“Indeed,” Lay responded, grimacing as he glanced up from the menu. “That was a brutal piece of work.”
It wasn’t a sight he was likely to soon forget—the look of agonized horror frozen in the dead man’s eyes, a face twisted in torment from the forcible castration.
And stuffed in his mouth. . .well, the less thought about that, the better.
“And that, David, is the reality of our business,” Shoham returned soberly, reaching for the glass of ice water on the table before him. “Particularly here in the Middle East. We recruit assets like your man—and we know when we recruit them that it may well mean their death, sooner or later.”
“I’ve lost assets before,” Lay replied, remembering his early days with the Agency. Running agents first into Castro’s Cuba, then Eastern Europe in the years before the Wall came down. He’d recruited more than one person only to have them disappear without a trace. As if they’d never even existed.
But never before this gruesomely, he didn’t add, his eyes never leaving the Israeli’s face.
The Soviet Union hadn’t been given to the flashy displays of brutality favored by Middle Eastern thugs, preferring the silent terror that came from having neighbors vanish in the night.
“Your man, he was a homosexual, was he not?”
Lay nodded silently by way of response. That Shoham would know that shouldn’t have surprised him, three years in to his tenure in Israel. The Mossad made it their business to know.
Who knows? Perhaps they had even considered recruiting the young man themselves. Perhaps they had. You never knew.
“Well then,” the Israeli intelligence officer said, his voice as cold as the ice in his glass, “you can be certain that your involvement did not cause his death. It only hastened it.”
“Like Abu Ammar?” Lay asked, using Yasser Arafat’s old kunya.
A glint of humor entered Shoham’s eyes, perhaps the closest Lay had seen him come to a laugh in three years. The Palestinian leader’s proclivities were well-known to their community.
“For some men,” he said finally, “no law applies.” And that was true the world over.
Their waitress arrived a moment later to take their orders and refill Shoham’s glass. Lay glanced after her retreating form, making sure she was out of earshot in the bustling restaurant before returning his attention to his counterpart. “But you and I both know, Avi—you didn’t ask me here to discuss my departure, or the fate of my asset.”
“No. . .I did not. During the summit at Sharm el-Sheikh,” Shoham continued, “your government promised to aid us in bringing to justice those responsible for the murder of our soldiers in Ramallah, a promise reiterated by your Director to mine. Is that a promise the United States government intends to stand behind?”
“Of course,” Lay responded, his eyes narrowing as he stared across the table—unable to escape the feeling that he was treading dangerously close to quicksand.
But that’s how it always was when you found yourself tasked with keeping the promises of your betters.
“Tell me,” the Israeli said after another long moment, sliding a photograph face-down across the tablecloth, “do you recognize this man?”
The image was that of an angry crowd of young Palestinians—the lens focused on the figure of a man in military uniform standing off to one side, a cellular phone held up to his ear.
“I do,” Lay breathed, looking up into Shoham’s eyes. “It’s Mustafa al-Shukeiri. . .”
12:15 P.M.
A Mossad safehouse in the Golan
Israel
“We are slaughtering your husband.” Ariel turned away from the map on the wall of the safehouse, glancing down once more at the photos of their target, splayed out across the table before him.
Had he been the one to take that call, his hands stained with Yossi Avrahami’s blood as he mocked the man’s wife? Or had he simply sanctioned the butchery?
No matter, the young man thought, his face darkening. There was no distinction to be made between the two, no moral one. The man who threw the stones, the man who told him to do it—both of them the same.
Morality. He had been raised to believe that there was no morality to be found in military service, in the conscription of the IDF. That the work of the Yeshiva student he’d been intended to be was just as important as that of a soldier in the preservation of the Jewish state.
But no scholars—no prayers delivered by phylactery-adorned men at the Western Wall—would serve to defend the way of life they had built in this country. To ensure their very survival.
So he fought.
12:16 P.M.
Hatraklin
Tel Aviv, Israel
“How did you get this?”
Shoham spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “You know how it is in our business, David. Some of these things are best left unsaid, yes?”
“He’s a member of the Palestinian Legislative Council,” Lay continued, tapping the photograph before him with a forefinger, “Arafat’s man in the West Bank.”
A friend of the Palestinian leader for decades, al-Shukeiri had been at Arafat’s side in Beirut—gone into exile with him to Tunis.
“The same,” Shoham replied, the look of steel never leaving his eyes.
“He’s been extremely influential in the peace process, one of the Palestinian leaders present in Paris to meet with Albright in early October. What are you trying to say, Avi?”
“This photo was taken by a British journalist in Ramallah on the day of the lynchings. It shows al-Shukeiri placing a phone call which we were able to confirm was made to the officer in charge of the Ramallah police station.”
My God, Lay thought, sensing what was to come. Struggling to keep his face from betraying his thoughts. This was bad. Worse than Shoham had any way of knowing.
“And?”
“And we have reason to believe,” the Israeli continued, choosing his words carefully, “that he issued a stand-down order. Moments later, the Palestinian ‘police’ stood aside and let the mob flood into the station, inaction which resulted in the butchering of our men.”
