Chapter 7
VERONA, ITALY
IN position. Standing by.”
Eliana Levy didn’t reply.
At least not at first.
What was supposed to have been a simple surveillance operation had now ballooned out of control. There was a fine line between audacity and stupidity, and if she were being honest with herself, she was no longer entirely sure on which side of that division she’d landed.
“Eliana?”
Eliana pushed a handful of dark curls from her face as she eyed the apartment door looming at the end of the long, unassuming hallway. Her only chance at salvaging this mission lay beyond its oak exterior.
“Stay on both men,” Eliana said. “I’m almost in.”
“Okay.”
Eliana knew from the tone of voice it was not okay.
Her second-in-command was not a career intelligence officer like the rest of her team.
As with a fair number of Mossad officers, Mark had spent the first part of his government service as a member of one of the IDF’s many special operations units.
Though he had become a competent agent runner, his first specialty had been that of a breacher blowing doors off their hinges in preparation for an entry team of assaulters.
Breachers were not known for their patience.
“We are out of time, and we can’t stay on both. Who do you want us to follow—young or old?”
This was the question she was here to answer.
This question among others.
“Two more minutes,” Eliana hissed. “Buy me two more minutes.”
Though she couldn’t see it, Eliana could imagine the thundercloud now enveloping Mark’s face.
That was fine. She would deal with his tongue-lashing later as long as he dealt with the tactical problem she’d just handed him now.
Was observing two targets with an undermanned surveillance team difficult?
Of course.
Impossible?
No.
At least not for another two minutes. Unlike the rest of the world, Israel had neither oceans nor continental landmasses to insulate it from its adversaries.
When your enemy was also your neighbor, you became very adept at your job.
Mark would solve the problem because that’s what special operations operatives did.
With a confidence she didn’t feel, Eliana strode down the hallway leading to the door.
The apartment building’s interior was as unremarkable as its exterior.
The second floor was clean and boasted just one other flat.
Eliana passed the freshly painted entryway to the second apartment without breaking stride.
The key to the target door was already in her left hand, while her right clutched a small purse.
A purse containing a Beretta Model 71 pistol equipped with a suppressor.
An assassin’s weapon.
While Eliana had no intention of killing the man residing inside the apartment, that wasn’t to say someone else didn’t feel differently.
Or had already felt differently.
The apartment’s occupant was a member of the Syrian Mukhabarat, or intelligence service.
He was also a Mossad asset. An asset who hadn’t left his apartment this morning to conduct his daily SDR (surveillance detection route).
Even more important from the State of Israel’s perspective, the asset had missed his meeting with the Pakistani scientist, whose services his Syrian masters were interested in procuring.
After the asset hadn’t shown, Eliana had made the decision to split from her team.
Mark would continue to shadow the Pakistani. She would go to her asset’s apartment.
Alone.
She knew this wasn’t the most tactically sound plan, but her surveillance team wasn’t large enough to cover two geographically disparate areas.
The scientist was the priority, so it made sense to leave Mark and her other watchers on him, but Eliana had questions for her Syrian agent that needed to be answered.
Assuming someone else hadn’t already asked them.
Eliana slipped the key into the lock, felt it slide home, and turned it.
The bolt disengaged.
She drew her pistol and then let the purse fall to the floor.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned the doorknob, pushed open the door, and slid into the apartment in a crouch.
The maneuver probably looked ridiculous.
It certainly felt ridiculous, but it might just save her life.
She was a small woman. Tiny, really. At barely five feet tall, she’d almost been disqualified from service with the Mossad because she hadn’t met the height standards.
Almost.
In a show of tenacity that would serve her well in her espionage career, Eliana had petitioned for a waiver three separate times.
She’d succeeded on the fourth. Apparently, someone inside the Institute, as the Mossad was known, had realized that a four-foot-eleven-inch woman who could speak four languages was a greater asset than someone an inch taller without her linguistic skills.
She’d had a harder time with the physical aspects of her training, but every now and then being small had its advantages.
Like when entering a flat in which a gunman might be waiting.
Eliana scurried across the floor, her head and torso a good five inches below where an assassin might be aiming.
She panned her pistol across the kitchen, the tritium night sights floating in the dimness like the Orion’s Belt constellation.
To her relief, no muzzle flash announced an assassin’s presence.
Yet.
Staying low, Eliana kicked the apartment door shut. Then she felt for the light switch and clicked it on.
Fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life.
“Last chance. Young or old?”
Though she’d turned down her radio’s volume before entering the apartment, Mark’s exasperation came through loud and clear. She hadn’t realized there was a way to pack a shout’s power into a whisper.
Until now.
“Thirty seconds,” Eliana hissed back.
The Syrian Mukhabarat had been nosing around Verona in preparation for the meeting with the Pakistani scientist for weeks.
Safe houses had been requisitioned, cars had been rented, and front companies established.
Since no intelligence officer worth his salt would attempt to work clandestinely over long periods of time from a hotel, a series of flats for the in-country advance team had also been procured.
This was one of them.
Eliana had never been inside the flat, but she had the layout memorized.
Shortly after her asset had taken up residence, a Mossad intelligence officer had hacked into the rental company’s computer and downloaded a copy of the floor plan.
A kitchen, a small living room, a bathroom, and a bedroom at the end of the hall.
The entire place was no bigger than a postage stamp.
And it was empty.
“Eliana!”
Eliana had been a field operative for almost a decade.
Her work had taken her to spots to which she’d love to return and other locations she hoped to never see again.
She was no stranger to a quick bugout from a compromised operation.
This didn’t feel like that. The inside of the apartment was too orderly.
The sink was clear of dishes, the trash cans empty of rubbish, and the table absent the usual assortment of take-out boxes, overflowing ashtrays, and stained coffee cups.
Eliana could think of just one word to describe the flat.
Sanitized.
“The young one,” Eliana said after mentally flipping a coin. “Follow the young one.”
“Roger.”
First the Pakistani’s arrest had gone sideways and now her asset was missing. This was not a coincidence. Someone was running an operation against her, and they’d completely covered their tracks.
Almost.
The encounter her surveillance team had witnessed between the young man who had abetted the Pakistani scientist’s rendition and the older gentleman who’d shoved a pistol into his back represented a wild card.
A chance interaction which could be exploited.
With the Pakistani scientist missing and her Syrian asset unaccounted for, the young man represented the single remaining thread to an operation precariously close to unraveling.
Eliana didn’t know what this new thread represented, but she intended to pull it.