They had lost track of the Israeli team earlier in the day—a traffic jam in the 9th arrondissement turning their surveillance operation into a nightmare. He might have even thought it was a deliberate effort to shake them, but not with them returning to their base this way. No way they would have deliberately eluded surveillance only to walk straight back into it.
“Just the two men?” the CIA officer asked, padding out into the kitchen, his feet wet against the tile. Not even the hot shower had sufficed to work all the kinks out of his back. “All right, keep an eye on the building. I’ll be back there in a few hours.”
If the Israelis began moving in on the target, they had to be prepared to react quickly, alerting the French authorities. He thumbed the END button and threw the phone over onto the sofa. No rest for the wicked. . .
2:03 A.M. Central European Time, December 21st
Isola d’Elba, Tuscany
The jet-black Cessna 350 Corvalis came in from the south like a ghost out of the night, the roar of its flat-six Teledyne engine throbbing through the cabin as the plane swept over the Mediterranean, less than a thousand feet above the wave-tops.
Banking to the east as it lined up on a perfect heading for the runway at Elba’s only airport, Marina di Campo.
Only a few minutes now, Ariel thought, hearing the pilot’s voice in his headset. “Tower, this is Charlie two-three-two Zulu, from Turin. Request permission for approach.”
Shoham had to have moved heaven and earth to stage aviation assets for something like this. . .that much was certain. He’d never laid eyes on their pilot before this night, but he knew him to be one of the sayanim—Jews of the Diaspora who, despite having never made aliyah still swore their ultimate allegiance to the Jewish state and volunteered themselves to aid her in any way possible.
As vital to Mossad’s day-to-day operations overseas as any intelligence officer—or katsa, as they were known.
“Charlie two-three-two Zulu, this is Tower. You are cleared for approach, Runway 16.”
Ariel glanced over to where Tzipporah sat bolt upright in the seat beside him, her dark eyes seemingly trying to pierce the night ahead of them—the dim glow of runway lights only now visible.
Time to do this.
“He went down and slew a lion in a pit on a snowy day,” Ariel stated, his eyes searching the middle-aged man’s face as he delivered the countersign, the pre-arranged response to the opening greeting.
“And rare it has been for Israel to see snow ever since,” the Mossad katsa from Rome responded with a laugh, his smile visible in the glare of the airport lights as he reached out a hand. “Welcome to Italy.”
5:07 A.M. Israeli Standard Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“We’ve received confirmation from Nesher,” the Mossad officer announced as Shoham stepped off the elevator—using the codename of the katsa on the ground in Elba. “The Kidon has arrived—landed early this morning.”
“And the target?” Shoham asked, moving into the open office space, a maze of desks and CRT monitors—several televisions mounted across one wall.
“Still in place. The operation is planned for tonight. Last report from the remaining elements in Marseille has confirmed that they are, in fact, under surveillance—they succeeded in making a tail car last night.”
The Agency. He swore under his breath, shaking his head. This was all on him, now—it had been his decision to enlist the CIA’s “help” and he would ultimately bear the responsibility for everything that followed.
Everything.
And if the Americans even began to suspect that they were being conned—there was no way to reasonably estimate the resources they might throw at the problem. “Tell me,” he began, a sudden thought striking him, “how many more comms windows do we have with Elba before the assault takes place?”
“Only two,” came the reply. “One in five more hours. Then comms will be established again just prior to the assault, to receive final mission-go.”
No. “Cancel it. Cancel them both. Tell Nesher to go dark, all Mossad elements on the ground are to observe communications silence until al-Shukeiri has been eliminated.”
“Such measures will. . .” the Mossad officer paused, seeming to consider his words, “place a strain on the execution of the mission. Are you certain they are of absolute necessity, aluf?”
Shoham nodded. “If the Americans could use ECHELON to aid us. . .they can use it to track us. Shut it all down.”
6:19 A.M. Central European Time
Marciana, Isola d’Elba
“The only direct access to al-Shukeiri’s compound is a long, winding road up the side of the mountain to the promontory upon which the villa sits.”
They knew that from the satellite imagery they had reviewed when assembling the original assault plans back in the Golan, but there had been less intel on the Elba location than either of the others. And you never ignored input from people who had spent time on the ground.
“We’ve estimated his security team at nine strong,” Nesher went on, “possibly as many as thirteen. No long guns visible, but I wouldn’t discount the possibility of their presence. All the guards we’ve observed thus far have been wearing holstered sidearms.”
“And the villa itself?” Ariel asked, sliding a loaded magazine of 9mm into the butt of the H&K USP semiautomatic as he moved across the room to stand beside the middle-aged man, the metallic click assuring him that it was secured in place.
The shift of plans had forced them to leave the weapons they’d smuggled into France behind in Marseille. . .all the risks they’d run at the marina rendered worthless. But fortunately the katsa had been prepared for that eventuality.
