Skull came out of his light drowse as he felt the commercial plane begin to descend. Looking out the window, he saw smooth beaches and high-rise buildings as Tel Aviv came into view. Sighing, he pulled his seat up and prepared for the impending ordeal. Israel’s intense and competent security made it the sort of place where he could appreciate living, but not a place in which he liked to operate.
The plane’s wheels touched the runway smoothly and they taxied toward the terminal.
“Welcome to Tel Aviv International Airport,” said a voice over the intercom, and Skull blocked the rest out. He closed his eyes and relaxed, running over the details of his cover persona one last time, thinking this might be the last moment of peace he would see for a good while.
Soon, passengers filled the aisle, but Skull remained in his seat until most had disembarked. Then he stood, gathered his carry-on bag, and slipped into the flow of people. Exiting the plane, he immediately saw Israeli soldiers with Uzis standing ready and vigilant.
The lines through customs moved slowly as always. Skull forced himself to smile at the agent when he called, “Next.” He strode forward to hand the clerk his passport and declaration form. The man didn’t smile in return, only scanned the barcode of the passport before looking at the screen. He then glanced up at Skull to compare the photo, flipping through the pages of the passport.
“What is the purpose of your visit, Mister Carter?” the agent asked.
“Business,” answered Skull simply. He knew the agent was giving him an invitation to babble. Nervous people with something to hide often did that.
“And what is the nature of your business?” the man asked.
Skull pulled out a business card with a bright blue emblem. “I work for a consulting firm that locates software for computer companies. I’m going to check out several of the local IT labs here and see if they are willing to give us agreeable terms.”
The man already looked bored, which was the intent. “I see your virus card is up to date.”
“Yes,” answered Skull simply. The unstated assertion was that he had been tested for the Eden virus. Israel didn’t yet bar infectees, but anyone exiting a United States airport required tested before boarding. Those who tested positive were pulled from the flight and put into “quarantine”…a euphemism for a prison camp.
The agent flipped quickly through the passport again, looked at the declaration form, and then handed them both back to Skull along with the business card. “Enjoy your stay in Israel,” he said before looking behind Skull. “Next.”
Skull found the proper baggage carousel and retrieved his small suitcase. After a short taxi ride, he checked into the hotel, unpacked his bag, and took a shower. He got dressed and went downstairs to the restaurant for an excellent dinner alone.
By the time he finished his meal, it was dark outside. He exited the hotel and began walking toward the vibrant nightlife district adjacent to the seaport. Passing streets filled with outdoor cafes and restaurants where couples and friends shared drinks and food in the night’s ocean breeze, he wandered farther into the neighborhood. The cafes gave way to bars, which soon gave way to clubs. Neon lights and loud rhythms told passersby the type of experience available inside.
He finally saw what he is looking for and cursed Cassandra. “Xstasy” looked like just the sort of place he loathed. There would be annoying and overloud music, an indifferently hidden drug culture and scantily clad youngsters who either sneered at him or wanted to start trouble because he didn’t fit in.
Skull sighed and walked toward the club.
The man at the front looked him up and down, but didn’t stop him. After all, business was business, and the place was far from packed. Skull entered and found it exactly as expected. It was early, so the music had not yet reached its eventual eardrum-bursting level. He walked to the bar and ordered a club soda. Looking at his watch, he saw he would have a short wait.
After fifteen minutes, a tall, thin African entered the club. He had distinctive Ethiopian features marred by the trendy facial scars. The man glanced around casually before taking a seat at the opposite end of the bar.
Skull picked up his drink and walked over. “You might want to order some hot tea. I heard it’s supposed to be cold tonight.”
The man turned and regarded Skull carefully before answering with the expected code phrase. “I actually prefer coffee and do not mind the cold.”
“Okay,” said Skull leaning in close. “Now that we both know we’re talking to the right person, can we please get the hell out of here?”
“My pleasure,” said the man with relief.
They soon found a nearby restaurant with a private booth near the back. Skull ordered a beer and the Ethiopian a glass of red wine.
“So you must be Denham,” said the man. “I heard something about the name ‘Skull’? What is this?”
“It’s what some call me,” he answered pointing a finger at his cadaverous face under the skin of his bald head. “Been with me a while.”
“I see,” said the man, taking a sip of his wine. “My name is Zinabu Besher. I am pleased to meet you.”
“So what’s your story?” asked Skull. “There a lot of Ethiopians in Israel?”
“Actually there are,” the man smiled. “Ethiopia and Israel share much tradition dating back to King Solomon. He took our queen to be one of his wives. Many Ethiopians are Falashas like me.”
