In the blood a thriller, p.20
In the Blood: A Thriller, page 20
part #5 of Terminal List Series
The flat was just off Rothschild Boulevard, near the Norman Hotel Tel Aviv and within walking distance of the Independence Hall museum. Ben Gurion Airport was not far away.
“I recommend Port Said for dinner,” the well-dressed man in the passenger seat said. “It’s less than a five-minute walk. Try the steak with tahini and tomato tartare. It’s fabulous.”
Maybe these guys are State Department after all.
“There’s also a deli on the corner that’s not bad. Fast Wi-Fi.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Reece said, though he had no intention of leaving the flat. He needed to clean up, he needed a drink, and he needed to think.
The man in the passenger seat handed Reece a small gray SKB hard protective case.
“Dip pouch delivery,” he said. “And here is the key to the flat. Third floor. Three-oh-two. It will be more private than the hotels. Fridge is stocked and there’s an assortment of new clothes in the closet.”
The driver’s eyes were hidden behind Oakley shades, but Reece could tell by the slight movements of his head that he was constantly scanning: ahead, to his right and left, rearview mirror, side-view mirrors. DSS? GRS? Definitely a former operator.
“We will be here in the morning to pick you up. Your flight is at ten so we will be here at six. If there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to call. My cell is on the card,” the passenger said, handing Reece a business card embossed with the embassy seal. Reece looked down at it as he exited the vehicle and stepped to the sidewalk.
CHAD HARMON
EMBASSY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FOREIGN SERVICE SPECIALIST
“Thanks, Chad.”
Reece looked at the driver, who gave an almost imperceptible nod as he continued to scan.
“See you in the morning.”
Reece was filthy. He had cleaned up the best he could at Mossad Headquarters, where he had received a few new stitches, but he was still noticeably in need of a shower and a change of clothes.
He avoided the elevator and instead made his way to a stairwell, where he took the stairs two at a time until he entered a third-level hallway. The key turned easily in the lock and Reece entered the flat, locking the dead bolt behind him.
Though he was exhausted, it was not quite time to let his guard down. He needed rest but first he needed to clear the rooms. The former SEAL did a primary clearance, setting the gray case on the couch as he passed. He then went back to the front door and went through the spaces more meticulously.
I need a weapon.
It was spacious and modern with good views for a third-floor residence. Reece got the impression that it didn’t get much use. There was a kitchen, a spacious living room area with large glass windows, a small balcony, and main and guest bedrooms, both with en suite bathrooms. Everything was decorated like it was staged for a real estate brochure photo shoot.
Reece hit the lights in the kitchen and living room and pulled the curtains closed across the windows. No sense in making it easy on an enemy sniper. He then went to the kitchen, where he opened cabinets until he found the glasses. He grabbed three and stacked them in a pyramid by the door. Then he returned to the kitchen and got three more, which he also stacked by the entrance. He had a feeling that he was going down hard and if anyone entered the room, he wanted to know about it.
What are you going to do without a pistol?
It was also probable that he was under audio and video surveillance by both the Israelis and the Americans, and after his briefing at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas he was suspicious of every electronic device, from the TV to the toaster.
Reece went to the fridge and opened the door, shaking the idea that maybe even the refrigerator was watching and listening.
IOT. The Internet of Things.
Inside there were a carton of eggs and various cheeses and juices, but Reece was looking for something stronger. There were a few bottles of wine in the side door: a Gush Etzion Lone Oak Sauvignon Blanc, a Mt. Tabor Shiraz, and a Domaine Herzberg Malbec. The wine reminded him of Shiri, her body torn to pieces while her children played a board game in a bomb shelter next door. She had been so alive and full of fire and then she was gone. What would happen to the four children in her care? How long would the grandparents be able to raise them? Would those kids turn to the IDF and Mossad as they grew up, wanting to avenge her death and the deaths of Tuvia, Aliya, Ilan, and Yonatan? Had Shiri been right about the cycle, about war, about Reece being a harbinger of death? He shook his head, grabbed two Goldstar beers, and headed to the sofa.
He moved the case to the coffee table and attempted to twist off the top of the cold Goldstar. Not a twist-off.
No problem.
Reece set the edge of the bottle cap against the side of the coffee table and slammed his palm down on its top, popping it from the bottle. His first sip reduced its contents by half. He set the beer down and looked at the case.
Pistol? If so, he was going to feel silly for not opening it immediately.
Reece knew that contents of a diplomatic pouch were protected by one of the many conventions that governed relations between countries. They could not be searched or x-rayed.
Even though he had been handed the case from a representative of the United States government, Reece couldn’t help but be cautious. He examined it for signs of tampering, leaking fluids, wires, anything obvious. Then he carefully flipped up the latches and cracked it ever so slightly, moving to the floor to get a better angle in an attempt to identify any internal wires that might indicate this was an explosive device. Seeing nothing to cause alarm, he went back to the couch and slowly opened it all the way.
