Recon

by David McCaleb

  Spying a green sign of a stick figure wearing a skirt, she veered off from the traffic and slipped into a restroom. At the mirror she flinched when she glimpsed the stranger reflected in it. Her face was cold death. Saddles dark as charcoal beneath her eyes. It was five in the morning East Coast time, twelve noon local. Lori had cut her hair and dyed it black, a nice complement to the sleepy eyes. But the color would stand out much less in this culture. She’d never used much makeup before, but now she unzipped her travel case and pulled out a cosmetics purse. Lifting a brush, she stroked a rosy-beige foundation onto her cheeks, reapplying another layer. It was mixed with microparticles of silver and titanium. The combination played hell with photos and made her cheeks appear inset, almost hollow, tricking facial recognition. With a black kohl pencil, she stenciled dark eyeliner around her lower lid and in an arc near the bridge of her nose. This look was similar to one in a Jalouse magazine she’d seen, but the main objective was to make her eyes appear larger and closer together, almost like Japanese manga. Yet another means to throw off facial recognition. She had no way of knowing whether Israel had her image in their database, but with the revelation the wet team had been funded from a bank account controlled by Mossad, she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Returning her tools to the bag, she studied her work. Black hair, dark makeup, pale skin, tired eyes. A Goth pushing middle age. Maybe she should’ve opted for a nose ring. Slipping on Prada glasses, she completed the semidisguise. Tony probably wouldn’t even recognize her.

  She gripped the handle of her case and rejoined the stream, now just a trickle, still swimming toward Customs. He would be fuming, back home. She’d been carrying a draining emotional heaviness all last week, lying to her husband about the office not making any progress determining who was behind the attack at Pikes Peak. But the deceit would be over after this visit. It was for his own good, and for the kids’. She’d told him many times, secrecy was their only ally.

  He’d forgive her in the end. It would only be for a few more days, and the kids would barely notice she was gone. She’d left a list taped to the side of the refrigerator with dinner instructions, reminders to get the mail, to complete homework assignments, and to buy a present for a birthday party Nick was invited to. Tony always spoiled the children when she was out. They often appeared vaguely disappointed when she returned. She’d left a separate note for him on his pillow, explaining what little she could: That this trip was the only way to determine what rogue Mossad agent had arranged for her assassination. And that she’d been ordered not to tell anyone about it, or her financial investigation’s progress, as a security precaution.

  He’d forgive her. He always did. Never angry for long. A few nights of gratuitous sex and it’d all be forgotten. Not that he was as simple as most men, but at his core he trusted her. Knew she was smart as hell and could handle a simple dead drop.

  She passed Steimatzky, a bookstore and newsstand with glossy magazine covers in Hebrew and English. She picked one up with a blonde in red heels and orange dress, makeup penciled in a similar manner as her own, though smudged. How’d the editor miss that before sending it to print? Sloppy, like the rogue Mossad agent. Once her mission was complete, someone else would clean up the mess. Kill them. A different department of the CIA would assess the agent’s physical health, social habits, and best weaknesses to exploit. Maybe it’d be a heart defect that could plausibly be accelerated. Or a jealous husband. Or one of the most creative she’d known, a Russian oligarch with sleep apnea who, during a business trip to London, had his travel CPAP malfunction. Three men had strapped him down while another agent had held his mouth and nose closed. The best assassination was always an accident. Not the sloppy crap at the top of Pikes Peak.

  Lori followed the stream till it jammed into the back of a long line of travelers divided by black-taped barricades. A row of immigration officials sat fifty feet ahead, shaking heads and staring at screens. Her Hasidic garment district friend waved and smiled as he passed, on his way to a much smaller area next to a sign that read Citizens of Israel.

  Others filed behind her. She slipped a hand into her pocket and powered up her phone, building her courage against the text she would doubtlessly be receiving from Tony. The device came alive, but no new messages arrived. Strange. As the line shuffled forward, Lori reviewed the plan. The fintel back door with Mossad had suddenly reopened one day last week. Communication came in gushes, but from a different sender. One never knew who was on the other end, but in her opinion the personality was all wrong. Less helpful. Too demanding.

