NEARLY TEN YEARS LATER
OLD TOWN, TALLINN, ESTONIA—DECEMBER 22, 2019—17:15 / 5:15 P.M. EET
It was like walking through a fairy tale. Between the medieval architecture and the Christmas decorations, Nir felt like he was in one of those princess movies he sometimes observed little girls watching on plane flights. The cobblestone street was damp from a light mist, but the temperature wasn’t yet cold enough to turn the moisture to ice. Every now and then he passed a bakery or restaurant where the sweet, rich aroma from the offerings inside tempted him. Breads, meats, coffees—they all sought to pull him into the shops.
But as tempted as he was, it was impossible to stop. He was following a man, and he couldn’t let him get away. Actually, he was following three men. One was his target—Dr. Sa’d Hassan—the second was his target’s guard, and the third was an unexpected twist getting in the way.
The Mossad knew much of what happened to Hassan, and they’d surmised the rest. A year ago he was a research professor in the study of nephrology at Mansoura University, located 175 kilometers north of Cairo in the center of the Nile Delta. Specializing in renal pathophysiology and how various pathogens might affect the kidneys, he’d published numerous journal articles and was an occasional speaker at conferences in the Arab world. Well respected by his peers and admired by his students, on the surface it looked like he’d created a comfortable life for himself. But the good doctor had a problem—one of his own making.
In the fifth surah of the Qur’an, verse 90, it is written, “O you who believe! Intoxicants and gambling, dedication of stones, and divination by arrows, are an abomination of Satan’s handiwork. Eschew such abomination, that you may prosper.” For Muslims, gambling, along with other vices, was strictly prohibited. In Egypt, any citizen caught gambling could be fined and imprisoned. However, that didn’t mean the law forbade gaming in the nation. In fact, in the capital city of Cairo, 14 casinos offered legal gambling. But only if you weren’t a citizen. If you couldn’t show a foreign passport, you weren’t welcome to wager.
But not to worry. If you were a citizen of Egypt and you liked to risk your money in games of chance, you weren’t without options. With the rise of the internet, online gambling had taken off in the nation, and the police agencies had adopted a type of Don’t ask, don’t tell policy when it came to internet wagering.
This is where Hassan’s troubles began. The good doctor was a fan of online poker, and he did fairly well…at first. But as so often happens, the early wins were followed by more frequent downturns, and he kept playing until his credit cards were maxed out and his savings were gone. No doubt disgusted, his wife took their two teenage children and moved back to her parents’ home.
Like so many gamblers, Hassan probably thought all he needed was one big win to pay off his debts and get his family back. But he had no more credit for the online games. That’s when he moved to the underground casinos. Soon, he was way over his head in even more debt.
Then, one day Hassan failed to show up for work at the university, and that one day led to another, which led to another. After two more weeks, a Mossad informant who attended Mansoura passed on the information that a research professor specializing in renal pathogens had vanished. A BOLO notice was sent to Mossad agents throughout the Middle East and Europe to “be on the lookout” for this Dr. Hassan.
The Mossad didn’t know what happened between the professor’s gambling fiasco and the day he disappeared—although the casino owner he owed was known by them to have secret Shi’ite ties into Iran. But for seven months, Hassan remained missing. That had ended four weeks ago when an agent spotted Hassan walking through Old Town Tallinn. His black hair had been dyed gray and he’d shaved his beard, but the agent had no doubt it was him. He was also accompanied by a man who was obviously a guard.
Several surveillance teams were sent, and the Mossad’s considerable online assets were put to work. They soon discovered that Hassan had come to Tallinn four months earlier and was working under the Sudanese name Umar Atem in a private research lab allegedly working on therapeutic relief for chronic kidney disease. His true work, however, was far more sinister. Hassan had been recruited by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. He and his team of three assistants were diligently working on the development and dissemination of a toxin that would cause renal failure and potential death when dispersed within a controlled environment.
The team at Caesarea had passed their findings on to the leadership of the Mossad. The ramsad, or director, had approved a targeted assassination, and Nir was called in to carry out Operation Inside Straight. They had little doubt that Hassan’s life had been threatened, perhaps his family’s as well. But that didn’t change the danger he presented, the choice he’d made.
When Nir heard the story, he thought it was brilliant for the Iranians to snare this Egyptian scientist. Who would suspect a Sunni Muslim of developing a biological weapon for his hated Shi’ite enemies, who could then turn it around and use it on his own people?
Dr. Hassan didn’t venture out often. A driver took him and his guard to work in the morning and drove them home at night. Their departures and returns varied, making it difficult to time a hit for when they were transitioning from one location to the other. As for dealing with Hassan at home, his house had a good alarm system that made entry not entirely impossible but certainly risky.
