He flicked on the light switch and walked across the room, setting the box containing his personal effects down on the edge of the flimsy metal desk.
“I’m going to need a secure line run in here, Daniel,” he said, glancing back to where Vukovic stood by the open door. “And a computer with access to our network. As soon as it can be set up. Can you arrange that?”
“I can,” the assistant station chief replied, his gaze unwavering as he stared at Lay. “But first, you’re going to have to tell me what you’re actually doing. Why you’re really still here.”
Lay pushed brusquely past his shoulder, shutting the door to the station without before turning to face his former deputy. “I’m cleaning up a mess, that’s what I’m doing. And you’re going to help me.”
9:12 A.M.
The Gaza Strip
“It’s there again,” Hadi heard one of the smugglers announce, his voice filled with tension as he glanced back along the open highway as they sped north toward Gaza City itself
The same dark brown Toyota that had been following them ever since Khan Yunis, disappearing occasionally only to reappear once more in their rear-view mirror.
An uncanny, ever-constant presence—no matter how many side roads they took, criss-crossing the Strip as they worked their way north. Jinking like a fighter pilot avoiding a SAM. They had a tail.
But how? That was the question burning through the lieutenant colonel’s mind, again and again.
Could the Zionists’ intelligence network have somehow picked them up coming across the border? The odds seemed fantastical, and yet. . .the alternative was far, far worse.
That the Palestinian leadership was itself compromised. That they knew he was coming.
And if they knew. . .
He didn’t even finish that thought, seeing the smuggler’s fingers tighten around the butt of his Makarov, knuckles whitening—his bearded face betraying nothing but grim resolution.
“Firas,” he heard, snatches of low, urgent conversation filtering back to him from the front seat. “. . .vehicle. . .the market, lose them there. . .”
It felt like he was going into combat once more, that old familiar feeling. Adrenaline flooding through his veins. Everything riding on the outcome of the next few minutes.
Everything.
9:21 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“. . .report that the target vehicle has entered the Firas Market there in Gaza City,” the communications officer announced, taking off his headphones and glancing up at Shoham.
The general swore under his breath, running a hand across his chin as he stared across the room at the large map on the opposite wall. This had been meant as a grab operation, in and out before the Palestinians even knew they were there.
The kind of mission at which the Kidon teams excelled.
But a two-car surveillance op was possible, or had been—in Rafah, and along the roads coming north. Sufficient, as long as they’d had reason to expect that the smugglers were going to ferry their target straight to his contacts in Gaza.
Now, entering the congested environment of the market. . .all bets were off.
“The team is still on them?” he asked, glancing over at the officer.
“They are,” the man replied, seeming to consult his notes before continuing. “Keilah-1 is currently in position as the chase vehicle, approx hundred meters following distance.”
As close as they dared. And yet so much that could go wrong in the time it would take Ariel’s people to close that gap. “And the IDF?”
“Duvdevan has restaged north as per your orders, just outside of Nahal Oz.”
A kibbutz just east of the Strip, Shoham thought, his attention returning to the map. Less than six kilometers from the heart of Gaza itself.
If anything went wrong and they needed to pull his officers out, they’d be able to deploy quickly. Very quickly. If. . .
9:25 A.M.
Firas Market, Gaza City
The Gaza Strip
“They’re pulling off to the side,” Tzipporah heard Ariel say, his voice crackling with static over the radio connection. “Stopping. The Iraqi is out of the vehicle, I say again, our target has exited the vehicle. What’s your ETA, Keilah-2?”
“Two minutes,” she replied tersely, glancing over to where Nadir sat, his face drawn and tense. Hands gripping the steering wheel of the Toyota tightly as the young Mossad officer tapped the gas, sending women scattering as he accelerated around a produce stall
“Easy,” she whispered, looking over at her younger partner as she reached into her light denim jacket for the pistol, assuring herself it was ready. Knowing just how delicate of a balance presented itself to them—too fast, and they risked drawing far more attention to themselves than they could afford.
Too slow, and the Iraqi would have rabbited before they could arrive, Ariel’s vehicle already having moved on—unable to maintain surveillance at such close quarters.
“Coming up on the target,” she announced a moment later, glimpsing the vehicle perhaps another thirty meters north along the crowded street. “Pull over—right here.”
She had pushed open her door almost before the vehicle came to a stop, pulling the dark cloth of the hijab more closely around her face as she stepped out.
Only too aware of how dangerous this was. How quickly things could go so very wrong.
Her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for men matching the descriptions Ariel had given over the radio. The white Chevrolet just sitting there at the mouth of a side street choked with stalls selling fruits, vegetables, and merchandise. Abandoned.
Pushing past a Palestinian woman in dark, voluminous clothing haggling with a street vendor over the price of limes—glancing back to see Nadir emerging from the Toyota, his eyes on her.
And then she saw them—three men in a group, moving among the stalls, pushing their way through the crowd of shoppers. Moving in the opposite direction down the street—the man in the center taller than either of his companions.
