Devil's Move

by Leslie Wolfe

  A few minutes later, Mr. Weston entered the lobby area.

  “Good morning. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning, sir. I’m Special Agent Lance Huntley with the NSA / Homeland Security joint task force. We have reason to believe the security at your facility has been compromised.”

  “Oh?” Weston asked, surprised. He must have had many years as the leader of a government contractor, yet he seemed taken aback by the size of the task force. Just as an innocent man would react.

  “We cannot go into details at this time. We are here to take over operations until the critical cargo leaves your facility. Please notify your staff they have to vacate the premises immediately.”

  One by one, employees exited the building, heading toward a cordoned area in the parking lot. The task force was not letting anyone leave yet; the agents needed to know they had everyone’s information; everyone had to be accounted for.

  Inside the Mobile Command Center, ignored by everyone, the geo-locating screen showed a smaller cluster of red dots in motion, away from the warehouse, where the majority of the red dots remained immobile.

  Straying a little to the left, a man, dressed in blue coveralls and wearing steel-toe boots, slid unseen along the side of the building, walking faster as he approached the back. He was almost running when he turned the corner, only to meet the business end of a Heckler & Koch MP7.

  “On the ground, now,” the agent holding the gun said. “Hands behind your back.”

  Hands immobilized with quick cuffs, the man was escorted to the Mobile Command Center.

  The agent slammed him onto a chair, not even looking at him or asking any questions. Then he swabbed the palms of his hands, his sleeves, and the inside of his pockets, and put the pad into a testing device, waiting for results. One beep indicated the result was negative.

  “Command, Command, this is Delta Three, over.”

  “Go for Command.”

  “Command, I have one in custody. He swabbed negative for C4, but he was running. Over.”

  “On my way,” Command answered.

  A few minutes later, Special Agent Huntley climbed inside the Mobile Command Center. The geo-locating screen caught his attention. There were two red clusters now, and Homeland’s blue tag circle was no longer perfect. A red cluster of geo dots superimposed over one of the blue tags. Theirs. Whatever the red dots were, they were there, inside the MCC.

  Huntley called the agent guarding the prisoner.

  “Ben, empty his pockets.”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent acknowledged. He pulled the man to his feet and started going through the pockets of his coveralls. From one of the side pockets he took out a handful of small screws. From one of his chest pockets, another handful of screws. He placed them on the table, in two separate lumps.

  “Screws, smokes, and a lighter, sir; that’s it.”

  Huntley studied the tiny screws attentively, looking at one from each pile. They were slightly different.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Chris Cohen,” the man muttered, showing more fear than attitude.

  “What are these for?”

  “They’re screws, for assembly. I work in assembly.”

  “Why keep them in your pockets?”

  “Bad habit, that’s all. It’s easier to grab them from where you can’t drop them on the floor, that’s all.”

  Huntley turned his gaze to the geo-screen and lingered there for a while, thinking. Then he took a screw from each pile and went to the MCC door. He opened it and threw a screw out as far as he could. He looked over his shoulder to the geo-screen. Nothing had changed. Then he threw the other screw. A tiny red dot now showed outside the main cluster centered on top of the MCC, just a few yards away.

  He took a chair and sat in front of Cohen, staring at him calmly for a few endless seconds.

  “Let me tell you how this is gonna work,” he started to say. “I have some questions, and I need answers. I’ll only ask once.”

  The man nodded anxiously.

  “Have you heard of Gitmo?”

  “I...I...thought it was closed,” the man whispered, turning pale and shaking.

  “Ha, ha,” Huntley laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear on TV. Gitmo’s still there. Do you wanna visit?”

  “N...no, please, I didn’t do anything, I swear.” His chin was trembling wildly, signaling he was about to start crying.

  “Then tell me, who gave you the screws?”

  “It’s just screws for assembly, no one, just...I pick them from assembly trays, that’s all, I swear...You gotta believe me.”