  Stacy had told her to drop the blackmail bomb immediately, so Lori had feigned specific knowledge of the rogue Mossad agent behind the failed operation on Pikes Peak. Said she’d tracked the wet team’s funding to them. It was a half-truth, much better than an outright lie. A trade would be performed through a dead drop. The old-fashioned kind, nothing electronic. In exchange for ten million dollars and a copy of the written audit trail as proof, she had promised her silence and that any subsequent investigation into the funding source would turn up empty. Her lifeline would be a dead man’s switch on the bank transaction audit. That would keep the rogue Mossad agent from trying to kill her in the future. Because if she were to die, after a few weeks a digital repository would notice her absence and it would automatically transmit an encrypted message, one containing the damning evidence, to the director of CIA Financial Intelligence and the FBI Financial Intelligence Center.

  The immigration counter was only twenty feet away now. An agent raised a beckoning arm, and the line moved another few steps. She allowed herself a slight smile. The beauty of the plan was that the trumped-up audit report inside a white envelope hidden beneath the lining of her luggage contained falsified account numbers that Stacy monitored constantly. If anyone tried to access them and maintained a connection for more than sixty seconds, the CIA would be able to trace it to the originator’s IP address. Sixty seconds was the magic number she’d been told, no matter how many hops the connection contained. If that didn’t work, a tiny software tracking bug was a backup, downloaded to the agent’s computer when they accessed the account. By the time the agent discovered they’d been duped, it wouldn’t matter. The trap would already be sprung.

  Each time she thought of it, her eyes burned. This sonofabitch had tried to kill her and Red, and even threatened Penny. Even more, Stacy suspected they were the ones who had been peddling a list of operators and CIA assets. A security breach that would mean lives lost in the field, and would take decades of rebuilding. She fantasized of slipping into the rogue agent’s bedroom. A team holding him down while she clamped his mouth and squeezed his nose till his body ceased to struggle, just like how she’d suffocated the Russian oligarch so many years before. But before he’d pass, before slipping into the frantic panic of suffocation and while still cognizant of his impending doom, she’d whisper, “Your mistake was threatening my family.” However, she was no longer a field asset. Fintel analysts didn’t do things like that. Not most.

  * * * *

  Someone nudged Red’s shoulder. Then again. He opened his eyes, yawned, and found he was staring at the back of a blue airline seat. His cheek rested on one palm, and drool ran down his wrist. He wiped it away, trying to appear casual.

  Another nudge.

  It was a thin woman in the seat next to him, gray hair pulled up into a twisted bagel atop her head. Her eyebrows were raised expectantly. “We’ve landed,” she said on a faint gust of garlic breath. “You were out almost the entire flight.”

  Red stood and stretched, nearly whacking a man in madras plaid shorts across the aisle. Commercial coach was definitely the way to go. All his prior overseas flights had been on Det business, so he’d traveled in the back of a C-17 or C-5 or other military cargo aircraft with earplugs wedged tight, sitting in a nylon-webbed jump seat designed to quickly cut off all circulation past a passenger’s thighs. He hadn’t slept this well in a
long time, even at home.

  The jet bridge wasn’t connected, so the most eager passengers were still cramming the aisle. He opened an overhead compartment door, then remembered he hadn’t brought anything except a phone. Nothing. Not even a toothbrush. He’d marched out of the meeting with Stacy in a fury, and driven straight toward Baltimore Washington Airport to catch the next flight to Tel Aviv. But Carter had been riding shotgun and convinced him to stop by the Det first.

  “Let Lori do her job,” he’d said. “She knows what she’s doing. If you follow, you’ll just screw it up.”

