Chapter Thirteen

 

 

Mossad Station Office, southeast Tel Aviv, Israel

June 17, 8:10 p.m.

 

Justin lay his gauze-wrapped arm on the table and bit his lip to stifle a wince. The doctor had prescribed painkillers but he had declined her pills, wanting to keep his mind sharp and centered on this briefing. He could not afford to be groggy and lose focus. He would rather deal with the occasional stabbing pain piercing his forearm. In a way, the pain helped him concentrate, a constant reminder of what the attackers were capable of and why he needed to find and stop them.

He tried to type with his left hand, but Deputy Director Hannah Kessler talked way too fast for Justin to keep useful legible notes on his laptop. She served in Mossad’s Special Operations department—the same one as Roth—and had come to this briefing to provide an update on the ongoing investigation of the highway ambush. Kessler sat at the head of the long black wooden table, across from Justin and Carrie, who was scribbling furiously on her yellow pad, intent on not missing a single word of the update. Roth was on the right side of Kessler, while her aide—Yoela Adler, a petite young woman in her thirties—had taken the seat to her left. Her fingers were gently tapping her laptop’s keyboard, and she did not even need to see the buttons. Her sharp blue eyes were always focused on Justin’s face.

Kessler had given them the essential intelligence they had gathered so far. Out of the hit team, half the attackers were Palestinians. Three were known to Mossad as active members of the IFB, but they had no file on the fourth man, the one who had fired the rocket-propelled grenade. The identity of two other gunmen was a mystery, and fingerprints of the last two showed they were al-Qaeda members from a recently established cell in the Palestinian territories. Mossad was working with Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security agency, to gather further intelligence about potential associates or links to other terrorists involved in this plot.

Justin liked Kessler’s rundown of their operations. She was clear and concise in her update, providing sufficient details but not bogging down her narrative with unneeded minutia or patriotic rhetoric. Her voice was firm and sure, and her facial expressions conveyed her strong conviction: the terrorists had attacked deep inside Israel and the only response was to strike back, hard and fast. A slight frown remained stamped on her hardened face and drew attention to a small set of wrinkles around the corners of her lips and her eyes. Kessler’s long hair was combed neatly in side-swept bangs, and she seemed to have embraced her gray hair, sporting consistent and natural silver locks. She had soft brown eyes and her small round reading glasses hung at the tip of her small nose.

After Kessler was finished, it was Roth’s turn. His briefing focused on Mossad operatives scouting Gaza City, Ramallah, and other areas in the Palestinian territories known as hotbeds of the IFB’s network of militants. Nothing concrete so far, but Roth had strong hopes the operatives’ local contacts would soon bring in some intelligence on this ambush: who had planned it and whether it was a single isolated event or connected to a series of potential attacks.

Near the end of Roth’s update, his cell phone vibrated. He apologized for the interruption and checked the e-mail. It was an update from the Ichilov General Hospital, where Cohen and McClain were being treated for their wounds. Cohen’s side wound had barely missed vital organs, but had caused a tremendous blood loss. Surgeons had been successful in repairing the open fracture in his femoral shaft, but they had to place a steel plate to keep the bone in place. Cohen would be on crutches for the next two to three months, and the physical therapy was also expected to take as long. If there were no complications and the muscles, tendons, and ligaments around the femoral shaft healed well, Cohen would be able to walk again without a cane or other support in about six months.

McClain’s shoulder surgery had also gone well. The bullet had not hit the scapula, but had fractured his clavicle and had severed many blood vessels and ligaments. It would take a few weeks before McClain would be able to use his arm again, but surgeons were concerned about his having less strength in that arm. It was possible the range of motion of the arm would also be affected by the gunshot wound.

The medical update was not good news, but it was not bad news either. Cohen and McClain were faring much better than their assailants. Still, a somber mood fell on the room.

“Any questions about these two briefings, Mr. Hall?” Kessler said.

Justin had insisted she called him by his first name, but Kessler considered the use of last names a true sign of professionalism. He gestured toward his laptop, then said, “Ms. Kessler, thanks for the update. I hope the current ops will result in the expected intel. I’m not sure if Carrie, Ms. O’Connor, has anything to ask.” He looked at Carrie, who replied with a head shake. “All right. Now, before I share our files, if you don’t object, I’d like to revisit a Mossad mission that took place a few days ago in Ramallah.”

Kessler’s frown spread across her face. She brushed one of her long bangs away from her face and behind her ear. Then she leaned forward and said, “Mr. Hall, I fail to see the connection and the relevancy of that mission to the discussion at hand.” Her voice had assumed a slight tone of irritation.

Justin leaned forward as well, but kept his voice flat and calm. “It’s not clear to us how the Mossad team learned Nassar’s location. We were wondering if they got some help and thought you could help us understand who gave them this help and why.”

