Some things you just never wanted to repeat.
Testing the anchor with a quick, sharp tug to ensure it was holding, he straightened—his body pressing against the rock as he levered himself up, his feet finding a hold on the same tiny ledge where his hands had been only moments before.
His heart pounding against his chest as he began to repeat the process. Just keep moving.
1:09 A.M. Israel Standard Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
No matter how old you became, Avi ben Shoham thought—or how many times you had done it—you never got used to the feeling of sending men and women to what could very possibly be their deaths.
Or at least he hoped you never did.
The small office was unbearably quiet, the only sound that of the clock ticking away on the wall behind his head. Maddening.
Even now, in his late forties, somehow he imagined himself still that young tank commander in the Golan. His Patton rolling forward, tracks grinding over the rough ground as the entire vehicle rocked from the recoil of its 105mm main gun.
Engaging the enemies of the Jewish state at close range—hot brass spewing from the ejection port of the coaxial machine gun to cover the floor of the cockpit as Syrian infantry rushed forward in support of their armor.
But now here he sat. Waiting to hear of the deeds of other men.
12:15 A.M., Central European Time, December 22nd
Isola d’Elba
Easy there. Lying prone against the cliff to reduce his profile against the sky, Ariel reached out, pulling the rope in as Tzipporah picked her way up the face of the cliff, the other end secured to her harness—removing the wedges as she came. Not far now.
With the rope now firmly secured to the summit with a carabiner, they’d be able to rappel their way back down after the neutralization of their target. With any luck, they wouldn’t be doing it under fire.
He glanced back over his shoulder, scanning the grounds through the green haze of his Gen. II NVGs as he had been doing every couple minutes since reaching the summit. No guards, no sign that their ascent had drawn notice. Yet.
Another few moments, and she was close enough for him to reach down, seizing her right hand in his and pulling her the rest of the way to the top.
“You good?” he asked, taking a knee beside her as he checked the ropes one more time. Making sure they were holding fast.
She nodded wordlessly, unholstering her H&K and screwing the suppressor into its barrel. “Let’s go.”
He rose from his crouch, his pistol up as he led the way across the promontory toward the house, moving at a half-run.
Pausing every few moments, his eyes scanning the darkness for threats. Nothing.
Everything was silent.
The faint rays of the moon glistened off the water of the pool as they began to circle around its edge, a distracting iridescence in the glow of the NVGs.
And then he felt, rather than saw, a sudden movement off to the side—the goggles destroying his peripheral vision.
Heard Tzipporah’s pistol cough twice even as he turned—catching sight of a guard who had just come around the corner of the bathhouse, flanking them and taking them off-guard.
Her rounds caught the man high in the chest even as she fired again, his legs going out from under him as he fell backward into the pool with a loud splash. His blood staining the water as silence fell once more over the courtyard.
“Good work,” Ariel breathed, ripping off his night-vision goggles and stuffing them into a pocket of his assault vest. Combat was all about trade-offs, and they had nearly just cost him his life.
They just stood there for a moment, weapons up—waiting for a reaction, some sign that the suppressed shots had been heard.
Nothing.
The two of them reached the portico at the back of the villa without further incident, slipping between the ornate stone columns to reach the door. Tzipporah moving back to stand guard as he pulled a snap gun from his pocket, fitting it into the lock, his gloved index finger finding the trigger.
There. The gun “fired”, striking all the bottom pins of the lock and transferring their kinetic energy upward, jamming them open.
And they were in.
12:21 A.M.
High mahogany bookcases filled with old volumes bound in Moroccan red rose from floor to ceiling around them as they made their way through what had to be the villa’s library.
They hadn’t been able to obtain floor plans for the 18th-century structure, so they were left groping in the darkness.
There was a light shining from the rooms ahead of them, along with the sound of. . .voices. Low and indistinct.
A television set, he realized after a moment—motioning for Tzipporah to cover him as he advanced—the muzzle of his pistol leading the way forward.
There was a guard sitting there on a couch only feet from the entryway, his holstered pistol lying on the endtable beside his drink—his attention focused on the television as the face of American action film star Steven Seagal appeared on-screen.
The guard was a big man, taller than either of them and heftily built. But he was distracted by his movie. Unfocused. Taking him would be easy enough.
Ariel had just begun to advance from the darkness of the library when the man rose, stretching his arms as he circled around the edge of the couch.
No going back.
He put his head down and charged across the few remaining feet, slamming into the man and knocking him back with the force of the collision—his free arm wrapping around the man’s throat like a fleshy garrote. Cutting off the scream on his lips before it could be uttered.
The man’s eyes went wide, struggling desperately against Ariel as his left hand clawed toward the endtable, and his weapon. And then it came back, suddenly and without warning, slamming into the Israeli’s stomach with the force of a sledgehammer.
Pain. It felt as though every ounce of breath had been driven from his body—sending him staggering back, into Tzipporah’s line of fire.
No shot. He saw the man reach the endtable, hands fumbling with the clasp of the retention holster.
His H&K came up even as he struggled to regain his balance, iron sights centering on the man’s temple. His finger taking up the slack.