  “OK, then, Gitmo it is,” Huntley said, then stood up and turned away, ready to leave. “Ben, get a transport ready.”

  “No, no, please,” Cohen pleaded. “I’ll tell you everything you wanna know, please...”

  Huntley turned around slowly.

  “I am not sitting down again unless I hear a reason to in the next three seconds. One,” he started counting.

  “The screws, the screws, you see, I have to change them,” Cohen blurted out.

  “What do you mean change them?”

  “My line inspects the devices for explosives. I’m at the end of the reassembly line, where we put the device covers back together again. Instead of putting the same screw back again, the one from the battery cover, I pocket it, you see, and then I replace it with one of those,” he said, pointing at the pile of screws that generated red dots on the geo-screen.

  “That it?”

  “Yes, I swear,” Cohen pleaded.

  “Who gave you the screws? Who put you up to it?”

  Cohen turned silent for many seconds, looking at his feet.

  Impassible, Huntley shrugged, turned toward Ben, and asked, “Gitmo transport here soon?”

  “Just a few minutes out, sir,” Ben responded.

  “No, no, I’ll tell you,” Cohen broke his silence. “It was this man; he gave me money.”

  “Name?”

  “He didn’t say. I swear he didn’t.”

  Huntley waved dismissively and turned to leave. Cohen started sobbing.

  “I swear I don’t know, I really don’t.”

  “How much money?”

  “Twenty grand, that’s all. And twenty more when the job was done. Please...I work a whole year to make that much money...I didn’t see anything wrong with it, really. A screw is a screw...they’re not explosive, these screws, I checked. Oh, God...I thought it was gonna be OK. What’s a screw gonna do?”

  ...Chapter 94: Off the Books

  ...Tuesday, October 11, 11:43PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...IDF 68 Operational Training Camp

  ...East of Tel Aviv, Israel

  It was hard to get Daniel Krumholz tired, but this came fairly close to what he would call squeezed dry. He had just finished an exhausting weeklong training program with the Special Operations Aviation Group. He had managed to catch almost four hours of sleep before a phone call woke him and recalled him for another assignment. He returned immediately to the Operational Training Camp, this time as an instructor.

  He rubbed his forehead in an effort to alleviate his debilitating fatigue and focus on the young agents lined up in front of him in the brisk night air. They deserved better than his exhaustion, no matter how justifiable. He took a deep, sharp breath and focused on his trainees. He saw in their eyes determination, passion, loyalty, and commitment. A good team.

  Daniel remembered himself at that stage in life, when he had left his battalion and had chosen to embrace Mossad’s demanding career path. He had never looked back since that day. He had chosen to lead a life of service to his country, continuous, devoted, all-sacrificing service to his native Israel. He was proud of each minute spent doing his duty. This heartfelt choice and his talent as a Mossad operative had brought him recognition and advancement in the ranks of the toughest intelligence agency in the world. The speed and effectiveness he demonstrated in delivering his assigned missions ha
d positioned him to be selected for the ranks of Kidon, Mossad’s elite, ultra-secret group of operatives. Shortly after that, he was leading his own Kidon team. That was a challenging responsibility, considering how the global environment was evolving. The pressure was on all Mossad agents to be at their very best, increase their activity levels, and join the rest of the world in a joint effort to maintain peace and combat terrorism.

  His radio came to life, some static preceding the communication.

  “Base to Tango 4, Base to Tango 4, do you read?”

  He unclipped the radio from his belt.

  “Read you clear, Base, go ahead.”

  “Base to Tango 4, please confirm position. Over.”

  “Base, this is Tango 4. At the kill house, over.”

  “Base to Tango 4. Courier en route. Meet at the Barracks in five, over.”

  “Base, this is Tango 4. On my way. Over.”

  This was beyond strange. Confirmation of position during a night shooting drill was an unlikely event, and a courier at this hour was completely unheard of. Such things just didn’t happen. Curious about the identity and the urgent message of this unprecedented midnight courier, he started on his way toward the Barracks, code name for the command post mockup.

