Mossad headquarters, Tel Aviv, Israel
Dre and the rest of the ET crew followed Shira down the narrow concrete hallway underneath Mossad headquarters. There would be no tea and sandwiches for this meeting with Binya Albedano.
The Mossad director of ops was waiting in the “bubble,” along with another man, who did not introduce himself.
Dre shivered. It was more than just the damp chill of the rough concrete walls. The harsh fluorescent lighting, the cheap table around which they gathered on mismatched folding chairs, the whole aura of the place gave her the creeps.
Shira locked the doors of the “bubble” and engaged the knife switch on the circuit box next to the door. The light above the door shifted from red to green.
Binya forced a smile. “Welcome back. I see you returned Shira in good working order.” It seemed to Dre that the worry lines at the corners of his mouth had deepened since she’d last seen the man.
Don got right to the point. “I’ve been authorized to brief you on everything we have on the Mahdi and the attacks.”
Dre studied the mysterious meeting participant. He was a heavyset man with thinning gray hair in a ragged crew cut. He had a way of hunching his shoulders forward and sinking his heavy face into the jowls of his neck that left the impression he was half asleep. But when she looked closer, she could see his eyes darting back and forth, hidden by his half-closed eyelids, like a frog waiting to catch a fly. The man locked eyes with her and she immediately looked away.
“Please continue, Don,” Binya said. He shot a nervous side glance at the silent stranger. Clearly, the stranger was an influential man.
Don quickly laid out the theory that the Mahdi attacks were being used to cover up for bioweapons tests, first in Yemen and now in South Sudan. When he reached the end of the briefing, he placed his folded hands on the table. In the ensuing silence, Dre imagined she could hear the hum of the jamming equipment protecting the room from electronic eavesdroppers.
The big man at the end of the table stirred. “You were the one who passed on the lead about the Saudi financial transaction,” he said to Don.
Don tilted his head toward Dre and her colleagues. “This is the team that hatched the idea and found the connection. It was a lot of work.” He threw a look at Michael. “I had my doubts at first.”
When the big man nodded, his whole body moved back and forth. “That was good work.”
Seconds passed until finally he said, “Because of your information, I was able to place an asset close to Jean-Pierre Manzul.”
“The CEO of Recodna Genetics?” Janet blurted out. “What did you find out?”
To Dre’s surprise, the big man smiled at Janet. “My name is Noam,” he said. “Do you know the term ‘kidon’?”
“No, sir.”
“‘Kidon’ is Hebrew for ‘tip of the spear.’ On paper, we don’t exist. We do all the jobs no one else wants to do.” Dre caught Janet’s eye. Her look confirmed what Dre was thinking: This guy was talking about assassinations.
“My asset,” Noam continued. “She is one of the best. She has managed to clone Manzul’s phone.”
“She cloned his phone?” Dre gasped. “Then we have him, right?”
Noam shook his head. “Not exactly. Manzul is a professional. He uses face-to-face meetings, cutouts, burner phones, encrypted communications. The dump from the phone is not conclusive for anything we have discussed. However”—he raised his eyebrows, which was the biggest show of emotion he had made so far in the meeting—“we can track his phone now. On or off, doesn’t matter. If we can get him to return to the research lab, we have the location.”
“I think I have a way,” Don said. “We use your mole.”
Binya sagged in his chair. “We don’t know who it is yet, Don. Finding him—or her—will take more time.”
“For what I have in mind, we can do it right now,” Don said. “Today.”
“I’m listening,” Noam rumbled from the end of the table.
“I want you to tell everyone the Americans cracked your software,” Don said. “You’re scrapping Cerberus because it’s not secure. The Americans can hack right through it.”
Binya’s brows crunched together in a frown. “I don’t understand. How does that help us find the mole?”
“It doesn’t,” Noam said. “But your mole is sure to report it and that will force Manzul’s hand. He will default to face-to-face meetings as the most secure method of communication. We can track him now. It’s a good plan, Don.”
“The existence of Cerberus is highly classified, even inside our own government,” Binya said. “How do we destroy a program that doesn’t officially exist?”
“Gossip is the most powerful weapon in the world,” Noam said. “This afternoon, you announce your resignation, no reason given. Shira drops a word here and there about a failed top-secret program.”
He pointed a stubby finger at Dre and her colleagues. “You parade these three around the cafeteria, strutting like a bunch of peacocks at how their superior American technology bested the Israelis once again.” He laced his fingers over his belly and leaned back in his chair. “Then we let nature take its course.”
Binya’s face had gone ashen. “But … what about—”
“Binya, we’re dealing with bioweapons here,” Don said. “We can’t stop the Mahdi if we can’t find him. Using the mole is our best option.”
Dre watched the emotions play out across Binya’s face. If he resigned, he would never get his job back—or any other job in Mossad. No matter the outcome, there would never be a way to clear his name.
“You will do it, Binya,” Noam said. “For the good of Israel. You will be taken care of, my friend. You have my word.”
“Where will you be, Don?” Binya asked.
“After they finish a victory lap around Mossad, Mr. Riley and his team will be back in Camp Lemonnier—with me,” Noam said. “When we find the Mahdi, we will need to move quickly.”