The suppressed shot echoed like a handclap in the tight, enclosed room—the 9mm hollowpoint entering the man’s head just in front of the ear. He toppled sideways, crashing into the table and taking it down with him, his blood spilling out over the lush carpet.
Target down. Ariel just stood there for a moment, looking at the man’s corpse as he struggled to regain his breath. They had to keep moving.
There was the sound of footsteps from down the hall before they could move, a man calling softly, “Ibrahim?” as he entered the room.
He looked up to see both Ariel and Tzipporah’s pistols aimed at his head. Death staring him in the face, a scant few pounds of pressure away.
A moment passed, his eyes widening in fear and shock—then he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Your employer,” Ariel began in fluent Arabic, keeping his weapon up as he circled the man, “Mustafa al-Shukeiri. Take us to him.”
12:27 A.M.
Peace. The reward of God for those who had proved faithful to His struggle. Mustafa al-Shukeiri leaned back against the pillows, his arm curled around the soundly sleeping form of his wife—fingers idly caressing her soft skin.
Once, in Beirut so long ago—he could have never imagined such a feeling of tranquility. Artillery shells reducing buildings to rubble, Israeli tank columns moving inexorably up the Beirut-Damascus road, cutting off any hope of escape. Palestine’s darkest hour.
But now. . .he smiled to himself in the semi-darkness, the soft glow of the lamp on the dresser providing the room’s only illumination. Now, their future had never seemed more bright.
He heard a muffled sound from the hall without, sitting up in bed just as the d
oor came crashing open—the body of one of his guards crumpling to the floor, rolling helplessly over on his back not five feet from the foot of the bed—the bloody, gaping hole of an exit wound swallowing up the space between his eyes.
The former PLO leader opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped—the words dying in his throat as a pair of figures stepped over the body and into the room, a man and a woman, their faces blackened beyond recognition. Ghouls come for the dead.
“Mustafa al-Shukeiri?” the man asked, the suppressed pistol coming up in his hand.
He had long envisioned how he would die, fighting bravely against the Jews—words of defiance on his lips, words which would be remembered down through history. Taught by Palestinian mothers to their children for as long as their people remained.
But he found it impossible to utter a single syllable now, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets, his hands trembling uncontrollably beneath the linen sheets. Incapable of even pleading for a mercy he knew would not be granted him.
“Vadim Novesche,” Ariel pronounced simply, staring coldly into al-Shukeiri’s eyes, his finger curling around the pistol’s match trigger as he recited the names of the reservists lynched in Ramallah. “Yossi Avrahami. The Jewish people do not forget. We do not forgive.”
1:31 A.M. Israel Standard Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“Avi,” the Mossad officer began, poking his head into Shoham’s office. “We just received a microburst transmission from Elba.”
“And?” Shoham demanded, turning back toward the door. He had spent most of the last half hour pacing, unable to calm himself enough to sit.
“Best that you hear it for yourself.”
The thirty meters down the hall toward the operational hub were covered in a matter of moments, one of the analysts handing the general a pair of headphones.
He put them on, listening as the transmission began to play—Ariel’s voice coming through the speakers, clearly distinct. “Sound the trumpet. Break the pitcher. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon. I say again, the sword of the Lord and of Gideon.”
Success. Shoham slipped off the headphones and laid them to one side, allowing himself a grim smile.
Their dead were still dead. But their deaths had not gone unavenged.
And for this life. . .that would have to be enough.
1:34 A.M. Central European Time
The villa
Isola d’Elba
It was past time for them to be going—even if the sound of the suppressed shots hadn’t been enough to bring the rest of the now dead Palestinian’s security team. . .they would find the bodies of their slain team members soon enough.
They had left al-Shukeiri’s wife tied to the bedposts of their bed beside his body—her face flecked with blood—a pair of lace underwear stuffed in her mouth as a rude gag to muffle her screams for help.
“Are you finding anything relevant?” Ariel asked quietly, glancing back to where Tzipporah sat behind al-Shukeiri’s desktop computer in his small office, her fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard. The man’s passwords had been written down in a notebook kept in the top drawer of his desk—the rough, nearly illiterate scrawl the only impediment to their search.
“I’m not sure,” she replied, her brow furrowing. “There are a series of e-mails here. Between al-Shukeiri and an Iraqi general. . .Tahir Kamal Siddiqi.”
“Siddiqi?” Ariel demanded, moving around behind her. “He’s a member of the Revolutionary Command Council—Saddam’s right hand. What are they saying?”
Tzipporah shook her head, gesturing to the Arabic on-screen. “It’s all very cryptic. Something about a deal taking place in the next two weeks. After the new year. A deal between Fatah and the Iraqi government. A ‘package’ changing hands.”
A chill ran through his body, all thoughts of haste forgotten as he leaned forward, looking over her shoulder. This was important.
“See what else you can find,” he said, his eyes following her movements on-screen as she clicked from one window to the next, the computer responding with agonizing slowness.
There. His finger shot out, indicating a folder near the top of the screen. “What’s that?”