Lay shook his head in disbelief. The horror of it all. This wasn’t possible.
“You are certain of this?” he asked, gauging carefully how far to press. It had long been suspected that Mossad was exploring technological measures to exploit signals intelligence similar to those used by the NSA’s ECHELON program, targeting the Palestinian Authority and the rest of their Middle Eastern neighbors—but they had never been able to confirm it.
“I am,” was the simple response, Shoham’s dark eyes warning him to pursue it no further.
“Then what you’re telling me is that you believe al-Shukeiri responsible for the death of your men? And you intend to see him brought to trial.”
“David. . .David, David,” Shoham whispered reproachfully, leaning back in his chair. “Let us both have done with these meaningless. . .pretensions—speak openly with one another. We both know a man of al-Shukeiri’s prominence can never be made to stand trial. Such a media spectacle would fan the flames of this nascent intifada beyond anything we can begin to imagine.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” He knew, all too well. But this was no time to be speaking in riddles. Time for all the cards to go out on the table, face up. Almost all of them, at any rate.
“Al-Shukeiri will not live to see the new year,” the Israeli responded grimly, his dark eyes little more than slits as he stared across the table at Lay.
And there it was, out in the open. Now to deal with it as best as he could. “I understand,” Lay replied noncommittally, “but what is it you want from the Agency?”
“Your help in finding him.”
12:37 P.M.
A Mossad safehouse in the Golan
“We’ve been able to identify three residences owned by Mustafa al-Shukeiri in Europe,” Ariel announced, spreading a series of satellite photographs out on the table before him. “A cottage in Somerset, an apa
rtment on the eleventh floor of a Marseille high-rise—and an expansive villa along the sea near Marciana on the island of Elba.”
“He’s a wealthy man,” Tzipporah observed, shaking her head. As was so much of the high-ranking Palestinian leadership.
Grown rich from decades of siphoning off international aid which had been intended for those suffering the depths of poverty in the camps—perpetual refugees.
Ze’ev cleared his throat, looking up from one of the photographs. “So how do we get in?”
“We don’t, just yet,” Ariel responded. He glanced around at his team before continuing. “The immediate problem is to pin al-Shukeiri down, establish his location. He accompanied Arafat to the summit at Sharm el-Sheikh and never returned. He might still be in Egypt—he may have flown to Europe to be with his second wife, Zainab, who is confirmed to be staying in Marseille. An officer from our embassy in Rome has been dispatched to Elba along with another of our officers posing as his spouse, under cover of taking a winter vacation. They will reconnoiter the villa and report on any activity observed there.”
“And in the meantime?” Nadir asked, Ariel’s head turning toward the youngest member of the team. American, born in Brooklyn to Jewish parents, the young man had made his aliyah at the age of eleven—but could still pass as easily for an American tourist as the IDF soldier he had become at seventeen.
“In the meantime,” Ariel responded, sifting through a stack of folders before him, “we work up assault plans on each and every residence. Gathering intelligence on transportation. Means of approach and egress. Local security profiles. Everything we could possibly need. Nadir, you’ll take Somerset. Ze’ev, Marseille. Tzipporah—you and I will go over Elba.”
1:36 P.M.
The United States Embassy
Tel Aviv, Israel
“The situation in the PA,” he had said, sitting back there in the restaurant, “is extremely delicate, Avi—as you know better than I. President Clinton may be leaving the Oval Office in a month’s time, but he has no intention of letting the door of MidEast peace hit him in the legacy on the way out.”
“That wasn’t your stance on the rendition of Abu Yusuf.” A statement, delivered in the tone of an accusation.
An accusation to which there could be no answer. Because there wasn’t one.
The devastating attack on the USS Cole had sent an unprepared administration scrambling, clawing for something—anything—that could prove to the American people that there would be retribution.
Finding that a low-ranking official in the Palestinian Authority had been responsible for funneling funds to the bombers had been an opportunity too good to pass up. Not even the realization that the man was a distant cousin of Arafat had dissuaded the President from authorizing Operation RUMBLEWAY.
The Agency’s plan had been quite simple, really—a joint operation with the Israelis to snatch him from the West Bank, put him on a plane to Egypt.
Let the Mukhabarat go over him for a few weeks. See what they could learn.
But like most “simple” plans handed down from on high, it had gone completely sideways. Until they’d finally ended up with the mutilated body of the asset who had been feeding them information dumped off in the street just in front of the embassy.
Return to sender.
And now there was this. Lay sighed, reaching over to the Motorola STU-III on his desk and lifting the secure telephone unit from its cradle before punching in a brief number.
A few moments went by as the call was connected over the Atlantic, the CIA station chief staring at the blank white wall of his spartanly-appointed office—drumming the fingers of his left hand nervously against the wood of his desk.
“Request to initiate secure transmission,” he said abruptly when a voice came on the other end of the line, cutting them off before they could finish their sentence.