  The detective had been right. Red was no spy. However, he knew how to hunt men. Lori’s trip amounted to nothing but setting bait on a hook. But her traveling to Israel on a mission like this was akin to fishing for shark by dipping her feet in the ocean and dropping chum. Stacy had said she had no backup. “No need. It’s a simple, old-fashioned dead drop,” she’d told him.

  Bullshit. Even the best plans shatter once the first shot is fired. You always plan backup. And backup to your backup. And exfil for all contingencies. If Stacy refused to provide it, Red had to. But he couldn’t use Det assets. Higher would never have approved. Sending a team of military operators into Israel? Total insanity. And what would the mission be? His team was efficient at killing people and breaking things, not trailing a CIA analyst through Jerusalem to ensure her safety. He was on his own to do this. He knew how to track an animal. Following someone around a city couldn’t be much different than trailing soldiers through the woods. Just a change in landscape, right? So he’d grabbed his passport and headed to the airport. Carter would get the kids to Red’s parents’ house for the next few days.

  The line spilled out the doorway onto the gangway. Red exited the plane and stepped quickly down the tiled terminal. He pushed his way to the front of the pack, ignoring sharp comments in several foreign languages. Lori could probably tell him exactly what these people had called him. But if they wanted to be first, they should’ve walked faster. She’d already been in-country twelve hours. He had to get to her.

  He followed signs to Immigration and arrived before it was crowded. A woman in a blue uniform shirt glanced up from her computer screen and waved him forward, then held out a hand for his passport. He’d received a civilian one with a few fake stamps four months ago as a CIA precaution for all Det operators. “Just in case,” they’d said. Now he was relieved to have it.

  She eyed the papers and then glanced behind him. A loose lock of purple hair fell down her cheek. “Traveling alone?” Surprisingly good English. Better than some of his operators.

  Carter had warned him to tell the truth as much as possible. To only answer the question. “Don’t volunteer information, and don’t look impatient or annoyed.”

  “Yes, alone,” he said.

  Her eyes flashed back and forth on the screen. Carter had said lone males would be questioned the most intently. “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business.”

  She glanced behind her, as if waiting for someone—maybe a supervisor. “And what is your business?”

  Lie as little as possible. “I’m a consultant.”

  She stared, eyebrows pricked, asking for more.

  Don’t volunteer anything.

  “What kind of consultant?”

  Immigration officials were trained to look for guilty body language. “Stand still,” Carter had instructed. “Hands in pockets is safe. Or hold something, but don’t fiddle with it.”

  Easy enough. He slipped both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Arms. Primarily light infantry. I’m here at the request of IWI.”

  The agent wrinkled her nose, as if at a bad smell. She leaned back in her seat and began to raise a hand toward a bald man in the same blue uniform shirt who was standing against a wall as if at parade rest, gazing at the counter of agents.

  Red broke in to distract her. “Israel Weapon Industries. They hire me to break their weapons.” He smiled.

  She didn’t. Must not have gotten the joke. “I field-test. They want me to work your defense force’s X95 assault rifle. It’s the bullpup, with one with the mag in the stock. I—”

  “I’m familiar with it. My sister has to carry one.” She rolled her eyes. “Even to the beach.” She curled a finger at the man.

  Damn. Had he said too much? He’d told Carter this wasn’t a good cover, but he didn’t know anything else. And he had, in fact, field-tested the X95. But not at the request of IWI.

  The bald supervisor stepped beside the agent at the tan plastic-looking counter.

  “IWI said they’d fax over a letter of introduction,” Red blurted. He’d spoken too quickly. Did they pick up on it? Maybe this spy crap was harder than it looked.

  The supervisor rocked on his heels, then disappeared through a door in the back wall. A minute later he came out, head bent low as fingers flipped through a stack of papers. He yanked out one with the IWI’s familiar logo with diamond-shaped arrows.

  Red muffled a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for Brooks, the Det’s CIA liaison. She’d given him five sheets of summary detail on his cover, which he’d memorized in the hour waiting for the plane. That was one ability he’d always had. Even now he could envision the pages in his mind well enough to read them, as if in a photo. Apparently the CIA had covers prepared for most major countries.

