed the card back. “I have never seen a card like this, but those words, I have seen those words before.”
“Justicia ex umbra?” Bishop queried. “Where?”
The old man handed Bishop the book he was holding. “In the book your friend sent you to find.”
Bishop took the battered text and studied the cover. A single word was embossed in the wrinkled leather: Susurro.
“Your friend is wise. Books do have a way of finding those they will help the most. This one has been translated into English, maybe it can help you.” The shopkeeper turned and hobbled back to his stool.
Bishop stepped up to the counter. “Sometimes the answers we’re looking for can’t be found in a book.”
The old man frowned as he sat, his features disappearing into a landscape of crevices. He spoke quietly, “There is always someone who has walked the path before you, my friend. In books they leave their lessons for those who are wise enough to find them.”
Bishop considered the comment. The old bugger has a point, he thought as he opened the yellowed pages of the book and scanned a page. How many soldiers have doubted their cause over the years? How many have found themselves at a crossroads? He closed the book and placed it on the counter. “Are you sure you don’t know anything more about this so-called friend of mine? Or this card?”
The old man stared back blankly and shook his head. “But you can have the book; it is already paid for.”
“Thanks.” With a sigh, Bishop stuffed it in his satchel and pushed open the door, returning to the cobbled streets of ancient Barcelona.
Lounging in bed that evening and aiming to read a couple of chapters before hitting the bars, he became so engrossed that when he finally put the book down, the faint glow of dawn could be seen from his hotel window.
The book was the history of a secret society known as El Susurro: the whisper. It existed outside the law, a private army using clandestine methods to protect the people of Valencia from the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition. Bringing justice from the shadows.
The concept resonated with Bishop. Now there’s a worthy cause, he thought. Fighting for the weak! Bringing a modicum of justice to the world!
For the next few days Bishop continued to explore Barcelona. The book never left his mind, nor the means by which it had entered his life. Despite his training, he never identified a tail, nor felt like he was being watched. Slowly the suspicion began to ebb.
A week later the book was a distant memory as Bishop traveled by high-speed rail to meet his parents in Valencia. The train sped swiftly across the Spanish countryside and he relaxed, gazing out the carriage window. Suspicion and unease were chased away by memories of childhood vacations and old family friends. Finally he’d left behind the worries of the world and was enjoying his holiday.
CHAPTER 4
EL AL FLIGHT LY395
Mark and Estela Bishop boarded the El Al Airlines flight eagerly. After a pleasant few days visiting old friends, they were flying from Israel to Spain to spend a week with Aden. One short week; not nearly long enough. It had been six months since they’d last seen their son.
Despite the years of separation imposed by military service, the bond between the Bishops and their only child was strong. They tried to talk to Aden at least once a week, no matter in what far-flung country he was stationed.
Estela hated the photos of him with guns and riding in tanks; Aden was her little boy, her adorable, mop-haired angel who’d clung to her on his first day of school.
Mark always remembered him as the young officer in his ceremonial uniform. Nothing had made Bishop senior more proud than the day he watched his son graduate from military college.
The couple still traveled regularly, despite retirement. Years of working as journalists had gifted them with friends to visit all around the world. As the 737 took off, they relaxed, used to the cramped economy seats. They laughed as they scrolled through photos on their camera, Estela’s head resting on Mark’s shoulder.
In the cockpit the pilots bantered with the flight engineer as they monitored the autopilot guiding the aircraft toward its thirty-five-thousand-feet cruising height. The skies over the Mediterranean were clear; it was going to be a pleasant flight.
As the jet reached ten thousand feet, the tranquil silence of the cockpit was shattered by a blaring alarm. Red lights flashed across the flight controls and the pilots stared at each other in disbelief. The plane’s missile warning system had detected a launch!
Far below the aircraft, a predator had initiated its hunt. Like the nose of a wolf, a thermal seeker sniffed out its quarry. The missile leaped into the
sky, accelerating to three times the speed of its lumbering prey.
The aircraft’s automated system reacted instantly, forcing the aircraft into a tight turn and throwing flares from a dispenser in its tail. Burning at over a thousand degrees, the flares hung under parachutes in an attempt to confuse the heat-seeking warhead.
The hunter couldn’t be fooled; a sophisticated computer identified the flares and discarded them as targets, locking back onto the thermal signature of the engines.
It took five seconds for the shoulder-launched missile to cover the distance from the firing tube to the aircraft. It detonated in the jet’s right engine sending fragments slicing through the 737’s thin aluminum skin. White-hot shrapnel shredded hydraulic cables, fuel lines, and flight surfaces.
The unmistakable sound of the high-explosive detonation jolted Mark Bishop in his seat. Estela’s head smashed into his shoulder as the plane banked violently. Oxygen masks jettisoned from the ceiling. He glanced out the window and knew it wasn’t turbulence. A jagged piece of the wing was missing, the engine ripped from its mounting.
“Everybody remain calm and stay in your seats,” transmitted a voice over the speakers. “We are experiencing some unexpected technical difficulties that have forced us to take emergency maneuvers. Cabin crew prepare for an emergency landing.”
The plane pitched forward, causing screams and panic. A baby shrieked. White-faced flight attendants clung to the headrests and tried to reassure passengers. Vibrations shook overhead lockers open and baggage lurched out of the compartments, crashing into people as the plane flipped through a series of evasive maneuvers.
“Crash position! Crash position! Brace! Brace!”
Heads whipped down, 132 passengers bracing themselves in prayer, some silent, some not; all far too late.
Mark whispered into Estela’s ear. Her fingers dug into his hand, eyes clenched tight.
The aircraft plummeted.
Across the aisle someone retched.
PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series) Page 38