“Keilah-1, I have eyes on the target,” Tzipporah announced, her voice low, shielded from being overheard by a dozen other voices, the ever-present bustling hum of the market. “Moving through the souks on foot, just east of the target vehicle. In pursuit.”
Had to keep him in line of sight, she thought, her eyes briefly meeting those of a young Palestinian man bagging up sweets for a customer. They couldn’t lose the Iraqi, not now.
“Be careful, Keilah-2,” she heard Ariel warn, her earpiece hidden by the fabric of the hijab. “Maintain your following distance—we’re coming back around.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but the words hadn’t even left her lips when a firm hand descended upon her wrist, seizing it in a tight grasp. A man’s face, close to her own. His eyes flashing in anger. “Who are you—what are you doing here?”
9:31 A.M.
The United States Embassy
Tel Aviv, Israel
“My God,” Vukovic breathed, looking across the small office at Lay, “how did we get to this place?”
Lay shook his head, recognizing the look in his former deputy's eyes. Disbelief. Sometimes, not even the cynicism of a career intelligence officer was sufficient.
“Good intentions,” he shrugged. “How ever else?”
“I just don't understand—why wasn't I read in on this operation? Why—”
“It was being handled as an SAP,” Lay replied evenly. A Special Access Program, run directly from the top. “They knew that if things went right, al-Shukeiri could be their ace-in-the-hole in the negotiations. But if the Israelis found out the way they'd been back-channeling, it could kill the peace talks completely. Limiting access was their way of minimizing risk, or at least that was the concept. I was the only senior officer at the station who was briefed, with Doug Peters brought in to run al-Shukeiri.”
A light seemed to dawn across Vukovic's face. “Then that's why. . .”
&nb
sp; “He came in unannounced and then left in mid-December.” He nodded. “Langley recalled him once al-Shukeiri's involvement in the Ramallah lynchings came to light, once we realized Mossad was gunning for him. Damage control. Too little, too late. And now we're left to pick up the pieces.”
“And we don’t even know what they all are,” Vukovic mused, his brow furrowing. “This deal with Saddam's general. . .have the Israelis been able to establish the nature of it?”
“If they have, they’re not saying. My money’s on them being as much in the dark as we are.”
“Except for this Iraqi.”
“Right,” Lay responded, rising from his seat on the edge of the metal desk and circling around to the rear, his big hand resting on the back of the office chair. “Except for this Iraqi. A slim lead, but it’s all we have to go on. Langley had an aneurysm over the thought of giving Mossad access to their files on al-Shukeiri, so we’re left with having to find a substitute.”
“Or be shut out entirely.”
“Precisely. And if that happens, our chances of keeping the circle close on this become. . .non-existent.” The former station chief pulled back his chair, sinking into it. “Let’s get to work. I need you to reach out to General Suleiman, see what he’s able to give us.”
“The head of the Egyptian Mukhabarat?”
Lay nodded. “If he’s coming in from the Sinai, he may have crossed their radar on his way into the country. Time to find out what we don’t know.”
9:32 A.M.
Firas Market, Gaza City
The Gaza Strip
“Answer me! Why were you following us?” Tzipporah felt the smuggler’s foul breath hot against her face as he pushed her back against the table, wrapped sweets cascading to the dirt of the street. His hand still gripping her wrist, another pair of men visible behind him.
It took everything within her not to react, to respond in accordance with her training—using his body weight and momentum against him, sending him crashing into the stall. Her own weapon drawn in the space of a moment.
And their covers blown in the same time. The thin line they walked out here—your own safety subordinated to the success of the mission.
“I don’t know what you’re saying!” she protested, shaking her head in apparent distress, only too aware that the Iraqi was getting farther away by the moment. Unless Ariel was already on him.
She caught sight of Nadir approaching through the crowd in that moment, a circle already gathering around them there in the market.
No weapon in his hand. Good man.
“Let go of my sister,” she heard him call out angrily in Arabic as he pushed a Palestinian businessman to the side, punctuating his words with a string of curses. “Let her go now.”
“Or else. . .tell me, boy, just what will you do?” one of the men demanded, his face just visible over her assailant’s shoulder—an old Makarov pistol suddenly materializing in the man’s hand.
Aimed straight at Nadir’s head. She saw him recoil, indecision written in his eyes, clearly debating whether to draw his weapon.
Her own right hand pushed back against her chest by the weight of the smuggler’s body, fingers only inches away from the stock of her Beretta.
And then she heard a woman’s scream, people scattering as another pair of armed men pushed their way through the crowd toward where they stood.
Their faces obscured by checkered keffiyehs. . .secured with the green headbands of Hamas’ al-Qassam Brigades.
A Kalashnikov assault rifle in the foremost man’s hands as he raised it—aiming at the smuggler with the pistol.
“Let them go,” he ordered in Arabic, an icy calm pervading his voice. So familiar. “They’re ours.”
She felt the smuggler slowly release her arm, taking a step back—his hands held carefully out from his sides, glancing at his companions as if to see whether they would back him up.
“Move,” the newcomer ordered impatiently, gesturing with the muzzle of his rifle. “Yalla, yalla!”
Quickly.
