“Insh’allah,” Siddiqi breathed, looking around him as he closed the locker with a reverent hand. As God wills. “Then we shall strike a blow for a free Palestine. From the river. . .to the sea.”
8:04 P.M. Israel Standard Time, December 31st
A bar
Tel Aviv, Israel
One more day. That’s what he kept telling himself. David Lay leaned back in his chair, letting the music wash over him as a young Ethiopian woman up on stage grasped the microphone firmly in her right hand, belting out a soulful blues rendition of Deborah Coleman’s “I Found You.”
Just one more day. He’d be turning over Station Tel Aviv to the incoming station chief in the morning and boarding a flight out of Ben Gurion hours later. Bound stateside. Back home.
Home? Where was that? It was strange how alien that concept seemed to him now. He’d spent nearly the last twenty years of his life in the CIA’s employ, moving from one place to the next—a career that had cost him his marriage. His family. Everything he’d once thought precious.
And for what? And that was the most unanswerable question of them all. . .one that had kept him awake long nights in West Berlin back in the ‘80s, just after Trisha had left him. One that was costing him sleep now as he prepared to leave Israel behind for good.
They’d received confirmation of Mustafa al-Shukeiri’s death eight days earlier, the former PLO leader found dead in his bed at his clifftop villa in Elba. His blood soaking the satin sheets, a pair of bullet holes in his upper chest, a third between his eyes.
Mozambique drill. The mark of a trained professional.
Al-Shukeiri’s wife had been found lying beside her dead husband, still alive but bound to the headboard, a rude gag stuffed into her mouth according to the police report.
Eight days—and not a word from the Israelis, Lay thought, nursing his Jack Daniel’s. And that. . .was probably the most troubling aspect of all this.
If they had found al-Shukeiri—and his death bore all the hallmarks of Mossad’s Kidon—then Avi ben Shoham had to know that the CIA had spent most of the last month misleading its closest ally in the Middle East. Feeding them disinformation, leading them away from their target, not to him.
He had known it couldn’t last forever—not that any of this had been his idea from the beginning. A plan passed down the chain of command from Langley’s seventh floor, the lofty heights of Mount Olympus where the Gods of Good Intentions held eternal court.
In comparison to their grandeur, a Station Chief was a mere functionary. A cog in the wheel. Weren’t they all?
He could still remember the words of one of his first instructors at the Farm, the Agency training facility in Camp Peary, Virginia—the man’s eyes narrowing as he came to the front of the room, staring out at the trainees. “The first thing you must learn if you are to pursue a career with the Company—we do not make policy here. We execute policy. If you’re suffering from some grand delusion of saving the world, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Perhaps there was some peace supposed to be found in that, he didn’t know. He did know that after tomorrow, none of this was going to be his problem. Like it or not.
The Agency had never been big on closure.
8:16 P.M.
An olive grove outside Beit Shemesh
Betrayal. It was the reality of the spy business—a world where loyalties were bought and sold, subject to a thousand agendas as unknowable as the mind of God.
None of that made it any more forgivable.
The headlights of General Avi ben Shoham’s SUV caught the familiar outline of the darkened Citroen sitting there by the side of the road—tapping the brakes as he slowed, pulling in just behind it and killing his own lights.
The lights of the Citroen flashed twice, then went dark once more. The pre-arranged signal.
He pushed open his door and stepped out onto the road, a chill night breeze rippling through his dark hair as he came up alongside the car. A hundred meetings like this one over the years since he had become a part of the Mossad in the late ‘80s, he thought, casting one last careful glance up and down the road before opening the passenger door.
A pungent wall of cigarette smoke hit him in the face as he slid onto the Citroen’s threadbare seat, his eyes watering. “God, how do you breathe in this thing?”
“It’s something you get used to,” Eli Gerstman replied calmly, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray perched precariously on the dashboard. He was only a couple years older than Shoham, but the years had taken their toll on him.
Years spent defending the Jewish state. By whatever means necessary. “Any word from Dichter?”
Gerstman shook his head. “Nothing yet. If any of Shin Bet’s people in the Palestinian Authority know something about this. . .‘Iraqi connection’ your team uncovered in Elba, they’re not talking.”
And that was to be expected, Shoham mused, staring through the windshield into the darkness. Good intel was something that took time to develop.
Weeks, months—years, even. And those were under optimal conditions. . .with the continuing unrest of the intifada, the situation in the West Bank and Gaza could hardly have been less so.
It was time they didn’t have. If the intelligence garnered from al-Shukeiri’s computer was accurate—it was more like a question of days.
And there was no way to accurately calculate how much the death of the former PLO commander might have disrupted the “deal” in progress. Perhaps not at all. And if that was the case—they were faced with a serious problem. . .and left with only the most desperate of measures.
“Your operation,” Gerstman began after a long moment, digging another cigarette out of the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket, “where are we at with it?”
“It’s underway as we speak,” Shoham replied, making a show of glancing his wristwatch. He knew perfectly well what time it was.
