Four Hours Later
Mahanara, Northern Israel
The safehouse was a nondescript house at the edge of the small village. Jack and Riley had arrived about thirty minutes ago, while the two Mossad operatives remained at the border installation. A doctor had attended to Uri’s wound. The early prognosis was that he was going to recover completely, unless, of course, an infection developed or there were other unforeseen complications.
The Mossad operatives at the safehouse had offered the Canadians a cold welcome. No one wanted to be there under these circumstances, especially after the failed attempt to bring Abrams out of captivity. Still, Jack and Riley needed a secure place for the video call with their boss and the Mossad director. The after-action debrief couldn’t wait, and the agents’ feelings didn’t matter.
Jack and Riley were led to a small room at the back of the safehouse. It was spartanly furnished, with a plastic desk, a couple of chairs, and a laptop. One of the Mossad operatives set up the connection and warned the Canadians not to touch anything. He pointed at a camera mounted on a wall near the ceiling. Unnecessary, Jack thought, but he nodded his agreement.
In a matter of seconds, the laptop screen split into two parts. The top showed an office setting with a gray wall and a photo of the Israeli prime minister in the background. Doron Tretter, the Mossad director in charge of the hostage extraction operation, wasn’t there yet. A low tapping noise, like someone’s fingers running over a keyboard, came from the background.
The bottom part of the screen showed Jack’s face. Suddenly, he became quite aware of his appearance. He hadn’t changed since the operation. Jack ran his hands through his scruffy black hair, which had begun to turn gray at the temples. He rubbed the tip of his short beard, then scratched the left side of his face, which suddenly became very itchy. He tried to focus his brown eyes on the writing of a poster fastened to the wall of Mossad’s headquarters, but it was written only in Hebrew. Riley’s face wasn’t in the frame, so Jack pushed his chair farther back to allow Riley to slide his chair closer. Now, both agents could appear on the screen.
A third frame popped up on the screen, and Jack saw the face of their boss, Steven Gilson. He seemed to be struggling to plug a pair of earphones into the device he was using. No sound could be heard, but the video was crisp and clear. Gilson tried another time, then removed the earphones and put them to the side. He began to speak, but no sound came through.
Jack waved at their boss and said, “Sir, you’re muted…”
Gilson grimaced and nodded. He reached for the device, and his hand covered half the screen. He seemed to be tapping buttons, and his voice was heard saying, “Storm, Booker, can you hear me?”
“Yes, five by five, sir,” Jack said.
“How are you doing?” Riley asked with a smile.
“Frustrated. Technology is supposed to make our lives easier?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Sometimes,” Riley said.
Jack offered a small headshake. Their boss wasn’t looking for an answer.
Gilson was dressed in his trademark black suit, black shirt, and a white tie. He was in his early sixties, with a bald, bullet-shaped head, but with very few wrinkles on his broad forehead. Gilson was clean-shaven and wore a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses.
Before anyone could say anything, the face of a middle-aged man wearing black-framed glasses filled half the screen. “Gilson, good afternoon, or rather, good evening,” he said in a slow voice in sharply accented English.
“Hello, Tretter,” Gilson said. “How’s everything, my good friend?”
Tretter scrunched up his face. The wrinkle in the middle of his forehead deepened. “We’ve had better days, and, we’ve had worse days. How’s life in Ottawa?”
“Can’t complain too much. We have Storm and Booker here, so we can discuss the X op in South Lebanon.”
“Yes, that disaster. Let’s deal with it.”
Jack flinched. He wasn’t expecting praise from the Mossad director but also didn’t think the operation was a complete failure. He sat up straighter in his chair, bracing himself for the worst.
Gilson seemed to be shuffling papers, considering the sounds. He picked up a document, showed it to the camera, and leaned back in his seat. “This is the intel report we received from the asset. It’s one of the documents I sent you earlier today, Tretter. Do you have it?”
Tretter nodded and looked off the screen. “Yes, I have it here somewhere… Here we go.”
Gilson said, “So, the asset that my agents used was a trusted contact. He had worked for the Mossad in the past—”
“Two years ago, and we stopped paying him at that time,” Tretter cut him off.
“Yes, but not because his intel was inaccurate. At least that’s my understanding…”
Tretter nodded. “He was asking for too much and delivering too little.”
“Right, but there was no indication the man or his intel wasn’t trustworthy.”