  He needed about three and a half minutes to reach the Barracks; he was good on time. He stopped briefly near a tree, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. He didn’t light it though. Although he was safe in the middle of the training camp, he instinctively followed combat rules and preferred to preserve his night vision and stealth instead of lighting up. It was the way he operated; wait in the shadows—unseen, unheard—and be ready.

  After a short wait in the complete darkness surrounding the Barracks, two sets of headlights started tearing through the blackness. Two Sand Cat light-armored vehicles approached fast, in close formation, wearing no insignia and no distinctive markings. The way the two drivers moved their vehicles on the unfriendly terrain, the way they stopped after sharp turns in opposite directions, to offer each other maximum cover and be able to leave the area on a dime, told Daniel these men were not regular Army. Nope, not even close. Mossad, maybe, or top-notch executive protection. Impressive, Daniel thought. I’d welcome any of these men on my logistics support team.

  The passenger of the first vehicle came forward into the low light, enough for Daniel to recognize Major Dayan, the deputy base commander. He took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and hid it in his pocket before saluting regulation style.

  “Daniel,” he greeted him, “our guest wants to speak with you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Daniel answered, intrigued.

  Major Dayan moved to the side and stood at attention.

  Four soldiers in fatigues, keeping their fingers on the triggers of their automated weapons, came out of the vehicles. They took positions to secure the perimeter. The VIP they were escorting appeared right behind them, moving just as fluidly as his men did, maybe a tad slower. Surprised, Daniel recognized Eli Weismann, the prime minister of Israel.

  Most Israeli political leaders had military backgrounds; Weismann was no exception. He had served as an armored brigade officer before he’d moved to paratroopers, and later to Mossad. That explained the prime minister’s gait and familiarity with the training facility. He was one of them.

  “Prime minister, sir.” Daniel saluted the visitor by the book.

  “Good evening, son,” the prime minister replied, exchanging a firm and friendly handshake with Daniel.

  “Sir, it’s an honor,” Daniel said.

  “Walk with me if you’d like; let’s stretch our legs.” The prime minister’s voice was calm and kind, despite the obvious urgency of the matter bringing him in the dead of the night to their isolated training facility. “Daniel, where are you from?”

  “From Haifa, sir.”

  “At ease, son. We’re not at war, not tonight, anyway.”

  “Yes, sir, but we are ready, sir,” Daniel answered.

  “I have no doubt. You know, I was with the 35th Paratroopers Brigade back in the day. I put in my share of sweat with Sa’ar Armored Brigade, but my heart will always be with the institute. By the way, do you still have Mr. Benowitz at the library?”

  “Yes, sir, but he’s close to retirement.”

  “Sounds about right.” Weismann laughed. “Before getting behind that library desk, he was the best tank gunner I served with in all Sa’ar.”

  “I didn’t know that, sir,” Daniel said.

  They walked silently for a few seconds, escorted closely by Weismann’s protection detail.

  “I have heard great things about you, things that encourage me to trust you with a mission of critical importance, highly confidential.”

  “Whatever you need, sir,” Daniel answered.

  Weismann cleared his throat before speaking.

  “A friend of mine, a long-time friend of Israel, needs our help. You will report directly to me and only me. This mission is off the books.” He took a smart phone from his pocket and handed it to Daniel. “There’s a single contact saved on this phone—one of my direct numbers. There’s also an email with instructions. You’ll find the details of this assignment in there. Ask for anything and anyone you need, and you got it. Only one thing you can’t ask for: time to prepare.”

  Daniel looked at the prime minister with curiosity.

  “Sir?”

  “Can you leave tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make me proud, son. Good luck!”

  Eli Weismann smiled and shook his hand before climbing back into one of the Sand Cats and disappearing in a cloud of dust.

  On the recently acquired phone, Daniel opened the only email message stored in the Inbox and found a list of targets, with their countries of origin and whereabouts.

