Authors: Mark Young
“You mean take him down, don’t you?”
“I mean kill him, Agent Malloy. If you can’t live with that, then there’s the door.” He waited a few seconds for Beck to make a decision. When he remained silent, Frank continued. “This man can never have a chance to make it to court—if he is brought to trial, he could do irreparable damage to our country. Just the time it takes for the justice system to give him all his rights, he could reach out and bring our country down. I believe he would be able to expose our intelligence assets around the world, sell nuclear secrets to the Iranians—you name it. He could arrange this while cooling his heels in our maximum security prison.”
Shaking his head, Beck leaned back. “Since he is not a U.S. citizen, there are places we could hold him indefinitely until we’re sure he is no longer a threat.”
“You mean like Gitmo?” Frank let out a grim smile. “Maybe we could, Beck, but I’m not sure he could be contained there. Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“We have to try, Frank. I’m not against putting someone down given the right circumstances, but to hunt him down in cold blood—that’s not what we’re about.”
“We have precedent. Look at Osama bin Laden. Look at others our government has sanctioned to be killed. Brandimir is a greater threat than all of those. He can reach inside our government and get whatever he needs.”
Beck tugged at his right ear. “I want to make absolutely sure there’s no other option before we terminate him. Exhaust all other possibilities.”
Frank raised himself from the lectern and picked up the TV remote. “What about you, Gerrit? Are you willing to look at all other options first?”
Gerrit nodded. “I’m with Beck. Let’s make sure.”
“And what if I told you Brandimir was behind this killing?” Frank flicked the remote.
Gerrit stared at the screen and saw photos of his parents’ crime scene. He had studied these photos for years, searching each print for some clue as to who might have killed his folks.
“What if I told you that Brandimir was probably behind this bombing? That he was the one who ordered Richard Kane to arrange these deaths?”
Gerrit flashed back to the man’s dying moments, where Kane told him he was only following orders to arrange his parents’ hit.
“You still feel the same way about Brandimir?”
Gerrit tightened his jaw without answering.
February 24
Al Ghuzlaniyah, Syria
C
an this man be trusted?
Atash Hassan stood near the open window, looking across the walled compound toward the lights of the Damascus International Airport. Bleary eyed, he stared in the distance, watching a commercial jet take off. He had taken a direct flight from his meeting with Yegorov this morning in Azerbaijan, and the hours and travel were wearing him down.
Out of the corner of his eye, Atash watched his host, Raed al-Azmah, sitting stiffly on a gold-fabric couch, trying to conceal his nervousness. Others had been ushered out of the room by Raed as the two men got down to business.
Atash turned to face his host. “What have you heard from those within your government?”
Raed’s right hand nervously stroked the arm of the couch. “Doubts are starting to surface about your country’s commitment to the cause. To the future.”
Atash turned away to disguise his anger. He’d expected cowardice at some point, but they were too far down this path to turn back. He knew Raed al-Azmah was just the messenger through his position with the Air Force Intelligence Directive, an agency that knew little about how to run the Air Force but a whole lot about how to stifle dissenting voices here in Syria.
Despite their regional differences, the two men had been able to work closely together in several joint efforts against the Israelis, none of which had been overly successful but resulted in Israeli casualties. This operation would change everything.
“Listen,” Atash thrust out his finger for emphasis, “Iran will stand behind her friends in Syria against the Jews, against the Americans, against those who would destroy your country.”
“We are afraid that Syria will stand alone against the Israeli attacks if this goes through.”
“If we are successful,” Atash said, “they will have no time to attack. They’ll draw back to protect their own people. The Golan Heights will once again be under your control, and the United Nations will be forced to draw back like the weaklings they really are. The world community—and their big brother, the Great Satan, the United States—will restrain the Jews from nuclear retaliation—if Israel is still functioning.”
“And your country, my friend, what will your government do?”
Atash smiled. “We will be your silent partner. Civil unrest that continues in your country will be finally under your control, with our help, and you can take a position of prominence among with our Muslim brothers.
