For nearly a day, Mossad’s Learjet had sat parked and waiting. The fuel tanks were full, the pilots briefed and ready. In any other country a more obscure airport would have been preferred, but here there was no such option: the main international airport was the only airfield in Luxembourg with a paved runway.
The jet was tucked away in a quiet corner of the airfield, clear of the passenger terminals, and a mile distant from Luxembourg’s exclusive “high security” zone—the special hub through which the ultrawealthy moved their diamonds and precious artwork. The corporate ramp was predictably discreet. During normal business hours a contingent of immigration officers sat watch over the building. At ten minutes after midnight, however, there wasn’t a uniform in sight. The jet with the arbitrary registration number 4X-PAM was loaded and ready: two pilots, five passengers, and a half dozen neatly sealed diplomatic containers.
More telling was what was missing—not a shred of paperwork had been filed regarding the jet’s departure. The flight plan was uploaded remotely as it sped down the runway, and the pilots obtained their clearance shortly after getting airborne. A neutral observer might have viewed it as laxness on the part of the local authorities. Those on board recognized the skirting of rules for precisely what it was: the distant hand of Anton Bloch.
The show was not quite finished. The final act would commence tomorrow when, on Slaton’s insistence, a second jet, this one equipped with medical equipment and a nurse, would arrive to repatriate Anna Altman. Aside from that, Operation Kingfisher was nearing its end. A few debriefings, an after-action report, and everyone could take some well-deserved time off.
One loose end, however, still remained.
It was addressed two hours later.
“You want us to do what?” the aircraft commander asked from the Learjet’s left seat.
“Ignore your navigation,” Slaton replied, “but just for a little while. Once we’re done with what we discussed, you can recalibrate and point us toward home.”
The man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, who was actually a captain in the Israeli Air Force, shook his head. “Okay. I’ve had some crazy requests, but that’s a first.”
“I promise it won’t show up in the mission report.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what you’re going to—”
“No,” Slaton said, cutting him off. “And trust me … you don’t want to know.”
“All right. I’ll give you the chime when everything is ready—we’ve got some short-circuiting to do up here. When you hear it, run through the procedure I showed you and tell me when you’re done.”
“Will do.” Slaton returned to the cabin of the Learjet, closing the cockpit door as he left. They were somewhere over the Eastern Mediterranean, past Greece but not yet abeam Cyprus. Below them were thousands of square miles of open sea, an ebony void in the silent early morning.
Yosy was waiting at the front of the passenger cabin, near the aircraft’s small galley. Like Slaton, he stood hunched in a fuselage with only five feet of headroom.
“Okay,” Slaton said. “It’s nearly time—let’s do this.”
They moved aft and together dragged a large container forward until it was near the cockpit door. It was the size and shape of a steamer trunk, constructed of heavy-duty plastic, and weighed nearly two hundred pounds. The hinged lid had been secured with a heavy padlock, and all the edges were sealed with tamper-proof tape marked “diplomatic material.” That precaution, thankfully, had proved unnecessary.
Slaton used a key to open the padlock, but he left the lid closed. He looked aft and saw the rest of the team—Ruth Gross, a tech named Saul who’d installed the camera, and the two burly case officers who had babysat Vandenburg in his house while Slaton took his place. All except Ruth were sleeping, sprawled out on two rows of airliner-type seats that had been installed for the mission. Ruth was watching intently, and Slaton flicked a finger in her direction. She looked mildly disappointed, but his orders had been clear. She leaned forward and pulled a curtain closed, obscuring any view of what he and Yosy were about to do. It gave the others a small measure of legal protection. Plausible deniability.
Slaton noticed a bump in the pressurization, his ears popping. The engines went to idle and things got quiet for a time. The descent took roughly ten minutes, and finally he heard the distinctive ding-dong chime over the speaker.
Slaton nodded.
Yosy opened the lid, and together they dragged Ramzi Tayeb’s body from the trunk.
Slaton turned toward the main entry door. What he was about to do would not have been possible on a factory-standard Learjet. This one, however, had been customized by Mossad. An operation some years back had required the airborne insertion of a handful of commandos deep inside Iran. Using a military transport had been out of the question, but some creative soul ventured that a business jet, ferrying between neutral countries on an overflight, might be just the ticket. The only problem was that the standard entry door of a Learjet 45 was not designed to be opened in flight. Not to be deterred, and in a modification the manufacturer would never have condoned, contract engineers replaced the original door with a much-hardened item. The end product had worked spectacularly over Iran. Today, Slaton hoped, it would work just as well.
The captain had given careful instructions on how to operate the door, and Slaton went through them to the letter. The instant the door cracked open a rush of wind noise swept through the cabin—they were flying at a relatively slow speed, but still nearly two hundred miles an hour. Everyone sleeping in back would be awake now, and Slaton imagined them peering around the curtain. He didn’t bother to check. He and Yosy alone would bear responsibility.
Once the door was fully open, Yosy shouted over the wind noise, “Should we say a few words?”
Slaton glanced at him, then down toward the dead terrorist at his feet. In that moment he could come up with no thought relating to faith. He could only think of a bus in Netanya, his little girl in the hospital. “How about, good riddance,” he offered.
