Authors: Mark Young
She shrugged, then climbed out of the driver’s side. “Let’s get some distance from this car while you make your contacts.”
“You think driving around in stolen yellow Lamborghini might be noticed by the cops?”
“What is that American expression about cops—
flatfoot
? Did they get that name because they can’t move very fast? Anyway, flatfoot, who bailed you out at the hotel?”
Gerrit climbed out of his side of the car and retrieved his bag. “Who spotted the gunmen before they could get to you? Oh yeah…and who yelled out to
run
?”
She gave him an amused smile. “Come on. Let’s clear out of here.”
February 26
Tel Aviv, Israel
J
ack Thompson made his way across the courtyard after passing through security. The Israel Defense Forces headquarters in Tel Aviv seemed to stand out in defiance to the surrounding buildings. Much like the tiny country of Israel stood against its Arab neighbors. He crossed the pavement in front of the glass cube like structure of IDF’s headquarters, the Metcal Tower thrusting upward seventeen floors like a gigantic metal mushroom.
He quickly dialed up a contact number. A moment later, his friend identified himself. “You here, Jack? I’ll be right down. See you at the front desk.”
“Thanks,” Jack said, before ending the call.
As he approached another security checkpoint a few minutes later, a man waved at him. Jack approached and extended his hand. “Colonel Marc Perlman. It’s been ages since we last worked together in Iraq. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I always have time for my
khaver,
my friend. It has been a long time.” The man—heavyset, well-muscled, with a shaved head—guided him out of the building. “I have an associate I want you to meet. Not here. Too many eyes.”
He led Jack about a block away, where a car and driver sat waiting. “Let’s take a little drive. We can talk about specifics when we reach our destination.” Jack climbed in.
Ten minutes later, they entered a belowground garage beneath a high-rise skyscraper. They left the car and entered an elevator that took them to the very top of the building. Perlman ushered him into a corner office that offered a panoramic view of Tel Aviv.
“Your office?” Jack turned to his friend.
Perlman shook his head. “This is just a safe place to bring friends where we can talk quietly. Give me one minute.” He left, then returned a few minutes later with another man. The stranger was much younger than Perlman, with darker features and an intense set of eyes that focused on Jack.
Perlman motioned to the newcomer. “I’d like you to meet Max Salk. He works as a military intelligence officer assigned to Aman, our directorate. I’m going to let the two of you chat alone. I’m heading back to IDF. Max will see to all your needs.
Mazel tov
.”
Jack frowned as Perlman turned and walked out of the room. When the door closed, he turned to Max. “Sorry, but I don’t know anything about you and I—”
Max held up his hand. “No offense, sir. Colonel Perlman has another crisis on his hands. He trusts me to fill you in on the latest and to provide you with whatever help you require. You may not know much about me, but I know a lot about you. An honor, sir.” He thrust out his hand. “Let’s start over. My name really is Max Salk, just in case you have any doubts. And I once worked with Alena Shapiro a long time ago.”
Jack shook his hand. “Mossad?”
“No—Sayeret Mat’kal.”
Jack was familiar with the elite Special Forces unit under IDF command. He studied the other man closely. Max looked to be in his forties, with dark, wiry hair on the shaggy side. He stood about five ten, nearly Gerrit’s size, and wore a blue plaid shirt open at the collar and faded jeans. He had old man’s eyes that belied his age, wary, sadness from what he had already experienced in his young life.
Max gave him a smile. “I think we can help each other. At least Frank Collord thinks so.”
Surprised, Jack just shook his head. “Collord gets around. I thought I was the only one who knew who I would see here in Israel. And I don’t even know you. Amazing.”
Max’s face became stern. “I’ve been cleared to provide certain information that you seek with one condition.”
“Which is?” Jack asked, bracing himself.
“That I join your operation. I believe it deals directly with the security of my nation.”
Jack hesitated, thinking about the consequences. “And if that condition isn’t acceptable?”
“I’m afraid I must insist. One way or another, I will be a part of this effort. I would hope that we could work together.”