Kessler began to shake her head, but before she could say a single word, Carrie cut in. “On the same line of thought, how come the IFB—one of their strongest militant groups—did not use the bodies of the fallen Mossad agents as bargaining chips, as they’ve done in the past with kidnapped soldiers?”

Kessler fell back in her chair, frustration clear in her face. “How many times do I have to repeat to everyone that it was an unauthorized mission executed by rogue agents blinded by revenge?” She sighed and threw her hands in the air. “And I would not speculate on the IFB’s motivations. They are involved in the peace talks with our government.” She shrugged. “Returning the bodies was a shrewd political maneuver. It showed the Palestinians are doing everything within their power to move the negotiations forward. If the talks collapsed, the blame would not be laid at their feet.”

Justin nodded. Kessler’s explanation made sense, but did not exactly answer his and Carrie’s questions.

Kessler must have noticed Justin’s inquisitive look, because she continued, “I’m not sure how our agents knew where Nassar was holed up for that night. It was news to me. Mossad had no intel about Nassar’s whereabouts.”

“So, the assassination team had no help from inside Mossad?” Carrie asked.

Kessler did not answer right away, but it was clear from her fiery eyes that rage was sizzling in her mind. She flogged Justin with a stern glance, one that he read as how dare you doubt my words?

Adler, Kessler’s aide, pointed with her right hand at Justin. “Ms. Kessler has already answered that question very clearly,” she said in a harsh voice. It was the first full sentence she had uttered ever since they exchanged their pleasantries. Adler followed her words with a dismissive hand gesture Justin interpreted to say let’s move along.

“We’re conducting a full and thorough investigation,” Kessler said after a deep sigh. “But so far, nothing has come to light to indicate the involvement of any Mossad agents but for the four men killed in that unsanctioned operation.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back in her seat.

Justin’s eyes went to Roth. The director’s face betrayed none of his emotions. And Justin already knew his point of view: Roth also believed the operation that killed Nassar was a personal vendetta. But Justin could not bring himself to accept it. His gut feeling told him the hit team had to have gotten some help.

“All right, that’s helpful, Ms. Kessler,” Justin said, trying not to sound sarcastic in his remarks. “You said it was a shrewd political maneuver to hand back the bodies. Then what about this ambush? Why would the IFB and other terrorists with links to al-Qaeda plot and execute such a well-organized attack on the verge of a peace deal?”

The look on Kessler’s face resembled that of a teacher frustrated with a slow-learning student. “Good question, which deserves a very long answer, but we just don’t have the time. But why do Palestinians do anything? Why do they hate us? Why do they use their children as human shields and their schools to store weapons and bombs? Why do they teach and train their children to grow up with hate in their hearts against Israel? Because the Palestinians—well, at least some of the most extremist amongst them—want to erase us from the map.”

Kessler paused to catch her breath. Her voice had taken a quicker pace and a high-pitched tone. “But this is our homeland, the land God promised to Abraham, Jacob, and Joseph, the fathers of our faith and of our nation. The Romans razed Jerusalem to the ground and destroyed our temple, but they couldn’t crush our spirits. We Hebrews, we have a strong resilient gene in us. We’re unstoppable, unconquerable, unbreakable.

“If Palestinians want to peacefully co-exist with my people, we can make that happen. But it has to be an agreeable peace, not forced by the constant threat of missiles raining on our children’s heads. Peace that allows for prosperity, not just a ceasefire until Palestinians secure more advanced missiles from their Iranian and al-Qaeda supporters.”

Kessler’s outburst caught Justin by surprise. She had been very calm and collected up to this point. But he had poked the bear and she had bared her sharp claws.

She continued, “The ambush can be one of two things. Another clever political ploy to push our side into concessions. A sort of an ultimatum. If you do not agree to a peace deal, attacks like this will become your new way of life. Deviously clever. Or it’s a breakaway faction from one of their numerous extremist militant groups, fed up with what they consider treason, which has decided to disrupt the peace process by attacking important targets in Israel. Just the other week, we foiled a plot to attack the US Embassy. It was the work of the IFB and two al-Qaeda operatives, a sophisticated and advanced plot to kidnap or kill top American officials.”

Justin kept a calm face but he was sizzling on the inside. Kessler’s one-sided lecture on the decades-old Israeli-Palestinian conflict did not move them closer to finding out more about the ambush. But she had touched on an important point, which Justin decided to exploit. This time, he knew he was not only poking the bear, but thrusting a sharp spear into her side.

He said, “You talked about Palestinians attacking important targets. How did they know our directors were in those two GMC Suburbans? It wasn’t a random strike, so who informed them?”

Kessler blurted, “How dare you, Mr. Hall, accuse Mossad agents of treason, of betraying their cause to their worst enemy? How dare you?”

Roth gave Justin a bleak look. “What is this?”