Subhan’Allah.
Glorious is Allah!”
Raed’s hand continued to rhythmically stroke the fabric. “Some of those speaking against this plan think Iran is trying to distract Israel and the United States from coming after your own nuclear sites—like they did ours in 2008. Only this time, they may use nuclear force.”
Hassan leaned back and laughed. “Do not worry, brother, they will not come after you or us. They will be too busy trying to figure out how to contain this crisis, too busy trying to recover.” Hassan saw the man’s strokes across the fabric increase.
Coward.
“I need to know one thing.” Raed’s hands stopped moving as he focused on his guest. “This technology that you are giving us—it will override the Jew’s Arrow and Iron Dome systems they have in place? Those who have remained in power are fearful that you will not stand by your word. Your answer is critical, my friend. I may not be able to get any support if you have any doubts. I may not live long enough to survive this operation if you are wrong.”
Hassan leaned forward. “I promise you, this gift will create havoc to our enemy’s systems. Leave them blind and defenseless.” The Syrians had been watching the development and implementation of Israel’s antiballistic missile-defense system, identified as Arrow or Hetz, and the mobile Iron Dome short-range air-defense system created to intercept and wipe out short-range rockets and artillery up to seventy kilometers away.
He did not want to tell Raed the full extent of this technology until just before the attack.
Never give away the entire plan.
Iranian and Syrian intelligence closely watched the internal politics underway in Israel as the prime minister pleaded for more money to purchase at least a dozen more Iron Dome batteries to defend against more than two hundred thousand rockets already targeting their country. Orders have been placed with Rafael Advanced Defense Systems Ltd., manufacturer of the system, and the United States approved $205 million for the initial procurements on behalf of Israel. But the Jews needed more money, and Iran hoped this operation with Syria would further muddy the waters and break the prime minister’s support.
Particularly if the prime minister no longer existed.
They must get Syria to take the initiative. “I promise you that all the faithful followers of Allah will stand with you in this fight against the Jews and the West. Together, we will be invincible.”
Reluctance hovered in Raed’s eyes. “I will pass on your information to those who will make the final decision.”
Inwardly Atash gnashed his teeth in his frustration. Outwardly he remained calm and confident. “I am grateful, my friend. I must stress, however, that timing is critical. We must know soon in order to move forward. We must launch our plan before Israel has a chance to attack. As we’ve advised, if Israel strikes against Iran, they will also hit your country for the same reasons.”
Raed nodded somberly. “I know—our nuclear capabilities. We will be in touch.”
Atash stiffly climbed up the steps leading to a small jet at the Damascus International Airport. From the top of the ramp, he could almost see the walls of Raed al-Azmah’s compound in Al Ghuzlaniyah. He imagined that Raed might be watching him from the top floor of the main house. If this coward finally had the guts to convey Iran’s message to the right people, Atash would be standing practically on ground zero where the attack would be launched.
He climbed inside as a crewmember closed the hatch. While jet engines revved up to taxi to the runway, Atash sat in a comfortable leather captain’s chair and opened up his laptop, equipped with a heavily encrypted communications link.
He entered a series of passwords and began to write:
My Syrian friend will pass on our information. Expect reply soon. We can proceed as planned unless they choose to back out. Begin operation!
He filed the message into an e-mail account as a draft. Ivan Yegorov and Stuart Martin would check the message very soon and leave their own comments. He looked at the file he had on Martin, a man of mystery. Atash tasked his people with finding out more about him. He knew Stuart Martin was not the man’s real name. He must find out before the attack took place. Too much was at stake. He hit the power-off button and closed the laptop.
Only twenty-three more days. He looked out over the darkened city as they climbed into the sky. Time could be as elusive as the grains of wheat during harvest, slipping through one’s fingers, and never reaching market. He did not intend to waste one precious second.
