Kadikoy, Istanbul
Three Days Before
Zeb heard their voices at the door two hours later.
The woman was arguing with the man, words indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable.
The door swung open into the room. She entered, followed by the man.
Zeb had lowered his chi, slowed his breathing, had made his consciousness almost undetectable.
He was the wall. He was the room.
The woman tossed her bag onto the bed and loosened her hair. The man headed to the bathroom. She loosened her shirt and turned.
And saw the old man at the door.
She didn’t shout or scream. She dived toward the bed, her hands outstretched, reaching for her bag.
The man whirled. His hand dipped toward his waist.
The woman shoved her hand inside the bag.
Started drawing out her Glock.
The man’s weapon started rising.
Zeb shot into the mattress.
The report was loud in the room, despite his silenced Glock 41.
‘I am a friend,’ he said in Hebrew, his eyes taking them both in. He was alert, ready for any move. Body armor beneath the shirt he wore.
I hope I’ve guessed right about them.
The couple didn’t respond. Their eyes were wary. Their hands still gripping their weapons. The woman lay at an acute angle, heels digging into the floor, left hand braced against the bed, right gripping her gun, her body in the air.
She was breathing evenly despite the unnatural pose.
She would, if she’s a kidon.
‘I could have killed you,’ Zeb tried again, mildly. ‘I didn’t. That should give you a clue. My language as well.’
‘Who are you?’ the man demanded.
‘He was at the café,’ the woman replied.
Zeb watched them watching him.
Time to take a leap of faith.
He bent down slowly and placed his gun on the floor.
‘I’m friendly,’ he repeated in Arabic, just in case he had misheard them.
Their Glocks came up and trained on him. Neither fired.
He moved his hands slowly and removed his wig and the prosthetic mask. ‘You saw me yesterday, as well.’
‘No,’ the woman replied, in Hebrew. ‘We would have noticed. The regulars were pensioners who look nothing like you. They play chess. They’re harmless.’
Zeb saw a flicker of emotion cross her face.
Harmless. She knows she shouldn’t have said that word. A stranger would wonder at its choice.
‘Did you see the old woman who was carrying a Food Bazaar bag? She sat close to you and sipped her tea noisily?’
The stillness in them gave them away. They had noticed the woman.
‘You’re from Mossad? To assassinate Hussain?’
A muscle twitched on the man’s face but no word escaped them.
Zeb sighed. ‘Look, I told you. I am not a threat. We both are after the same person. We can work together … but if you’re here to kill Hussain, then we’re not friends.’
‘We don’t know any Hussain. We are not from Mossad,’ the woman replied.
Looks like she’s the khuliyot leader.
‘I’m sure you can explain those Glocks you’re carrying. And those beneath the floorboards, as well as the other gear.’
They didn’t explain.
His hand slid inside his pocket and he withdrew his phone carefully.
He dialed a number, and when a voice came online, he put the phone on speaker.
‘Avichai,’ he said loudly, eyeing the two agents, ‘I am with two of your kidon. I think.’
‘My kidon? Where are you, Zeb?’
‘Kadikoy. In a hotel room. With a male and a female who’re pointing their guns at me. If they’re not your people, then I am a dead man.’
Levin didn’t respond.
‘Why are you there, Zeb?’
He’s not denying their existence.
‘I’m tracking Uzair Hussain. I noticed your operatives. I think we both have the same objectives. It’s better if we work together … unless your people are working on a wet assignment. In which case, we’re on opposite teams.’
‘Hang up. Stay there.’
Zeb hung up.
A phone buzzed. The female patted her pocket and withdrew her cell.
She brought it to her ear, her gaze still on Zeb. ‘Ken?’ Yes.
She listened intently for a while, nodded, turned away and spoke softly. She handed the phone to her partner when she had finished. The man listened as well, grunted an acknowledgement and hung up.
Zeb couldn’t help grinning when the two stood motionless for a moment, expressionless.
‘I bet you two haven’t done this before. Worked with someone else on a mission.’
‘You’re American?’ the female asked, flatly.
‘Zeb Carter. Avichai might have told you about me.’ He deliberately used Levin’s first name to convey the relationship he had with the ramsad.
It didn’t have the desired effect. Neither of the two introduced themselves.
‘You speak our language well,’ the female kidon stated.
‘I’m sure you speak English fluently.’
‘What is your mission?’ the man tucked his weapon in his waist and stood beside his partner.
‘You aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you?’ Zeb picked up his Glock and holstered it. ‘I want to know what Uzair Hussain is up to.’
‘You’ll grab him?’ The female operative still held her gun.
Looks like she’s less trusting than her partner.
‘No. I plan to bug him. What about you?’
She didn’t say anything until the man nudged her.
‘You know who he’s meeting?’
‘I can make a guess. Kamran Shahi, the Iranian nuclear—’
‘We know who he is.’ The female kidon finally put her gun away in her bag and turned toward him.
‘I am Riva. He is Adir.’
No handshakes. No second names.
‘You’re kidon?’
No reply. Standard operating procedure for Mossad’s deadly operatives.
‘What is your mission?’ Zeb asked.
‘Grab Hussain. And Shahi.’