A black bag was inside. Reece picked it up and examined the fabric. A Faraday sleeve. Developed by nineteenth-century scientist Michael Faraday, the bag was constructed of layered metal mesh. It blocked all electronic signals, preventing them from getting in or out. Reece had used them in the SEAL Teams and in his training at the Farm. He pulled open the Velcro closure and slid out an iPhone. There was a clear plastic adhesive covering the front, with six numbers and a round blue logo with KRYPTALL underneath.
Reece peeled back the sticker, exposing the screen.
The phone’s facial recognition unlocked the device, revealing the home screen. The message application opened.
You are through the looking glass now.
From your friend, Alice.
“Through the looking glass,” Reece whispered.
What are you trying to tell me?
Reece thought back to his youth. It had been a long time since his mother had introduced him to Lewis Carroll’s classic stories. Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There was the sequel to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The “looking glass” was a mirror that Alice crawls through, entering a world where everything is reversed.
Everything is reversed.
Reece set the phone down next to his personal cell.
Everything is reversed.
He drained the remainder of the Goldstar in his second sip, leaned back on the couch, and was asleep seconds later.
CHAPTER 49
Gorky Park, Moscow, Russia
MIKHAIL GROMYKO PUSHED THE oval-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose as he passed through the Colonnade and into Gorky Park. His glasses were slipping more and more these days. Was his face getting that thin? Would Dashkov notice? The SVR director expunged those thoughts from his mind. There were other, more pressing issues to consider.
Located in central Moscow on the southeast side of the Moskva River, the world-famous park had once been the realm of dead drops and illicit meetings. In recent years, the abandoned buildings, dark paths, and hazardous carnival rides had been replaced with ponds—complete with swans—beautiful gardens, and even a smoothie bar. This was not the Gorky Park of old. Maybe that’s why he had chosen it?
Gromyko picked out the protection detail first. They were not hard to find. Thick jackets over thicker shoulders, dark glasses, slicked-back hair, even the requisite earpieces. Dashkov was of the school that believed that force projection was in itself a deterrent. Gromyko suspected it might have a little something to do with ego.
“I know you are late just so you would miss the ceremony of my pipe lighting,” the Federal Security Service director said as his old friend approached. “And why are you still wandering around Moscow without bodyguards?”
Gromyko took a seat on the bench next to his counterpart in internal security.
“It was a beautiful day to walk my surveillance detection routes; reminds me of the old days and helps keep me trim.”
“Is that how you are keeping so thin?”
Pavel with his games again. Does he know about the cancer?
“You may want to try it,” Gromyko said, tapping his stomach and eyeing his friend’s midsection.
“I am well past those days, Mikhail. I’ll stick to armored cars.”
“You are aware, that if someone wanted to track you down, all they would need to do would be to follow the trail of muscle,” he said, pointing out the PSD that had spread out in an informal perimeter around the meeting area. “I’m sure your vehicles blend in as much as your thugs.”
“That’s the idea, Mikhail. They first have to get past that wall of security. The thicker the better.”
“What is better is if your enemy can’t find the wall to begin with.”
“Ever the spymaster,” Dashkov said. “Is that why we are here? To reminisce about the old days?”
Their class at the Academy of Foreign Intelligence had spent time in Moscow, and Gorky Park in particular, practicing the tradecraft that would define the rest of their lives.
Gromyko looked out across the red, yellow, and orange blossoms standing out in stark contrast to the bright green lawn that surrounded them.
“I wonder what Maxim Gorky would think of the park today.”
“Ah, Gorky, why did you ever return from Capri?” Dashkov wondered aloud. “You had such a good life down there. You could have stayed and written in the sun. Why return to this dismal place?”
“Because it was home,” Gromyko said.
“Ah yes, home.”
“Pneumonia, wasn’t it?” Gromyko asked.
“Wasn’t what?”
“His cause of death?”
“Yes, pneumonia.”
“Stalin carried his urn at the funeral, you know.”
“Did he now?”
“Least he could do. There are some who say the pneumonia was really the NKVD, internal security.”
“I have heard that as well,” Dashkov said.
“It was best to not run afoul of Stalin.”
“As I said, he should have stayed in Capri.”
“You may be right, old friend.”
“Now, what have I done to deserve being dragged out of my office today, to a bench in Gorky Park, of all places?”
Gromyko reached into his coat pocket for his pack of Marlboros.
“Those cancer sticks will kill you, you know,” Dashkov said, puffing on his pipe.
Does he know?
“It is not the cancer sticks that worry me, comrade,” Gromyko said, lighting his smoke. “It’s Commander James Reece.”
“Oh?”
“Our team missed him in Israel.”
“But we knew exactly where he was going to be.”
“Yes, we did. It was set up for no Russian fingerprints; a Hezbollah death squad led by Syrian mercenaries.”
Dashkov grunted and stuck his pipe back in his mouth.
“We now have a bigger problem,” Gromyko continued.
“Which is?”
“Which is that James Reece has survived. We must assume he is beginning to wonder if he was the target and how the hit team knew where he was going to be.”
“Our backup plans are still in place?”