“It’s a large compound dating back to the early 18th century,” Nesher responded, taking a long sip from the bottle of Pepsi in his hand, “with the main residence being erected by the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Gian Gastone de' Medici shortly before his death in 1737. There’s a period stone wall nearly three meters high surrounding the compound on three sides.”
Ariel nodded, glancing over to see Tzipporah screwing a suppressor into the barrel of an H&K identical to his own. “And on the fourth?”
“A thirty-meter sheer cliff climbing straight out of the sea, nearly a hundred meters from the back of the residence. There’s a swimming pool and bathhouse there, overlooking the Mediterranean.”
A hundred meters. That was a healthy amount of open ground to cover, even at night. The odds of covering it undetected didn’t get any better if you were already winded. Still. . .
“What are you thinking?” Nesher asked, setting his drink aside as he marked the thoughtful expression in Ariel’s eyes.
“I’m thinking we’re going to need whatever mountain-climbing equipment you can lay your hands on. And a boat.”
11:05 A.M.
The villa
“Of course, I will see that it’s done. Thank you, General—I look forward to our meeting. Wa alaykum salaam.”
And upon you peace.
Mustafa al-Shukeiri closed the Motorola StarTAC without another word, handing the small flip phone back to one of his bodyguards and gesturing for the man to return the phone inside the residence.
Another two weeks, and it would be done. The future of Palestine assured. Palestine, and only Palestine. . .from the river to the sea.
The fifty-seven-year-old former PLO leader reached into the breast pocket of the military uniform he customarily wore, leaning back against one of the old, neo-classical columns that supported the back portico of the house as he fished out a cigar, along with a silver lighter engraved in flowing Arabic script.
His fingers trembled with an unaccustomed excitement as he touched flame to the end of the Cohiba, the smoke curling around his dark mustache.
To be this close. It seemed almost impossible for him to believe, even now. The uniform was an affectation he had borrowed from Arafat, dating back to their days together at the siege of Beiru
t. Dark days, when it seemed as if the flame of Palestinian statehood might be extinguished forever.
But here they yet were, as God had ordained.
He pushed himself away from the column and walked out into the courtyard of the compound, catching sight of his young wife laying out by the pool, tanning—her form displayed to effect in a black bikini she had bought three weeks previous in some Paris shop.
Or rather, that he had bought for her. . .as he did everything. And in return, well—he hadn’t married her for her intellect, what little there was of it.
He smiled, taking another puff of the cigar as he looked out over the Mediterranean—the taste of salt in the air, along with the pungent aroma of burning tobacco.
The fires which would consume the Zionist state had been already lit in Ramallah, in the countless attacks and reprisals of the weeks that followed. And once this weapon was in their hands, not even the Jews’ allies in America would be able to stop them.
He laughed as if at a private joke known only to him and God, his lips curling upward into something that was halfway between a smile and a sneer. The Americans. . .
11:17 A.M.
The cliff wasn’t perfectly sheer, Ariel thought—cutting the engine back as the powerboat circled around the point, staying about a kilometer out. Far enough not to be thought suspicious in an island that was bustling with European and American tourists fleeing colder climates in time for the Christmas holiday.
Steep, yes—but not impossible, the stratified rock offering handholds to the experienced climber. Even in the dark.
He heard an obscenity explode from Tzipporah’s lips and looked back to see her standing a few feet behind him—the high-powered binoculars in her hands aimed at the top of the cliffs. “It’s him.”
That seemed impossible, but there was no mistaking the look of darkness in her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“If only I had my rifle,” she murmured, handing the binoculars over to him as he stepped back from the wheel. “I could end all of this, right here. Right now.”
It was no idle boast, he thought, adjusting the binoculars to his own eyes. He had seen her make shots well in excess of eight hundred meters. A boat rocking in the ocean swells didn’t make for the most ideal of weapons platforms, but it would have been the simpler alternative. . .if only they’d been able to acquire a rifle.
Out of the question, given the circumstances.
And there he was. The magnification was great enough for Ariel to make out the cigar in the Palestinian leader’s hand—the tendrils of smoke wafting from its tip. The dark, purplish scars pitting the man’s right cheek from where he had been struck with shrapnel nearly twenty years before in Lebanon.
But it was his eyes, more than anything, staring out over the sea. Dark and hard, the way they had to have been the day he ordered the killing of the reservists in Ramallah.
“We are slaughtering your husband.” He shuddered, a surge of anger seeming to swell up from deep within him. They have been killing us for far too long.
“What do you give as our odds?” Tzipporah asked quietly, her eyes resting on his face.
“Mustafa al-Shukeiri will be dead by the time tomorrow’s sun rises,” he responded, a cold certitude in his voice. They would reach their target—no matter what it took. There was no other choice.
She seemed to consider his words for a moment, reaching up to brush a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. “And what of us?”
At some level, it startled him how little thought he had given to that question—their own chances of survival. Perhaps because it had been a long time since he had cared.
He lowered the binoculars, returning her gaze. “Do you have family?”
It seemed strange that it was something he had never asked before, but personal matters were never really something that had come up.