“It doesn’t look like I have much choice.” Jack sounded gruffer than he felt. He liked the young man, and Max’s contacts in Syria might be useful. Motioning toward a conference table, he said, “Let’s sit down and figure this out.” Jack eased back in a chair and faced Max. “I’m afraid that Frank is a little loose with his information.”
“I understand. But once you hear what I have to say, I think you will agree Frank was right in telling me about the operation.” Max leaned forward. “I’ve also worked with Shakeela Vaziri in the past, and Frank briefed me on the pieces she put together about Kisyov and Hassan’s meeting in Paris. She is one smart agent.”
Jack nodded.
“Anyway, Hassan has been one of our targets for a long time. And this Kisyov character became a person of interest to us because of his international contacts—even within our own intelligence agencies.”
“Brandimir has contacts in Mossad? Sayeret Mat’kal?”
Max nodded. “That’s right. People in our intelligence network sent Alena in to work with Richard Kane to see what she might turn up. They never told her, though, that she’d be working for one of the bad guys because they didn’t want to show their hand, to let on they suspected Kane. They let Kane use the bait about her parents’ death and going after those terrorists to recruit her for Kane’s and Brandimir’s purposes.”
Folding his hands on the table, Jack moved forward in his chair. “They never told her what she was getting into?”
His face tightening, Max slowly nodded. “I found out later. By then, it was too late. She was gone and I lost all contact.”
Jack shook his head. “Man, that’s cold. So where does that leave us now?”
Max folded his arms across his chest. “After Hassan’s meeting with Yegorov in Azerbaijan. I picked up Hassan in Damascus and observed him meeting with a contact in Syria’s Idarat al-Mukhabarat al-Jawiyya, their notorious Air Force Intelligence Directorate—”
“I’m familiar with those scumbags. I don’t think any of them know one end of a plane from the other. But they do know how to kill, maim, and torture their own people for information.”
Max nodded. “Hassan met with one of those—as you say,
scumbags
—by the name of Raed al-Azmah at his home near the Damascus International Airport. I followed Hassan into the area and covered their meeting. Fortunately, they met in al-Azmah’s home, where we had previously set up a wire. We got their entire conversation.”
“This is connected with Hassan’s meeting with Yegorov?”
Leaning back, Max ran his fingers through his hair, barely leaving a strand out of place. “And Yegorov’s meeting with Brandimir in Venice six days ago.”
“I just learned about that one.”
“As I mentioned,” Max said, “Brandimir has been an interest to us for some time, particularly since Hassan is not the only terrorist he does business with. I took a personal interest in him after I learned he recruited Alena.”
“Bottom line, Max. What are these guys up to?”
Anger tightened Max’s face. “They plan on attacking my country. When? How? Where? These are questions we need to answer. This is why I must go with your team into Syria.”
February 26
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
E
verywhere he looked, wealth and poverty seemed to clash like two different worlds trying to occupy the same space. Gerrit climbed out of a taxi with his bag and held the door open for Alena. They stood before a towering business complex, with office windows that must offer a spectacular view of the expansive waters of the Persian Gulf. He tipped the driver, hoping this guy was not working for the police. He waited until the car drove away before approaching the building.
“My friend said he’d leave a key and instructions at the front desk. He got called away on business.”
Alena motioned toward the street as another taxi pulled up. Joe and Shakeela climbed out. Gerrit waved to them from the front entrance, scanning the area as they approached to see if there might be any unwanted visitors. If they were under surveillance, whoever was watching blended much better than the three goons from the hotel.
Joe seemed a little shaky as he patted Gerrit’s shoulder. “Great to see you two are safe and sound. What happened?”
Before Gerrit could answer, his uncle gripped his arm for support. “Joe, you all right?”
He waved his hand. “Must be a little dizzy from the flight. I’ll be fine.”
Giving the older man a worried look, Gerrit turned to the others and tried to focus as he gave them the details. He caught himself watching Shakeela’s face several times. She stared back, not saying a word.
As he concluded, he saw Alena glance at Shakeela with a look of curiosity. Turning to Shakeela, he said, “We must assume that word got out about where we were to meet—even what we looked like. Those gunmen zeroed in on Alena. I can only assume they know about the rest of us. Alena just got there first.”