“But they followed us here from Rafah!” the smuggler exclaimed, finally finding his voice. “They—”
“Stay here another moment and you’ll answer to either my rifle or the mercy of Salah Shehade,” the keffiyeh-masked man warned, using the name of the leader of the Brigades as he cut the smuggler off. “Your choice.”
The man took another look at his companions, both of them already backing away as if hoping to lose themselves in the crowd—anger distorting his face as he spat in the dirt.
Turning his back on them wordlessly, shoving a woman out of the way before vanishing among the stalls of the souk. Gone.
“Are you all right?” Ariel asked, scanning the street for a long moment before turning to them—his voice low, his eyes just visible beneath the keffiyeh. She nodded quickly, trading glances with Nadir as Ze’ev motioned them forward, back toward the vehicles.
Hearing the Kidon leader curse as he ducked his head away from the crowd, keying his mic. “Base, this is Keilah-1. We have lost the target. I say again, we do not have the target. Mission abort, mission abort.”
12:49 P.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“Three hours, and there have been no further reported sightings of the Iraqi. Shin Bet has alerted their network of informants in the Strip, but thus far,” Eli Gerstman finished, looking up from his notes, “he has yet to resurface.”
Halevy shook his head, glancing over at Avi ben Shoham as he closed the briefing folder. “So essentially, we have nothing.”
Precisely. The cruel irony of an operation that had been doomed from the very outset.
“That’s correct,” Shoham replied slowly, struggling to repress his growing anger in the presence of the Mossad chief, “just as I warned could be the result when the decision was made to completely alter our operational plans at the last moment.”
“Avi—” Gerstman began, but Shoham cut him off, tapping his index finger roughly against the hard wood of the conference table. Raising his voice as he continued.
“We had the people in position. We could have pulled it off. We could have had the Iraqi, here. Instead, as you say. . .we have nothing.”
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked with Gerstman’s as the senior officer paused, seeming to choose his words carefully.
“Could have,” Gerstman said finally, placing both of his hands on the table. “Or we could have just easily ended up with our assets caught in the middle of a street riot. Your man took a huge risk, going into the market like that.”
The kind of risk we used to take every day of our lives, Shoham thought, his eyes narrowing as he looked across the table into the eyes of his old friend. “A risk he wouldn’t have had to take if we hadn’t decided to change horses in mid-stream, as I believe our American friends would put it.”
Something had changed Gerstman. Had it been Ramallah? The horror of that day, searing itself into their memories as if with a brand. Perhaps it had changed all of them.
“Speaking of the Americans,” Halevy interjected, clearing his throat as he glanced at Shoham, “have you heard anything further from our counterparts at the CIA, Avi?”
“No, nothing,” he replied, caught off-guard by the older man’s sudden change of tack. “I’ll be meeting Evan Fournier, the Agency’s new station chief, tomorrow for lunch at Hatraklin. It’s something I’ll bring up with him then.”
The Mossad chief nodded. They both knew how such meetings went, the awkward dance of two spies meeting for the first time. And this time complicated all the more by the gravity of the situation they were now facing.
“With the Iraqi once more in the wind, the intelligence the Americans can give us on al-Shukeiri has become all the more vital.” Halevy paused. “You’re certain that they received the message?”
“I’m certain.”
1:23 P.M.
A Fatah compound
The Gaza Strip
; “Spread your legs apart,” the bodyguard ordered, running his hands up Umar Hadi’s inner thigh as he frisked him for weapons, lingering for a moment before passing back up and over his buttocks.
Too long, the lieutenant colonel thought, an uncomfortable grimace passing across his face as the man’s hands ran across his body. If the rumors about Arafat were true. . .well, perhaps he sought out others of similar inclinations to protect both himself and other members of his inner circle.
There was something of genius in it, surrounding yourself with protectors who were themselves pariahs in your own society. Owing their very existence to the continuance of your own.
Much as the later emperors of Rome had done, surrounding themselves with barbarians from beyond the Rhine.
“Clear,” the man announced finally, rising and taking a step back. The smile on his face as he looked Hadi in the eye only confirming his suspicions. Sodomite. “You can go on in. Abu Awad is waiting.”
A large man stood in the far corner of the windowless room as Hadi entered, his back turned toward the lieutenant colonel’s entrance—appearing intent on studying a large map spread out over the opposite wall.
“Colonel Damra,” Hadi said quietly after a moment, knowing the man knew he was there.
“Tell me. . .what do you see when you look at this map, colonel?” Mahmoud Damra asked, still not turning to greet him. Hadi paused before advancing across the room, regarding the man carefully. Known popularly in the occupied territories by the kunya “Abu Awad”, Damra was the commander of the feared Force 17, a small commando unit which had once been responsible for Arafat’s personal security.
A dangerous man. And an unpredictable one.
“I see Palestine,” Hadi replied quietly, stopping just short of the colonel’s shoulder. It wasn’t a particularly profound comment, just a statement of fact. The map on the wall, like most of those in the Authority, bore no reference whatsoever to the Zionist state anywhere across its face. It simply didn’t. . .exist.
Lion of God- The Complete Trilogy Page 13