The senior officer shook his head, cigarette clenched between his teeth—a brief flash in the darkness as flame spurted from his lighter, the tip of the cigarette flaring for a moment before relapsing into a dull glow. “The Americans are going to be furious.”
“Let them.”
8:17 P.M.
The bar
Tel Aviv, Israel
“She has a beautiful voice, doesn’t she?” Lay glanced up to see a young woman in a club dress standing there over his table, her hand on the back of the neighboring chair—her face shadowed in the semi-darkness of the bar.
“She does,” the CIA station chief responded, taken by surprise at the woman’s sudden appearance. “Truly talented. . .I only regret not having heard her before tonight.”
“There will be other nights.”
He shook his head, his gaze returning to the Ethiopian woman on stage, her voice low and husky as she leaned into the microphone. “I’m afraid not—not for me. I fly out of Ben Gurion tomorrow afternoon. Back to the States.”
He wasn’t sure exactly why he had just told her that, but there was an earnestness about her that was disarming—something in the way she carried herself. Perhaps it had something to do with the emptiness he felt this night. . .or perhaps it was just the Jack Daniel's talking.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the chair and he nodded quickly, watching her as she pulled it out to take her seat there at the table with him. She couldn't have been far out of her mid-twenties, a beauty about her that her clothes only served to accentuate—swarthy olive skin, black hair swept back over her shoulders in dark waves. High, prominent cheekbones highlighting a face a sculptor would have been proud to have been responsible for creating.
Something of a laughing challenge in her eyes as a waitress approached and she ordered a whiskey, neat. Introducing herself to him. Amira.
“The name’s David,” he responded, taking a sip of his Jack Daniel’s. The best lies always began with a kernel of truth, and for some reason, despite the difference in their ages. . .he found himself wanting to make this a good one. “I work
for the State Department.”
He saw her eyes open wider at the statement, her attention taken from the stage for a moment. “Oh?”
A shrug. “It’s nothing, really. . .I’m just a functionary, nothing more.”
She laughed—a clear, ringing sound, her dark eyes dancing as she looked at him. “I have to say,” she said, raising her glass, “you really know how to impress a woman.”
Something in her eyes, catching him off-guard once more. Did she mean she was. . .?
He shook his head, managing a half-embarrassed smile in response. “Perhaps it’s just been a long time since I tried.”
8:24 P.M.
A surveillance van
Tel Aviv
“. . .saw her in concert before I left the States. Has one of the best voices of any blues singer I’ve heard.”
“You miss America?” The young man heard his partner ask, her voice coming through his headphones loud and clear, holding just the right note of sympathy—of concern.
He might have even believed it was sincere, he thought—his face tightening in the darkness of the vehicle. If he hadn’t known exactly why they were all here.
What had led them to this point. The Jewish people do not forget. We do not forgive.
“She’s good,” he said, looking up into the eyes of the older man seated across from him in the back of the van, the glow of the electronics playing across his face—illuminating the Jericho 941 semiautomatic pistol sitting on the ledge next to him. A magazine in the man’s weathered hands as he carefully fed one brass cartridge after another between its steel lips.
A nod served as the only reply. She was trained to be good.
“What do you think, Ze’ev. . .will he go for it?”
“Better men than him have before,” the older man said finally, looking across at the screens showing the single surveillance camera, covering the entrance to the bar. “And the CIA’s people, they’ve always enjoyed tomcatting around on foreign station. Last night in Israel. . .what does he have to lose?”
True enough. “Still, his jacket says he’s been with them since the ‘80s.” He shook his head. “Hasn’t lasted that long in this business by being a fool.”
The older man didn’t smile, slamming the magazine into the Jericho’s stock with an audible click. The slide running forward as he thumbed off the release. Chambering a round.
“We’re prepared for that eventuality.”
9:21 P.M.
The bar
Tel Aviv
“. . .and that’s how I came to work for the government,” Lay said, leaning back in his chair, the last of his whiskey forgotten in the glass on the table, amidst the melting ice. “Didn’t intend for it to work out that way, but it did. It’s life. . .kinda funny, I suppose.”
And all of it a lie, he thought, the music from the stage still swirling around them, unnoticed as he looked into the dark eyes of the woman sitting across from him.
Nothing more so than that last line. There were many words he could think of to describe life—funny didn’t enter into it.
But this night. . .this had been something special. Somehow. Two lonely people sharing a moment in time. Strangers in the night.
“And I had no choice in the matter,” she said, her glass poised delicately between long fingers. “But there’s nothing else I would have chosen—nothing more important than the defense of the Jewish state against those who would seek to destroy it.”
And they are many, he thought, hearing the passion in her voice. The passion of youth, of idealism. A passion he had once felt himself. . .where had it died? Berlin? Here? His own conscience no longer clear—stained by so much, actions he could never take back. Or undo. “I hope you succeed.”
She drained her whiskey, eyeing him over the glass. Seeming to take his measure at a glance. “You’re sympathetic to our cause? I find that surprising coming from someone in your position. . .the US State Department—well, you know what I mean.”