“Falashas?” asked Skull.
“Ethiopian Jews,” Zinabu explained. “Many of us are sent to Israel’s universities if our families can afford it, and mine could. I was here studying engineering when the nukes started going off in America. Wasn’t long after that the Eden virus was everywhere and it became harder to cross borders.”
“Your family back in Ethiopia,” asked Skull. “Are they Edens?”
“Yes, every one of them. My sister was blind from birth. It is a miracle.”
“But you’re obviously not an Eden. Why not? And what’s with the facial scars?”
Zinabu touched them self-consciously. “They allow me to move freely into and out of my country. It is getting more and more difficult for Edens in this part of the world. People do not trust what they cannot understand or control. As with AIDS and Ebola before it, fear is often a greater enemy than sickness.”
“I see,” answered Skull. “And you’ve made this journey before?”
“Many times, although it is getting more difficult each time due to border security.”
“What about the Israelis? I’ve been told they’re supportive of what we’re trying to do.”
Zinabu nodded and looked around. “I was approached by someone. Mossad would be my guess, but I cannot prove it. He knew our mutual female friend and said he would be in touch. Gave me a location and time to pick up the gear and equipment she sent.”
“Where is it all now?”
“In my apartment,” Zinabu answered. “Had to take it all inside piece by piece so as not to arouse suspicion.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t offer to hold onto it for you.”
“They did,” Zinabu admitted, “but in my experience it is never good to leave people with valuable things once you have what you want from them. Anything can happen.”
“I can appreciate that,” Skull answered. “What about my personal gear? Did it make it?”
The man nodded taking another sip of wine. “It’s at the house of a friend of mine.”
“A friend?”
“Don’t worry. He can be trusted. He is a Falasha, like me.”
Skull frowned. “I hope so. Did this Mossad contact of yours give you a location and time for pick-up?”
Zinabu nodded. “Tomorrow evening. We will need to get the equipment to an old airfield south of town. They will collect us there and fly us to Eritrea.”
Skull remembered this from Cassandra’s brief. “Have you crossed there before?”
“No. It is difficult terrain from my understanding, but you can say that for most of east Africa.”
Skull remembered his own experiences in the region and knew the man was right. It would be a long and difficult journey no matter what route they took. “I’d like to go see the gear she sent us.”
“All right,” said Zinabu, finishing the rest of his drink. “It is at my apartment, not too far to walk.”
Skull left money on the table, and then two men walked outside to the sound of music mixed with the rustle of ocean breezes through the trees.
Zinabu led the way. Skull stayed alert, but he didn’t see anyone watching or following them, although he admitted it would be difficult to tell for certain in the unfamiliar city.
They had just walked around a tight corner when a large white van pulled up beside them and its side door slid open, giving them no time to run. Skull had yet to acquire weapons, so he did nothing.
Several athletic men in suits stepped out of the vehicle. Skull could see pistols in shoulder holsters.
“Gentlemen,” said a man with gray hair and a dignified mustache. “We need you to come with us.”
“Where?” asked a startled Zinabu.
“Just to a place where we can talk.”
Zinabu took a step backward. “Let’s talk right here.”
Skull watched as the men circled them. He looked into the van and saw the driver wearing an earpiece. There appeared to be electronic listening gear inside the van. Glancing around, he noticed several passing civilians, but none paid them much attention. In their ever-vigilant security state, such events were fairly common.
“I don’t think the man is giving us a choice,” Skull said with a tight smile.
The leader of the security team grinned back at Skull. “Right you are. I apologize ahead of time for the inconvenience, but there is no reason we have to make any of this more uncomfortable than it has to be.”
Skull considered making a sudden run for it, but what would be the purpose? These men were likely Israeli Mossad, and for the mission to go forward he needed their help. Skull resigned himself to the situation, climbed up into the van and sat on one of the benches along the wall. After a brief delay, Zinabu followed.
The other men boarded and closed the sliding door behind them. The leader sat across from them.
“My name is Benjamin Ur’ion,” the man said. “All will be explained shortly, but we must insist on certain measures for your own safety.”
“What type of measures?” Zinabu asked.
“The usual measures, I imagine,” Skull said, looking at the tense men.
Those on either side placed handcuffs on the two men’s wrists, and then put hoods over their heads. Zinabu struggled at first, but the men held him down.
Skull sat still throughout the entire process. He could hear Zinabu breathing heavily in the dark hood beside him. “I thought Israel was supportive of what we are doing,” he said with frustration.
“I am afraid that is no longer the case,” answered Benjamin sadly.