In Damascus, Max Salk stood in line to board a plane bound for Rome. Once there, he’d try to shake any tail he might have picked up before purchasing a flight to Tel Aviv. Part spy, part soldier, it was a difficult road to travel in these hard times. As Hassan’s plane climbed into the Syrian sky, Max hit a speed-dial number on his cell phone. A woman’s voiced answered.
He quickly looked around before answering. “Our package just took off after the meeting with Raed al-Azmah.”
“Were you able to get ears on their conversation?”
“Yes. It is a priority message. My
family
will be the target. Soon. Will send details from secure link. We know the players. Specific target location—unknown.”
He closed the cell phone as he prepared to board and handed his boarding pass to the airline attendant.
She smiled. “Ah, Rome is your destination. A very beautiful city—almost as ancient as our own Damascus. Enjoy your flight, sir.”
He smiled back before finding his seat. He would not stay long in Rome. Hated the city. Hated the people. Time enough to catch another flight to Tel Aviv. Just enough time to shake any tail that might be trying to follow.
He thought of the last time he was in Rome. More than ten years ago. He had a partner then, tracking down a terrorist cell plotting to attack Israeli citizens in Italy. It had been a while since he thought of her. They first met during another overseas assignment, she from Mossad, and he from
Sayeret Mat’kal
, a Special Forces unit, answerable only to IDF’s Aman intelligence directorate.
He smiled as her beautiful face surfaced in his thoughts.
Alena Shapiro.
He regretted not getting to know her better. He had been stupid thinking love, laid out in front of him like a smorgasbord, was there for the taking when he got around to it. And then she was gone. She had just disappeared.
Ah, what a life they might have had between missions. He’d lost track of her over the years. Last he heard she might be working for the Americans. He must track her down someday. There he went again, putting life off until later.
He settled back in the chair and closed his eyes, making a promise to himself. This time, he would take action. Right after he and other intelligence agents stopped this next attack against his country.
This had been his life within the Sayeret Mat’kal, called
The Unit
, Israel’s armed, on-the-ground answer to terrorism. He had dealt with one crisis after another until he blinked and life had slipped right on past. It seemed these threats never ceased. As long as the public never found out, he and his people had been successful, putting off the day when the world would sit up and watch in horror as a major attack unfolded. That would be the day he’d failed Israel. He prayed that day never came.
But these operations came at a cost. A life with Alena became one of the sacrifices. That was about to change.
February 24
U.S. Naval Air Station, Key West, Florida
F
rank Collord flicked off the screen. “Tough to keep a moral high ground when killers of those you love are standing right in front of you.” He glanced at Gerrit before continuing. “We have to pay for our decisions, one way or the other. I just pray we make the right choice.”
Gerrit clenched his fists but did not say a word. Another holy roller.
“Right now,” Frank said, “let’s focus on finding out what Brandimir has hatched with Yegorov and Hassan. We don’t have a lot to work with because their conversation only alluded to an operation planned for the coming weeks. My guess”—he looked from one person to the other—”this operation is huge. And it will be aimed directly at the U.S. or its allies.
“We don’t have enough to sanction any action on Brandimir until we know more.” Frank glanced at Beck. “We must try to identify all the players and come up with a game plan to stop them—before we approach Brandimir.”
He leaned on the lectern again. “We don’t know how widespread his organization might reach. If we chop off the head, the body might be able to fight on as another leader emerges. I can’t even tell you if Brandimir is at the top or whether he is acting on behalf of others. Until we know, we can’t act.”
“We are not the U.S Marines, a yes sir, no sir, kind of outfit.” He glanced at Jack Thompson for a moment, a smile on his face. “We need to operate outside existing organizations.”
Jack stood. “Frank, I’m proud to work for the U.S. Marine Corps and I follow the chain of command. How do you like those apples.” The man’s face seemed flushed as he glared back at Frank. “You pull some strings to get my people to order me down here, and then you tell me none of them know what we’re up to about a matter of national security? Talk about the right hand not knowing what the left hand is up to. That’s how people get killed.”