Jerusalem
Two days after Assassinations
Nine Days to Announcement
Zeb was in Romema early the next day.
He had spent several hours with Carmel and Dalia, getting their input on the male operatives that they had marked: the ones who were hard-line in their views that there could be no negotiations between their country and Palestine.
He hadn’t much to go on. While the kidon had told him as much as they knew about each of the men, it wasn’t a lot. He had more information on their personalities, and that was about it.
‘What will you do?’ Dalia had asked him. ‘You are just one person … or do you have a team?’
‘Just me. And I’ll do what I did with you. I need to know where these men have been in the last few days. That’s sufficient to clear them. I was planning on interviewing all of them, even you…’
‘But now, you don’t have time?’ Carmel had guessed.
‘Yeah,’ he had grimaced. ‘That announcement isn’t helping me.’
‘What if we had killed you? On the staircase or later, in the apartment?’ Dalia had asked.
‘You wouldn’t have,’ he had replied confidently. ‘You would have wanted to interrogate me. See if I was sent by the Tunisian.’
Her smile had been fleeting. ‘You’re lucky we live together. Most of those men live alone. They might have better security than us.’
‘If you have their personal cell numbers, it will help.’
Both women had shaken their heads regretfully. ‘We don’t give out that information. It’s so deeply ingrained …’
‘I understand.’ He had risen and stuffed the list in his pocket.
‘What about us?’ Carmel had asked. ‘We are clear, I guess. We can resume our mission.’
‘You are clear, but no mission for you. Until I check out all the operatives and either clear them or find the killer.’
‘Are there any more bugs in our apartment?’
‘You removed them all. But you might want to check the dish TV antenna outside. The one above your apartment.’
An indecipherable expression had crossed her face and then her lips quirked. ‘You are good, Epstein. Or whatever your real name is. Your investigation … surely the police, Shabak, they too are investigating.’
‘Yeah, but I’m the only one who’s looking into the kidon. They are checking out everyone else.’
‘I can’t believe the killers could be our own.’ Dalia had crossed her arms. ‘Whatever our personal views, we are highly disciplined operators. I can’t imagine anyone will act on their own.’
‘That’s what I am here to find out.’
‘Shalom, Jarret Epstein,’ Carmel had wished him, her lips twisting in a bittersweet smile. ‘Stay alive.’
Zeb recollected the previous day’s conversation as he hurried to a dojo in Romema. Yakov, one of the operatives, trained there. Zeb figured it would be easier to observe him there. And if the opportunity arises, get a dump of his cell phone.
He had thought long and hard about a way of exposing the assassins, given the news announcement. He hadn’t been able to come up with one.
He was stuck with his original plan. Check out their past movements. Ideally, get a dump of their cells and laptops. Plant a bug on them. Interview as many of them as possible. Use any and all means possible to ascertain their movements. And even then, what I find might not be conclusive.
The problem was, there was just him, twenty-eight of the kidon and ten days to apprehend the killers.
Twenty-four, he corrected himself. Riva, Adir, Carmel and Dalia were no longer on the suspect list. And only nine days left.
He had thought about calling his friends … they’ll stick out even if they disguise themselves. They’re too tall. The Mossad operatives will make them. Only the twins can pass as locals.
He could call the sisters, but he was reluctant to do so. They had been grievously injured in their last case, and even though both had fully recovered … he shook his head unconsciously. No, he would see how far he could progress on his own.
He cleared his mind and focused on Yakov.
The operative returned from Iran, where he had been conducting a solo recon mission on a military target. He lived in the same neighborhood where his dojo was located, in a one-bedroom apartment.
He was a krav maga expert and spent a couple of hours working out with others, when he wasn’t on missions.
Carmel said he’s an alpha male. Very competitive. Doesn’t like to lose. Has an explosive temper, which he never loses when on missions. And he hates Palestinians.
Zeb saw the sign board and crossed the street. In his backpack were his surveillance gear, weapons and his black gi.
He approached the dojo’s entrance and joined a line of members who used cards to swipe their way through the turnstiles.
‘I am not a member,’ he told the woman behind the counter. ‘I want to train for a few hours.’
‘We don’t take non-members,’ she said.
He sighed and made a show of looking irritated. ‘Look, I am a friend of Jessy Levitsky. He said I could just walk into any dojo and train.’
The woman didn’t recognize the minister’s name.
Zeb reached into his backpack and pulled out an identity card.
‘You’re with the police?’ she straightened when she read his credentials, which stated he was Commander Jarrett Epstein.
‘Yes.’
‘We can make an exception for you, sir,’ she reached beneath the counter and pressed a button for the turnstile.
‘One more thing,’ he told her as he passed through the barrier. ‘No one should know I have been here. I can trust you with that?’ he asked her, steely-eyed.
‘Yes, sir.’ She blanched and bent her head down as he walked through.
He felt guilty at going heavy at her, but his role demanded it. I’ll apologize to her when all this blows over.
The dojo was similar to thousands like it across the world. A large wood-floored training room on which mats were laid out. A gym, a few racquet courts, male and female changing rooms, a seating area and a food and drinks counter, all organized around the central area.
He went to the training room, which had about twenty people in it: some practicing moves, an instructor coaching a group in a corner.
Zeb went to the changing room and checked its occupants. No Yakov. He put on his gi and went back to the central room, barefooted.
He stood to the side and started a light warmup, his eyes searching.
Levin’s file on him was clear. He’s usually here at seven am, when he’s in Jerusalem.
A shout got his attention. Two men, fighting, both of them wearing head and chest guards.
There he is!
The kidon was of average height, five feet, nine inches, with no hair on his head or face, and burning eyes.
He was throwing punches furiously, kicking out with his legs, shouting aggressively whenever he made contact.
His partner had a hard time keeping up with him, and, when he took a nasty blow to the head, raised his hand in surrender.
The two men stopped and removed their headguards. Yakov wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his gi and cracked a joke. He didn’t wait for his friend’s reaction. He went to a bag against the wall, grabbed a bottle of water and sipped from it.
He doesn’t trust a locker. Smart.
Zeb had moved closer to them and was watching through the corner of his eye.
I need an opening to go through that bag.
‘You know krav maga?’
Zeb looked up. Yakov had noticed his interest.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘I haven’t seen you around.’
‘You know everyone?’
‘No,’ the kidon laughed. ‘I don’t come regularly. I travel a lot. But I have been here for the last few days. Didn’t see you.’
‘I am not regular, either,’ Zeb replied, thankful that Levin hadn’t shared his description with the operatives. Yakov would have been suspicious immediately.
‘You want to spar?’
That isn’t what I had in mind.
‘Maybe it’s not for you,’ Yakov continued slyly, his alpha-male surfacing. ‘I go full contact.’
Zeb hesitated.
‘Maybe you’re at a lower level,’ the kidon said, condescendingly. ‘It’s all right. I’ll find someone else.’
‘I’ll spar.’
‘You’re sure?’ Yakov smiled smugly. ‘You saw how we fought. You’re ready for that?’
‘Yes.’
Zeb knew how he could get to the kidon’s bag.