Alena stared at the other woman. “Any ideas how that happened?”
Shaking her head, Shakeela looked from one to the other. “Until this point, our operations have been flawless. No leaks. No hiccups. If it came from our end, I have no clue how it happened. Could it have come from your end of the operation?”
Gerrit spoke first, trying to defuse the tension between the two women. “The only people who knew about our group were our people and yours, Shakeela—and our people are directly involved in this operation.”
She turned to face him, her facial muscles taut. “Are you accusing me of—?”
“No, not you. But who did you give the details to?”
She looked down at the ground, apparently contemplating his question. “I worked out the first phase of this trip with HQ, my chief, and other managers.”
“How many, Shakeela?”
She shrugged. “About half a dozen.”
Gerrit clenched his jaw. “This is why we work alone. Too many in the know are bound to leak information. Government is always trying to cover its own butt.”
“That’s not fair, Gerrit. You know that something this sensitive is going to get scrutinized. They want an updated analysis in case something goes wrong. So they can plan for contingencies.”
“So they have someone to blame if it goes south. Let’s get upstairs and try to figure this out.”
Shakeela looked up at the face of the building. “What kind of security do we have to work with?”
He picked up his bag. “The best security of all—complete anonymity outside this little group. No one knows we are here but my friend. And he doesn’t know a thing about the rest of you.” He turned toward his uncle. “And Joe, tell me all you know about Frank Collord. Okay?”
Joe nodded as they walked toward the building. “I’ll tell you what I know…which isn’t much. He’s a ghost. If you don’t mind, I need to sit down as soon as I can. Something I ate must not agree with me.”
“Sure.” Gerrit held the door open for the others. He waited until Shakeela passed by. “Just what I need. Another spook with no history.” His remark was not lost on her. Her lips tightened. Whatever she was thinking, though, she kept to herself. He realized they had barely greeted each other since they reunited.
As Joe walked by, Gerrit noticed his uncle seemed pale, and he had been coughing ever since he climbed out of the cab. “Joe, what’s wrong?”
His uncle waved a hand as if he did not have a care in the world. Gerrit took a closer look. His uncle looked ill. If Joe did not kick this bug, Gerrit would make sure his uncle was on the next plane home. This was going to be an arduous operation, and he did not want to lose his uncle in the process.
Beck Malloy left FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., and walked a few blocks away to his favorite hot dog stand. Just as he was about to take his first bite, someone jostled him. Irritated, he lowered the dog and glanced around.
“You promise me lunch…and this is where we meet? What a cheapskate.” A man who reminded him of Kevin Costner in
The Bodyguard
leaned over the counter and gave the woman his order. He turned back to Beck. “Okay, out with it, buddy. I know you didn’t invite me out here to this great dining establishment just because we’re great friends. You want something. Spit it out.”
Beck grinned and took a bite of his hot dog. “Best-priced meal in town, Paul.” He took out a napkin and wiped his chin.
Paul Hawkins, unlike Costner, actually did work for the Secret Service. He and Beck had crossed paths over the years on a number of related cases, sharing information when it was mutually beneficial. Today, Beck needed Paul’s help, but he was unsure whether his friend might be forthcoming. “So, how is the Secret Service these days? Still rubbing shoulders with the high and mighty?”
“It’s still secret. And it’s still none of your business. If I didn’t know you worked for the FBI, I’d say you worked for Langley. Nobody ever knows what you’re up to, and you’re always trying to pry information out of me.”
“I resent you think I’m a spook.” Beck took one more bite before folding the remainder of the dog in tinfoil and tossing it in a nearby can. “An acquaintance of mine ran a check on the phone calls of a person of interest, a lobbyist who’s made some interesting trips out of country to meet with some unsavory characters.” He waited for Paul to take a bite and then pointed down the street. “Let’s meander over there where we can talk more quietly.” He led him to a small alcove between two buildings.
Beck continued. “One of those calls went to a person in the White House. My friend tracked the calls from the White House to Secret Service and some contacts in Israel. It was a generic line, and all we have are the phone numbers called—no voice print, no recorded phone calls.”