In the blood a thriller, p.15
In the Blood: A Thriller, page 15
part #5 of Terminal List Series
“Really?”
“Oh yes, communal living was not all, as you say, kumbaya. They worked the fields and raised their children together, but they also trained for war. The locations were not chosen based on the sustainability of the land for farming and ranching; rather they were strategic. That memorial we passed awhile back, Nahal, they were soldiers of the kibbutz on the front lines in the fifties and sixties.”
“You don’t hear too much about the kibbutz anymore,” Reece noted.
“By the 1980s the kibbutz in their past incarnation were largely in decline, but about fifteen or twenty years ago they started to come back, though this time in a different form.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most are private now. Tourism is a big part of their economy. Instead of being centered around farming and agriculture, they are in tech, plastics, aerospace, even wine. There are still farms and ranches but many of them are more akin to your private communities in the United States with shared access to parks, pools, and schools. Shiri’s in-laws grew up on a kibbutz but left in the mid-seventies to work in Tel Aviv, as I understand it. In retirement they wanted to reconnect with their roots, and with Yonatan gone and Shiri caring for her own and Aliya’s children, they all moved to Kibbutz Merom Golan. They bought Shiri a home and live next door to help with the kids. It seems to work for them.”
“Are you close?”
“To whom?”
“To Shiri, to the kids.”
“We don’t have godparents in Judaism but if we did, I guess that’s what I’d be.”
Reece wondered who would have taken care of Lauren and Lucy had he been killed in Afghanistan. It was never far from his mind that his survival in the ambush that killed his assault force directly led to the deaths of his wife and daughter.
By surviving, I sentenced them to death.
“How much further?” Reece asked, changing the subject.
“About another hour.”
“Unless you visit, you don’t really get a sense for the size of this place.”
“Yes, you can drive the country in about six or seven hours. You can ski in Golan and scuba-dive in Eilat in the same day. You have never been to Israel?”
“No. I always wanted to visit. We had an exchange with Flotilla Thirteen,” Reece said, referring to Shayetet 13, the Israeli equivalent of Navy SEALs, “but I was always in Iraq or Afghanistan. Before she was flown out of Iraq, Aliya told me about Israel, about going to the beach with your M4.”
Tuvia stole a sideways glance so his good eye could take in his passenger.
“Back then, did you know she was Mossad?”
Reece paused, not knowing if he was being officially probed for information.
Instead of saying yes, he pivoted with “I suspected.”
“I see. And now?”
“And now, what?”
“And now you are CIA?”
“It’s temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“Are you collecting on me?”
“Of course!” Tuvia smiled. “I am Shabak. I am always collecting.”
Reece smiled, too. It was impossible not to like Tuvia.
“Aliya was an amazing woman. Special.”
“How special?” Tuvia asked.
“Not like that. We were assigned to the same unit. Both outsiders. I think we connected because we were from units outside the CIA.”
“I read your file.”
“I figured you had.”
“Interesting. A few gaps in there that need filling in.”
“Is that your job today?” Reece asked. “Are we being recorded?”
“Always safe to assume that we are.”
“What does the file say about Iraq?”
“It says you saved Aliya’s life.”
Reece swallowed, remembering her bloody body on the ground outside the HVT Bar.
“She would have made it without me,” Reece said, recalling the feeling of his hand searching for Aliya’s in the dark, slippery with blood, as they sped toward the hospital.
“Not according to the file.”
“You can only get so much from a file.”
“That is true. I hope you find what you are looking for in Israel, Mr. Donovan.”
“I hope so, too,” Reece said.
“You know, we are not much different, you and I, except you have both your eyes.” He laughed again.
Reece smiled. Tuvia’s laugh was infectious.
“So, what’s the plan?” Reece asked as they passed the Sea of Galilee and turned onto Route 91.
“Shiri agreed to meet with you but was not thrilled about it. I’m the only one she still sees from the old days. The wounds are still too fresh. Too much death. I texted her from McDonald’s. She will be at the park with the kids. We will link up there.”
“Anything I need to know?”
“Prepare yourself for an inquisition.”
CHAPTER 29
Quneitra, Syria
SAMIR FARZAT LED HIS contingent of Syrian mercenaries and Hezbollah fighters down the ladder into the tunnel. The entrance was hidden in the lower level of a hospital well inside Syria. Samir had been in his share of tunnels over the past twenty years, some deeper and more advanced than others, but he had never experienced anything like this. It was well lit and wide enough to allow two people to descend, side by side. A separate elevator was available for munitions. As Samir downclimbed, he tried to keep track of how far he had gone. Ten meters. Twenty meters. Thirty meters. He lost track but he knew he was in the deepest tunnel he had ever used running terror operations into Israel.
Samir had been working for a Russian energy company when he was hired for this assignment. The money was good and his target had no idea what was coming. The Israeli dogs had illegally occupied the Golan Heights since 1967. The United Nations called it an illegal occupation. Only America recognized it as Israeli territory. America was, after all, “the primary enemy, the Greatest Satan.”