He nodded. All too well. “My job demands ‘neutrality’ from me,” he said finally, “but I have made many friends during my time in Israel and. . .not so many on the other side. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit my sympathies lay with your people.”
“Good,” she responded, seeming to consider his words for a long moment, the light of the bar refracted in the crystal of her glass. “These days, Israel needs every friend she can get.”
True enough. “I suppose I’d best be saying good-bye,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. Genuine regret in his voice as he pushed back his chair, rising to his feet. “New Year’s Eve or no, it’s an early morning tomorrow.”
“Oh, I don’t know—my apartment is only a few blocks from the airport,” she said, a quiet smile playing around her lips as she looked slowly up into his face. “I’m sure you would enjoy. . .the view.”
He just stood there for a moment, taken off-guard by her boldness. But hadn’t he known this was where it was headed? Her words, the look in her eyes—making her intentions clear almost from the moment she had sat down.
The offer couldn’t have been more tempting. She was so beautiful, and it had been so very long—yet he felt something of an alarm trigger deep within him.
He might have been lonely, but he wasn’t delusional. Something wasn’t right about any of this.
9:26 P.M.
The surveillance van
“No,” he heard the American officer respond—his voice suddenly cold as ice, tension clearly audible in his tone. Somehow, something had alerted him. Perhaps nothing more than the instincts of an old spy rising to the fore.
No matter. He glanced across at his partner, nodding silently as the older man tucked his weapon into a holster inside his waistband—zipping up his jacket. He picked up a small syringe off the shelf and held it up to the dim light within the van, flicking it with a forefinger. A grim look passing across his face as he did so
Another moment, and the man had pushed open the back door of the vehicle, disappearing into the night. Leaving him alone, the glow of the screens washing over his bearded face.
The woman’s voice coming over his headset. “Ariel, the target’s on the move. Coming your way."
A taut, grim smile creased his lips as he toggled his mike to respond, his eyes on the street cameras. Lay’s decision to leave. . .it wasn’t going to change a thing, not in the end.
9:29 P.M.
David Lay cast a glance behind him as he exited the bar, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That he was being targeted.
That woman. . .he found himself replaying her every word through his mind—every last thing he had said to her.
Cursing himself for a fool that he hadn’t seen it earlier, that he had let his guard down.
You didn’t get to make mistakes in this business, he thought, glancing down a street filled with partiers come to ring in the New Year, his eyes searching the crowd for any sign of a threat. Not on Mossad’s turf, most of all.
Not without them costing you dearly.
He put his hand on a young woman’s shoulder, excusing himself as he began to push his way through the crowd. It wasn’t more than a few blocks to the small fifth-floor apartment he had called “home” ever since arriving in Tel Aviv—just a few blocks, and he was home free. So long as he wasn’t tailed when he left for the Embassy in the morning, he should make his flight without incident. Would be back Stateside before the new year was a full day old.
He might been careless, but he hadn’t given her anything operable. Anything that was even true.
This could be handled.
Twenty meters down the street, maybe more, and he felt someone jostle into him from behind.
Lay turned, catching a brief glimpse of a man in the crowd, already moving away from him—his face obscured by a hooded jacket.
A sharp, stinging pain suddenly shooting through his thigh—his eyes widening as he glanced down, searching in vain for a wound. Feeling suddenly disoriented, dizzy
—unable to focus. He hadn’t had that much to drink. There was no way. . .his mind consumed with self-recrimination. Memories of another time flashing before him. The Cold War, an assassination ordered from behind the Iron Curtain.
The Bulgarians had been masters at this sort of thing.
This. . .a reveler’s angry shout ringing hollow in his ears as he staggered into her. Her face swimming before his eyes—his fingers digging into the pale flesh of her arm. Struggling to stay aright.
He saw a pair of men in paramedic uniform pushing their way intently through the crowd toward him, their faces blurry and unfocused. And then his legs seemed to give way—the ground rushing up to meet him as he went down hard against the pavement. Darkness, reaching out to enfold him.
And everything went black. . .
10:35 P.M.
Cairo International Airport
Egypt
Journey in Royalty, Lieutenant Colonel Umar Hadi thought as he descended the stairs of the Royal Jordanian Airways Airbus to the tarmac, glancing back up to see the airline’s familiar dark livery resplendent under the runway lights—the Hashemite crown emblazoned upon the plane’s tail.
A lofty thought.
Far too lofty for a soldier like him. He shook his head, running a hand across the dark mustache lining his upper lip—his maroon beret and uniform long gone, replaced by a dark, Western-style suit. A soldier—that’s all he was, and after more than twenty years serving in the ranks of the Republican Guards, it was all he knew how to be.
Tahir Kamal Siddiqi, though. . .the general was another matter entirely. He had aspirations beyond the military, of that much Hadi was sure.
The kind of aspirations that placed a man in danger of coming under Saddam’s scrutiny, or perhaps even worse, that of the President’s son, Qusay.
Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy Page 10