With one good kick, the body edged partially out the door. The wind did the rest, seizing the upper torso and wrenching Ramzi Tayeb into the black night.
Always inclined to precision, Slaton had already done the math. From five thousand feet, it would take twelve seconds to reach terminal velocity. Twenty more to reach sea level. The rush of cold air was reason enough not to dwell on the thought. He ran the reverse steps to close the door. The wind noise was cut instantly and the cabin began to warm. Slaton picked up the intercom and informed the pilots that the door was secure. Moments later, he felt a bump in his ears as the pressurization system kicked back in.
“Well, that was easy,” Yosy said.
Slaton nodded. It had been easy, he thought. Easier than such a thing should ever be.
With the final act of the mission complete, Slaton and Yosy tried to wind down as they sped toward home. The Learjet had begun its service as an executive transport, delivering Israel’s high ministers and emissaries to vital meetings around the globe. After twenty years the aircraft had been handed down to Mossad, relegated to carrying equipment, teams of smelly operators, and captured terrorists to whatever shadowed fates awaited. Slaton couldn’t say with any authority, but he suspected this was the first time it had been used as a platform for a burial at sea.
Checkered history aside, the Lear’s interior had fallen to a muddled mix of utility and luxury. Aside from the entry door and aft airliner seats, a number of other modifications had been made. Slaton and Yosy took up residence mid-cabin in what remained of the jet’s glory days: a pair of plush but worn club chairs. On a table between them were two tumblers and a bottle of Macallan single malt Scotch—ever the spy, Yosy had unearthed it from deep in a galley cabinet.
While Slaton did the honors, Yosy said, “You think we’ll get in trouble?”
“For what?”
“The op today—it didn’t go down the way we sold it to the director.”
“The Tayeb brothers are gone, and we learned enough to shut down al-Qassam Front for a very long time. Trust me, Anton will get over it.”
Yosy reached into an equipment bag and removed an 8x10 photograph. “You want this?” he asked.
It was the photo from the frame in Vandenburg’s office—a very professional Photoshop of Slaton shaking hands with Luxembourg’s prime minister.
He shook his head. “I’m not exactly keeping a career scrapbook.”
Yosy crumpled the photo and launched it toward a nearby trash bin. He missed badly. “Speaking of career, I put in for London.”
“London? Why?”
“Seemed like a good career move. And I promised my wife I’d go somewhere that’s not dangerous.”
“Hope you get it. I hear the food’s outstanding.”
That earned a chuckle. They sipped their drinks for a time, although neither bothered to toast anything; it wasn’t that kind of occasion. More like exhaling after a long-held breath.
Slaton broke the silence as Yosy was pouring a second round. “Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Kill Moussa.”
Yosy took a long draw. “How did you figure it out?”
“Process of elimination. I didn’t do it, and I’m convinced Ramzi didn’t kill his brother. Anna said it wasn’t her, and I believe her. When she and I went out for a walk that night, there would have been plenty of time for you to go back.”
A nod.
“So … why?”
Yosy looked to his tumbler for an answer. “Do you really have to ask?”
It was the answer Slaton expected. Yosy was one of the few people in The Office who knew what had happened to his family. “It might have compromised the mission.”
“It didn’t.”
Slaton smiled thinly. “You’re starting to sound like me.”
“If our positions had been reversed … what would you have done?”
A nod of acceptance from Slaton. In the dimly lit cabin a steady flicker from the wing strobes snapshotted their silhouettes. The sound of air rushing from the overhead vents took the place of words. Clandestine operators were by nature introspective, but never more so than when stalked by the shadows of mortality. It was the one tail on earth no tradecraft could escape.
“There’s a difference, you know,” Yosy said. “Between us and them.”
Slaton met his gaze.
“They target innocents. We go after the killers.”
A bolt of raucous laughter shot from the aft cabin. Yosy snapped back the last of his drink, and said, “As for what happened to Moussa … I hope it helps.” He got up, took the half-full bottle in hand, and gathered more tumblers from the galley. He went aft to spread the cheer.
Slaton turned toward the window, stared into the cold blackness. I hope it helps. Could killing ever help? Slaton had heard it before, the standard rational for doing what they did. He wanted to believe it. And perhaps he did. Out of nowhere, Ramzi’s parting words played in his head: That’s who you are, is it not … one of Mossad’s assassins?
For nearly three years, Slaton had been working incessantly; training, planning, operating. He was so distracted by the day-to-day burdens of becoming what he was, he’d never bothered to put a label on it. Was that the specialty listed on his Mossad personnel folder?
Assassin? he wondered. Is that what I’ve become?
He pulled out his wallet and retrieved the photo he always carried. In a spray of light from the post-mission gathering behind, the forever smiles of Katya and Elise beamed up at him. And just like that, with the sureness of a rising sun, he felt a slow release. He would never see his wife and daughter again. But they would always be with him. And if he did his job, did it well, others like them would be saved.
Slaton carefully put the photo away, then got up and walked aft.
Back to his team.
Back to the living.