Tonight, he had a very specific mission: to kill an American in Merom Golan.
Samir had been training and fighting alongside Hezbollah for the past decade, since the start of his country’s civil war. He was wounded, as were many Hezbollah guerrillas, in a battle against elements of the Free Syrian Army and al-Nusra Front in the Qalamoun Mountains, along the Lebanese border. When he recovered he had been given a promotion. Syria, Iran, and Hezbollah all shared common enemies and tonight they would strike a blow against Israel and its American masters.
Six Syrians and ten Hezbollah fighters made up the assault force. Two of the Hezbollah guerrillas were younger than Samir’s children and didn’t look like they could be much older than fifteen or sixteen. They would not survive the night. They were strapped with martyrs’ belts, what the West called suicide vests, true believers going to paradise with the support of their families.
American foreign policy was nothing more than a guise to subjugate Muslims the world over, cloaked in words like freedom, democracy, civil rights, and human rights. All lies. The United States wanted nothing less than complete domination of the Middle East. This was a fight for survival. Israel was just a tool of the Americans, a future forward operating base from which to project power across the Arab world. One day Syria would push Israel back to its pre-1967 borders. They had made gains in the region, kicking the Americans out of Iraq, but Israel still existed. Their American masters were on their knees, sent running from Lebanon, Iraq, and Afghanistan. They were now focused on domestic problems, riots in their streets, political division, and an economy crippled by the pandemic. They even made themselves again dependent on foreign oil, oil from the Arab world. Self-inflicted wounds.
Samir had heard the council talk of a strategy to bleed America of its will to project power abroad, a strategy that was succeeding. It worked when Hezbollah had attacked the Marine barracks in Beirut. And it had worked in training the militias in Iraq, sending America’s sons and daughters home in their flag-draped coffins. Even more were crippled for life, their wounds a constant reminder of Arab might. It had taken years, but it had worked. America was weaker now than she had ever been since the end of World War II.
Samir knew that the ultimate goal was not just to rid the Middle East of American military forces, but to erase any hint of Western influence. Then the caliphate would expand. They had already made huge inroads in Europe with the mass migrations and now the United States was allowing the same to happen, even encouraging it. The great oceans no longer offered protection. First expel the United States from the Middle East, then push Israel into the sea, killing every last Jew, and then allow the natural progression of Islam to dominate the world. It would happen. It was only a matter of time.
Samir had helped train bomb makers in EFPs, the weapon that had killed and maimed so many U.S. servicemen and women. He was proud of his work and tonight he would kill yet another American.
At the base of the ladder, he waited for the remainder of his unit. A Syrian National Defense Forces officer led them through the well-lit tunnel. Samir could hear the ventilation system forcing air into the subterranean burrow, the rubber tubes carrying the life-sustaining oxygen running at shoulder height. Even though he was just shy of six feet tall, Samir could stand fully upright. The passageway was wide enough to accommodate a rail line on his left that Samir correctly assumed was for moving rockets and heavy equipment. The size and scope of the tunnel complex gave him the impression that it was intended to move large numbers of people, troops that would march right under Israel’s illegal border. One day Samir would march through this tunnel for a full-scale retaking of Golan, the rightful property of Syria. Tonight would be a test run.
Why did his government want this American dead? It did not matter to Samir. His mission was to kill him, and anyone who got in their way.
CHAPTER 30
Kibbutz Merom Golan, Israel
AS THE CAR WOUND its way up into the Golan Heights, Reece was struck by the beauty surrounding him. It was so much greener than he expected. Driving past a small ranch he was reminded of Meadowood in Napa, where he had spent his honeymoon with Lauren.
Tuvia parked the Land Cruiser in a small lot adjacent to a park.
“Ready?” he asked.
Reece watched four children running across a grass field toward a play structure. The oldest looked to be ten or eleven and was obviously in charge. The youngest appeared to be about five. Reece watched as he took a tumble, the girl helping him to his feet and encouraging him to run after the others.
“Reece.”
“Huh?”
“Are you ready.”
“I’m ready.”
They exited the vehicle and walked toward a woman. Her back was turned as she guarded the children in her care.
“Shiri,” Tuvia said, announcing their approach.
A light breeze rustled the leaves on the trees. How could such a peaceful place have been witness to such bloodshed? The nature of man.
The dark-haired woman turned.
There was no mistaking that she was Aliya Galin’s sister. Though younger in years, she appeared older than the bio photo of “Mélanie Cotillard” that had circulated in newsfeeds along with pictures of the other passengers in the aftermath of the Air France attack.
“Shiri, this is James Donovan, the man I told you about.”
Reece nodded respectfully, unsure if he should extend a hand in greeting. Shiri’s bloodshot eyes burned through him.
“I know who you are, Mr. Reece. Let’s dispense with the alias.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice. They said it was ‘for the state.’ ”
“Shiri,” Tuvia said.
“Don’t you Shiri me, Tuvia. Yonatan is dead, Ilan is dead, and now so is my sister. Suddenly the Mossad calls and asks me to see an American when I am not one day out of shiva,” she said, referring to the week of mourning following the death of a family member in the Jewish religion.