“It appears to be financial records,” she responded, opening it with a double-click of the mouse and beginning to work through the files within. “Money transfers, all of them to a numbered account in Bern. A series of payments from a company based in the Turks and Caicos, BRS Distributing, LLC.”
That name. . .something about it was undeniably familiar, but it took him a moment to place it.
“BRS Distributing,” he began slowly, “is a known front company used by the American intelligence community to launder funds for their overseas operations.”
Tzipporah just looked at him, her dark eyes wide open in disbelief. “Are you saying. . .?”
The question trailed off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to form the words.
He nodded, seeming only then to realize the import of his own words. “I’m saying that Mustafa al-Shukeiri is—no, was—a CIA asset.”
Episode II
6:37 P.M. Arabia Standard Time, December 26th, 2000
Kirkuk Airbase
Northern Iraq
The sun was setting, at last nearing the end of its long march across the western sky. Its rays streaming in through the open blast door as Tahir Kamal Siddiqi entered, flanked by his bodyguards—the fading light bathing the interior of the hardened aircraft shelter in a blood-red hue.
Fitting, he thought, his eyes fixed on a group of soldiers clustered in the middle of the hangar. A harbinger of all that was to come.
The sound of his boots against the concrete marking each purposeful step as he strode toward them—the men snapping to attention at his approach. Fear visible in their eyes.
As well there should be.
“You’ve inspected the shells for any possible leakage, I presume?” he asked, brusquely returning the soldiers’ salutes as he turned toward the foremost man, a scientist in the uniform of an Iraqi Army colonel.
“Of course, general,” the man said, his voice trembling slightly, gesturing toward a container sitting on the floor beyond them—about twice the size of a normal footlocker, its dark paint faded and worn by the years. It was a question he hadn’t needed to ask—it would have been as much as any of their lives were worth to have failed to take the necessary precautions prior to his arrival. To have exposed a member of Saddam’s Revolutionary Command Council to such danger.
“Then open it up,” the general ordered, catching the eye of a muscled sergeant off to his right, a man with whom—like most of the men gathered here—he had served years previous in the Iran-Iraq War, they and their fellow Guardsmen driving the Iranian militias from the Al-Faw Peninsula in the operation of Ramadan Mubarak. Two days of bitter fighting, the kind of struggle that binds men to each other.
And then he had himself risen through the ranks in the wake of the purges which had followed the American invasion in 1991, as the Iraqi Army struggled to overcome the disgrace of defeat. The distrust of their President.
Gaining the confidence of Saddam Hussein himself. . .and through it all, maintaining a cadre of men like these—men whose loyalty was owed only to himself.
A dangerous path for a man to take in Saddam’s Iraq, Siddiqi thought, watching as the sergeant stooped down—undoing the container’s heavy locks. A path from which many a lesser man would have quailed.
But Allah had not ordained him a lesser man.
The sergeant threw back the lid, the sound of metal impacting against concrete ringing across the hangar as he rose, taking a step back so as to let the general approach.
A half-dozen 130mm artillery shells clearly visible in the dim light as Siddiqi stepped forward, the soldiers looking on as he took a knee by the container—his fingers brushing away the dust cloaking them. His breath catching in his throat despite himself as he made out the symbol inscri
bed into the metal of the shell’s casing.
Nerve gas.
“Alhamdullilah,” he breathed, overcome by emotion. Praise be to God.
First developed by Iraqi scientists in the early ‘80s, all such stockpiles were supposed to have been destroyed under the terms of the United Nations Security Council Resolution 687, and indeed, even Saddam himself did not know of the existence of this one. One of many secrets he had kept. . .against a better day.
Chemical weapons had not decided the day at Al-Faw—a hundred thousand crack Guardsmen pitted against a mere fifteen thousand Iranian Basij militiamen had been a foregone conclusion from the outset—but he would never forget the sight of so many safawi fighters writhing in the dust of the street, helpless. Convulsed in the throes of death.
The sheer power of that moment. A power Iraq could never afford to give up, no matter the arrogant decree of the West. Or perhaps rather because of it.
“And the rest of the cache?” he asked, looking up into the face of the scientist.
“They are in equally good condition, General. As you had hoped. Sixty shells, just like this one.”
“Then we can spare a few to fulfill our. . .obligations,” Siddiqi said, rising to his feet. “And, if things come to the worst, to provide ourselves with a field test of the sarin’s continued efficacy. Colonel Hadi, what have you learned?”
A man in his late forties stepped from the back of the group, the insignia on his uniform marking him as a lieutenant colonel of the Iraqi Army, the maroon beret of the Republican Guard poised securely atop his dark hair. His eyes meeting Siddiqi’s with the calm, unrelenting gaze of a veteran.
“Our contact is dead, General—as we learned two days ago. A victim of an assassination, most likely carried out by the Jews. But I have been able to determine that there is still interest in our offer on the part of those he represented. With your leave, I will need to visit Gaza myself, meet with my contacts there. I am confident that al-Shukeiri’s death will make little difference in the end.”
Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy Page 9