Chapter 18
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC
WHAT happened?”
Ben Friedman winced as the words left his mouth.
He wasn’t sure what angered him more—that his team leader in Verona was reporting a second failure, or that he was responding to the woman’s bad news like a cubicle-dwelling bureaucrat.
A tour of duty at the Institute’s headquarters in Tel Aviv had a way of numbing a person to the operational in favor of sensitizing them to the endless reports and never-ending meetings in which much was discussed but little accomplished.
Eliana Levy, the woman on the other end of the secure line, was a Mossad intelligence officer operating in the field.
A katsa.
His katsa.
Friedman must do better.
“The target entered an archaeological dig that also served as a tourist attraction,” Eliana said.
“Notionally, the site only has one entrance and exit, but several passages to the street exist in partial states of excavation. I was afraid he would use one to shake our surveillance, so I sent someone in after him.”
Friedman closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
His Mossad career had caught fire back in the early 1970s.
After the horrific massacre of eleven Israeli athletes by the Black September Palestinian terrorist group during the Summer Olympics in Munich, Friedman was one of the kidons, or assassins, dispatched to administer his nation’s justice.
For the next two decades, he’d remained in the field working as both a katsa agent runner and kidon when the need arose.
Then came the promotion to head the Israeli equivalent of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations.
Now, instead of running agents or killing his nation’s enemies, Friedman attended briefings and fielded phone calls from the men and women who were actually doing the important work.
It was no wonder his retirement paperwork was already complete and sitting in his desk’s top drawer.
Right next to his box of Acamol.
“It was a solid decision,” Friedman said, balancing the secure phone on his shoulder as he reached past the long-cooled mug of coffee to open the small storage area to the right of his leather reclining captain’s seat.
While he still wasn’t happy that he’d been ordered to fly to the other side of the world to meet with the Americans, Friedman had to admit that using the director’s private jet made intercontinental travel infinitely more palatable.
Opening the well-stocked cabinet, he found a box of headache pills.
He dry-swallowed two in the hopes of combating the familiar vise that was beginning to tighten around his temples.
After clearing his throat of the powdery residue, he continued.
“But your decision still yielded less than satisfactory results. Was the officer who encountered the operative unprepared?”
“To the contrary,” Eliana said. “Mark is one of my most experienced teammates. He came to us after a decade with Sayeret Matkal.”
Friedman frowned.
While he didn’t subscribe to the belief that the members of any organization were invincible, Sayeret Matkal was his nation’s version of America’s Delta Force.
To become a member of the unit, a commando had to endure one of the world’s most punishing selection pipelines.
Beyond that, Sayeret Matkal was no paper tiger.
Its members conducted operations regularly in hostile nations ranging from Syria to Iran.
Someone who’d spent ten years in its ranks would have multiple combat operations under his belt.
“What is Mark’s account of what happened?”
“He was ambushed.”
“Your man was shot?”
“No. The target was skilled at unarmed combat. Mark has a concussion and a fractured skull.”
The pounding at his temples began to throb in sync with his heartbeat.
It was too early to jump to conclusions, but he was beginning to believe that this target was not just another jihadi.
This wasn’t to say that terrorists weren’t skilled fighters, but the proficiency required to subdue an Israeli commando spoke of an expertise not seen in the average enemy combatant.
Something about this entire endeavor didn’t feel right.
“So, to recap, the Pakistani is out of play, your Syrian asset is missing, and the only connection you have to the kidnapping is in the wind. Oh, and one of your men has been sidelined. Am I missing anything?”
Friedman winced again. “Forgive me, that came out wrong. I’m frustrated at the situation, not you.”
“No apology necessary,” Eliana said, “and to answer your question—yes, there is something I have yet to relay. We have one more card to play. The Italian asset.”
Friedman’s slump vanished and his migraine receded as the update hit his nervous system like a jolt of electricity. “Is your team able to pay him a visit?”
“No. With Mark out of commission we’re shorthanded, not to mention potentially burned. I have two operatives in reserve, but they would not be able to approach him without being noticed.”
Friedman wanted to argue, but he knew Eliana was correct.
Though Israel was a Middle Eastern country, it was a melting pot of nationalities.
About thirty percent of its citizenry were Ashkenazi Jews, meaning they traced their origins to European countries.
Accordingly, Mossad paramilitary teams featured a mixture of operatives that could pass as citizens of countries as diverse as Iran and Ireland.
Unfortunately, the teammates Eliana had in reserve did not look Italian.
“You have a suggestion?” Friedman said.
“Yes. Send the handler who recruited him.”
Friedman had figured that this was where the conversation was heading.
Though not Israeli, the operative Eliana meant had been Mossad trained and would have no trouble approaching the asset without notice.
Unfortunately, the handler in question possessed a number of unique qualities.
Qualities that would make finding a replacement difficult should they become compromised.
Friedman grabbed his coffee cup and downed the cold contents.
If his superiors had been this cautious when he’d been a young operative hunting Palestinian terrorists, would his nation’s vengeance have ever been delivered?
Of course not.
Friedman slammed the mug onto the tray.
“Approved.”