The Mossad director seemed as if he wanted to say something as he leaned closer to the camera. He took a moment to think about his reply, then offered a small shrug. “Still, the responsibility, that remains with your men.”
Jack tried to stifle the frown forming on his forehead. He gave Riley a knowing look, and Riley returned a small nod.
Gilson said, “It does, but I don’t need to explain to you the difference between responsibility and blame…”
Tretter frowned. “You don’t need to.”
“Good. My agents acted swiftly on intel that was correct at the time it was received. That was what, six hours before the op?” Gilson seemed to be looking at Jack.
Jack shifted in his seat. “That’s correct, sir.”
Gilson said, “So, the operative was transferred to another safehouse. Something to be expected.”
“Right, but we didn’t expect it.” Tretter’s voice had lost the accusatory tinge. “And we still don’t know where the terrorists are holding Abrams.”
Gilson swiveled in his seat and said, “Jack?”
Jack coughed to clear his throat. “That’s right, sir,” he said in a polite tone. “The other two locations proved to be a waste of time. We have a few contacts who are doing everything they can to—”
Tretter waved a dismissive hand. “Not fast enough, Storm. We can’t afford to have the operative die.” He pursed his lips. “We need to retrieve him right away. If he’s tortured, he can reveal many secrets. That can’t happen,” he said in a firm tone, and his mouth set in a hard line.
Gilson nodded. His jaw tightened, and his eyes glinted with a look of determination mixed with defiance. “We’ll find him, Tretter. I have my best men on this op.” He motioned toward Jack. “Storm and Booker, and whoever you assign to the team, will return to the field right away.”
Tretter shook his head. “South Lebanon is very hot at the moment. Our main asset has disappeared, as your own agents have confirmed. Other contacts have proven to be slow, almost useless. No one seems willing to take the risk, no matter how much money we offer, or what threats we make.”
Gilson peered closer at the camera. “So, how do we find him?”
“We have a lead. It’s a long shot, but worth it, since there’s no better alternative.” Tretter sighed. “It requires finesse, not brute force. A special set of skills. The agents need to be convincing, yet discreet.”
Gilson nodded. “Storm and Riley can handle that.”
“We certainly can,” Jack assured him in a firm voice full of confidence.
Tretter didn’t seem convinced. He had arched his left eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth had quirked up. “Can you really pull this off?”
“If there’s anyone who can do it, it’s them,” Gilson said.
Tretter seemed to ponder for another moment, then he nodded slowly. The dubious look remained on his face. “Okay, Gilson. Let’s give this a try, but, this time, Mossad will lead the op. Storm and Booker will provide support as needed.”
Gilson cocked his head toward Jack, who nodded. “We can do that, sir,” he said slowly.
“Good. I’ll send you the file. The person you need to approach is in New York. Make your way to Tel Aviv, meet up with Vaniah Dworkin, and head to New York. He’ll be the team lead.”
Jack’s face remained neutral. He had never heard the Israeli operative’s name. He didn’t like playing second fiddle, but he was ready to do whatever it took to save Abram’s life. He nodded. “We’ll do whatever we can, sir,” he said and looked at Gilson, who offered a restrained smile.
Tretter nodded. “Good. That’s all, unless…”
“I’m good,” Jack said.
He looked at Riley, who shook his head.
“Nothing here,” Gilson said.
“Talk to you soon, then,” Tretter said and moved out of the camera’s frame.
A moment later, someone turned off the camera, and the connection ended.
Gilson was still there. Now his screen was half the size of the laptop’s monitor. “You’re clear regarding your orders?” he asked in a warm tone.
Jack had his questions and reservations about the operation. However, he wasn’t about to discuss them with his boss on a line that was monitored by Mossad. So he offered a small smile and said, “It’s all good, sir. We’ll talk about this off-line if need be.” He spoke in a neutral tone so as not to raise any suspicions among the Mossad operatives.
“Okay, Jack. Riley. Be safe, boys.”
“You too, sir.”
The line closed.
Jack looked at Riley, who stretched in his chair and placed his arms behind his head. “We’re going to New York.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“It’s a lovely place.”
“I’m sure it is. I hope we have some downtime to look around.”
His gut feeling, though, was telling him that wasn’t likely to happen. He began to wonder who the New York contact was and about his connection with the kidnapped Mossad operative. Who is this guy? What can he tell us? And what does he want in return?