“I’m making no accusations, but I’m trying to understand how the ambush happened and figure out if there is a connection between the two events: the assassination of Nassar—an act of revenge by rogue Mossad agents—and this attack against Mossad senior directors—a seeming act of revenge by a breakaway Palestinian faction. Am I the only one who thinks this is not a coincidence?” Justin’s eyes moved from Kessler’s face to Roth’s and then to Adler’s, but he was met with hostile looks from all three of them.

Kessler feigned a high-pitched laugh. “You take me for a fool? I see what you are doing: attempting to place the blame for this ambush on my people. But let’s not forget that your agency, the Canadian Intelligence Service, was also aware of this meeting, the route, the time. How do we know you don’t have a leak in the CIS? It has happened in the past, hasn’t it?” Her left eye gave a slight twitch as she spat out her last words.

Justin’s eyebrows shot up and formed two incredulous arches, but he did not mouth his objection to Kessler’s flawed line of reasoning. None of the CIS personnel knew about the number or the brands of vehicles in the convoy and the route they were going to take to reach Tel Aviv. Kessler was grasping at straws.

Justin sighed and glanced at Carrie.

She gave him a small head nod, a warning gesture not to press the point.

He decided to ignore Kessler’s jab and not take the bait.

After a long tense moment, Adler tapped the table with her index finger. “Mr. Hall, your questions are insulting and counterproductive and—”

Kessler stepped in. “Unless you have concrete evidence the two incidents are related and unless you have reliable evidence there is a mole inside Mossad, I strongly advise you keep your outlandish speculations and your misguided opinions to yourself.” She ended her flare-up with a finger pointed at Justin and a strong head shake.

Justin opened his mouth, ready to give Kessler a piece of his mind, but Roth stopped him with a hand gesture. “How about we refocus our attention on how we can move forward to identify and catch the people responsible for this attack?”

Justin nodded.

Kessler frowned for a few seconds, then gave Roth a sideways glance and a small head nod. “Yes, we should. Mr. Hall, your director informed us about some sensitive intel that had come into the CIS’s hands. It’s one of the reasons for your trip here and for this meeting.”

The other reason was to improve the rocky relationship with Mossad. But that ship had long sailed off to sea.

“Of course, thanks, Mr. Roth.” Justin opened one of the black folders he had stacked to the left side of his laptop. He pulled out three copies of a six-page document. “This is an account of the CIS and BND joint operation in Berlin. It covers the prep work and the aftermath of the attack.” He pushed across the table the detailed yet redacted report.

Kessler rifled through the document. Justin had already highlighted and bolded the main points to make it easier for them to navigate through the report’s tight paragraphs. He reached for the second folder and took out a series of photographs of the scenes at Berlin’s Central Train Station and Victory Column and of the gunmen involved in the bombing and the shootout. Justin gave Kessler and Roth a little more time to read the report, then passed the photographs around the table.

“As you can see from the reports and the photos, we’ve identified the woman. She’s a German national with no known previous ties to terrorists. We’re assuming she was a staunch supporter of the Palestinian cause and was brainwashed into becoming a suicide bomber. While this is not the first time we’ve seen such a disturbing trend, the woman did not match the usual Islamic terrorist ethnic profile. And neither did one of the men.” Justin tapped one of the photographs. “A Caucasian of Austrian origin. Never arrested anywhere in Europe, but still a vicious terrorist.”

Kessler pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. Then she swept away a few hair strands from one of her bangs that had fallen over her eyes. “We’ve seen a similar tactic as well. Makes our job more difficult.”

“Right, but not impossible.” Justin rested his hand on the third folder. “The BND are still working on identifying the other two dead men who executed the terrorist plot. The fifth man was able to escape and is still at large, but we’ve been able to create his identikit.” Justin opened the folder and handed them a facial composite of the informant. Two CIS sketch artists had worked with Justin to draw the portrait based on his vivid recollection of the informant’s face.

Kessler’s left eye twitched again as she threw a casual glance at the photograph. She tossed it quickly to the side as if it burned her hand. “I . . . we don’t recognize him. And the drawing is quite vague. I don’t know how useful it will be, but we’ll run it through our databases,” she said with a small sneer. Her voice had taken on an angry edge similar to one of her earlier outbursts.

Justin wondered about her nervous reaction. The portrait showed the informant’s blue eyes, light skin, crooked nose, and the left-side burn, his unique facial mark. Was Kessler expecting more? Or was she not expecting this much?

Roth was holding the photograph from one of its corners. He was staring at it intently as if trying to remember where he had seen the man. Then he shook his head and shrugged. “It doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll circulate the photo to our field stations in Germany and other European countries. Perhaps they have run into him during one of their operations.”

Justin said, “Thanks.”

He looked at Adler, but she responded with a slight shrug.

Justin thought again about Kessler’s reaction as he met her eyes. They were no longer soft, but had taken on a harsher glint and had grown darker. She knows the informant.