When Nir examined the notes from the day-to-day surveillance, the solution, though a precarious venture, became apparent. Late afternoon Sunday was the only time Hassan emerged from his home to journey to a location other than work. His driver dropped him and a guard at the bottom of the Old Town hill. Then the two walked up the cobblestone streets until they reached the town square. There, Hassan had a cup of coffee at a café. Once he had his caffeine fix, the two would find the car and go back to his home.
Nothing will kill you faster than routine, Nir had said to himself.
With just one other person with Hassan, Nir could execute a brush injection as the man was strolling through the city. But now here was his target with the guard on one side and this stranger on the other. The third man hadn’t started the walk with them, and no reports of him appeared in past surveillance notes. However, two blocks ago he’d suddenly appeared strolling alongside the doctor.
I wonder if this is one of his Iranian handlers. It would explain the regular weekly walks—making himself available in case one of his masters wants to talk with him.
He gradually closed the gap between himself and the three men. The street they were on opened into a small square. A number of temporary kiosks had been erected, where vendors sold toys, mulled cider, and Christmas treats like braided, sugary breads called Kringle and piparkoogid—little gingerbread cookies cut in the shape of angels and stars and barnyard animals. Nir knew the route Hassan normally traveled, so he took a chance and broke off his follow. He bypassed all the delicious-smelling kiosks for one he’d spotted across the square, where he made a quick purchase. Then he hurried to catch up to Hassan and was glad to see the three men had continued on the usual path.
Again, Nir broke off the pursuit and stepped into a liquor store. He bought a bottle of Vana Tallinn, a 90 proof Estonian liqueur that had a distinct rum, spice, and citrus smell. When he was back outside, he opened the bottle, then took a deep swig and swished it around in his mouth before spitting it into a trash can. He repeated the action, then poured some into his hand, which he rubbed onto his neck and into his hair. He dropped the bottle into the garbage.
Next, he put on his kiosk purchase—a red gnome’s hat and a fluffy white beard. This completed his transformation from stealthy Israeli assassin to loud, drunk Estonian dressed like Jöuluvana, the Baltic country’s version of Santa Claus.
Hustling ahead, Nir lined himself up behind Hassan and the guard. Reaching into his right pocket, he pulled out his injection device, a quarter-size hollow disc filled with a slow-acting neurotoxin. On one side were three microneedles, and on the other was a narrow extension that allowed Nir to wedge the device between his third and fourth fingers. He’d practiced with this device countless times, and he knew he had to get the slap just right to ensure the toxin drained fully through the needles.
The gap shrank to three meters, then two, then one. Nir lunged forward into the two men in front of him, his hands slapping the backs of their necks as he slurred, “Häid Jõule!” He hung on to their shoulders as he laughed and stumbled along. Hassan looked shocked and spun out of Nir’s grasp. The guard did one better, driving his elbow into Nir’s sternum. All the air blasted out of his lungs, and he dropped to his knees. The guard was about to follow up with a kick when the third man said something in Farsi. To Nir’s relief, the guard stayed his kick. But in Arabic, he did question both the purity and the species of Nir’s mother.
Pushing the guard to the side, the third man threw Nir’s hat to the ground, then grabbed a handful of hair and tilted his white-bearded head up. As he gasped for air, Nir tried to get a good look the man’s face, but his vision was graying out from the lack of oxygen.
“Mul on kahju! Mul on kahju,” Nir eked out, apologizing.
The man gave Nir a disgusted look, then released his head with a shove and walked off. The other two men followed.
Down on his knees, Nir continued to wheeze. A small crowd had gathered, and a young girl walked up and handed him his Jöuluvana hat. He was sure to take it from her with his left hand. “Häid Jõule,” she said quietly. Nir smiled his appreciation, then her mother stepped forward and took the girl’s hand. They hurried off.
Slowly, he stood, then staggered to a streetlamp. A quick look told him the device was empty. Hassan had received the full dose. Nir put the cap back on, then slipped the device into a nonporous envelope and into his pocket. He took out a high-strength cleanser poured into a small hand sanitizer bottle, then squeezed out the liquid and scrubbed his hands until they burned.
He felt a familiar twinge inside. It wasn’t guilt; it was the gravity of what he’d just done. Hassan wouldn’t feel anything tonight. Tomorrow would be a bad day for him, though. Sometime around noon he would feel light-headed, and ten minutes later his heart would stop.
It took him 20 minutes to walk to the ferry dock and two hours to cross the Gulf of Finland to Helsinki. When the ferry had reached halfway, Nir slipped the envelope from his pocket and let it drop into the dark water.
He overnighted at a hotel near the airport, and by 10:00 the next day he was back home in Antwerp. He took the rest of Monday off, but by the time Tuesday rolled around, he was back in his office.