It was another moment before a tinny electronic beep sounded, assuring him that the encryption sequence had completed.
“Director,” Lay began, choosing his next words carefully, “we have encountered. . .a major problem.”
10:49 A.M., December 16th, 2000 (One week later)
The Golan safehouse
“Shukeiri’s apartment is located just over two kilometers from the water,” Ze’ev stated, using a pointer to trace the route he had marked on the map. “In the fifteen arrondissement.”
“Eleven floors up.”
“Right,” the older man replied, acknowledging Ariel’s observation with a nod. “Only two real access points, one of them restricted to maintenance. We’ll need uniforms to get inside—I’m thinking a utility crew, electrical most likely.”
It was a sound suggestion, Ariel thought, glancing over at Tzipporah. A stratagem they had used successfully in the past. “How do we get into the country to begin with?”
“The simplest way would be by air. Fly in commercial to Marseille Provence on Belgian passports—separate flights—bring in the weapons through the marina. A small sailing vessel or powerboat. Something inconspicuous, something that would fit in there in Marseille.”
Water always had been Ze’ev’s preference, given his past history with Israel’s navy. And in this case, he couldn’t have been more right.
“And where do the weapons come from?” Nadir asked skeptically, speaking up for the first time. “A container ship?”
Ariel smiled quietly, watching the interplay between the two men. Ze’ev had been running operations with Shayetet-13 when his younger team member had still been in daycare back in the United States. . .but this was the nature of the Kidon. Of the IDF at large, truly.
Rank, seniority—none of it protected you from having your ideas challenged, taken apart. Analyzed as harshly as they would have been on your first day in the unit. No one got a pass.
And Nadir’s question was a good one.
“No,” Ze’ev responded after a moment. “We get them in Spain. There’s a Russian in Manresa we’ve done business with before. Run them up the coast.”
It was a solid plan, on the face of it. . .except for one small detail.
“What about the wife?” Ariel asked, clearing his throat.
A shadow passed across the older operator’s face. “We must be prepared to do what needs to be done. Whatever needs to be done.”
The phone in the corner of the room began to ring before Ariel could respond, and he went over to answer it, listening for a few moments. “Of course. I understand. It will be done.”
He replaced the phone in its receiver, glancing back toward Ze’ev. “You called it—Marseille it is. Everyone, get your equipment packed for France.”
11:09 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv
“What kind of help are you looking for from the Agency, Avi?” David Lay had asked, Avi ben Shoham remembered—going through the files on his desk. The two of them sitting back in that café, their lunch well-nigh forgotten as the two of them touched swords, fencers circling each other—looking for an opening. “Specifically.”
“We possess a series of mobile cellular numbers used by al-Shukeiri over the last year,” he’d replied simply, staring across at his counterpart. “One of which was used to call the police station in Ramallah. We know the numbers, but we lack the capability to track them on a global scale. A capability you possess: ECHELON.”
Lay had just looked at him, shaking his head. “ECHELON, that’s Fort Meade’s baby, Avi—not ours.”
“And in the United States, do you not. . .cooperate with these fellow agencies of yours?”
“Not so much as you might think.” The American’s laugh had been grim and mirthless.
“A promise was made, David. This is us coming to collect upon it.”
“I’ll see what can be done—you have to understand, even if I can get you what you need, it’s not going to be direct access to the raw feeds. You’re an ally, but that’s strictly Five Eyes territory.”
Australia, Canada, New Zeala
nd, the United Kingdom, and the United States.
The pantheon of Western espionage, born out of the Anglo-American alliance of World War II and fostered through the darkest days of the Cold War. His own country had been birthed in the same fires, but this was one table they would never have a seat at.
“The only way this goes down is if we analyze the intel and then hand it over, Avi. It’s the only way.”
“We have a deal.”
And that’s exactly how it had gone, Shoham thought, reaching down and powering on his desktop computer—the machine coming to life with a wheezing groan. The Agency supplying them with location data on al-Shukeiri’s most recently active number. Letting them know when he moved.
All very straightforward. So straightforward. . .he found it almost unnerving. But perhaps that was nothing more than the unwarranted suspicion of a man who had spent far too much of his life at war.
11:51 A.M. Western European Time
The Embassy of the United States
Paris, France
“You’re asking me to do what?” Paul Renninger rose from his seat, taking the encrypted STU-III’s handset with him, looping the cord over the CRT monitor as he paced around to the other side of his desk. His face betraying his agitation.
He’d spent nearly thirty years with the Agency—the last two as the chief of the prestigious and storied Paris Station. He’d run assets into East Germany—seen one of them executed a scant hundred meters from Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin. But this. . .
“Listen to me,” he said, addressing his fellow station chief. “Do you understand the implications of what you’re asking?”
But of course the man did. Because he was an old hand at this himself. And that meant he knew what he was doing in making the request, even if the infamous prerogatives of “need to know” made his reasons for doing so helplessly obscure.
Renninger listened silently for a few more minutes, before responding. “All right, Lay. I’ll get a team in the field right away.”
Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy Page 5