“Yes. As expected, Reece is on his way to Italy to pay a visit to Abelard, the bookseller. He’s a freelance handler, a broker of sorts. He connects mercenaries and assassins with clean weapons. He handles the financial transitions, all for a percentage, of course. He is well known to the world’s intelligence agencies. A lot of us use his services; all second- or third-party transactions. He has his place.”
“I know of this man. The man in the wheelchair.”
“That’s right. Former Mossad assassin. He was part of the Wrath of God operation. He was just a kid at Munich. Ten years later Israel was still hunting the terrorists who killed their people at the Olympic Games. He was older then. A willing recruit. You have to respect them. They don’t forget, Pavel.”
“Neither do we. And neither do I. This Abelard, I remember there being rumors at the time that a KGB sniper had put him in that chair. Germany, wasn’t it? Right after we graduated from the academy. Where was your first posting, Mikhail?”
“Berlin,” Gromyko said, bringing the cigarette to his mouth.
“I see.”
“He has been looking for that sniper for almost forty years, still working for the Mossad, of course, so one has to keep that in mind when requesting his services. Had he known the Africa operation was really about killing Aliya Galin, he would have tipped off his former employer and a team of assassins would have been waiting in that field to kill Kattan, Le Drian, and the two patsies. He didn’t know what it was for; he’s just a connector. He connected Kattan to the Frenchman, who had the local contacts to pull off the attack.”
“It is the connectors who make this world go around.”
“That is the truth, my friend.”
“So, are we at an impasse?”
“Not yet, but it is time to finish this. We need a professional, someone comfortable on European soil. I want Russian blood in charge of this operation, someone who can leverage assets to make it look like the crazy jihadis. Those savages would have reason to target and kill both the American SEAL and the Israeli bookseller.”
“And who would that be?”
“I have an idea. He’s one of yours. Former GRU. Our prey has evolved. Reece has learned from the last attempt. He’s not going to walk so easily into an ambush. He’s going to use the capability of the U.S. surveillance apparatus.”
“That is where they have an edge, comrade.”
“To a point.”
“Explain.”
“The Americans might be the world’s leader in collection and surveillance, but they have a thing or two to learn about manipulation,” Gromyko continued. “Misinformation, disinformation, fake news.”
“You would think they’d be experts,” Dashkov offered.
“We know that the Americans will be listening, monitoring every transmission and keystroke. With that in mind we can lead them where we want them to go.”
Gromyko attempted to stifle a cough.
“Lay off those Marlboros, Mikhail.”
“You give me health advice? What is that expression we learned back when we were young, when they hooked me on these,” Gromyko said, holding up his cigarette. “Kettle calling the pot black?”
Pavel laughed. “I think so. Those were the days: drinking, whoring, spying. What a game.”
“It’s not a game now, Pavel.”
“No, the fun is mostly gone. Even the desire for drink and pussy have ebbed.”
“I doubt your vodka supply has noticed.”
Pavel chuckled and shook his head.
“Even that is not as enjoyable as it once was. Age robs us of many things, Mikhail. But in their place is something else.”
“Perhaps we fill the void with power,” Gromyko said.
“Ah, yes, power. The aphrodisiac for old spies.”
“There are a few things I have left to do,” the SVR director said.
“You speak as though you are dying.”
He knows.
“We are all dying, comrade.”
“Some faster than others.”
“That may be true. You never know how many months, weeks, days, minutes, even seconds you have left.”
Will Pavel understand the threat?
“We have known each other many years, Pavel. We have been competitive, but we have worked well together as friends, as rivals at times, and now as comrades who remember the old days. If you want to see a few more days of whoring and drinking, it would do us both well to eliminate James Reece. If we miss him again, he just might be smart enough to figure out who his true enemies are, and he might come looking.”
“For me?”
“For us.”
“In Russia? Don’t be absurd,” Dashkov scoffed.
Gromyko handed his old friend a file.
“What is this?”
“It’s a partial file on James Reece.”
“Partial?”
“The complete file is rather large, Pavel. I am an old man. I took all that you need to see.”
Dashkov pulled readers from an inside pocket of his jacket. He mumbled from time to time as he worked his way to the final page. He closed it, took a puff of his pipe, and handed the file back to Gromyko.
“He walked across Siberia?”
“He did; to kill the man he thought was responsible for his father’s death. Blew him into pieces with one of our own antipersonnel mines.”
Dashkov stashed his readers and took a long, drawn-out puff.
“I show you that, Pavel, so you know the type of man we are dealing with. What he’s capable of.”
“Are you afraid of this Commander Reece?”
“There is a difference between being afraid and being aware. I am well aware that if James Reece lives, and if he figures out why his father was really killed, if he finds that safe-deposit box, there is very little that will stop him from putting a bullet in your head.”
“Mine? What about yours?”
“Mine, too, Pavel.”
Dashkov grunted again, looking at his security detail.
“Right now,” Gromyko continued, “he doesn’t even know what he has. If he is in possession of the safe-deposit box key there are limited options for him to find out what it opens. I don’t see how he can find it, but we must operate on the assumption that he will eventually find and open the box. He has no children. No wife. This ends when he’s dead.”