  Mastaan Eshwar Singh, 64, India, Barcelona

  Muhammad Sadiq, 69, Pakistan, Fort Lauderdale / Bahamas

  Karmal Shah, 61, Afghanistan, Prague

  Ahmad Babak Javadi, 57, Iran, Zurich

  Jeevan Ramachandran, 42, India, New Delhi

  Warren Helms, 52, USA, Unknown

  Unknown, presumed Russia, Unknown, leader of the above group—identify

  Timeframe: 48 hrs. Confirmation req’d on all targets.

  He wiped the sweat accumulating on his upper lip with a quick swipe of the back of his right hand. He woke his team with the preset alert message; they’d all be on their flights by sunrise. He assigned most of the names on the list to his team, keeping Sadiq, Helms, and the unknown subject to himself.

  Back at his apartment, Daniel pulled the bed from the wall, exposing a small safe. He punched in the code and then sifted through multiple passports and ID cards. He chose a set, then locked everything back up, and pushed the bed back into place. He threw a few clothing items in a small duffel bag and left, turning off the lights and locking the door carefully behind him.

  ...Chapter 95: Two Objectives

  ...Monday, October 17, 10:47AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)

  ...Tom Isaac’s Residence

  ...Laguna Beach, California

  Alex entered Tom’s den, which had turned into a war room for the past year, and smiled at the sight of the crazy wall, where pictures and notes had been pinned and tied together with colorful yarn. The wall wasn’t up to date anymore; she needed to fix that. Maybe even tear it down altogether; they were done. From a different perspective though, they weren’t done yet.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Sam greeted her. He sat at the large table, sipping coffee and going through his email.

  “Hey,” she answered, making her move toward the Keurig machine. She hesitated a bit, then chose hazelnut coffee for her brew.

  Tom entered the room, closing the door behind him, and sat right down.

  “Next steps?” he asked.

  Alex shrugged, frustration showing on her face.

  “Technically, we’re done.” She paced the room, slowly, deep in thought. “It’s frustrating to me...this case, th
e lack of closure. We’re done with everything we can do, yet some things are still up in the air. Maybe this damn case has been so complicated that we forgot what we were trying to achieve, and we just need to remind ourselves.”

  She looked at the two men; they were listening, a little concern showing on Tom’s face and an encouraging smile on Sam’s.

  “We had two main objectives,” she continued. “We wanted to ensure that Election Day would take place safely, and, if possible, save Robert Wilton and his wife, get them out of harm’s way. I am confident in saying that the Wiltons are safe. We took every precaution, covered every base. But how sure are we with Election Day? We have the software angle covered, and we have the devices secured and cleared. Nothing will blow up on Election Day, and the people will get to choose their next president in peace. So, technically, we should be fine. I just struggle with the lack of certainty, I guess, because we have not identified who was the author of this terror plan, and we have no control over the rest of the people Blake and Clarence identified. Until we control the terrorist and his network, we cannot call ourselves done. That’s what bothers me.”

  “My friends are going to take care of the people we know about,” Sam offered.

  “Who? Mossad?” Alex asked.

  “Yep,” Sam confirmed.

  “When?” Tom intervened.

  “Umm...today, tomorrow, soon, anyway. They’re working on that as we speak. They said they were going to handle everyone over the next few days.”

  The small room fell silent. Everyone knew what that meant when Mossad was involved.

  “Can I ask how come we’re working with Mossad on this?” Alex asked hesitantly. “We’re not CIA; we’re not agents of any official government agency. I understood at first, when I assumed you were just asking old friends for small favors, but now?”

  “Your assumption is correct,” Sam answered. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, asking old friends for favors. They’re very perceptive people; they understood immediately that an American president controlled by pro-Islamists would not be a friend of Israel. That, and I also believe that Mossad has no interest to put us in jail. Quite the opposite,” he said, winking and smiling, satisfied with the solution he had found.