MOSSAD SAFE HOUSE, ASTARA, AZERBAIJAN—FEBRUARY 1, 2018—06:40 / 6:40 A.M. AST
You look like someone stole your wife, Tavor,” Elnur Isayev said in his stilted English. “Are you not pleased with the progress?”
Only a thin line separates pessimism from realism, which is particularly true for the Jews. Life had made a habit of unexpectedly rising and punching them in the mouth. And that was why, Nir realized, he was preparing for a taste of life’s fist even though Operation Deep Sleep had thus far advanced remarkably well.
Without looking at the former assistant deputy head of the Azerbaijani Foreign Intelligence Service, Nir replied, “She’s not safe yet.” Then catching his slip, “We still have a lot of sheep out there among the wolves.”
“Ah, but it seems you are most concerned over one little lamb.”
Nir turned to see a grin beneath the man’s thick gray mustache. He wanted to poke back at the jab, but Isayev was absolutely right. He was anxious about the safety of each of the 20 players out on this operation’s pitch, but worry about the fate of a particular one kept him pacing the cement floor of this safe house.
And why should Isayev’s detecting his concern for Nicole stop him from what he wanted to do next?
“Call up Julia,” he said to one of the four Mossad techs sitting in front of a computer station in the center of the open, low-ceilinged room. The man glanced at Yoram Tzadik, the agent in charge of the operation. Tzadik nodded his approval. Then after a series of keystrokes, a headset was handed to Nir, and he slid it on.
He leaned forward on his fists, resting them on the table in front of him, and waited.
“Julia,” said a smoky, South African-accented voice, using one of the legend names for this operation. That one word was all it took for Nir to breathe a sigh of relief. Although Nicole le Roux was only 400 kilometers away, that distance was entirely in the Islamic Republic of Iran. She might as well have been on the other side of the world.
“Julia, Matt. Checking in.”
“So far, so good. Looking forward to a nice hot bath and a good stiff drink.”
“I’m guessing you’ll have better luck with the first than the second. Take care of yourself. Out.”
Nir pulled off the headset and handed it back to the tech, giving the young man a grateful tap on the back as he did so. Then with a twist of his wrist, he calculated the time difference between what he read on his G-Shock watch and Nicole’s probable ETA at the pickup point. At least her safety was now measured in hours rather than days.
For the first time that morning, he sat down.
Although he and Nicole lived in two different European countries, each leading a busy life, they found time to connect. Sometimes she visited him in Belgium. Often, he found an excuse to carry out business for his Antwerp-based diamond company near one of her photoshoot locales. Or he’d visit her in Milan, her home when she could be there. Somehow their eight-year relationship seemed to be working—though on paper, it shouldn’t be.
He was even starting to wonder if this South African, full-time model and part-time Mossad computer hacker could be “the one.”
And that was why he hadn’t wanted her to be part of this operation. It was too dangerous. Nicole wasn’t an operative. She’d never even shot a gun outside of a firing range. The closest she’d ever come to any sort of danger was as a target in a gun battle in South Africa before she was even part of the Mossad. Putting her in-country like this without any kind of ops experience could get her imprisoned or even killed. He had tried to persuade Tzadik to remove her from the operation. When that didn’t work, he’d yelled and cursed at the man. Finally, his superior had thrown him out of his office, threatening to pull him from the operation if he couldn’t control himself.
Besides, he’d kept running up against the wall that told him Nicole’s being a part of their team made perfect sense. She wasn’t an Israeli, and her tech skills were essential for the success of the plan. But she was in Iran, the den filled with the most vicious of lions. There were so many what-ifs, and each one led to an even nastier conclusion than the last. As it turned out, though, his fears had been unfounded—so far.
Realizing his only caloric intake since last night had been a cup of sweetened coffee now and then, Nir reached into one of his cargo pants pockets and pulled out a PowerBar. Although it was 11 degrees Celsius and rainy outside—and not all that warm in the safe house either—the bar was soft from his body heat. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.
Twenty minutes later, any serenity he’d achieved disappeared in an instant. Life had indeed swung its fist and delivered a direct hit.