TWO WEEKS LATER
LA PORTE, SOUTHEAST OF HOUSTON, TEXAS—DECEMBER 17, 2020—15:45 / 3:45 P.M. CST
When the Suburban pulled up to the nondescript warehouse, Nir turned from the front passenger seat and said, “Okay, guys, full gear in. I don’t want anything left in the vehicle when I head out.”
“Root,” said Imri while the rest of the Kidon team began collecting. They’d spent the night at a nearby hotel, but tonight they would stay at a different one.
Confident that one of the guys would carry his gear, Nir gathered the four large orange and white bags emblazoned with the word Whataburger. When he’d contacted the leader of the Mossad team inside, the man told him the fastest way to win over the passionate loyalty of the men and women there was by means of cheeseburgers and fries—Whataburger cheeseburgers and fries, to be precise.
How very American of them, Nir had thought.
When they were still pulling up, he’d sent a message to let the man know he and his team were arriving. So as they approached the door, he wasn’t surprised when it opened from the inside. A short, paunchy man who appeared to be in his mid-seventies stood in the doorway. A sparse ring of white covered the lower quarter of his scalp, and a wide smile had spread across his face.
“Come in, come in,” he said.
Once inside, Nir put out his hand. “I’m Nir Tavor.”
The man grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. “Of course you are. Your reputation precedes you.”
“My reputation? In training, it seemed like we couldn’t go two days without a story about the great Avigdor Neeman.”
The old man laughed. “Lies and exaggerations, I’m sure.” After being introduced to the rest of the Kidon team, he said, “Ah, you brought the food. My team has been working nonstop since five this morning. They will appreciate this very much.”
He led them into the large open warehouse. Eight green industrial generators sat positioned around the room, and each one had a pair of techs working on it.
Neeman leaned toward Nir. “I keep them in pairs. Not as efficient, but it greatly reduces the chance that something will accidentally go boom.”
Clapping his hands loudly, he got everyone’s attention. Nir wondered if startling them all like that increased or reduced the chances that something would go boom. When the techs looked up, he said, “Our friends are here.”
Their expressions were a mix of awe and fear. They knew what Kidon was, and they knew what Nir and his team did.
Then Neeman added with a big smile, “And they brought lunch.”
That seemed to break the ice, and all 16 techs came forward. It was like they were thinking, How bad could these Kidon guys really be if they came bearing cheeseburgers?
“Good call on the food,” said Nir.
“I’ve learned a few things over the decades. Now, let’s you and I go talk.”
The old man’s mood change didn’t escape Nir. This guy is as Mossad as it gets. You never know what’s real and what’s deception.
He followed Neeman into a side office, where he’d placed two chairs next to a table that held two glasses and one tall blue bottle of El Massaya Arak. The old man motioned for Nir to sit down. “I thought you might want a little taste of home.”
“For a taste of home you serve me Lebanese liquor?”
“To me, anything to the east of the Mediterranean coast tastes like home,” Neeman said as he squatted at a mini-fridge and removed a bottle of water.
“When was the last time you were back?”
“In 2008 for the 60th anniversary of Statehood. I keep telling my wife we’ll go back for the 75th, but I don’t think she’ll be able to. She’s not as mobile as she once was.” He poured two fingers of the arak into each glass, then held up the water bottle. Nir nodded.
“I’m sorry to hear she’s struggling.” Nir watched the water turn the liquor a cloudy white.
Neeman lifted his glass. “To our comrades we carried home.”
Nir clinked the glass with his own, then swallowed the liquid. It tasted like licorice, anise, and fire.
“I heard you were retired,” Nir said.
“I heard you were dead.”
“Sounds like we were both wrong. But seriously, I was surprised when I was told I’d be working with you.”
“Don’t start again with that gushing about me being a legend. The ramsad called me and asked if I would do him a favor. How do you say no to that? Besides, I live in a condo in a planned community in Florida filled with old people. The most exciting thing I do these days is chase the ducks with my golf cart. Not quite the same as a high-speed pursuit through Berlin.”
“I’m sure there’s a story behind that reference.”
“Not as exciting as the story of a high-speed chase through rural Iran,” Neeman said with a longing look, as if he’d go back to the front lines of the espionage war if only his aging body would let him.
“For a man chasing ducks in Florida, you seem to be incredibly well-informed about current operations.”
The old agent just shrugged his shoulders and smiled. It was hard for Nir to picture the cold-blooded killer in this mild-mannered grandfather, but he knew he’d been part of a Kidon unit that, all in a five-year span, had assassinated Gerald Bull, the Canadian who was working on a supergun for Saddam Hussein; Atef Bseiso, PLO head of intelligence and participant in the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre; and Fathi Shaqaqi, the founder of Islamic Jihad, a Palestinian terrorist organization.
Neeman tilted the arak bottle toward Nir’s glass, but he covered it with his hand. “I’m going back out tonight.”
“Well, then with your permission…” He poured the arak into his own glass as Nir nodded his assent. “Now tell me, what is your great plan for getting my team into this artist’s workshop without getting caught?” He lifted the glass to his lips.
“Well, that’s still in flux.”
His glass stilled, the old man’s expression didn’t change. But Nir noticed his face begin to redden. The glass returned to the table.
“I have eight people in there who are risking their lives, their careers, everything they have. I’ve got a high school volleyball coach. I’ve got a housewife. I’ve got a manager of an Applebee’s. They’re moms and dads who are missing the final night of Hannukah with their families to be here. If they’re caught, they’ll likely lose it all along with their freedom. I want more than in flux.”
Now Nir could see the warrior. But despite this man’s past and experience, Nir was still the man at the top of the org chart for this operation. “Apparently, it’s been a while since you were on the tip of the spear, my friend. In flux is the way Kidon operates.”
Neeman slammed the table with both fists. “You are Kidon! I am Kidon! Those people out there are not Kidon! They’re regular people using their training to help protect Israel and her citizens. And they are trusting you to protect them as they do it.”
Nir leaned across the table. “Avigdor, it is in flux.” He emphasized each word as he said it.
Neeman locked eyes with him, and they stared at each other until the old man sat back. Lifting his glass again, he said, “They told me I’d like you.” He tossed the contents into his mouth and swallowed. A harsh “Ahh” followed. Then he pointed at Nir. “You have three more nights. After that, those people are going back to their real lives.”