Reece struggled to find the right words.
“I wanted to express my sincere condolences. I am so sorry. I was a friend of your sister. We worked together years ago.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“Shiri, please,” Tuvia interjected.
“Stop it, Tuvia. You know she left me. She left all of us. Running around the world, doing it for Israel, she’d say. Bullshit. She was doing it for herself. Now these children have no mother, no father. Just me. Do you want to explain that to her kids, Mr. Reece? Tell them that Israel was more important than they were? Go on, let’s tell them.”
“Shiri,” Tuvia said, attempting to put his arm around her.
Shiri pushed it away.
“Look at them,” she said, pointing to the playground. “They are between six and ten and none of them have fathers. Two of them don’t have a mother. I’m their mom now. That is the cost of this war. It never ends. One, two, maybe all four of them will join the IDF. Then perhaps the Mossad will get their tentacles in them, explain that the state needs them, leverage the pain of losing their mother, their father, blame Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Iran. That’s how this works, Tuvia. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me!”
“I’m so sorry,” Reece said.
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Reece. I’m sorry you made the trip. I hope the memory of my sister was worth it.”
Shiri took a breath and composed herself.
“You’ve seen me, Mr. Reece. You’ve seen the children. Now, what is it you wanted to say?”
* * *
Reece waited for Tuvia in the vehicle.
That was a disaster.
In retrospect, it had not been the most appropriate of times to relay Aliya’s message as he had promised her the night of the attack in the Green Zone. Sitting in the car, he now regretted delivering it at all. That she had been doing her job for Israel, that she believed in that mission to the detriment of all else, may have been better left unsaid.
He watched as Tuvia and Shiri engaged in what looked to be an emotional discussion. Reece was glad that the kids seemed oblivious to it, and that they were far enough away not to hear what was being said. They were occupied with an endless cycle of sliding, running, and laughing. They were living in the now. They were truly present.
Reece saw the two adults finally share an embrace. Shiri looked to the Land Cruiser and then back to Tuvia. Then she called out to the kids, who sprinted across the grass and into his arms. Godfather or not, even at a distance Reece could tell that Tuvia was someone special to the children, their smiles beaming with the innocent intensity of youth.
After a few minutes of joking and more hugs, Tuvia playfully chased them back to the play structure, then returned to Shiri and exchanged a few words before hugging her again and turning toward the vehicle.
He got behind the wheel and took a deep breath.
“Well, that was something.”
“That it was. I’m sorry, Tuvia. Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”
“We all deal with grief differently. I guess I can call you Reece now. Shiri was left with a lot to deal with. That anger and blame needs to go somewhere. In time, it will turn. Time will heal.”
“I hope so,” Reece said, looking back to the park and seeing Lauren pushing Lucy on the swing. She looked up at him to wave.
“It will,” Tuvia said. “It has to.”
“So, what now? Do we drive back to Tel Aviv?”
“Not yet. Shiri is going to take the kids to their grandparents’ house. It’s right next door to hers. She’s going to get the youngest tucked in.”
“And then?”
“And then, she wants to meet with you alone.”
CHAPTER 31
IT WAS DARK WHEN Shiri finally walked back to her house.
Reece waited outside on the steps. The home was small but well built, on a hillside with a view of the Bental Reservoir. Not a hundred yards away was her in-laws’ home, slightly larger and higher up on the rise.
Tuvia had left Reece at the house as instructed and gone to get a coffee.
Reece stood as Shiri approached.
Unsure how to proceed, he simply said, “I am so sorry about earlier, about your sister, about all of it.”
Shiri studied him, the dark eyes intense, judging him.
“I’m sorry, too. As you can imagine, these are difficult times.”
“I can.”
“I know. Tuvia told me a little more about your history. I know you lost your family. For that I am sorry.”
“Thank you” was all Reece could think to say.
“I can see in your face that the pain is still there. Will it ever go way?”
“I don’t know,” Reece admitted. “I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so, either. Why don’t we go inside?”
Shiri showed Reece to a modest sitting area in the living room. Sliding glass doors led to a small deck overlooking a lawn, the property quickly dropping off in a steep hillside that Reece couldn’t help but think would offer the kids a wonderful area to explore in the years ahead.
“I work in a winery now,” Shiri offered. “It’s not far. I help manage the books for accounting and tax purposes. The money isn’t bad, it lets me contribute, and it gives me a break from the kids. I love them dearly but it’s a lot for one person.”
“Having your in-laws next door must be helpful.”
“Oh, it is, and I am so grateful. Without them we’d be stuck in a small apartment in Tel Aviv and I’m not sure how we’d survive. But they are getting older. One day it will just be me.”
“The kibbutz isn’t really what I expected,” Reece said.
“Most visitors expect it to be some dusty, cultish commune. They have visions of the black-and-white photos of men and women toiling in fields and training with World War Two–era rifles, eating in a shared dining area and sending the kids off to communal sleeping areas each night away from their parents. It hasn’t been that kibbutz for almost a generation.”