  The man pointed to a phone number. The immigration agent lifted a beige handset and punched buttons. The faint buzz of two short rings came from the earpiece. The man in madras plaid shorts from the plane coughed next to Red, standing at the adjacent agent’s stall with his wife and two sons, one barely old enough to walk, pungent diaper almost dragging the floor.

  The agent spoke into the handset in Hebrew—at least that’s what Red assumed. She glanced at the passport, then the screen. A green glow reflected in her glasses. Was she playing solitaire?

  More talk, nods. Finally she stamped the passport and held it out to him. “Welcome to Israel, Mr. Vetin. They said they emailed your hotel reservations to your phone.” She glanced around him and lifted a hand. “Next!”

  Red stepped to the side, then walked down a wide ramp. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held the power button. “That’s as much as I can give you,” Brooks had said in her raspy smoker’s voice. “A simple cover and a phone I can do without getting anyone else involved. Anything more, and unwanted questions will start coming.”

  Brooks was a doll. She had to know none of this was above board. He was breaking so many rules right now, screwing around in circles he knew nothing about, but she’d never questioned him.

  He continued through a covered atrium with tall, golden-tiled mosaic pillars lit from above. They resembled the Olympic torch carried by runners at opening ceremonies. He located an ATM and withdrew two thousand shekels.

  It was dark outside. The air smelled of wet leaves, like rain. Almost midnight local time, but there were two lines of white taxis idling, one against the near curb and another across the street. He leaned against a steel pillar supporting a stretched white canopy—the kind that Lori always said looked like upside-down udders. The phone wasn’t secure, but had never been used before. No one would have reason to eavesdrop. He dialed a number Brooks had given him. “It’s a local one,” she’d said. “But we have it forwarded to the command center.”

  Carter answered, rapid fire. “Get your shit moving! Lori is headed to the drop now. Stacy just called. Something went wrong. Grab a taxi and I’ll give you the sitrep.”

  Chapter 30

  Baladi Supermarket

  Lori’s phone buzzed on the nightstand next to her hotel bed. Groggy with sleep, she snapped when she realized it was still dark. She swung her feet to the floor and glanced at the screen. 11:30 p.m. It displayed Jerusalem. Who’d be calling so late? Could be Stacy checking in, routing a call through local switchboards.

  She pressed a green
button. Before she could say anything, “Warbird” came through the speaker. A woman’s voice, Hebrew accent. It was the code word established for the fintel back door. Whoever initiated a transmission would start with it and the recipient would reply with another. But that was through a simple text system. Now it was being used by phone?

  “Blue line,” Lori said, running fingers through bangs. Where’d her hair go? She yanked strands down in front of her eye. Black. She’d forgotten she’d cut it earlier.

  “Exchange will occur at Baladi Supermarket, the one on Taha Husein Street, 1:30 a.m. tonight.”

  She glanced at the screen again. Had whoever was on the other end of the fintel back door with Mossad hacked her phone? They were playing her, trying to throw off her bearings. Some posturing needed to be expected. It was part of the game. Short time frames meant it’d be difficult to mobilize support or surveillance. Not that Lori had any. Still.

  She ground her toes into the carpet. “That’s in two hours. I don’t even know where Baladi is.”

  “You’ll be able to make it in time, if you hurry.”

  She could play along, to a point. “I’ll drop the package and let—”

  The voice was monotone, as if reading a script. “No need. I will meet you there.”

  Not how it works, sister. “This is a supermarket? I’ll do your location, but I’ll drop my package and give you a call once I’m clear with instructions where I put it.”

  The woman’s tone hardened. She wasn’t used to back talk. Must be higher up in the organization than she thought. Not the low-ranking go-between she’d assumed. Mossad was manned by a disproportionately high number of men. Lori might even be able to narrow it down to a short list of suspects.

  “You will do exactly—”