Jerusalem
Three days after Assassinations
Eight days to Announcement
Zeb left Yonah’s apartment half an hour later, after copying the phone and laptop data of each kidon. He sent the large file to the twins as he walked and shot a message to a contact in MI6. The British agency would be able to get the hospital’s video data. If that corroborates, and no reason why it shouldn’t, these four operatives are clear, too.
Nine pm. He grabbed a baguette sandwich from a street vendor and wolfed it down in front of an electronics store. The TV in its window was playing a news channel. Talking heads speculating what Prime Minister Cantor and President Baruti would announce in a few days.
The scene cut to one of Alice Monash addressing the crowd at Beit Aghion. That was followed by file photos of Avichai Levin, Levitsky and Shoshon. The TV host and her panel hotly debated the lack of progress in the investigation.
‘Levin must go. It is clear Mossad is behind those assassinations. There is a government coverup, which is why no suspects have been identified,’ a guest, a Palestinian, stated. The TV audience, a predominantly Israeli one, burst out at that.
This is how it will go down, Zeb thought as he turned away and drank from a bottle of water. Palestinians and Israelis even more entrenched in their positions.
Unless Cantor’s task force can prove conclusively that Mossad wasn’t involved.
Or I do.
He brought up the GPS app on his cell and checked the various green dots on it.
Meir wasn’t at home. Zeb looked at the kidon’s location.
He’s at a cinema.
Zeb had been on his feet ever since he left his hotel in the morning to meet Alice Monash. The continual switching from investigator mode to bodyguard was taking its toll on him. He was tiring. He was aware an operative lost his edge in such conditions.
I don’t have a choice.
He made his way to Meir’s apartment.
Moscow, That Evening
Andropov slammed his phone down and scrunched his face in disgust. Getting intel on Peter Raskov was proving to be surprisingly difficult. He was an FSB agent, that much the spymaster had found out. However, he hadn’t been able to get anything more on the agent.
Where is he? What’s his mission? Who is his handler?
He prided himself on keeping track of every Russian operative, whichever agency they belonged to. He had discovered that Raskov wasn’t in his system. That had been the first cause for his irritation. He then had found that none of his usual sources knew anything about the operative. That not only angered but also intrigued him.
Just who was Peter Raskov?
He made more calls. Met the directors of other covert agencies to see if they knew anything about a mission in Jordan. No one had any information.
He drummed his fingers on his desk and reached a decision. Calling the FSB director was a last resort. However, if Zeb needed help, Andropov would go to the Kremlin if that was needed.
He made the call.
Somewhere in the Middle East
It was the handler’s turn to grimace. Magal and Shiri had sent him a photograph. That of the stranger standing beside the American ambassador’s vehicle. But that man didn’t seem to exist. Not in any of the agency systems that the handler had hacked into.
No such person in Mossad. FSB didn’t have anyone who looked like him. It wasn’t just the Israeli agency that the handler had penetrated when his people had developed their cyberattack capabilities. The Russians, the Germans—heck, even the Chinese. He hadn’t gone after the U.S. and UK, however. Not because he thought they couldn’t hack into MI6 or American systems, but because, if discovered, his entire capability would be nullified.
Those two countries would detect his viruses in little time, would erase them, create defenses and would then share those with their allies.
He smoothed his beard and looked at his reflection in the polished surface of his desk. He looked the part. The head of a ruthless and feared agency. But his looks didn’t reassure him just then.
This new person was obviously an American. Who else would ride in Alice Monash’s car? But why was he there?
He perused the dossiers his agency had of all U.S. agents. No file photograph matched that of the stranger. He cursed in disgust and turned off the screen. He was overreacting. Why did it matter if some unknown person was with the ambassador?
It wouldn’t affect what he was working on.
Which reminded him.
He shot off a message to Magal and Shiri.
When will you attack?
Somewhere in Jerusalem
Abdul Masih ripped a piece of bread, dipped it in olive oil and stuffed it into his mouth as he pored over a map.
He was in their safe house, a small residence in the Muslim Quarter in the Old City. Three of his trusted lieutenants were with him. Outside, more of his men were spread out, some at the entrance and exit of the narrow street. Those would warn him if any police or IDF personnel made an entry.
‘How do you know it is that hotel?’ he asked, stabbing his finger on a red circle on the map.
‘She visited it. One of our informers entered it as well and saw heavy security. He—’
‘He wasn’t spotted, sayidi,’ his lieutenant clarified hurriedly.
‘Good. Did he see where she went?’
‘There’s a corridor that goes to conference rooms. There were many guards. He didn’t see where exactly she went from that corridor.’
Masih pursed his lips as he examined the map silently. Emek Refaim was a busy street. The previous attacks were practically a stone’s throw from the circled hotel. Why would the Israelis move all negotiators to another one so close by?
Because no one will think the talks are happening practically next door.
He nodded unconsciously and glared at his lieutenant, who smiled as if he was being complimented.
‘What’s the plan?’ he barked.
His man faltered. Plan? That was for the sayidi to make, wasn’t it?
Masih growled in anger at his silence and looked at the others. They turned away.
‘I have to do everything,’ he grated. He bent down and studied the map again. The street was broad, but getting away would be difficult. The Israelis would have a heavy presence and at the first sign of trouble, would block all escape routes.
Unless …
‘Do we have any suicide bombers here? In Jerusalem.’
‘Yes, sayidi. Lots of them, ready to die for the cause.’
‘Do we have fighters? A dozen or so?’
‘Yes, sayidi.’
‘They will die.’
‘They are ready for it.’