“A father in Haifa,” she said, seemingly lost in thought. “My mother left him years ago and moved to the United States. My younger brother is in Naora with the 36th Armor.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before she went on. “And what about you?”
“No,” he responded simply, looking away from her—back toward the cliffs. Their target. “There is no one.”
She closed her eyes, as if realizing she had crossed a line, an invisible boundary between the two of them. “Forgive me. . .I am sorry to hear of the death of your parents.”
“They didn’t die.” He turned his attention back to the wheel, only too aware of the irony in his words. “I did.”
Tzipporah shook her head. “I—I don’t understand.”
The boat’s engine roared back to full power as he thrust the throttle forward, its prow cutting through the chop as wind-tossed salt spray filled the air around them.
“My parents,” he began after a long moment, “are devout Haredis.”
The ultra-Orthodox. She nodded, an understanding beginning to dawn in her eyes. Devoutly religious Jews known for their rejection of any and all elements of secular culture, the Haredis were exempted from military service.
“When I was thirteen, I told my father my intention to enlist rather than attend yeshiva,” he continued, referencing the Jewish religious schools where many Haredi young men spent the years of what would have been their military service in the study of the Torah and Rabbinical literature. “He flew into a towering rage. . .threatened to disown me if I dared ‘defile myself’ with the world in such a way.”
“And you did anyway.”
“The day I turned seventeen,” Ariel replied, a sad, bitter smile creeping across his face. “It’s listed on my tombstone in Har HaMenuchot as the date of my death. Perhaps it was, after all. The day that ‘David’ died.”
“You mean. . .”
“I do.” He laughed despite himself, a sound empty of any genuine mirth. “You might have thought I had done something truly heinous—converted to Christianity, or something like that.”
She shook her head, as if still incapable of believing his words. “I’m sorry.”
“And I am. . .not.” He glanced back at the rocky promontory, now receding in the distance. With any luck, the boat had gone unnoticed. “What’s done is done—there’s no taking back any of it. And that’s why the only thing for me to focus on now is what’s ahead. Those cliffs. And that man.”
7:31 P.M. Israel Standard Time
The United States Embassy
Tel Aviv, Israel
“Look, John, I’ve been around this Agency for a long time. I know something like isn’t going to be handled overnight.” David Lay leaned back in his office chair, the cord of the STU-III looping around his wrist. “But I need to know that you all are taking this seriously and getting it dealt with. This is something that could blow up in our faces like nothing you or I have ever seen.”
A moment’s pause as he listened to his counterpart back in Virginia, then Lay added. “If we don’t, the Israelis will—sooner or later. These delaying tactics are a smokescreen that’s only going to last us so long. And then we’re going to have a major problem on our hands.”
There were a few more words of empty reassurance from the other end of the line before Lay said “goodbye”, glaring at the phone as he replaced it in its cradle.
Just ten more days, that’s what he kept telling himself. Ten more days and he’d be back in the States. But this was something that had the potential to undermine everything he’d spent the last three years building. Not to mention haunt his career for years to come.
And Langley was tying his hands. . .
11:49 P.M. Central European Time
Isola d’Elba
The light of the waning gibbous moon glistened off the waters of the Mediterranean as Ariel put the anchor over the side, lowering it into the water without so much as a splash.
They’d cut the engine well over two kilometers out, drifting in with the tide until they found themselves nestled in the small cove at the foot of the cliff. Sound carried over water at dista
nces that were difficult for the uninitiated to fathom.
Last thing they needed was to blow this mission before it even got underway.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper as he glanced over at his partner. She just nodded, her face blackened with camouflage paint like his own, her dark eyes almost invisible. He was going to lead the ascent, accomplishing it in a single “pitch” with her acting as belayer below.
They were carrying only the bare minimum when it came to weapons—their suppressed H&Ks with two spare mags for each pistol. Not enough to last them through a firefight. . .but the only way they got into a firefight was if things had already gone completely sideways.
“Go with God,” Nesher whispered, reaching out to clasp Ariel’s gloved hand. The older man would remain with the boat, awaiting their return—the katsa’s Beretta holstered within his jacket, insurance against any surprises.
Checking once again to make sure the rope was paying out smoothly, Ariel lowered himself over the side and into the shallow water, wading forward until his feet touched the rock forming the base of the cliff.
He brought his modified PVS-5 night vision goggles down over his face, his eyes adjusting as the landscape around him changed to dark green. They were going to play with his depth perception, but using them was unavoidable. There just wasn’t enough moon to make the climb unaided.
Glancing upward to get his bearings, he reached above him, his gloved fingers searching for the first handhold and slipping a wedge into the crevice of the rock, securing the rope to it with a carabiner taken from off his harness—part of the equipment Nesher had secured from a store in Marciana catering to climbers seeking to conquer Monte Capanne, a few miles inland to the east.
He could still remember the first time he had gone climbing—mountain training with the Duvdevan on the Carmel, years before. The sickening feeling of a foothold giving way—swinging you back to smash against the face of the rock. Pinned there like a fly against the wall.
Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy Page 8